Just Desserts (25 page)

“Hey, you!” she called. “You wanna get the hell outta there?”

He gave her a sullen, sarcastic smirk and a leisurely once-over that made her skin crawl. She could smell the stench of stale beer from ten paces away.

Turning his head aside, he spat a long brown stream of tobacco juice through the gap where his two front teeth had once been and onto the ground in front of her car door.

“How much you want for it, babe?” he asked, jabbing a greasy thumb in the direction of the car. “I’d be glad to take it off your hands.”

She walked up to him, trying to breathe through her ears instead of her nose. “It isn’t for sale. Please move away from the car.”

The puzzled look he gave her told her that he wasn’t accustomed to being told what to do by a woman. Either that or he wasn’t bright enough to comprehend the details of the demand.

In case it was the latter, she repeated herself. “Get away from my car. Now.”

“What’cha gonna do?” He grinned broadly. “Gonna call the cops?”

She reached inside her sweater and pulled out the badge on its chain and held it up for his perusal. “Don’t have to.”

He hadn’t appeared surprised to see the badge, and even then she had registered and filed away the fact. Usually people weren’t expecting a woman in street clothes to be a police officer. There was almost always that moment of silence as they readjusted, trying to reconcile their preconceptions of her with their idea of what a cop should be. Apparently she didn’t fit most stereotypes.

But this guy hadn’t needed those few seconds to shift gears, and she had briefly wondered why.

After a couple of more offers to buy and refusals to sell, he had meandered off into the sunset, marking territory with ill-aimed tobacco squirts along the way.

“Hey, Savannah!” a friendly voice called from inside the open garage bay. “She sounds like she’s runnin’ good!”

She pulled the Camaro next to the water and air hoses at the side of the building and cut the key. “Of course she is; I’ve got the best mechanic this side of the Mississippi.”

She climbed out of the car and walked into the garage, where Ray March hung over the fender of a 1956 Chevy. Ray enjoyed a well-earned reputation for being good with old cars. Everyone in town brought their classics to him because they knew he would treat them with the special love and attention they deserved.

“How are those new brakes?” he asked, stopping to wipe the sweat from his forehead with a shop towel.

She could tell by the fact that his red hair was standing practically on end that the Chevy wasn’t cooperating.

“When I step on the brake pedal the car stops. Every time, not just when I’m headed up a steep hill.”

“Whoa, big improvement.”

“I’m not complaining.”

“Then what are you here for?”

Savannah laughed and tugged at the sleeve of his overalls. “To buy you a cup of coffee and chat for a minute ... not about cars.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry, but you learn to expect the worst in this business.”

A few minutes later she and Ray were sitting in the primitive waiting area amid piles of National Tattlers, empty soft-drink cans, and wadded candy wrappers. On the wall above them were posters of classic automobiles with less-than-classic females sprawled across the hoods, legs spread and butt cheeks and boobs hanging out of skimpy costumes. Their eyes were empty, giving the illusion of being brain dead, but horny—some guys’ idea of the perfect woman.

A chill went through Savannah; she could almost see Atlanta in one of those pictures, wearing the outfit she had found.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Ray said, lifting the Styrofoam cup in a toast. “What can I do you for?”

“Did you notice the last time I was in here, about a week ago, I had a bit of a tiff with a guy out front?”

“Yeah, actually, I did.” He nodded thoughtfully. “I was gonna come out and see if you needed help, but you seemed to be handling it fine all by your lonesome.”

“Thanks; I appreciate the thought. Do you happen to know that guy?”

“Not by name, but I’ve seen him around from time to time. One nasty-lookin’ cuss.” He grinned at her and winked. “You know, Savannah, if you’re looking for a man, I know a bunch of dudes who’d love to volunteer for the job. You just let me know and I’ll give you a list.”

“You’re all heart, Ray, but I’m afraid my interest in this guy isn’t social.”

“Mm-m-mm, police business, huh?”

She shook her head and swallowed hard. “Kinda. Can you think of any way for me to get hold of him?”

“Let’s see....” He stared down into his coffee, as though searching for an answer. “Like I said, I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him driving an old classic. I believe it was ... yeah, it was a Studebaker Golden Hawk. He hasn’t really done anything with it. Last time I saw it, he had a couple different colors of primer on it. A waste of a great car.”

“A Stude Hawk ... there can’t be many of those running around.”

“Not many at all. I know where you might get a lead on the car—the local chapter of the Studebaker Club. I’ll give you the president’s number. He’s a nice guy by the name of Duke Wallace. Just tell him Ray sent you, and be sure to have him show you his car.” A fanatical gleam lit Ray’s eyes. “See, Duke’s got this
incredible,
beautifully restored Avanti. You won’t belie-e-e-ve that car! It’s got ...”

“Boy, that fella’s sure popular,” Duke Wallace drawled in a rich Louisiana accent that made Savannah momentarily homesick. “Yer the second person to call me ’bout him jist today.”

Savannah stood by, watching him polish the Avanti’s graceful ebony curves with a baby’s diaper. Ray was right; the car was incredible.

On the other hand, Duke appeared to have confined his body work to vehicles. He sported a potbelly that lapped over his belt, nearly hiding the enormous, silver N.R.A. buckle. Impressive. Apparently he had been working on it for a while. He looked as though he was probably pushing sixty.

“Oh, really?” she asked, following him across his garage while he collected a handful of cotton swabs from a jar.

“Yep, this other gentleman was by ‘bout an hour ago, askin’ the same thing: ‘Where’s that guy with the Hawk?’ Yep, that there’s exactly what he asked me, same as you.”

With a groan and a remarkable display of butt crack, he squatted and began to clean the minute particles of dust between the wire rims with the swabs.

Good lord,
Savannah thought,
I’m not that conscientious with my own ears.

“What did this man look like?” she asked, with a feeling that she would know the answer.

“The guy with the Hawk or the gentleman who was askin’ after him?”

“Both.”

“Well, one’s a whole lot prettier than t’ other. The fella with the Hawk ... now he looks like he fell outta a big tall Georgia pine tree and hit ever’ branch on the way down. But the other’n ... now you’d like him. He’s one of them tall, dark, and handsome sorts with nice manners. A real ladies’ man. And you shoulda seen what
he
was drivin’! It was a—”

“A Bentley.”

“Yep, that’s right. How’d you know that?”

“Just a guess,” she replied dryly. It seemed that Ryan Stone was one step ahead of her all the time. And, considering the length of his legs, that was a long way. “How about the other one? Do you know where I can find him?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, but I’ll have to tell you the same thing I told that gentleman. That fella ain’t part of the Studebaker Club. He didn’t ask t’ join, and we didn’t exactly invite him. We don’t cotton to trash like that in
our
club. Besides, it’s a cryin’ shame how he’s treated that Hawk. It’s ugly as he is.”

“Do you have any idea where he lives or works?”

“Nope. Don’t see him ’round that much.”

“Can you think of any way I might find him?”

Duke looked up at her, suddenly suspicious. “You shore do wanna find him bad, lady. What’d he do? Did he go and do you wrong?”

“Let’s just say he attacked me, and I want to get even.”

“Boy, I hear ya, Sis.” He tossed the used swabs into a nearby garbage can. Savannah half expected him to take out some dental floss and attack the grill. “I’ll tell ya right now, where you and me come from we don’t have as much of this meanness as they do here. We take care of it ourselves, we do. Right away. Then it don’t happen again. A man don’t mess with another man’s womenfolk, not more ’n once, that is.”

Savannah didn’t necessarily agree with him. She could remember quite a bit of “meanness” going on, despite self-appointed guardians of the law such as Duke Wallace. But she thought it better to keep her opinions to herself for the moment. The rebel flag on the garage wall and the N.R.A. buckle were the deciding factors.

“Here’s my phone number,” she said, handing him one of her old business cards with the station number and her extension crossed out and her home number written above.

“You’re a police lady?” he asked with the expected amount of surprise.

“Nope. Used to be.”

“My, my ... I never did cotton to the idea of havin’ women policemen. Didn’t seem right somehow.” He shook his head sadly. “But you seem like a real nice lady, so I’ll do what I can to help you out. We’re havin’ a big barbecue this Saturday, downtown at the park. I’ll ask around and see if anybody else knows where this guy is. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough.”

As she walked out of the garage, she could have sworn she heard him whistling “Dixie.”

Old Confederates never die,
she thought.
But the odd one does move to California and restore Studebakers.

It took all kinds.

Dirk had invited Savannah out for dinner. All she could eat.

That meant happy hour at the Bench.

She sat in a corner booth of the sports bar and watched him raid the goodies table for the fourth time. When he returned to their booth he was carrying two tiny paper plates, grossly overburdened with cheeses, crackers, meatballs, ribs, and some strange, breaded, deep-fried things that didn’t warrant close scrutiny.

“Dig in, kid. I wanna get my money’s worth,” he said, nodding back at the table. “They’ve got sissy food, too, you know.”

To Dirk, “sissy food” consisted of anything that hadn’t recently said, “Moo.” Fruits and vegetables definitely fell into that category, along with pastas and whole grain products.

Having already consumed her fill of celery and carrot sticks, dipped in ranch-style dressing, she had decided to give it up and just eat later. So much for dinner out with Dirk.

She hefted the one token margarita that had granted her access to this cornucopia and took a sip. Dirk was safe; he knew she would only have one if she was driving later. Savannah was Dirk’s idea of the perfect date: cheap.

During the next half hour he finally managed to worm it all out of her: the whole sad story of the demise of Detective Sergeant Savannah Reid ... even the part about the videotape. He was incensed.

“I knew there was a lot more to it than that. Why didn’t you tell me about this before? I could have jumped in there and—”

“Because I didn’t want you to jump in there. You would have just gotten yourself fired. Then we’d both be out of a job, and we couldn’t afford to go out on the town ... like this.”

She waved an arm, indicating the threadbare bar with its big-screen TV, whose picture rolled every few seconds, and the once-elegant stained-glass windows on either side of the door. Unfortunately, an overzealous bouncer had attempted to eject a rowdy patron through the one on the right. The broken glass and stretched lead were bowed outward, roughly in the shape of a human body. Savannah and Dirk had been coming here for years, and for as far back as she could remember the TV had rolled and the glass had bowed.

“True,” he said, not quite comprehending her underlying sarcasm, “but hell, that’s what being partners is all about.”

“Thanks, Dirk, you’re a doll.”

“Sh-h-h ...” He cast a furtive glance at the bar-stool jocks that lined the place, wall to wall. “Don’t say something like that in a place like this. Jeez, a guy’s got a reputation to uphold, you know.”

“Sorry, I got carried away.”

“Seriously, how can I help? Name it, you got it. We’ll get you back on the force somehow. We have to.”

“Do you miss me?” she asked in her sexiest tone.

“Sure I do. Hell, I’m going through nail-polish fume withdrawal.”

She drew a deep breath and braced herself, knowing he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear.

“Don’t fight for me, Dirk. At the moment I don’t want back on the force. I miss you, too, but the rest of the bullshit I can do without.”

“You’re kidding! You’re just going to roll over and play dead? That isn’t like you, Van.”

“I don’t see it that way. I’m beginning to think they did me a favor. This ain’t so bad, Dirk. Really. It has its drawbacks, sure. But overall, I think I could live with the thought of being my own boss, of not having to deal with the stiff white shirts.”

He sat for a long time, fingering a lump of cheese on a saltine. Finally he cleared his throat and said in a husky voice, “Fine; then I guess you won’t need me anymore. No problem.”

She wanted to reach across the table and squeeze his hand, but in a macho sports bar frequented by jocks and cops such a blatant display of affection was unacceptable.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she said. “I do need you ... just not to help me get back on the force. I need you really bad. Atlanta’s in deep shit and she doesn’t even know it.”

“Your kid sister? The little one?”

“Yeah, she’s out here with me now. And she ain’t that little anymore. That’s the problem.”

“Okay,” he said, reassuming his air of importance. “Lay it on me. What do you need?”

“Tell me anything you know about a kid-molesting, pervert photographer named Max.”

He stared at her for a few seconds, mouth open. Then he shook his head. “Shit, if she’s mixed up with Max, she is in trouble.”

S
avannah reached into her mailbox and pulled out a handful of bills, a couple of letters, and a Victoria’s Secret catalog. The thrill she felt upon receiving the flyer made her wonder if maybe she should get a life. Victoria had great undies, but this shouldn’t be the highlight of her day.