Killer Honeymoon (17 page)

Tammy turned to Waycross. Her pretty face was glowing with excitement. “I want to. I’ve never been up in a lighthouse before. Do you want to come with me?”

Savannah was surprised to see Waycross hesitate.

A beautiful lighthouse, with a gorgeous girl whom he was obviously very attracted to . . . it seemed like an opportunity he would jump at.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, “if you want to.”

He rose and held out his hand, helping her up from the low-seated beach chair. But once she was standing, he quickly released her hand.

Together—but not as together as Savannah would have liked—they left the group, walked to the tower, and disappeared inside.

“Hmmm,” Savannah said under her breath. “What’s up with him?”

She looked around and saw her own puzzlement reflected on the faces of everyone else present.

Granny shook her head and sighed. “Sooner or later, me and that boy are gonna have to sit ourselves down and have a
long
talk.”

“I
can see why you love this place, Savannah girl,” Granny said as Dirk drove the three of them south, along Pacific Coast Highway through Malibu. “I swear, when the good Lord was makin’ the big ol’ world, he must’ve spent some extra time on this part.”

Savannah turned to her grandmother, who was sitting in the backseat, right behind Dirk. “That’s true, Gran. I agree. I look at those sparkling waters every day of my life, and yet, I never get over it.”

“Get a gander at those houses,” Gran said as they passed one dramatic and luxurious beach home after another. Every style was represented, from ultramodern to Italian villas to Tudor mansions.

Although the houses were getting closer and closer together, the farther south they went, Savannah couldn’t help thinking that the price of one of those places and the tiny footprint of beach that it was built on would be enough money for her and Dirk to retire in style for the rest of their lives, and then some.

Malibu was a unique community, even in the Los Angeles area where “abnormal” was the “norm.”

TWENTY
-
SEVEN MILES OF SCENIC BEAUTY,
the sign said when you entered the town. And that accurately described the layout of the community. The Pacific Coast Highway hugged the coastline, and the houses and businesses of Malibu lined either side of the PCH.

Some exquisite estates sat on the hillsides, overlooking the rest of the town, and some of the canyons had luxury residences tucked away inside, but the vast majority of Malibu residents lived on the beach or right across the highway from it.

Almost everyone had a breathtaking view of the ocean.

“If you ever got blessed with more money than you knew what to do with,” Gran said, “would you buy one of these houses?”

Savannah thought she probably would not, considering all of the natural disasters the town of Malibu was famous for. It seemed every few months there were either raging brush fires sweeping over the hills above the highway, or there were storms with pounding surf attacking the coastline. And then there were the spring rains that brought massive mudslides.

It wasn’t unusual for the same areas that had been endangered by ever-spreading flames during fire season to then be slip-sliding down the hills during the torrential rainfall. Contrary to a popular song title, it did rain in Southern California.

In fact,
Savannah thought as they rode along,
in March, the rain pours like a tall cow whizzing on a flat rock.

But, like the mouse and the cotton ball metaphor, Savannah decided not to share that particular thought with Gran. Granny Reid wasn’t much on terms or sayings that had any sexual references or mentions of bodily functions. Unless, of course, she herself was highly irritated—then all bets were off.

More than once, Savannah had heard her grandmother use “polite profanity” after spilling milk on the kitchen floor or other such calamities. “Shoot f’re, thunderation,” and “Heavens to Betsy Bug” were some of her fallbacks when times were tough or mishaps highly annoying.

“No, Gran,” she said. “When I hit the lotto, I’ll just add a west wing to the house I’ve got and invite you to come live with us.”

“You play the lottery? Why, that’s gamblin’, girl.”

“Just a figure of speech, Gran. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Savannah glanced over at Dirk, expecting him to have a sheepish look on his face. Unlike her, he seldom passed up the opportunity to plunk down a dollar for a dream.

But, instead, she saw that his expression was grim as he focused on the road ahead. He had been unusually quiet during the drive down. And she knew why.

“You okay?” she asked him.

He nodded, but it wasn’t his most convincing nod.

“You sure?”

“I’ll just be glad when this is over.”

“Me too.”

She glanced at the address numbers on some of the buildings and realized they would be there soon. “Have you got any particular plan,” she asked, “about how you’d like to see this go down?”

“You know how our plans usually work out. We plan all day long how it’s gonna go, and then the perps never do what you think they’re going to do. You mow through Plan A to Plan J in five seconds. So, what’s the point?”

Granny piped up from the backseat. “You just fly by the seat of your pants. A man who trusts his own gut feelings and common sense to get him through moment to moment—I like that.”

Savannah’s cell phone rang. “It’s Tammy,” she told them as she answered.

“You’re on speaker, darlin’,” she said. “What’s up?”

“We’re about there, huh?” Tammy asked.

“Yes. I noticed. Just a few more blocks.”

“As soon as we get parked, you’re going to send Granny back to us, right?”

Gran did a little tsk-tsk in the back. “Those younguns are nervous and want an old lady with ’em for protection. That’s pretty funny.”

Savannah knew that Tammy was far more concerned about Gran being safe in the van with her and Waycross than the other way around. But, of course, it would take a braver soul than she to mention that to Gran.

“That’s right, Granny,” Tammy said, always kind. “We’d just feel better if you were with us.”

Savannah glanced down at her watch. “Okay. It’s one-thirty. He doesn’t usually go to the gym until two. So we’ve got plenty of time to get in place and check the audio equipment.”

“Maybe go over our plan?” Tammy suggested.

“Um, Dirk figures we’ll just play this one by ear.”

Even as she was saying the words, Savannah felt a bit uneasy. This particular mission felt wrong somehow, and more than a little troublesome to her.

She wasn’t sure why.

They’d taken down many a bad guy in their day—career criminals galore and even a couple of serial killers. But only a foolish law enforcement officer would take someone like Ian Xenos lightly.

She’d looked at his picture earlier on Tammy’s computer, and something had sent a chill through her. It wasn’t his muscular body that bothered her. She and Dirk had taken down a lot of muscle-bound knuckleheads in their day. Those fellows and their muscles hit the ground just as quickly and as hard as anybody else.

No, it was the expression on Ian Xenos’s face that instinctively set her nerves on edge. Or, more accurately, it was the
non
expression. “Flat affect,” the shrinks called it. The few experiences she’d had dealing with individuals with that dead look in their eyes had been unpleasant, to be sure. Some had even been terrifying. It kept her awake at night when she thought of the horrible acts that were committed by those who felt no empathy whatsoever for their fellow man.

“There’s the gym up there on the right,” Tammy said. “The big orange sign. I recognize the logo.”

Savannah looked at the large orange circle with the cartoon bulldog in the center, standing on his rear legs, his front paws up and gloved. His jagged teeth were displayed in an ugly snarl.

“Nice,” she said. “Kinda gives you that warm, fuzzy feeling.”

“His house should be right down there, also on the right,” Tammy told them.

Dirk pulled over into the first available parking spot. “You guys go on down, get the next one,” he said. “We’ll approach him when he’s exactly halfway between home and the gym. We don’t want his buddies in either place to feel they have to come rescue him.”

“Especially if they look anything like that-there bulldog in the sign,” Granny said.

Parked on the side of the road in front of an ice cream store, they watched as Ryan and John’s big white surveillance van passed them, then pulled into a parking spot about sixty feet away.

“Okay, Gran,” Savannah said as she opened the door. “Let’s go get you in the van with those young people so you can keep an eye on ’em.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Gran said proudly. “To make sure everything goes okay with you younguns.”

Savannah watched as her eighty-year-old–plus grandmother strode off toward the van, ready to do battle, if necessary, to protect her loved ones.

She hoped that someday, maybe, if she tried really hard, she might turn out to be just like her.

 

The waiting was the hardest part. Always.

Savannah truly believed that with some luck, the good Lord’s help, and all the courage you could scrounge up from deep inside, there was nothing much a body couldn’t do when they set their mind to it.

But waiting to do it, when all you wanted to do was just get it over and done with, that was the toughest part.

Dirk, Gran, Ryan, John, Waycross, Tammy, and Savannah were all crowded into the van, watching for Ian Xenos to stick his ugly mug out of his house. Even though it was a roomy and quite luxurious van, with all those bodies and all the equipment, it was pretty darned crowded.

Contrary to his previous inclination not to formulate a solid game plan, Dirk was running down his latest ideas. To Ryan and John, he said, “We don’t wanna all pounce on him like an army. Let me and Savannah go out first. You’ll be listening and watching. If it looks like we need you, come on out and join in.”

“Gotcha,” Ryan said.

“Tammy and Gran . . . I want you here in the van, getting everything on tape. Waycross, you’re here, too, filming with the camera, like we showed you.”

Waycross nodded vigorously, his red curls bobbing. “Understood.”

“Then understand this, too. Under no circumstances will any one of you three get out of this van.” Dirk turned a stern look on Granny. “That means no running into the affray with a skillet in your hand. Got it?”

She gave him a curt nod.

Savannah’s mental wheels were spinning. She had a plan of her own, which she didn’t think was going to sit well with Dirk, but she decided to bounce it off him anyway. “I’d like to go up to him first. Alone,” she said. When Dirk started shaking his head, she added, “Just hear me out, dadgum it. I might be able to just have a civil conversation with him, and wouldn’t that be better than a brawl right here on Pacific Coast Highway?”

Dirk paused to think it over, so she kept talking. “Let’s get out right now. You act like you’re going into that convenience store, and I’ll hang around by the phone booth, like I’m waiting for a call. Then when he comes out, I’ll try to talk to him, and you’ll be right there if I need you.”

“Do what you think is best, old boy,” John told Dirk, “but I tend to agree with her. Too many chefs spoil the broth, and all that.”

Dirk sighed. “We’ll try it your way. But if he starts anything . . .”

Savannah reached for the van door. “Let’s go.”

Their timing was perfect. No sooner had they taken their agreed-upon positions than the front door of the house opened and Ian Xenos strode out. He was the size of a grizzly bear and was wearing a skimpy black tank top, which was cut very low in the front with enormous armholes. It was intended, no doubt, to show off every one of his muscles that he had so carefully developed.

He had a deep, deep tan, with a suspiciously orange tint to it. His head was shaved bald, and his scalp was tattooed with a set of bright red horns. Around his neck was more ink—a vine of thorns dripping crimson blood down onto his shoulders and chest.

Subtle,
she thought.
The jury’s just gonna love that at your trial, you badass nitwit
.

But, of course, any good defense lawyer would insist that he grow some hair before his next court appearance. And dressed in a nice suit, a white shirt, and a conservative tie, no one would guess that in his natural state he looked like the son of Lucifer.

When he passed by her, he gave her a quick once-over. Although he didn’t make eye contact or smile at her, she could tell he liked what he saw.

So he appreciated a full-figured gal.

Proof that nobody was all bad.

She fell into step beside him. In her sweetest Dixie drawl, she said, “Excuse me, sir. You look like you’re in a bit of a hurry, but could you spare a minute for me? I’d sure appreciate it.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Dirk coming up behind him, hanging back, not getting too close, but close enough.

Xenos stopped, gave her another, longer, lustier look, and said, “Yeah. What’s shakin’, sugar?”

To her shock, he had a Southern accent that made her sound like a Yankee!

Why, wonders never cease!
she thought.
Who’d have thought Ian Xenos was a good ol’ boy?

“I know you, don’t I?” she said. “I’m just sure I’ve seen your picture in the newspaper.”

He frowned. “Yeah, I reckon you might’ve. So what?”

“Oh, I know who you are! They say your company sells those fake purses that me and my girlfriends buy all the time.”

He frowned a bit less, so she continued. “I gotta tell you, I think you got a bum deal. That gal on TV, that reporter, it was obvious she had it in for you from the start.”

Now he was looking surprised, and more than a little pleased. Something told Savannah that running into women on the street with burgeoning breasts, who sympathized with his cause, wasn’t something that happened to ol’ Ian every day.

But he liked it.

“Well, thank you, sugar,” he said in a deep voice that was just crawling with “smarmy”—Southern accent notwithstanding.

“I don’t think she was objective at all about her reporting,” Savannah continued, laying it on thicker than she could spread Granny’s preserves on a biscuit, and twice as sweet. “Her saying you’re tied into those terrorist fellas, that your group sends them money so’s they can do their jihad terror business over here. I don’t believe that hooey for a minute. I can just tell by looking at you that you’re a fine American. And I can tell by your sweet Southern drawl that you were born in the land o’ cotton like myself.”

All of her sunshine and light were proving pointless. Because the moment she had mentioned the terrorists, his eyes had glazed over with that flat, shark look. Just like his mug shot on the Internet.