Cereal Killer

“Not enough, darlin’,” he said, doing a pretty fair impression of her Southern accent. “Not even near enough.”
     

Chapter
    14
     
    T he intersection of Johnson Avenue and Charles Street had once been home to a couple of service stations, an empty, weed-choked lot, and a dilapidated shack that sported a sign advertising tarot and palm readings by Madame Wanda.
    But in the past three years, the area had become gentrified, and the four corners were now occupied by a swimsuit boutique, an art gallery, a bookstore, and the ubiquitous coffee shop, all nicely landscaped with palm trees and flower boxes overflowing with bright-faced marigolds.
    Each shop had a mini-parking lot in front of it, which provided a dozen spots per establishment And during business hours, those spots were usually full of townsfolk, not to mention scores of Los Angeles tourists, seeking respite from the city heat and smog at the coast beaches.
    But at two in the morning, the intersection was dark, deserted and silent. And the moment that Savannah and Dirk rounded the corner, they instantly spotted the black Mitsubishi, sitting alone in one of the spaces in front of the coffee shop.
    “Tarnation,” Savannah said.
    “Yeah, no kidding,” Dirk replied as he pulled into the lot and parked a few spaces away from the empty car. “I was hoping his story was a load of b.s., and I could hold him for something more than just violating an order of protection.”
    “Let’s check this out and maybe we’ll find something good.”
    “Naw, we’re not gonna find squat. You wait and see.”
    “Well, aren’t we just a beam of sunshine and light.”
    “What?”
    “Nothing.”
    As they got out of the Buick and walked toward the Mitsubishi, Dirk reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out another pair of latex gloves. As Savannah watched him slip them on, it occurred to her that the good old days, when you could just push evidence around with a pencil or pick up it by holding one corner, were gone forever. Nowadays, the focus of defense lawyers was on the cops and whether they had “contaminated” evidence by mishandling it, breathing on it, or even being in its vicinity. Unlike the defendants, investigating officers were considered grossly incompetent until proven not guilty.
    A perpetrator could murder someone in front of fifty witnesses, while a TV camera crew filmed the whole thing, and even if the killer confessed, the defense attorney would want to know if the cops had used gloves when processing the scene.
    Savannah loved defense attorneys—even more than she loved root canals and Pap smears.
    When she and Dirk reached the car, the first thing they noticed was that the driver’s door was ajar.
    Dirk squatted beside the door and studied the handle. “Looks like she left in a hurry.”
    “Just like ol’ Tumblety Numb-Nuts said,” Savannah replied.
    “Yeah, yeah. He’s probably the one who grabbed her, no matter what he said. Dollars to doughnuts it was his rotten old van she got pulled into, not some mysterious white one.”
    “That old blue van... the one with the two flat tires... the one with three-foot-high weeds growing around it... weeds that haven’t been disturbed for—”
    “Eh... don’t interrupt me when I’m talkin’.”
    “Don’t confuse me with the facts, is more like it.”
    “Whatever.”
    “Give me some of those gloves of yours. I’m all out,” she told him as she peered through the windows of the car, trying to get a better look at a bundle lying on the back seat.
    He shoved a pair into her hand with a grunt and mumbled something that sounded like, “Get... own friggin’... gloves....”
    “Oh, please. Like you pay for these yourself. You’re just being pissy because you thought you had your case solved and now—”
    “Now nothing! It could still be him.”
    “Could be. It could have also gone down exactly like he said.”
    Savannah tried the handle on the rear passenger door. “Whoever got her, she wasn’t exactly expecting to get nabbed. She was driving around with her doors unlocked. Not a good idea in this day and age, whether you’ve got a stalker or not.”
    “Eh, some women just don’t have any—”
    “Watch it, boy. Don’t aggravate me.”
    He opened the rear door on his side and together they examined the items that lay on the back seat and the floorboard.
    “What’s that?” he asked as she opened a large tote and looked inside.
    “It’s her model’s kit,” Savannah