Just Desserts (8 page)

Moving on to the snakeskin wallet, Savannah examined its contents. They were depressingly predictable. Gold cards, driver’s license, several business cards bearing telephone numbers that had been written in various feminine styles.

Savannah scribbled down each name and number, noting that none of them appeared to be male. Interesting. Any man with nearly a dozen women’s cards in his wallet would inevitably have some problems in his marriage, which might explain Beverly’s somewhat cool acceptance of his death.

“When you get finished there take a look at this,” Jennifer said, still peering through the microscope.

“Interesting?” Savannah asked, her curiosity aroused by the barely subdued enthusiasm in Jennifer’s voice.

Jennifer grinned, stood, and vacated her stool, making room for Savannah. “Oh... I think you’ll think so.”

Climbing onto the stool, Savannah studied the strange specimen that lay on the slide. It appeared to be a soggy, blood-soaked mass of something that had, perhaps, once been pink. “What is it? Or should I ask, ‘What was it?’”

“A piece of paper. I found it in the right pocket of his slacks.”

“Right leg?” Savannah asked, wincing as she remembered the mangled thigh.

“Yeah, that’s why there’s so much damage to the document, but if you look closely, you can see what it was.”

Document? It seemed a strange choice of words for her to make.
Probably another list of women’s phone numbers, maybe rated with stars,
she thought as she leaned over the scope and tried to look through it.

She wasn’t big on microscopes. In fact, she had maintained a major grudge against them since ninth-grade biology class, when Mr. Reeves had insisted that they look with
both
eyes, cocking their heads to one side. She had never gotten the hang of it and had, therefore, received a D in the class.

But Mr. Reeves had kicked the proverbial bucket years ago and was peacefully interred in a Georgia cemetery... God rest his dear soul. So, with a delicious surge of defiance, she closed her left eye tightly and stared down the scope with her right.

At first she wasn’t sure what she was seeing. It appeared to be an even intermeshing of fibers, with black splotches. Then she reminded herself that the substance was being magnified many times over.

The dark spots were letters.

Slowly, as she stared, they began to form into some semblance of order. “R...” she said. “Is that an R?”

“Good girl,” Jennifer said, sounding a bit like Mr. Reeves had on one of his better days.

“And an E...S... TR...A... restaurant? Is that it? No, wait a minute ...” The rest came into focus clearly. She lifted her head and stared at Jennifer, who looked both pleased and intrigued. “It’s a restraining order,” she said.

“That’s right. I’ve been able to figure out enough of the rest to know that it was granted to him, not
against
him.”

“A
man
getting a restraining order?” Savannah shook her head thoughtfully. “I don’t mean to sound sexist, but most restraining orders are issued to women to keep men away from them. And they’re usually only granted if the plaintiff believes her life is in danger.” She looked through the scope again. “Can you tell who it was issued against?”

“Sorry. The shotgun blast obliterated that small piece of information when it took off most of his leg.”

“I wonder,” Savannah said, contemplating this new bit of information that just might help her wind up this case quickly. “I wonder... who was Jonathan Winston so afraid of?”

S
avannah scowled at the computer monitor, daring it to give her any more nonsense in the form of inaccessible files, disappearing cursors, or garbled rows of colorful and exotic symbols that only made sense to someone whose first language was computerese. “Don’t you be temperamental with me, you ornery, no-good, cantankerous piece of—”

“Now, now,” scolded a deep voice over her shoulder. “Don’t let the captain hear you criticizing his new toy.” Dirk glanced up and down the row of desks, but there was no one close enough to be within earshot. “Honestly, between you and me I think he’s having an unnatural relationship with this machine.”

Savannah grinned, glad to see him. Even though she complained about Dirk constantly, she genuinely missed him and his caustic sense of humor when he wasn’t around. “Oh, really? I didn’t know such things were possible between a man and his computer.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of virtual reality?”

“Of course I have. Where do you think I’ve been, under a rock? Everyone’s heard about virtual reality.”

Actually, she had only seen one short news segment about a weird computerized machine that could replace sexual intimacy for the human race... some sort of outfit you could slide into that would basically feel you up, or some such nonsense. But she didn’t dare share the fact that her knowledge of the subject was so limited. Undoubtedly Dirk would feel it was his life’s mission to inform her of every sordid detail.

Pulling his desk chair over to hers, he plopped down and leaned toward her, his elbows on his spread knees. “Well, rumor has it that the captain’s got this funky black rubber suit hanging in his office closet. It’s got wires and plugs sticking out all over—especially in the groin area. And sometimes when he tells Mary Lou to hold all his calls he pulls the blinds on his office door, takes out the suit, and...”

She waited patiently for him to continue, refusing to ask for what was coming next. He would tell her whether she asked or not; he always did, after making her wait, her curiosity whetted. But the anticipation was never worth the meager payoff.

“And I understand that he ... shall we say ... partakes of some rather steamy, better-than-life erotic experiences that bring new meaning to the term ‘interactive.’”

Savannah fixed him with a baleful eye. “I don’t want to hear this. I’ve had the day from hell so far, and I don’t want to make it any worse by conjuring up lurid images of the captain and his ... interactive wet suit.”

“They say someday he’ll short the whole thing out and fry the old mountain oysters... if you know what I mean.”

“I was raised in the South, Dirk. Of course I know what you mean. But I’d rather not think about the captain’s mountain oysters, if you don’t mind.”

“Hey, don’t knock it. The day is coming when we’ll all have virtual reality computers right at home. Just think: no more singles’ bars, no escort services or blind dates. We won’t have to worry about knocking somebody up or having them hassle us about the ‘commitment thing.’”

Savannah stared blankly at him, only half hearing what he was saying.

“Just think, Savannah; you could program me into your system, summon me up any time you want, and make me your love slave.”

She lifted one eyebrow and gave him a hey-why-are-you-playing-in-that-mud-puddle-you-stupid-boy? look.

“If I desire the company of a gentleman,” she said in her most sultry Georgia drawl, “I don’t need to employ the artificial affections of an interactive computer, thank you. Personally I think it’s pathetic that anyone would try to substitute a machine for what only a flesh-and-blood, living being can do for you.”

A brief vision flashed through her mind—the black-and-chrome “personal massager” with full ensemble of attachments stashed under her bed. But her mind expertly skirted the issue. A blinding moment of self-realization could sure knock the hell out of a good argument.

“Would you mind terribly if we changed the subject?” She returned her attention to the computer monitor and again her fingers flew over the keyboard.

“Sure, no problem.” Dirk leaned back in his chair and lit up a cigarette. Savannah could have told him to put it out; the city had passed a no-smoking ordinance a year earlier, banning smoking in public places. The rule was seldom followed inside the police station. In general, cops smoked more than anyone she knew ... except firemen.

But she decided not to chastise Dirk this time. Something told her that the two of them were going to be having a bit of a tiff in a few minutes anyway; no point in starting early.

“So... whatcha working on?” he asked, leaning over her shoulder and peering at the screen. “Restraining orders? Why are you going through those files?”

Here goes nothin’,
she thought. Dirk steadfastly held the opinion that successfully solved homicide cases boosted one up the rickety ladder of departmental politics. And Dirk intended to retire in a few years as high on those rungs as possible. He wasn’t going to gracefully accept the fact that she had been assigned to a homicide case—an
important
homicide—without him.

“I’m checking out a lead on a case,” she said with pseudo-nonchalance. “No big deal.”

“Restraining order? On that guy we busted this morning? The girlfriend didn’t act like she had a restraining order against him.”

Savannah cleared her throat, her eyes trained on the screen. “She didn’t... at least I don’t think she did. It’s for the Winston case.”

“Winston? Jonathan Winston’s murder?”

“Yeah. That’s the one. Bloss stuck me on it this morning. I think it’s going to be a real pain.”

She continued to stare at the monitor, aware of the rapid acceleration of his breathing beside her. The silence thickened around them, the only sound being the click of her fingertips on the keyboard as she filtered through the information in the court records.

“Bloss gave you the Winston case? You alone?”

She could hear the bitterness and envy in his voice, and her temper began to rise along with his. Who did he think he was, anyway? So she had been given a priority case. So what? He didn’t seem to mind when he was given opportunities that she wasn’t invited to share.

“I asked Bloss to include you in this,” she said, trying not to sound as though she wanted to throttle him for his silly, adolescent jealousy. “But he said you were busy with something else.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve been busting my balls on something really big, all right. I’ve been filling out all those goddamned forms and writing the reports for that two-bit bust we did this morning. I thought you were home, resting, taking it easy. I thought I was doing you a favor.”

“You were,” she said, fighting the urge to snatch the remaining hairs off his head. “And I really appreciate it.”

“Sure. You show it by hogging this case—probably the biggest homicide investigation of the year—all to yourself. I’m covering the bases for you, and you’re cutting me out?”

Savannah slammed down her palm on her desk, upsetting the mug that held her pens and pencils. Whirling around to face him squarely, she said, “Damn it, Dirk, grow up. I didn’t cut you out of anything and you know it. I didn’t ask for this case, I don’t want this case, I wish I could give you this case and you could file it in the general vicinity of those damned hemorrhoids that you keep griping about. But I can’t. That’s the way it is. Live with it.”

He glared at her silently for several seconds. She could see he was searching for an appropriate retort. But one of Dirk’s most endearing qualities was his inability to be articulate when he was steamed about something. Winning an argument with him was almost too easy to be satisfying.

After opening and closing his mouth several times like a landed carp he stood so abruptly that his chair rolled back against his desk with a thud. “You’re a real bitch, Reid. You know that?”

“Ah ... yes, I believe you told me that earlier this evening.”

“But I didn’t mean it then.”

His face was flushed a shade of red that he usually needed a couple of belts of Jack Daniel’s to achieve. She watched as he stomped to the door, lower lip protruding, and she was reminded of her little nephews when they had been told they couldn’t have seconds of Rocky Road ice cream.

“Hey, Dirk,” she called after him.

He paused at the door and turned around. “Yeah?” he said gruffly.

She screwed up her face in an equally childish expression and stuck out her tongue at him. “Nanny, nanny, boo, boo....”

“Fuck you, Reid.”

The glass in the door and the windows rattled as he slammed the door behind him.

“Hmm-mm-mmm, a three point seven, I’d say,” she mused, then returned to the computer. “Let’s see now ... where was I?”

Ah, yes. There it was—the list of restraining orders granted since the beginning of the year. She ran a quick check for “Winston” and found it almost immediately. Opening the file, she perused the particulars.

J
ONATHAN
W
INSTON
1553 Prescott Way, Apt. #23

An apartment down on the beach? The old Harrington mansion was at the top of the foothills, overlooking the city. Apparently Beverly hadn’t been kidding when she’d said the marriage wasn’t going that well.

Threatened with bodily harm ...

“Yeah, no shit,” Savannah said, thinking about the grisly condition of the corpse. She glanced at the date and felt a small tingle of satisfaction. Ten days ago.

Hereby requests and is granted
the court’s protection from one ...

“My God,” Savannah whispered, staring at the name on the screen before her. She flipped off the monitor but continued to sit there as she mulled over the significance of what she had just seen.

Slowly, woodenly, she rose and picked up her purse and jacket. “Damn,” she said as she headed for the door. Of all the names she could have found on that screen the last one she had wanted to see was Councilwoman Beverly Winston’s.

Normally if Savannah drove down El Camino Boulevard toward the harborfront area at sunset, she took a moment to appreciate the beauty of the drive. The picture most often used on San Carmelita postcards, the scene had never lost its power to make Savannah grateful she lived in Southern California. These sunsets were almost worth giving up the seasons in Georgia. Almost.

Uniform rows of giant palms lined the street, black silhouettes against the turquoise-and-coral marbled skies. The boulevard wound downward to the pier, which stretched even farther into the sea ... as far as you could walk into the Pacific without getting your feet—and a lot more—wet.