Cereal Killer

“fat chick” reference, but thoughts of watching the Crime Scene Unit technicians in action made her put the offense away for the time being. Besides, other than the occasional ill-chosen adjective, Dirk showed an endearing degree of sensitivity when it came to weight issues.
    “Want company?” she asked.
    “Sure. The address is number one Seagull Lane. Must be right on the water.”
    An overweight young woman, exercising too much, who lived at a prestigious beachfront address... A bell rang in Savannah’s memory banks.
    “The DB’s name wouldn’t happen to be Caitlin Connor, would it?” she asked, dreading the answer.
    “How’d you know?”
    Images flashed across Savannah’s mental screen: a beautiful woman with long flowing red hair, turquoise eyes, flawless skin, and a dazzling smile—a full-figured woman who showed the world that beauty could come in generous packages as well as petite ones. Cait Connor’s face and figure had sold magazines, plus-sized clothing, makeup, fragrances, and even home furnishings for the past few years, enticing generously proportioned women to enter her world of grace and fashion.
    “Caitlin’s dead?” she said, still unable to believe that such beauty, such vibrancy was gone.
    “Yeah, sorry. Were you a friend of hers?” Dirk asked with more compassion and warmth than he was known to display under most circumstances.
    “No. I never met her,” Savannah replied. “I’m just a fan. One of many.” Suddenly Savannah felt older, more tired, more aware of the fragility of life. “I’ll meet you there in ten,” she said.
    There probably wasn’t a damned thing that she or anyone else could do for Caitlin Connor at this point.
    But she’d try.
     

Chapter
    2
     
    T he sun was dipping into the Pacific, staining the waves with a gold and coral patina, as Savannah drove her Mustang down Shore Boulevard toward the San Carmelita waterfront. Definitely on the “right” side of the tracks, the beach area wasn’t a section of town where Savannah had spent a lot of time in her law enforcement days. Normally a person could walk their dog at two in the morning in that neighborhood without fear. And the pooch didn’t have to be a pit bull either.
    Savannah lived in midtown, in a moderately priced stucco house with a red Spanish tile roof. Private detectives and former police officers didn’t live on the hillsides with their panoramic views. And they certainly couldn’t afford to live on the beaches. In her price range, you didn’t even get a one-bedroom cottage within walking distance of the water, let alone one of the mansions that sat directly on the beach.
    But if Savannah wasn’t the type to gripe about the extra padding on her fanny, she certainly wasn’t going to complain to the universal powers that she was beach-less. When the occasional Pacific storm hit the West Coast and the surf flooded the first five blocks of the waterfront and the glass-fronted houses on the muddy hills started slipping off their foundations, sliding down into their neighbors’ swimming pools, she sat in her dry, stable bungalow and felt terribly superior. She was poor and glad of it.
    A little pseudo-arrogance went a long way toward fostering pseudo-contentment.
    The streets narrowed to little more than alleys as she got closer to the beach. With property being assessed by the square inch, parking in this area was at a premium. Large signs were posted on garage doors, at the edges of postage stamp-sized lots, and in driveways that threatened everything from towing and fines to decapitation and dismemberment if you dared to leave your family’s SUV on their private property when you took your kiddies to the beach.
    For the most part, those who could afford to live here amid the sand and surf had little tolerance for their nonbeach townsmen, and even less for the tourist hoards from Los Angeles and the San Fernando Valley that descended on the community every summer.
    Passing street after street with their quaint, nautically themed names, Savannah quickly found Seagull Lane between Heron and Pelican. Cait Connor’s house wasn’t hard to spot. On a street lined with luxury homes, it stood out for its sheer size alone. A contemporary structure, it looked more like a giant glass box, a sort of arboretum, than a private home. The ocean-facing front half of the house was constructed almost entirely of triangular panes of bronze-tinted glass.
    The back half of the building was a warm,