Cereal Killer

good as it gets.”
     
    Half an hour later, Savannah lay in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, listening to her sister snoring in the next room. Thankfully, even drama queens had to take a break once in a while and rest up for the next day’s calamities.
    On the other hand, self-employed private detectives didn’t always have that luxury.
    No doubt about it, she would be as grouchy as Dirk tomorrow as a result of this sleep deprivation. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw a white van pulling next to a black Mitsubishi, an arm reaching out, and Tesla Montoya being yanked inside.
    And then...
    It was the “and then” part that was keeping Savannah awake.
    What did he... or maybe even she... do to Tesla then? Where did he take her and why?
    Would they find her body somewhere, like the other two? Or could she still be alive?
    Savannah would have felt far more hopeful if it hadn’t been for that large blood spot on the sofa. Blood at a crime scene never boded well for a missing person.
    But if the blood was Tesla’s, and she had been attacked in her apartment, why did the assault happen there, rather than inside the van or at another location?
    Why would her kidnapper take her home?
    If his intention was to hurt or kill her, why did that have to happen at the apartment, rather than someplace less dangerous for the kidnapper?
    Why not just take her up into the hills, where any evidence—like blood on a sofa—would be less obvious to investigators?
    She lay there, studying the pattern on the ceiling cast by the street lamp shining through her lace curtains, her mind racing on an endless loop.
    It wasn’t until a quarter to five that she figured it out.
    She reached for the phone on her nightstand and pushed the “memory” button to dial Dirk.
    When he answered, he sounded as wide awake as she was. “Yeah?”
    One of the nice things about Dirk was that you didn’t have to waste time with niceties like “hello” or “how are you?”
    “After he grabbed her,” she said, “he took her back to the apartment.”
    “Do you think? Duh.”
    “Eh, bite me.” She sat up in bed and turned on her reading lamp. “And the reason he took her there was...?”
    “I’m workin’ on that.”
    “To get something. She had something at the apartment that he wanted badly enough to risk being seen by somebody when he took her there.”
    “Something, like what?”
    “Maybe something that would incriminate him in killing Caitlin and Kameeka?”
    Dirk thought that one over. “Maybe. Or maybe this theory of yours is just plain stupid. You know how you get when you’re thinking about a case in the middle of the night like this.”
    She had to admit that he had a point there. The results of these late-night mental exercises of hers ranged from truly brilliant to dumber-than-dirt dumb. And she never really knew which they were until she could re-examine them in the morning light.
    “Go to sleep, Van,” he said, his deep voice tinged with a sweetness that might have fulfilled even Marietta’s requirements for intimacy. “Let it go for tonight. We’ll work on it again tomorrow.”
    “It’s already tomorrow.”
    “Then we’ll tackle it after noon. Sleep tight, honey.”
    “You, too.”
    Click.
    So... Dirk wasn’t one for flowery hellos or goodbyes. But once in a while, they had a soulful connection.
    A once-in-a-while soul mate... whose boxers you didn’t have to launder....
    As Savannah drifted off to sleep, she realized that, for her, it was enough.
     

Chapter
    15
     
    “B oy, I thought you were never going to get up!”was the greeting Savannah received when she trudged downstairs a few minutes before noon.
    Marietta was sitting on the sofa, a cup of coffee in her hand, the telephone in the other. She didn’t appear to actually be talking on it, so Savannah figured she must be waiting for a call. Still.
    “Where’s that great breakfast that you promised me last night?” Marietta continued. “My stomach thinks my throat’s cut.”
    “Don’t start with me, Marietta,” she growled as she walked past her and into the kitchen. “Not before I’ve had at least one cup of coffee.”
    “No, really!” Marietta hopped up from the sofa and followed her. “I’m starving here, and it’s almost lunchtime!”
    “Well, did it occur to you to maybe make something for yourself?”
    “I don’t cook.”
    “I know. But even a bowl of cereal would have taken the edge off that hunger. You do pour milk,