Cereal Killer

thought it over, grumbled a bit, shook his head, and started walking again.
    “Yeah...” she said, catching up to him. ‘You’d probably have more luck with the station.”
     
    Like many of the physicians in San Carmelita, Dr. Pappas conducted his practice in one of the dreary, generic office buildings that surrounded Community General Hospital. The no-frills structures with their flat roofs, faded paint, and empty flower beds did little to cheer the patients who visited the obstetricians, dentists, chiropractors, podiatrists, and proctologists who practiced there.
    Dr. Pappas’s shingle on his dingy front door identified him as a weight-loss specialist.
    “Big surprise there,” Savannah remarked as she pointed out the sign to Dirk. “Do you see a recurring theme with these women?”
    ‘Yeah, they’re all nuts when it comes to their weight.” He gave a contemptuous little snort. ‘You don’t see us guys obsessing about the size of our butts.”
    She glanced down at his tummy which, over the years she had known him, had definitely expanded. It wasn’t exactly lapping over his belt, but if he kept eating half a dozen doughnuts for breakfast and two Jumbo Bonanza Burgers for lunch, it soon would.
    And it didn’t matter one diddly-do to her.
    Dirk was Dirk, no matter the size of his belly. It would never occur to her to evaluate a friend according to their weight.
    And she didn’t know many woman who would judge another person by size. So, why did they judge themselves so harshly?
    “Girls have to get smart about weight,” she muttered as they entered the office.
    “Yep. And they’ve gotta stop worrying about what us guys think, too. A lot of us like a broad with some junk in the trunk.”
    “Junk in the trunk?” She didn’t know whether to hit him or kiss him... a common dilemma with Dirk.
    So, as usual, she ignored him.
    They walked into a crowded waiting room and looked around. As Dirk might have predicted, they were all females, in every size and shape imaginable. But the pretty Latin model wasn’t among them.
    Dirk gave Savannah a questioning look, and she shook her head. He walked up to the receptionist’s window and discreetly flashed his badge. “Is Tesla Montoya in with the doctor?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
    The sweet-faced nurse behind the glass instantly dropped her sweet face. “No, she’s not,” she snapped. “She hasn’t shown up, and we were expecting her over an hour ago. Didn’t even call to cancel.”
    Savannah felt her stomach sink. One glance at Dirk’s face told her that he was feeling the same.
    “So, Montoya had an appointment?” he asked the nurse.
    “No. She called and asked us to fit her in. Then she didn’t even show. Just wait until the next time she wants to come in without an appointment.”
    Dirk glanced back at the crowded waiting room. “Yeah, heaven knows how long she’d have to hang around, cooling her heels, if she didn’t have an appointment.”
    Savannah reached for Dirk’s arm and pulled him away from the window. “Thank you,” she told the nurse. “Have a good day.”
    Once outside the office, standing in the courtyard with its flowerless flower boxes and cracked sidewalks, Dirk shook her hand off his arm and said, “Did that Montoya chick seem like somebody who wouldn’t show up for an appointment without calling?”
    “Nope.”
    “That’s what I figured.”
    He took out his phone and his notebook and punched in a number. After a few rings, he said, “Ms. Montoya, this is Detective Coulter again. Call me as soon as you get this. It’s very important that I talk to you right away.” Then he hung up and turned to Savannah. “What now?” Savannah’s mind raced. “We’ve got to find her, before...”
    She couldn’t say it.
    ‘Yeah,” he said. “Before.”
    “Back to her house?”
    He shook his head. “We’re not going to find her there.”
    ‘You got any better ideas of where to look?”
    This time he took her arm. “Let’s go,” he said, propelling her toward the parking lot. “She’s not going to be there, but if we’re lucky, at least maybe the floor won’t be freshly mopped.”
    “One can always hope.”
     
    No doubt the old house on the hill above City Hall had been lovely in its day. With its high-pitched roof, gables, and ornate gingerbread trim, the turn-of-the-century “painted lady” looked as if she needed a new coat of lipstick and rouge.
    With illusions of herself as a