Just Desserts (9 page)

Once the city pier had been much longer, but a sizable tropical storm had rolled onto the shore several years earlier, flooding the first three blocks of seaside properties and ripping away the end of the pier. The structure looked as if it had been ravaged by an enormous shark.

For several long years the remaining portion of the pier had been closed to the public, who didn’t seem to mind its unstable condition. Dedicated fishermen insisted it was their right to fall off the jagged end if they damn well pleased. The pier had always been the best place in the county to catch a fresh seafood dinner.

Last year Beverly Winston had led a campaign to get enough money to repair what had remained of the pier, so that it once again would be accessible to the public. As Savannah drove along the waterfront, she saw families staked out along its length, reeling in their catches, enjoying a bit of the sea’s bounty, and, more importantly, each other’s company.

“Jonathan Winston was afraid his wife was going to kill him,” Judge Wyckoff had told Savannah when she had called him to ask about the restraining order. “Winston told the court he had uncovered some ‘indiscretions’ on his wife’s part and she had threatened to murder him if he exposed her.”

“How did Beverly Winston respond to the charges?” she had asked him.

“She didn’t admit or deny them, but she agreed to stay away from him. They were already legally separated, and he had moved out of the mansion and into an apartment.”

As Savannah pulled into the parking lot of the exclusive apartment complex, she tried to reconcile the image of the Councilwoman Beverly Winston who had cared passionately whether the city’s kids were able to fish on the pier with their parents with the woman who could have threatened to murder her husband. A concerned, dignified humanitarian—a raging, vindictive wife. The two just didn’t mesh.

But the contrasting images did have one thing in common, Savannah thought as she left her car and headed for the apartment foyer with its rockery atrium complete with a pool of koi.

Whatever role she played the one trait Beverly Winston always displayed was passion. And, being one herself, Savannah had always had a soft spot for passionate women. It was going to be tough, bringing a woman like that down. In more ways than one.

The more ritzy the apartment, the more difficult the management, Savannah thought as she slid the borrowed key into Jonathan Winston’s front door. The supers in places like this always took their jobs oh so seriously, to the point of being pains in the ass.

After examining Savannah’s badge for what seemed like ten minutes, the man had called 911 to verify its authenticity. When he had finally connected with the desk sergeant he had demanded a full physical description of Savannah and argued with the sergeant as to whether Savannah’s eyes were green or blue. Yes... a definite pain.

Key finally secured and door opened, Savannah was ready to search the recently departed’s apartment. On one arm she carried an enormous canvas tote, used to collect any materials she thought might aid in her investigation: address books, photos, letters, bills,
etc.

In a rare moment of cooperation the super had verified that Jonathan lived alone. Nevertheless, Savannah entered the dimly lit apartment with caution.

As her eyes adjusted to the subdued orange sunlight that filtered through the vertical blinds, she took in the contemporary furnishings: the gray leather sofa, the chrome-and-glass cocktail table, the marble fireplace and black lacquer dining set. Red and blue cushions thrown on the sofa, chairs, and around the hearth added a bit of color, as did the Oriental rug.

Not bad
...
for a bachelor’s
pad, she thought as she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. Apparently Mr. J. Winston was doing okay financially on his own, or the missus was forking over some pretty hefty alimony.

She walked over to the sliding glass doors and pulled the blinds open to a breathtaking view. Below, only a few yards away, the waves rolled up onto the beach, leaving lacy rows of foam to fizzle into the sand. The town of San Carmelita curved to the right, a graceful inlet, a quiet harbor. The entire city was visible: the copper dome on the county courthouse, the tiled roofs, the old adobe mission. Everywhere white stucco gleamed golden in the light of the setting sun.

Leaving the canvas tote on the floor, Savannah turned back to the room and perused its contents in the additional light. Jonathan Winston had kept his apartment as pristine as his showroom. Every bit of glass sparkled, free of dust or fingerprints. Every cushion was carefully placed at just the right angle, as were the magazines on the cocktail table. The dove gray Berber carpeting showed no soil, no signs of traffic. Even Granny Reid—whose kitchen floors were rumored to be so immaculate you could eat off them—would have been impressed, Savannah decided.

Not one item in the room was out of place, nothing... except...

The videotapes.

In the ebony-and-chrome entertainment center everything was perfect, compact discs neatly filed, audiotapes arranged alphabetically. But in direct contrast to the usual exacting placement the videotapes were a mess. Some lay on their sides, some on the wrong end. Some protruded from the front of the display; others were shoved to the back.

While Savannah employed much the same “system” at home, she didn’t think the misarrangement was in keeping with what she had seen of Jonathan Winston’s preferences. And he seemed to have been a man who indulged any and all of his preferences.

As she moved toward the entertainment center to rummage through the videos, she heard a small, almost inaudible shuffling sound behind her. Less than a second later she had whirled around, the Beretta in her hand.

“San Carmelita Police Department,” she declared in a voice that projected more courage and authority than she ever felt at times like this. “Walk out here. Hands on top of your head. Now!”

They never did it; they never froze, halted, dropped it, or came to you just because you told them to. But there was always a chance.

Ready for anything, expecting nothing, she waited. Again she heard the soft shuffling sound—probably sneakers on carpet. Louder. Heading away from her toward the back of the apartment.

Taking cover behind each doorway and wall along the way, she followed the footsteps. “Freeze, damn it!” she said, “or I swear, I’ll shoot you!”

Her threat was an empty one, considering that she hadn’t even seen the subject in question. Rather than pausing, the footsteps picked up the pace as her quarry headed for the kitchen and the back door of the apartment.

Savannah stuck her head around the kitchen doorframe. The room was empty. No sign of the “visitor,” other than a door that stood wide open to a service hallway and stairwell.

Hurrying through the door, Savannah peered up and down the stairwell but saw no one, nothing. Whoever had been there had gotten away.

“Shit!” she said, staring down the empty staircase that zigzagged back and forth from floor to floor. Savannah had a personal rule: She hated running, felt it was an unnecessary drain of energy. If they made her run, she took them in. It was a matter of honor... maybe of vengeance. Either way, it was a standard she lived by.

“I saw you, you bastard, and I’ll get you, sooner or later,” she shouted down the stairs. Her voice reverberated from wall to wall with a resonance usually associated with Hollywood-created deities.

She hurried back into the apartment and over to the window, hoping to see the intruder if he passed through the parking lot. But after a couple of minutes she decided he had been intelligent enough to take another route.

As she returned to the kitchen to secure the back door against any future visitations, her foot collided with an object, sending it skidding across the floor. She bent over to see what it was ... a videotape. Reaching for it, she reconsidered and pulled a pair of surgical gloves from her jacket pocket. After putting them on she picked up the tape, taking care not to smudge any prints.

The box was a generic black container, used to hold personal videotapes. Nothing had been written on the white label affixed to the spine. Gently, she opened the box and found an equally unmarked tape. She recognized the style, a special type of videotape that was used in a camcorder, then modified to be viewed in a VCR.

Was this what the intruder had been after? Had she interrupted him rifling through the tapes in the living room? That would explain the lack of neatness and order in the entertainment center.

How convenient,
she thought as she dropped the tape into the canvas tote.
How nice to have evidence just dropped into your lap.

She decided not to get too excited about it. Instead she would continue as she had intended when she had arrived. She would gather the photos and documents that might give her an insight into Jonathan Winston’s life.

The tape was interesting; she looked forward to viewing it. But Savannah had learned long ago never to trust anything in this business that came too easily.

S
avannah sat in her well-worn, well-loved easy chair, an overstuffed, wingbacked affair, covered with a soft mauve chintz. Propped up by rose-printed, satin-fringed pillows, Savannah was surrounded by her favorite things: her terry-cloth robe, her new silk pajamas from Victoria’s Secret, Diamante, Cleopatra, and a dish of sumptuous dessert. But she was still in a lousy frame of mind.

Seldom did she experience any mood so heavy that it couldn’t be lifted by a hefty slice of chocolate cheesecake, drizzled with Chambord. The addition of the delicate raspberry liqueur had been her latest hedonistic discovery. A culinary triumph of this magnitude could usually keep her in high spirits for at least a week. But it had been a week and a half, and she decided it was time to resume her never-ending quest for what she fondly called, “The Consummate Consumption.” Cheesecake just wasn’t cutting it anymore.

“Sorry, ladies,” she told the cats, who were intertwining themselves between her arms and legs, rubbing, purring, begging for a bite. “This is
definitely
people food. I didn’t ask for any of your salmon liver pâté . . . or whatever that foul-smelling stuff was. Go away.”

To her surprise they obeyed—a rare occurrence.

No sooner had they disappeared into the kitchen than she found she missed their company. Apparently this was one of those nights when it didn’t feel so good to be alone, free, independent, and unencumbered by anything so stifling as a significant relationship.

She had to admit that sometimes after a day like today it would be nice to have someone to come home to. Someone to snuggle with, make love with, hell... even fight with. Just someone.

As she took the last bite of cheesecake and licked every molecule from the fork, she resigned herself to the fact that she was going to have to view the videotape that lay on her coffee table. Usually she would have been eager to run through the door, shove the tape into the VCR, and see what she had. But tonight she had postponed the moment with dinner, the bubble bath she had missed earlier, and dessert.

It’s time, kid,
she told herself as she rose from her chair, slipped on a surgical glove, and picked up the tape.
Let’s watch a little home movie. Probably something boring—vacation shots, a baby crawling or with food running down its face.
One could always hope.

Was she really hoping that was all it was? Even the thought confused her. Savannah had always been proud of her high level of ambition and tenacity when it came to her job. Since when did she find herself hoping she wouldn’t find a lead? Maybe she was getting soft in her old age.

Having popped in the tape, she returned to her chair and picked up the remote from the pie-crust end table beside her.

“Let ’er rip,” she whispered as she punched the button and leaned back in the chair, ready for Disneyland footage, proud parent memorabilia, maybe marriage vows or...

As she had expected, it was the or. Home video, shot through the windshield of a car. On the long black hood of the automobile sat a graceful, feline ornament. Jaguar.

“Guess whose car,” she said sarcastically. “Guess whose tape.”

The date in the lower right corner showed that it had been taped about three weeks earlier.
Mmm-m-m, recent stuff,
she thought.

The videographer was scanning what appeared to be a parking lot in a fairly rural area. Although the site looked familiar, she couldn’t quite place it.

His camera movements were jerky, disconcerting, sweeping from side to side too quickly. Martin Scorcese he wasn’t, she decided.

But he did know how to use a zoom lens. Pointing the camera at a large sign at the edge of the lot, he pulled in the image, close enough for every detail to be perfectly clear. Now Savannah remembered. Of course... the Blue Moon Motel, one of the classier no-tell motels on the edge of town.

How predictable,
she thought.
And, gee, I wonder ... who do you suppose he’s hoping to catch on film?

Like a prompt, unwelcome answer to her rhetorical question, the photographer zoomed in on room 136. The blue door with its white crescent moon and assorted stars opened, and a couple emerged.

At first Savannah didn’t recognize them. The woman wore jeans, sneakers, and an oversized sweatshirt, her hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her escort’s attire was equally casual. Their moods seemed to match their clothing as they walked along, arm in arm, a distinctive bounce to their step. They talked animatedly, the man bending his head to listen to the woman, then laughing heartily at what she had said.

They were in love.

Savannah watched, her heart thudding against her ribs, her palms damp, as the man ushered her to a car and handed her gently inside. He gave her a leisurely kiss on the lips, then a quick peck on the forehead.

She had never seen these people like this ... at ease, rested, happy, looking at least ten years younger. Love could do that for you when it was the real thing.