Corpse Suzette (6 page)

She didn’t care if he broke
a few rules. She bent plenty herself... especially those she considered stupid.
And so what if he leaned a little hard on a particularly unsavory suspect to
get to the truth? He had good instincts and didn’t “lean” unless he was sure
the guy was a bad one.

Together they had taken a
lot of dangerous criminals off the streets and just as importantly, they had
brought justice and closure to a lot of victims. Savannah had decided long ago
that was a good way to spend a life. And she had also decided she could put up
with most of Dirk’s less pleasant habits to achieve that.

She reminded herself of
that when she pulled into the pier parking lot and saw him sitting there in his
Buick, a nasty little smirk on his face.

He had beaten her there.

Big whoopty-do.

The fact that she had lost
the unofficial race meant that she would have to join him, rather than vice
versa. Sitting in his grubby Buick was the price to pay for law-abiding
driving.

But he had chosen the
parking space nearest the beach and the view today was great, so she didn’t
mind too much.

The midmorning sun had
broken through the haze and Southern California’s idea of a winter day was
simply magnificent.

She got into his car,
rolled down her window, turned her face toward the sun and closed her eyes,
letting it warm her soul. Palm trees rustled overhead in the onshore breeze. A
few seagulls cawed, some children laughed further down the beach, someone’s
boom box was playing “California Girls.” All was well with the world and—

“Did you get a load of that
dumb broad back there? Boy, was she a piece of work or what?”

Savannah tried not to let
his words or the grating tone of his voice pollute the purity of her perfect
California-Zen moment. “I beg your pardon?” she asked with all the tranquility
she could muster.

“That stupid broad back at
Emerge. Talk about a brainless twit! Why she—”

“Do you know,” she said,
eyes still closed, her voice a monotone, “that you are the only man left in the
world who still calls women ‘broads’?”

“So, what’s your point?” he
snapped.

“Point? My point?” Eyes still
closed. Still tranquil. Still in the serene consciousness of the moment. “No
point. I have no point. It was just a simple observation.”

“No, you were bitching at
me. Criticizing my language, like you always do. I know when I’m being
criticized. If I wanted some br...
woman
to bitch at me, I’d get
married.”

“If you could find some
broad who’d have you,” she muttered under her breath, losing the Zen.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She opened her
eyes and shook herself back to reality, grim as it might be. “What were you
saying? You don’t like somebody. What else is new?”

“I don’t like that gal
who’s the receptionist or secretary or whatever back there at that Emerge
place.”

“Any particular reason?”

“She’s a bimbo. And worse
yet, an
old
bimbo.”

“Young bimbos are somehow
better than old ones? Why? Because they’re easier on the eyes? You don’t mind a
woman being an ignoramus as long as she’s firm and perky?”

“What?” He stared at her
for a long moment, obviously confused. “No, it’s not that. Firm and perky?
That’s stupid. It’s just that if a gal’s older, she’s had more time to figure
out how to smarten up. She doesn’t have any excuse for being a bimbo past...
oh, thirty-five or so. After that, she oughta be wiser.”

Savannah studied her old
friend’s face and saw only sincerity. She gave him a sweet, warm smile. “I love
you,” she said.

He looked pleased but
confused. “Okay. First you criticize me, then you say something like that.
You’re nuts.”

“But not a bimbo?”

He smiled back. “Not even
in the ballpark with bimbo.”

“Tell me more about the
receptionist.”

“She’s gotta be pushing
sixty, but she was flirting with me, actually coming on to me.” He shut his
eyes and shook his head as though trying to shake out the very thought. “Yuck.
She could almost be my mom. And that wouldn’t even matter, except that she’s
had a ton of bad plastic surgery. Her eyebrows are up to her hairline, her nose
is as pointed as a just-sharpened pencil, and her lips are all plumped up like
she’s been bee-stung. It’s gross, I tell you. If she’d had one more face-lift,
I swear she’d have a beard.”

Savannah groaned. “That’s
an old one.”

“But applicable in her
case. She asked for my number. Can you believe it? She was commenting on the
fact that I’m not wearing a wedding ring and wanted my home phone number.”

“Did you give it to her?”

“Hell no. I gave her Ryan
and John’s.”

“You’re a bad boy.”

He snickered. “I know.”

“Did you get a read on her
about Suzette?”

“Just that she doesn’t like
her. Has worked for her and ol’ Sergio forever, but doesn’t have an ounce of
respect for either one of them.”

Savannah shrugged. “Well, I
can understand that where Sergio’s concerned. He seemed more than a bit smarmy
to me.”

“And Suzette lived like a
pig.”

“She was a bit
sanitation-challenged, yes...

“And who was that pretty
boy you were talking to over there by the butterfly cage?”

“The gentleman by the
atrium was Jeremy Lawrence, Emerge’s style consultant.”

His eyebrows raised a
notch. “Lawrence?”

“Yeap. How much do you want
to bet he was Suzette’s luncheon date that didn’t show at Toscano’s?”

“Gotta be. I’ll be talking
to him next. And the gal with the weird hair and the sprayed-on jeans?”

“Devon Wright. She handles
public relations for Emerge. We don’t like her much either.”

“Oh, why not?”

“Because
she
doesn’t
like
me.
Didn’t believe me when I told her I’m a reporter with
San
Carmelita Today
magazine.”

“That newspaper thing that
comes out on Sunday?”

“That’s the one. And just
because I didn’t have a press pass or a business card, she didn’t buy my story.”

“You’re slippin’, gal. Once
upon a time, you’d have had a business card for at least six businesses at a
given time in your wallet.”

“I know. Tammy hasn’t
printed any for me lately. It’s her fault.

Anyway, I—”

Her cell phone began
playing an obnoxious tune from her purse. She made a face as she reached inside
and pulled it out. “Damn it, Dirk,” she said, “I told you to stop messing with
my phone.
‘La Cucaracha'
just ain’t my song.”

“You started it, setting
mine to play ‘Wind Beneath My Wings.’ Embarrassed me to death in the middle of
a meeting with the chief.”

“Shhh,” she said as she
pressed the Talk button. “Hello?” She gave Dirk a quick, knowing glance. “Uh,
yes, Sergio. It was nice meeting you earlier, too. How can I help you?”

“What does
he
want?”
Dirk whispered. She reached out and put her free hand over his mouth.

“Yes, I’m alone. We can
talk freely. What is it?”

She listened for a long
time, then said, “Of course I’m very discreet about my investigations. No,
Detective Coulter wouldn’t need to know anything at all. Yes, I’d be
interested. Good. I’d be delighted. See you at noon.”

She clicked the phone off
and sat there grinning at Dirk for as long as she could hold the secret. Then
she spilled it. “Sergio D’Alessandro wants me to investigate Suzette’s
disappearance privately for him.”

“And not tell me anything
about it.”

“That’s right.”

They both grinned... big,
evil, face-splitting grins.

Then Savannah sang, “In the
mornin’, in the evenin’...”

And he replied with, “…ain’t
we got fun!”

Chapter

S
avannah made a practice of
arriving at appointments early. Funny how much you could learn sometimes just
by being someplace a few minutes before someone expected you.

And by arriving at the San
Carmelita Marina fifteen minutes early, she learned something about Sergio
D’Alessandro and Devon Wright. As Granny Reid would put it, they were “carrying
on.”

From her vantage point on a
second-story balcony of Café Carolina, she could see the front of the harbor condominiums
where Sergio lived—according to Tammy, who had done a quick computer check for
her. The restaurant where he had suggested they meet was only a stone’s throw
away. So she had a clear view when he left his condo, walked Devon to a black
Corvette convertible in the parking lot, and passionately kissed her good-bye.
The farewell had included a quick, not particularly discreet butt feel, which
sealed Savannah’s opinion that they were, indeed, “carrying on.”

She mentally added that to
the list of things she was not supposed to tell Dirk, but undoubtedly would.

As Devon drove off and
Sergio strolled her way, she decided to take her glass of iced tea and move to
a table inside. No point in letting him know that she knew about Devon. What he
didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him... or, more importantly, cause her any grief.

He came swaggering into the
room a couple of minutes later, looking like he had just stepped off a yacht,
wearing crisp white slacks, a navy blue blazer, and a red mock turtleneck. The
smile he flashed her way told her that he was most impressed with himself and
expected her to be, too.

She smiled back and lifted
her glass in salute. If he had only known what she was thinking: that she
should get one of those outfits and ship it back to her brother, Macon, in
Georgia. He needed a git-up like that to wear when he was changing
transmissions on trucks there in his garage.

“Ms. Reid... the private
investigator,” he said as he pulled out the chair across from her, unbuttoned
his jacket, and sat down. “Or is it Ms. McGill, reporter at large?”

Savannah chuckled. “Well, I
guess I’m just plain ol’ Savannah right now, until you tell me what you want
from me.”

He motioned to the waitress
and ordered a vodka martini on the rocks. Then he looked around the restaurant
and waved a hand, indicating the giant palms, the tropical ceiling fans that
swirled overhead, the heavy wicker furniture, and the expansive view of the
marina. “You like?”

She nodded. “I like. Nice
choice.”

His eyes skimmed over her
outfit, taking in the simple Aran sweater and beige twill slacks. Her only
adornment was a pair of plain gold hoop earrings that Granny Reid had given her
for her twenty-first birthday.

She could tell he wasn’t
impressed, and that was just fine with her. Occasionally, her private
detective’s income allowed her to splurge on something nice from the Victoria’s
Secret catalogue, but she wasn’t about to tell ol’ Sergio that she was wearing
a rather daring silk teddy under that tame exterior. Her bloomers weren’t—and never
would be—any concern of a guy who dyed his hair “Midnight Black” at the age of
fifty-something.

“I checked up on you,
bella
”
he said, his Italian accent thick as Georgia sorghum and about as sickeningly
sick. “You’re quite a detective. You’ve solved some rather important cases here
in San Carmelita over the years... you and that friend of yours, Sergeant
Coulter.”

“One or two, here and
there,” she replied.

She said nothing as the
waitress gave him his martini, but as soon as she walked away, Savannah fixed
him with a mischievous grin and said, “I’ve done some checking on you, too,
since you called this morning.”

He froze, his martini
halfway to his lips, and said, “Oh? And what did you find out?”

She glanced around, but no
one was seated near them. She lowered her voice anyway. “Oh, a couple of
things. First of all, you’re from a little-known area of Italy....”

He took a sip of martini
and gulped it down. “Yes...?”

“A little-known, western
part of Italy, called Bakersfield, California. Name on birth certificate:
Leonard Roy Hoffman. Graduated from Thurston High School, class of ’71.
Finished number 273 out of 275 students. You’ve had a number of aliases over
the years: Mario Barbarino, Stephano Gucci, Salvador Donatello. Served time in
Lompoc for embezzlement of company funds from a designer in the LA garment
district.” She paused for a breath. “How am I doing so far?”

He found his voice and
croaked out a simple. “Fine. And...?”

“You and Suzette Du Bois
weren’t actually married. You had a church wedding, close friends and all that,
about five years ago, but nobody bothered to fill out the proper forms and get
them to the county courthouse, so it wasn’t really legal. Which was handy
because you didn’t actually have to go to the trouble of getting a divorce about
a year later when she kicked you out... for fooling around with other women.”

He nearly choked on his
olive. “How did you know that!?”

She resisted the urge to
laugh. Although she and Tammy had verified all the rest on the computer an hour
before she had left the house to join him at the restaurant, she had just
guessed at the reason for the split-up. Sergió-Leonard wasn’t a difficult book
to read.

“I’m good,” she said.
“Don’t you think?”

“Maybe a little too good,”
he replied. “I wasn’t hiring you to check up on
me.
I know more than I
need to know about myself.”

“And now, so do I. But
you’ll find me a very nonjudgmental person. I’ve known a lot of perfectly
lovely people who’ve gone by a dozen other names, swindled, lied, and cheated,
and served time in federal prisons. I’d never think any less of you for it.”

He studied her a long time
over the rim of his martini glass, a scowl on his otherwise line-free brow.
Then he said, “I want you to look for Suzette. That’s all I want you to do. And
I’ll pay you extra well if you find her.”

• “How well?”

He named a figure that set
her head to spinning. Visions of Victoria’s Secret shopping sprees floated in
her head along with the prospect of repaving her driveway and giving Tammy a
raise.

“Okay,” she said. “You cover
my expenses, and I think we can work with that number. You can drop by my
office and my assistant, Tammy Hart will have you sign the appropriate papers.
Then we can—”

“There’s just one thing,”
he said.

A catch. There was always a
catch.

“What’s that?”

He glanced around the
restaurant, leaned forward, and lowered his voice. With not even a trace of an
Italian, French, or Spanish accent, he said, “You have to find that thieving,
double-crossing bitch before the cops do.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s got something
of mine. And I want it back.”

“So, you’re the one who
trashed her house, looking for your property?”

He glanced away and cleared
his throat. “I might have.”

“Okay, that’s a ‘yes.’ What
did she take from you? Money?”

He hesitated, then
shrugged. “Oh well, you’ll find out sooner or later, I’m sure. So I might as
well tell you. Yes, money. A lot of it.”

“How much is a lot?”

“Now
that
is
something you don’t need to know.” He drained his martini and motioned to the
waitress for another. “Just find her, Savannah. Find her, help me get back
what’s mine, and you and I will both be a lot richer.”

Savannah liked to think
that she didn’t work for money. She worked for the soul-deep satisfaction of
bringing bad boys—and occasionally girls—to justice. What was money when you
could look in the mirror and see a person who served the community, who made
the world a better place?

If there was anything
better than that, it was looking in the mirror and seeing a woman who had
righted a wrong...
and
was wearing Victoria’s latest silk and chiffon
peignoir set.

She lifted her tea tumbler
and clicked his martini glass. “Sergio, darlin’, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Savannah stood at her
kitchen window and looked out at Abigail, who was reading in one of her chaise
lounges in the back yard. Tammy stood next to her at the counter, slicing
lemons and placing them in a pitcher of mango sun tea.

“How did your morning go?”
Savannah asked, although she al-ready had a clue, judging from the glum look on
Tammy’s normally sunny face.

“Lousy,” she replied. “I
offered to take her to the beach, to Lookout Point, to the old mission, even
Disneyland or Six Flags, but no-o-o, she wouldn’t budge out of that chair. Who
comes to Southern California to sit and read?”

Savannah shrugged. “Hey,
some people actually go to Las Vegas to see the shows and eat cheap shrimp
cocktails. Go figure. I gather you’re sorry you invited her here in the first
place.”

“Sure I am. Especially now
that it seems she’s not even going to get the makeover. If Emerge’s plastic
surgeon is missing... who knows what’s going to happen.” She plopped the lemons
into the pitcher, grabbed a spoon, and stirred. “Do you think Suzette Du Bois
is dead?”

“I did last night. This
morning, too. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Because Sergio D’Alessandro
hired us to find her?”

“More because D’Alessandro
has explained a motive for why she may have disappeared on her own.”

“The money she’s supposed
to have taken?”

“Right. He had huge dollar
signs in his eyes when we were talking. I didn’t get the idea it was five or
even six figures.” Tammy froze, knife in hand. “Really?”

“Really. The guy lives in
one of those marina condos and owns a fifty-foot yacht that even ‘well off’
folks could only dream about. He showed it to me after we ate lunch. Offered to
take me out for a spin around the harbor, but I told him ‘no thanks.’”

“He’s not your type?”

“No, a potential murderer
is definitely not my type. Especially one who’s fifty going on thirteen.”

Tammy reached up into the
cupboard and took down a glass. “I’m going to take this out to Abigail. How
much do you want to bet that she’ll find some reason to bite my head off
again?”

“Has she always been this
crabby?”

Tammy thought for a moment,
then nodded. “Yeap. Ever since I can remember.”

“Then
why
did you
set this up?”

A sad look crossed her
face. “I’ve always felt sorry for Abby.”

“Because she was a heavy
kid?”

“No. I mean, she was, but I
didn’t feel sorry for her because of that. I was superskinny, and I got teased,
too. When you’re a kid you’re always either too much this or not enough that. I
felt sorry for her because of her parents. My mom is her dad’s sister. But
they’re very different. My parents are great, but Abby got the crummy ones. Her
dad was never around, never paid her any attention, like my dad did me. And her
mom wasn’t there for her either.” Tammy looked out at the woman on the chaise
lounge and a kind of understanding dawned on her face. “In fact, all I remember
my Aunt Betty ever doing was lying around, reading books and magazines. I guess
the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and all that.”

“Guess not. Anyway, I still
think it was sweet of you to set this up for her, whether she understands and
appreciates your motives or not.”

“Thanks. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck. Take the knife
with you in case things get ugly.” Tammy snickered, grabbed the pitcher and
glass, and headed outside.

Savannah looked down at the
black cat, who was doing figure eights around and between her ankles. “It isn’t
dinnertime yet, so don’t even start with me,” she told her. “Cleo, go bite your
sister or whatever. If you trip me again, I swear I’ll—”

The front doorbell rang,
and she hurried to answer it, nearly stepping on the cat’s tail in the process.

It was Dirk. And he had his
cop face firmly in place.

“I gotta talk to you and
that Abigail What’s-Her-Name, too,” he announced without the preamble of a “hi”
or “how do you do?”

“Nice to see you, too,” she
said, opening the door wider and ushering him inside. “What’s up?”

“Not a lot on my end.
That’s why I want to know what you and that Sergio dude had to say at your
lunch.”

She followed him into the
living room. He plopped himself on the sofa, and she sat in her easy chair. He
looked tired. Dirk frequently worked around the clock on a murder
investigation. And this was as close to a homicide as you got without a body,
so she wasn’t surprised that he was tired and cranky.

She also wasn’t impressed
with his cranky self. “Mr. D’Alessandro is now my client,” she said, grinning
at his scowl. “You know that what I discuss with my clients is confidential.”