Corpse Suzette

so do I. But
you’ll find me a very nonjudgmental person. I’ve known a lot of perfectly
lovely people who’ve gone by a dozen other names, swindled, lied, and cheated,
and served time in federal prisons. I’d never think any less of you for it.”
    He studied her a long time
over the rim of his martini glass, a scowl on his otherwise line-free brow.
Then he said, “I want you to look for Suzette. That’s all I want you to do. And
I’ll pay you extra well if you find her.”
    • “How well?”
    He named a figure that set
her head to spinning. Visions of Victoria’s Secret shopping sprees floated in
her head along with the prospect of repaving her driveway and giving Tammy a
raise.
    “Okay,” she said. “You cover
my expenses, and I think we can work with that number. You can drop by my
office and my assistant, Tammy Hart will have you sign the appropriate papers.
Then we can—”
    “There’s just one thing,”
he said.
    A catch. There was always a
catch.
    “What’s that?”
    He glanced around the
restaurant, leaned forward, and lowered his voice. With not even a trace of an
Italian, French, or Spanish accent, he said, “You have to find that thieving,
double-crossing bitch before the cops do.”
    “Why?”
    “Because she’s got something
of mine. And I want it back.”
    “So, you’re the one who
trashed her house, looking for your property?”
    He glanced away and cleared
his throat. “I might have.”
    “Okay, that’s a ‘yes.’ What
did she take from you? Money?”
    He hesitated, then
shrugged. “Oh well, you’ll find out sooner or later, I’m sure. So I might as
well tell you. Yes, money. A lot of it.”
    “How much is a lot?”
    “Now that is
something you don’t need to know.” He drained his martini and motioned to the
waitress for another. “Just find her, Savannah. Find her, help me get back
what’s mine, and you and I will both be a lot richer.”
    Savannah liked to think
that she didn’t work for money. She worked for the soul-deep satisfaction of
bringing bad boys—and occasionally girls—to justice. What was money when you
could look in the mirror and see a person who served the community, who made
the world a better place?
    If there was anything
better than that, it was looking in the mirror and seeing a woman who had
righted a wrong... and was wearing Victoria’s latest silk and chiffon
peignoir set.
    She lifted her tea tumbler
and clicked his martini glass. “Sergio, darlin’, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
     
    Savannah stood at her
kitchen window and looked out at Abigail, who was reading in one of her chaise
lounges in the back yard. Tammy stood next to her at the counter, slicing
lemons and placing them in a pitcher of mango sun tea.
    “How did your morning go?”
Savannah asked, although she al-ready had a clue, judging from the glum look on
Tammy’s normally sunny face.
    “Lousy,” she replied. “I
offered to take her to the beach, to Lookout Point, to the old mission, even
Disneyland or Six Flags, but no-o-o, she wouldn’t budge out of that chair. Who
comes to Southern California to sit and read?”
    Savannah shrugged. “Hey,
some people actually go to Las Vegas to see the shows and eat cheap shrimp
cocktails. Go figure. I gather you’re sorry you invited her here in the first
place.”
    “Sure I am. Especially now
that it seems she’s not even going to get the makeover. If Emerge’s plastic
surgeon is missing... who knows what’s going to happen.” She plopped the lemons
into the pitcher, grabbed a spoon, and stirred. “Do you think Suzette Du Bois
is dead?”
    “I did last night. This
morning, too. Now I’m not so sure.”
    “Because Sergio D’Alessandro
hired us to find her?”
    “More because D’Alessandro
has explained a motive for why she may have disappeared on her own.”
    “The money she’s supposed
to have taken?”
    “Right. He had huge dollar
signs in his eyes when we were talking. I didn’t get the idea it was five or
even six figures.” Tammy froze, knife in hand. “Really?”
    “Really. The guy lives in
one of those marina condos and owns a fifty-foot yacht that even ‘well off’
folks could only dream about. He showed it to me after we ate lunch. Offered to
take me out for a spin around the harbor, but I told him ‘no thanks.’”
    “He’s not your type?”
    “No, a potential murderer
is definitely not my type. Especially one who’s fifty going on thirteen.”
    Tammy reached up into the
cupboard and