Bitter Sweets (8 page)

“All right, all right. I'm coming.”

“When?”

Savannah glanced at her watch again. It was a quarter to five. Bloss liked to charge out the door at a minute to five and absolutely no later. But she knew he would wait for her. He wouldn't miss the opportunity to grill her for the world.

“I'm in. . . . ah . . . . LA right now. I can be there in . . . . oh, say. . . . an hour, maybe an hour and a half.”

She grinned as she heard him mutter something under his breath. “One hour,” he said. “I'll wait until fifteen to six, but you damned well better show.”

“See you then,” she said sweetly.

Switching off the phone, she pulled the Camaro into the parking lot behind a modest shop, bearing the sign: Logan's Collectibles.

“Yeah, right,” she said, climbing out of the car. “I'll see you, Captain Bloss, when assholes like you can toot ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy.' ”

 

The moment Savannah walked into Alan Logan's antique store, she instantly wished she had ten thousand dollars in pocket change. Maybe more. This was exactly her kind of stuff: Victorian velvet settees, Tiffany lamps, wing chairs with diamond-tucked hunter green leather, rolltop desks, and ornately carved French beds with matching armoires.

Dirk had once accused her of having decorating taste that was “more gaudy than a whore's drawers.” She had reminded him that not everyone had his distinctive flair for furnishing a house trailer with cardboard boxes and rusted TV trays.

“Mr. Alan Logan, please,” she told the young woman who accosted her before she had gone ten feet.

“Al is busy right now. Perhaps I can help you.” The guarded look in the saleswoman's eyes told Savannah that either commissions were a rare and coveted commodity in this establishment, or the lady had a thing for “Al” and didn't want to share him with another female. Not even a female customer.

“I'll wait,” Savannah replied, then turned to study the deliciously secret cubbyholes in a nearby rolltop, oak desk.

“Suit yourself.”

Savannah watched in her peripheral vision to see if the woman would go alert Logan to her presence. She didn't, so Savannah decided to do it herself.

Ignoring the woman's raised eyebrow, she marched past her and into the back room, where a fortyish, well-built man in stained jeans and a pleasantly tight tee shirt was scraping layers of paint off a piecrust table.

The fumes from the remover hit her with a wallop, and she decided to breathe through her ears for a while.

“How could anybody have done that to such a pretty piece of furniture?” she said as his blade curled up the layers of green paint with gold accents, revealing a rich mahogany woodgrain underneath.

“It's a crime,” he replied, pausing to pull a red shop cloth from his back pocket and swipe it across his wet brow. The sweat was causing his dark chestnut waves to curl in a manner that she could only describe as “cute.” “But then, I love peeling it off and seeing what I've got.”

“My gran back in Georgia has a table just like that one,” she said, dropping to one knee to examine the item more closely.

“So, maybe I can sell you this one. . . . ?”

She smiled, giving him the full benefit of the famous Reid dimples. “Naw, Gran said she'd leave it to me in her will. Although I'm in no rush to get it,” she added quickly. She wasn't exactly superstitious about such things, but with Granny Reid being eighty-three, you had to be careful what you said.

“I'm Alan Logan, owner of this place.” He waved a stained hand, the gesture proudly sweeping his domain. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually, I'm not exactly furniture shopping today,” she admitted.

“I see.”

Of course, he didn't see, but his hazel eyes looked vaguely interested behind his paint speckled, wire-framed glasses, and that was a start.

“You used to be over on Harrington Boulevard,” she began, then reconsidered the wisdom of her opening gambit when she saw him scowl.

“Yeah, so?”

“And when you were, you had a partner named Earl Mallock.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Mmmm. . . . well, I need to speak to him, very badly, and I was wondering if you might know how I could reach him.”

Logan returned to his furniture stripping, and Savannah noticed that his hand was gripping the scraper far harder than necessary. His knuckles were literally turning white.

The excess blood seemed to have flowed to his face, which was bright crimson.

“I'll do you a favor,” Logan said through a tight jaw, “I'll give you the best advice I can. Stay away from that bastard, and save yourself a lot of grief.”

“Believe me, my intentions aren't romantic or even social in nature.”

He perked up immediately. “Oh, really? Are you a bill collector or something?”

“An ‘or something.' I'm a private investigator.” She pulled her identification from her pocket and flipped it open so he could read it.

“You're a P.I.?” He glanced her up and down with renewed interest. “I thought those were all ugly guys with gum on their shoes.”

She lifted her loafer and showed him some residue which she had collected on her way in from the parking lot. “One out of three?”

He chuckled, and it occurred to her that he was rather attractive when he smiled.

“I don't know where Earl is,” he said. “Haven't seen him since the day I dragged him into court. I won, too. But I can give you the name of somebody who does know where he is . . . . whether she'll admit it or not.”

“And who's that?”

“Not so fast. First you have to promise that when you find ol' Earl, you'll give him a message from me.”

“A
verbal
message?”

He laughed, but he didn't sound amused. “Yeah, no lead or steel involved.”

Savannah considered the deal. A few words delivered in exchange for a valuable tip. It seemed acceptable. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a pad and paper. “Okay, I promise.”

“There's a crazy bartender, six feet one inch, with purple hair who—”

“Purple?” Savannah just wanted to make sure she had heard correctly.

“That's right. Bright purple. She works at the Shoreline Club at the bottom of El Camino Boulevard on the beach. Her name's Vanessa. For some reason I could never figure, she's nuts about Earl. And Earl. . . . well. . . . he's just plain nuts. I'm pretty sure that she won't tell you, but she'll know where he is.”

“Okay, thanks a lot.” She scribbled on the notepad. “And what's the message?”

His friendly, hazel eyes went suddenly cold; the transformation was startling. “You tell him that he and Alan Logan still aren't even. Not by a lo-o-ong shot.”

 

When Savannah got back into her car, she decided to give Dirk's mobile phone another try. This time he answered.

“Yo.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Have I ever told you that your particular telephone salutation makes you sound like a cracker?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, several times. But considering you eat stale cornbread crumbled up in buttermilk with a dash of salt and pepper, I'm not going to lose any sleep over what you think of me.”

“It's good in regular milk, too . . . . without the pepper.”

“Yuck. What do you want?”

She headed the Camaro homeward. A hot cup of coffee and a piece of raspberry cheesecake would give her some fuel to run on for the rest of the day. Maybe a bit of chocolate sauce drizzled across the top.

“I want to know what's going on,” she said.

“Body's at the morgue. Dr. Liu is finished with her.”

Savannah winced, having seen Jennifer Liu perform more than a few autopsies. More than anything else, Savannah had never gotten over the shock of seeing how a brutal act committed by one person could turn another living, breathing, human being into a piece of dead meat.

If it were the result of an accident or disease, one could more easily chalk it up to Divine Will, karma, or simple destiny. But murder went against the rules. There was no way to believe it was good or a natural occurrence.

“What did she find?” Savannah asked.

“Cause of death was the gunshot to the head.”

In spite of herself, Savannah recalled the grisly details of the wound. “Yeah, no shit. We didn't need Dr. Jennifer to tell us that.”

“Her wrists and ankles had been wired like that for at least six to eight hours before she died.”

Savannah's stomach twisted a few notches tighter, and she nearly drove through a red light. “Great. I'm sure I'll dream about that one. Any hair or fibers?”

“The victim's. Some longer red ones that might be the kid's.”

There was more; she could hear it in his voice. “And?”

“And a couple of medium length dark brown. . . . almost black. . . . and curly.”

Unconsciously, Savannah reached up to her own head and fingered the thick, dark locks that she had tied back with a scrunchy. Distinctly, she remembered bending over the body. It was amazing how easy it was to transfer material from one source to another. “Oh, joy,” she said without enthusiasm. “What else?”

“Bloss decided to get involved in this one personally. . . . it being the daughter of a friend of the chiefs and all.”

“Yeah, he never misses an opportunity to kiss the back ot Hillquist's trousers.”

“The secretary at the resort gave us up, told him there were three of us there this morning. Of course, he recognized your description right away.”

“Of course. Did you know that he told me to come in and ‘talk.' ”

Dirk took too long to answer. “Ah. . . . yeah, Van. I heard.”

“How serious is he?”

Again, too much silence. “He. . . . um . . . . he told me to bring you in.”

“You?” Her south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-line, rebel temper flared. “That son of a bitch. Of all the others he could have sent, he had to rub salt in the wound by picking you.”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I volunteered.”

“You what?”

“Damn it, Van, if anybody's gotta do it, I thought it should be me.”

“Thanks, I reckon.” Tears of rage flooded her eyes and she could hardly see the road. “So, are you going to do it?” she said, “Are you going to take me in?”

She heard him clear his throat. “Would you rather come on in. . . . on your own?”

“Sure.”

“Good, I'm relieved to hear that. When?”

“After I run some errands.”

“Oh.” He sounded less relieved. “And how long will that take?”

“Look, Dirk,” she said, trying to sound patient and as strong as she wished she were. “I know your hindquarters are dangling over a hot skillet here, and I don't want to make things any worse for you than they need to be. But I've got work to do. And I'm not going to find Earl Mallock if I'm sitting in that damned station house, getting the third degree from Bloss.”

He didn't say anything for so long that she thought they might have been disconnected. Finally: “Okay, Van, I haven't heard from you, and at least for the moment, I can't find you. All right?”

“I love you.”

She knew that would get his goat. Dirk could handle street violence, criminal brutality, public controversy, and the occasional whack upside the head, but he couldn't cope with affection.

“Yeah, right. Talk to you later. Good luck.”

“You, too.”

She made a U-turn at the next light and headed back toward the beach and the Shoreline Club. No going home. No raspberry cheesecake. Not now.

Not until she had some more answers. . . . or at least fewer questions.

S
avannah had been in worse dives than the Shoreline Club, but it had been a long time. Just walking into the place made her feel like a full-fledged yuppie. She appeared to be the only one wearing anything other than torn denim, black leather, and enough chain and assorted metal to rebuild the fleet of classic Harleys that were parked outside.

One sniff of the stale booze and rancid smoke mixed with pungent human sweat told her she was probably the only individual in the joint who had recently bathed.

The Shoreline had a definite “nautical” motif: a couple of stuffed fish on the wall, nets strung across the ceiling that were embellished with an intricate lacing of cobwebs. The bar was covered with a thick layer of clear resin coating which sported an assortment of hooks, sinkers, bobbers, and lures.

On the barstool nearest the door sat a couple of scrungy Hell's Angels rejects. The chubby one had a bright red scar that bisected his face diagonally. Apparently, the doctor who had stitched him hadn't bothered to line everything up first. He gave her a lopsided grin as she walked by and whispered something to his skinny, hunchbacked buddy about, “Fresh tuna swimmin' upstream.”

Savannah resisted the instinctive urge to give him a swift karate kick to the groin. That would require bodily contact, and the thought made her shudder.

Not seeing anyone attending the bar, she walked to the opposite end and sat down on a stool, as far away as possible from Humpty and Dumpty. The wide, ragged cracks in the stool's vinyl pinched her rear, and when she leaned her elbows on the bar, she found it sticky.

A speaker, mounted on an “L” bracket over her head, crackled and spit out a “cryin' in my beer over you” country song.

Starving, Savannah grabbed the nearest bowl of peanuts and began munching on them. She would have preferred the chocolate-covered cashews in her crystal candy dish at home, but a calorie was a calorie.

At the other end of the bar, Dumpty hitched his belt up over his tractor tire – sized stomach and waggled his tongue obscenely at her. Opening her own mouth wide, she showed him her half-chewed peanuts.

“Gross,” he said, his libido bubble apparently pricked. Picking up his beer and his change off the bar, he retired to the back corner of the room.

Reliable old “see” food.
. . .
works every time,
she thought. Experience had taught her that a lot of perverts had weak stomachs. She had often told the women in her self-defense classes that one of the most effective ways to interrupt a rape was to barf on your attacker.

“Good move,” said a female voice beside her. “I'll have to remember that one.”

Turning on her stool, Savannah saw she was no longer alone at this end of the bar. Alan Logan's description hadn't been exaggerated at all. She truly was over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, and street-rugged.

From what Alan had said, Savannah had been expecting one of those questionable red shades of hair that was too blue to be real. But Vanessa Whatever-her-name-was had hair the color of a grape-flavored soft drink.

Savannah might have thought it was a wig, but it was only an inch and a half long and stuck straight out from her scalp. Savannah considered the possibility that she was a platinum blonde who had been dipped, headfirst, in Easter egg dye.

She wore equally purple jeans that bristled with metal studs and a tee shirt.

Savannah offered her hand. “Hi, are you Vanessa?” she asked.

“Yep.” She returned the handshake only briefly across the bar. Her skin was cold, damp, and a little pruned. An occupational hazard, Savannah decided, for someone who spent most of her day handling ice and cold drinks. “What can I get for you?” she asked.

“A minute of your time?”

Vanessa's dark eyes narrowed. Apparently, trust wasn't one of her greatest personality traits.

“Time for what?”

“A girl to girl talk.”

Vanessa crossed her multibangled arms over the front of her black “Shoreline” tee shirt with its fluorescent purple lettering. “Are you a cop?”

“Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

“They kicked me out.”

Vanessa's frown instantly melted, replaced by a grin. That seemed to be all the personal recommendation she needed.

“If the cops got rid of you, you must be all right,” she said with a conviction that Savannah found a bit frightening. “Who are you looking for?”

“Earl. Earl Mallock.”

The arms went back over the front of the tee shirt, the grimace back on the face. “Why?”

“I just want to talk to him.”

Vanessa studied her thoughtfully for a moment, then Savannah thought she saw a light of realization switch on in her eyes. “Hey. . . . what's your name, anyway?”

“Savannah Reid.”

That did it. Vanessa recognized the name instantly, and Savannah could practically see the purple fuzz bristling on her head.

“I think you better get outta here. Fast.” Vanessa didn't bother to lower her voice, and several of the nearby customers stopped talking and perked their ears to listen.

“Why should I? After all, your boyfriend came to me. He contacted me first, but then, I guess you know all about that.”

“I don't know anything.”

She was flat-ass lying. Savannah could see it in her eyes. She knew at least as much as Savannah knew, and probably a lot more. But she wasn't going to give up a thing.

“Earl's in a lot of trouble,” Savannah said, knowing there was no way to pull this one out of the fire, but she had to try. “You could help him if you'd just tell me how to get in touch with him.”

“Help
him? You want me to
help
him by turning him over to you. Yeah, right, lady. Now get the hell outta my place before I have you thrown out.”

“Your
place? You own this club?”

“That's right, and you're trespassing.” Vanessa turned to the corner where Savannah's previous admirer was sitting. “Hey, Joe, you want to show this gal the parking lot?”

Whoop-de-do,
she thought. This was just what she needed . . . . to get up close and personal with Joe Dumpty.

“I'm leaving. I'm leaving.” She held up both hands in surrender as she slid off the stool and headed for the door. “But. . . . next time you see Earl, you tell him that there's a whole heap of people who want to see him right now. We know what he did, and we aren't going to stop until we've got him.”

She paused for a breath and to let her words sink in. Apparently, Vanessa was listening, because she was getting a bit pale around the gills, like the cobwebby, stuffed fish on the wall.

“It's not a question of whether anybody finds him,” Savannah continued, “just of who nabs him first. And you tell him that, so far, the odds are on me, 'cause I'm the maddest.”

 

On the way back to her car, Savannah glanced around the parking lot and spotted a bright purple Trans Am sitting near the rear entrance. The color was startlingly vivid, even in the dim light of the setting sun.

Gee, wonder whose that might be?
she told herself.

She memorized the plates, then got into her Camaro. As she was jotting down the number, her phone rang.

With some misgivings, she answered it. “Yes?”

“Hi, Savannah, it's Tammy.”

“Thank the stars.” She wasn't up for another round with Bloss or even Dirk. “What's up?”

“Alan Logan sued Earl Mallock . . . . for illegal bookkeeping practices that led to the demise of their business. Logan won.”

“Mmmm. . . . so that's what Alan was talking about. Interesting, though I don't know what that might have to do with Lisa's death.”

“Sorry. I thought it might help.”

Tammy sounded so disappointed that Savannah could have bitten her tongue. The kid needed to stay busy; it was the only way to heal her heart.

“Everything
helps, honey. Good work. I have something else for you, if you don't mind.”

“Of course not.” She perked up instantly. “What is it?”

“Call Denise Harmon at the station. She should be on the desk by now. Ask her to run this plate for us.” She read her the Trans Am's letters and numbers. “If we're lucky, we'll come up with the address where Earl may be staying.”

“Really?” Her voice sounded thick, desperately hopeful. “Do you think that's where the little girl is now?”

Savannah thought of Christy's message, frantically scribbled with a red crayon in the Pocahontas coloring book. “Ah, Tammy,” she said, feeling the ever-increasing sense of urgency that was twisting her nerves into knots. “From your mouth to the good Lord's ears.”

 

Savannah was relieved to see that Captain More Gun's didn't close at six o'clock, along with most of the other downtown stores. Apparently, survivalist/gun enthusiast types shopped later than the usual boutique/cappucino bar patrons.

Hurrying through the door, she mentally rehearsed her string of white lies that would hopefully garner some information about Earl Mallock. Something told her he spent a lot of time here.

Reeking of cordite and excessive testosterone, the store contained everything any self-respecting anarchist could want: guns, knives, flak jackets, camouflage, and K rations. And, of course, powder, primers, brass casings, and lead slugs—all the ingredients necessary to make your own bullets from scratch.

On the wall to her left hung a large poster of a Rambo-wanna-be, bristling with guns, knives, grenades, and rocket launchers. He was covered with sweat and grime, his fatigues ripped, veins popping on exaggerated muscles. No doubt, some males' idea of sex appeal.

A large Confederate flag nearly covered the back wall, and the sight of it gave her a little twang of homesickness. Good ol' Dixie. Magnolia trees gently draped with Spanish moss, tall glasses of iced tea with sprigs of fresh mint, and sultry summer nights.

But after seeing the two yahoos behind the counter the sweetness of nostalgia faded, and she decided that the rebel flag might have different significance for the store's owners.

“Yo, darlin, what can we do you for?” said the guy who was wiping down a Sig Sauer. The second one guffawed at his partner's attempt at humor, and Savannah thought of every Jeff Foxworthy redneck joke she had ever heard. Certain scenes from
Deliverance
came to mind, too.

Gee, that was a real knee-slapper,
she thought, but she plastered a smile on her face and sauntered over to the counter.

“Actually, I'm looking for a fellow, who—”

“Hey, got one for you right here! His name's J.T.” He gave the other guy a gouge in the ribs with the barrel of the pistol he was cleaning. Savannah cringed, amazed at some people's lack of common sense when handling firearms. “Course, if you want somebody more prettier,” he said, “you'll have to settle for me. I'm Bobbie.”

“Thank you, Bobbie. But it's a particular gentleman I have in mind,” she said, slathering on the Southern charm. “I met him at a gun show down at the fairgrounds last month. His first name is Earl, I believe, and his last might be something like. . . . Bullock or. . . .”

“Mallock?”

“Yeah, that's it.”

The twosome exchanged knowing looks and giggled like a couple of adolescent boys over a Penthouse.

“What you want with Earl Mallock?” J.T. asked.

“Yeah,” Bobbie added. “What's he got that we don't got?”

“A Colt Sportster. He said he might sell it to me if the offer was right. I've been saving my pennies, and I'm ready to take it off his hands.”

“What does a lady like yourself need with a high-powered carbine?” J.T. wanted to know.

She smiled and deepened her dimples. “Home protection.”

“Where do you live, sugar, Fort Knox?”

Rather than disappoint him, she chuckled, then leaned across the counter, ignoring the cigar that smoldered in a tray under her nose. “Seriously, do you know where I might find him?”

“You don't need Earl. We got Sportsters.” Bobbie—whom she had dubbed Yahoo Number One—lifted a rifle from the wall rack behind the counter and laid it in front of her.

“I'd need extra magazines.” She picked up the Sportster and checked the breech, finding it empty.

“Got 'em,” he said.

She slammed the block home, swung the gun to her shoulder, expertly sighted at the poster boy's crotch, and squeezed off a dry shot. “And steel-jacketed ammo?”

His eyes widened, and she could see that he was quickly falling deeply in lust with her. “I'll get you some,” he said, far too eagerly. He lowered his voice and leaned into her face. “I'll get you anything you want, sweet thing. Anything at all.”

“Why. . . . thank you so much, kind sir,” she said, batting her lashes. Abruptly, she dropped the rifle onto the counter, along with her demure act, and fixed him with blue lasers. “But my mind is made up. I want
Earl's
gun. Do you know where I can find him, or not?”

“Well, I . . . . I don't know. . . .” He turned to his friend. “What do you think, J.T.? Should we—?”

“Get her phone number, Bobbie. Yeah, that's it. Get her number and we'll have Earl call her. How's that?”

Bobbie gave him a look of deep appreciation. “That's good.” He turned back to Savannah. “Leave your number, honey bunch, and we'll tell Earl you're looking for him.”