Killer Gourmet (2 page)

Her humble confession should have garnered her a nomination for sainthood. But instead, she had been rewarded with years of pompous, incessant, and highly annoying reminders of
The Day He Had Been Right!

Day and night, she had been bombarded with such gems as “You aren't always right, you know, Miss Smarty-Pants Savannah! Remember that day when . . .” and “You think you're so smart, but I can remember that time when you were just wrong, wrong, wrong!”

Yes, that had been her reward for her charitable admission.

Never again.

Granny Reid hadn't raised any dummies.

Well, actually, she had, but Savannah wasn't one of them. Now that she had learned her lesson the hard way, Satan would be wearing ice skates the next time she'd utter those fateful words aloud.

“Do you really wanna split?” he asked, nudging her in the ribs. “I don't know about lobster therma . . . whatchamacallit . . . but if Ryan and John have got anything else left over, something that recently mooed, I'd be happy to take it off their hands.”

Savannah weighed her options carefully, and it wasn't easy.

She had two passions in life: eating amazing food and nabbing bad guys and making them pay for their evil ways. Both she found to be deeply soul-satisfying. And there was hardly ever a conflict of interest between the two obsessions. As a former cop, Dirk's previous partner, and now a private detective, she had no qualms at all about chewing a Godiva truffle while chasing, tackling, and cuffing a perpetrator. Or pulling her 9 mm Beretta with her right hand while holding a KFC original-recipe drumstick in her left.

Multitasking? No-o-o problem.

But having to weigh the chance of savoring a once-in-a-lifetime meal against catching a numbskull, elder abuser . . . a hefty decision like that nearly blew her mental fuses.

Only for a few seconds.

“We'll stick around a while longer,” she told him with a resolute tone of voice that contained only the tiniest note of disappointment.

“For Gran,” he said softly.

“Exactly.”

A second later, like an instant reward from heaven for her virtuous sacrifice, Savannah caught sight of two shadowy figures creeping out of an alleyway about 150 feet from the bus bench.

One tall and thin. The other short and squat.

She nudged Dirk's thigh just as he elbowed her ribs. She could feel him tense beside her and hear his breath quicken.

Even in the semidarkness, she could clearly see the black cap with a red-and-white stripe across the top, as described by the victims who had actually gotten a look at their attacker.

When he and his cohort passed beneath a streetlamp and Savannah saw that his companion was, indeed, short, squat, and bald, her heart rate doubled.

Their actions and body language told her they were up to no good. No doubt about it. They snuck along, going out of their way to stay in the shadows, and when they couldn't, they scurried through the lighted areas, their shoulders hunched, the collars of their jackets pulled up around their faces.

They were heading away from the bus bench and Savannah and Dirk.

And toward the elderly churchgoers.

Outrage and fury rose in Savannah's spirit, as bitter and strong as Granny Reid's leftover coffee. How dare they even consider hurting such an elegant, loving old couple!

“It's not gonna happen,” Savannah whispered, more to herself than anyone else. “Not tonight.”

“You're damned right it's not,” Dirk muttered as they left the bench and hurried toward the suspicious twosome.

Savannah had already drawn her 9 mm Beretta from her shoulder holster and switched off the safety. She didn't intend to use it unless absolutely necessary. But she would do whatever it took to keep those precious people from becoming these cruel idiots' next victims.

If she could get there in time to stop it.

As the ugly predators drew closer to their prey, she and Dirk rushed toward them, moving quickly, trying to be quiet and not attract attention to themselves.

Savannah eyed the distances between the various couples. She didn't like what she saw.

She and Dirk weren't going to get there in time.

“Shit,” she heard Dirk mumble under his breath.

“Yeah,” she replied a bit breathlessly.

She and Dirk started running as fast as they could—caution and stealth no longer a concern.

Her mind raced through half a dozen scenarios, possible ways to handle the situation.

Dirk could simply yell, “Freeze! San Carmelita Police Department!”

Of course, if he did, they would most certainly
not
freeze
.

They would run like hell, duck down some alley, and get clean away. With them having over a half a block's head start, Savannah and Dirk would have a heckuva time catching them.

Savannah knew that this might be the only chance they'd have to nab this pair. If she and Dirk blew it, there was no telling how many more people would be hurt, even killed, before these maniacs found another way to entertain themselves.

But as Savannah watched the elderly gentleman lean over and place a kiss on his wife's cheek, then another on the top of her head, Savannah knew she couldn't let it happen. She couldn't even let it “almost” happen.

She couldn't allow harm to come to that nice couple, even if it meant losing the perps.

Apparently, Dirk had come to the same conclusion. “I gotta announce,” he told her. She could hear his frustration in those three breathless words.

“I know,” she answered.

The attackers had nearly reached their intended victims. They were less than ten feet from the couple and would be on them in seconds.

The tall guy nudged his partner. The short one pulled something from his pocket and held it up in front of his face.

“A phone!” Savannah told Dirk. “He's getting ready to film it!”

The tall one took two more running steps and was even with the couple. He raised his right fist—

“Stop!” Dirk roared. “Police! Freeze!”

For half a second, Savannah started to raise her weapon and aim it at the attacker, but he was too close to the couple, and she was too far away to take the shot, even if she needed to.

The miscreant pair whirled around to face Dirk and Savannah.

A slight smirk crossed the taller one's face when he saw their gray hair and baggy clothes. That was enough for Savannah to raise her Beretta. Her finger was off the trigger, but judging from the way the guy's smirk vanished, he didn't notice her precaution.

From the corner of her eye, Savannah could see that Dirk was doing the same.

“Down on the ground!” Dirk shouted. “Now!”

“You too,” Savannah yelled to the shorter guy. “Down on your knees! Do it!”

Savannah and Dirk were nearly close enough to grab them when it happened—a flurry of activity so fast, furious, and confusing that, for several seconds, her mind couldn't process what she was seeing.

Much like the battles between cartoon cats and dogs that Savannah had watched as a child on television, the brouhaha taking place before her looked like a whirlwind with the occasional arm, leg, fist, foot, and white patent leather purse protruding from the cyclone's center.

She and Dirk froze, watching in disbelief as the two would-be attackers took a terrible beating from their intended victims.

“You scumbag degenerate! Oughta be ashamed of yourself!” Savannah heard the old woman shout has she walloped the short one on the side of the head with her purse. The blow knocked him to his knees.

A well-aimed kick to the groin from a matching white patent leather shoe sent him the rest of the way down. He curled into a fetal position on the sidewalk, screaming as he indelicately clutched what remained of his grievously injured male pride.

Half a second later, Savannah saw the older man's fist fly and heard the distinct sound of a bone cracking—in this case, a jawbone. The tall guy catapulted backward and fell across his disabled and demoralized companion, who was still receiving blow after enthusiastic blow from the deadly, Sunday-Go-To-Meetin' white purse.

Savannah shot a quick glance at Dirk. The look on his face registered the shock she felt at this unexpected turn of events. His mouth was hanging open. His eyes were bugged.

He holstered his Smith & Wesson and cleared his throat. “Ma'am. Uh, lady.”

The pocketbook-wielding granny took no notice, but continued to clobber her victim with gleeful abandon.

“Ma'am,” Dirk said, approaching her. “You should probably stop now. He's down.”

“Yeah,” Savannah said, feeling just a bit sorry—but only a wee bit—for the guy who was squirming around like an earthworm on a hot sidewalk. “He ain't going anywhere, I assure you.”

Meanwhile, the husband had rolled the tall kid onto his belly, expertly jerked his arms behind him, and was holding his wrists tight. “Here you go, officer,” he told Dirk with a satisfied smirk. “All ready for cuffing.”

The man seemed to notice that his wife was still dispensing her own brand of vigilante justice, because he reached over and tapped her lightly on the kneecap. “That'll do, Martha honey,” he said softly. “These nice policemen can take it from here.”

She paused, purse held high above her head, and administered one last whack. “I'm just making sure he doesn't do this again!”

“Oh, I think you've fixed his wagon, right and proper,” Savannah told her. “Believe me. He won't be doing several things for quite a while. If ever.”

Gingerly, Savannah reached for the purse while getting ready to block, if it should happen to swing her way.

Dirk squatted beside the tall perp and snapped handcuffs onto him. Then he did the same to the short guy with the green face.

Savannah helped Dirk pull the first one to his feet. But when they attempted to get the other one to rise, he howled so loudly that they decided to just leave him where he lay.

From his shirt pocket, Dirk took his cell phone. He punched in some numbers and said, “We've got 'em. Send a radio car for one . . .”

He looked down at the squirmer. “. . . and roll an ambulance for number two.”

He listened a moment, then chuckled. “Nope. Wasn't us. In fact, wait'll you read my report on this one.”

He hung up and turned to the couple. The gentleman was readjusting his orchid paisley tie as his lady smoothed her flower-spangled skirt back into place.

“Who the hell are you two?” Dirk asked them.

The old man grinned broadly. “Retired CO. Folsom.”

Savannah chuckled to herself. Corrections officer at a maximum security prison. That made sense. “And your lady here?” she asked.

The woman turned to Savannah, her eyes agleam with a mixture of dark and light humor. “Retired CO. Pelican Bay State Prison,” she said. “Psychiatric unit.”

Laughing, Savannah patted her on the shoulder. “If you don't mind me saying so, ma'am . . . when you and your fella strolled by us earlier, looking all sweet and lovey-dovey, I was thinking I wanted to be just like you when I grow up.”

The woman laughed. “But after seeing this, you've changed your mind. Sorry about that.”

“Oh, please don't apologize. After seeing what you two just accomplished, I'm determined to be exactly like you!”

Martha slid her arm around her husband's waist and gazed up at him adoringly. “Well, what do you think of that, Herman?” she said. “At this late date, I've become a celebrity, somebody's idol.”

Herman kissed his wife on the forehead. “Baby, you've always been my star.”

Savannah smiled. Yes, if she and Dirk were very lucky, they might grow up to be just like Martha and Herman.

Something to look forward to.

“W
hat a difference three years can make, huh? This is a whole new neighborhood,” Savannah said to Dirk as she pulled her classic Mustang into a parking spot directly in front of Ryan and John's new restaurant and cut the key.

“Yeah, no kidding,” he replied with a sniff. “Four or five years ago, I wouldn't have walked down this street unless I had my gun, a Taser, and a billy club and was wearing a bulletproof vest.”

Though he might have been exaggerating a tad, Savannah wasn't about to argue the point with him. Not that long ago Mission Street had been a dark, dreary thoroughfare, where only the very brave or incredibly foolish San Carmelitans had dared to tread after sundown. On even the shortest of strolls, hapless visitors would have garnered all sorts of colorful invitations. They would have received offers galore to purchase illicit pharmaceuticals of all varieties.

They would have been given the opportunity to drop coins, or preferably bills, into dirty disposable cups.

Individuals wearing skimpy and garish clothing would have provided equally dirty and disposable relationships.

Best of all, the area had provided the chance to rid oneself of that heavy, pesky wallet that was weighing down one's pants pocket.

But a few years back, when the mayor and several city council members had been up for reelection, actions had been taken to gentrify the 200-year-old Mission District's neighborhood. The city elders decided that the heart of their town deserved better.

The pothole-pocked street had been repaved. Empty, abandoned lots had been cleared of weeds and garbage and transformed into well-maintained, brightly lit, metered parking lots. Palm trees had been planted in even, majestic rows on either side of the street. Broken cement sidewalks had been jackhammered, then torn out and replaced with elegant herringbone brickwork. Owners of shabby storefronts had been cited and told to “shape up or ship out.”

The tattoo parlors and pawn shops had “shipped out.” Charming boutiques, coffee shops, beauty spas, and antique stores had taken their place. And the Mission District was now the area of choice for tourists, young lovers, senior citizens, and well-behaved children to while away a pleasant afternoon or enjoy a romantic evening.

Now, with the opening of their friends' new restaurant, Savannah and Dirk would have reasons of their own to frequent the area.

“I'm glad Ryan and John decided to stick this joint here instead of on the beach, like they were thinking about,” Dirk said as they got out of the Mustang and walked up to the front door of the restaurant. “First big storm, we'd have been down there with them all night long, piling up sandbags so that they wouldn't get flooded. And I would've pulled that muscle in my back that always gives me trouble, and I'd have been out of work for months. Dodged a bullet on that one, that's for sure.”

Savannah smiled and wondered if every man on earth complained bitterly about natural catastrophes and their negative effects on his life . . . before they even occurred. Probably not. Just her luck, there was only one guy like that on the planet. And of course, she'd married him.

As they reached the restaurant's entrance, she noted the latest addition to the storefront—an elegant, crimson awning. At the sight of the scrolled REJUVENE emblazoned in white script on the front of the awning, Savannah felt a surge of pride.

Probably better than anyone else, Savannah knew what this new enterprise meant to her dear, longtime friends. This was, indeed, a venture born of love and creativity.

“I'm so happy for them,” she told Dirk. “They've been wanting to open a restaurant for as long as we've known them. This is their dream come true.”

“I think it's a stupid idea. Even
I
know that most restaurants fail.”

“So nobody should even try?”

“Not unless they want to lose their shirts.”

“Thank goodness everybody doesn't think like you do. There's something to be said for entrepreneurial spirit, you know. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

He sniffed and shrugged. “Nothing ventured, no cold, hard cash flushed down the crapper.”

Savannah shook her head. “Make sure you don't share those great words of wisdom with them. Okay?”

He gave her a grin and reached down for her hand. “Of course not. I'm a married man now with the wife to teach me the proper way to talk to people.”

She gave his fingers an affectionate squeeze. Her heart filled with wifely pleasure and satisfaction. Perhaps her efforts had not been in vain, after all. “Really? Have I helped you? Socially, I mean.”

“Sure you have. You've taught me well. I've learned that if I say the wrong thing, you'll kick me under the table. When you've got those pointy-toed shoes on, it hurts like a sonofabitch.”

Her bubble of self-satisfaction deflated a bit, but she told herself,
Oh well, whatever works. The proof's in the puddin'.

Adequately self-consoled, she leaned on the restaurant's front door and peered through its ornate, beveled-glass window.

When she saw the dark, empty interior, her heart sank into her sensible, old-lady, thrift store shoes.

“Oh, shoot,” she said. “I knew it. They're gone. We missed all of that amazing food.”

She turned to Dirk. The stricken look on his face told her that he was as heartbroken as she. But faced with such a loss, she couldn't summon an ounce of compassion or goodwill toward him.

This was his fault.

It was all his fault.

Normally, under such circumstances, she would insist that he make it up to her. But there was no way. Some opportunities, once missed, were gone forever.

“I'll just betcha that raspberry tart was amazing. Did I mention Ryan said it was topped with Chambord sauce?”

“—And Chantilly cream, whatever the hell that is. Yeah, yeah. I'm never gonna live it down. I told you that you didn't have to go to the station house with me. I told you I'd book them and do the fives by myself. But no.... You wanted to see it through to the end. That's what you said. Those were your exact words. ‘I want to see it through to the end.' I remember it well. You—”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, hush. I remember what I said. I just thought we'd get here in time to at least sample that tart. Hey! Wait a minute. What if they're back there in the kitchen? They might've even done the whole tasting routine back there instead of the dining room.”

She already had him by the sleeve and was dragging him around the corner of the building and back toward the alley.

“Aw, come on, Van. Give it up, babe. It's over. Grieve the loss and move on.”

But the visions of Chambord sauce dancing in her head wouldn't allow her to give up so easily.

Granny Reid had taught the young Savannah and her siblings that the good Lord up above had a book in which He kept track of the virtuous and evil goings-on taking place on the earth below. Sooner or later, bad deeds got punished and good deeds got rewarded. It all worked out in the long run. Some called it “karma.” Others called it “reaping and sowing.” But one way or the other, the scales of Justice got leveled in the end.

By helping Dirk catch those slimeballs, she had done society a great boon. And to her way of thinking, God was in his Heaven above, and she wasn't going to let Him forget that she had a great big piece of raspberry tart coming to her.

As they entered the alley that passed behind the restaurant and its adjoining businesses, Savannah was a bit surprised at the shabbiness of the area—in direct contrast to the newly renovated street. The stench of rotting food garbage, and a few other smells that she didn't care to identify, weren't nearly as disturbing as the sight and sounds that greeted them in this nether region.

Dark shadows moved in the dim light as the creatures of the night scurried, crept, slunk, and sought refuge behind garbage cans, dilapidated cardboard boxes, wooden pallets, discarded doors, window frames, tires, and rusting bicycle frames.

Savannah fought her natural, instinctive urge to lift her skirt and run, screaming like a squeamish girlie girl back to more civilized and sanitized surroundings.

If she did that, Dirk would never let her live it down, and she would never again be able to tease him by reenacting his less than graceful “Spider Dance.”

To gain control over her phobias, she told herself that the furry critters she saw darting through piles of litter were cute, fuzzy kitties. Every single one of them. Even the ones with bald, scaly tails and beady little eyes.

Then to strain her already taut nerves, something moved in the shadows off to their right. A much larger, darker, and more menacing shape than the ones darting around their feet.

“Halt!” Dirk shouted as both he and Savannah once again reached for their weapons. “Police!”

Yelling “halt” was something else that Savannah frequently teased Dirk about. “Who do you think you are?” she would ask him. “A Marine drill sergeant? The Sheriff of Nottingham? Dude, nobody says ‘halt' anymore.”

But she wouldn't be teasing him about it tonight, because it worked. The large, dark figure to their right did exactly as he was told. He even put his hands in the air for good measure.

“Hey, man, no problem. I didn't know you guys were the police,” the fellow said as he slowly moved into a patch of light.

Savannah had seen more than her share of shabbily attired street folk in her day. But this fellow made most of them look like Fifth Avenue haute couture. By the dim light she couldn't tell for sure if the clothes he wore had once been military camouflage or if they were simple civilian attire that was now mottled with a decade's worth of soil and stains.

His matted beard hung nearly to his waist, as did his filthy, tangled hair.

He lowered his hands slightly and held them out in a gesture of supplication. “Really, man, all I was gonna do,” he said, “is tell you guys that there's no point in knocking on that back door there. I already tried it and got nothing.”

Savannah put her Beretta back in its holster. “You mean, you asked them for a handout? For something to eat?”

The guy lowered his hands and nodded. “I asked them really nice, too, and just about got my head bit off. It ain't the Mexican joint anymore. Those guys were real nice and would give anybody that asked a little something at closing time. But now the place has changed hands. And the new owners don't give a damn about nobody but themselves.”

Savannah thought of the countless kind and charitable acts she had seen Ryan and John perform during her long friendship with them, and her indignation rose. “Well, now, I wouldn't go so far as to say they don't care. Maybe you just asked at a bad time or—”

“Naw, they made it pretty clear any time would be a bad time. I won't be asking again, that's for sure. Who needs a door slammed in their face twice? And if I was you guys, I'd steer clear, too. I think they've all left and gone home, anyway.”

Savannah glanced down at her ragtag clothing, then at Dirk's, and she stifled a giggle. No wonder this poor fellow thought that they, like himself, had come begging for their supper.

“That's okay,” she said. “We'll take our chances, but thank you for the advice.”

Dirk reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of crumpled bills. Holding them out to the man, he said, “Here you go, buddy. There used to be a hot dog stand down there across from the mission. If it's still there you can get yourself a pretty good double chili cheese dog.”

Even through the matted beard, Savannah could see him smile as he accepted the money. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “I sure appreciate it. I think they tore down that hot dog stand when they put in all the palm trees. But they left the pizza place alone, and at closing time they'll sell you a slice for half price.”

“Good luck, then,” Dirk told him as the man shuffled away, limping. “You have a good evening and stay out of trouble.”

“Will do, sir. You and your good lady, too.”

Happy and relieved that the situation had ended well, Savannah hurried up to the back door of the restaurant and gave it a hearty knock.

“What're you doing?” Dirk asked her. “The guy just told you, they're gone.”

“And with a gourmet dinner at stake, do you really think I'm going to just take his word for it?” she asked, banging on the door even harder.

Dirk chuckled. “I've always been the one with the reputation for going out of his way to get free food. And now look at you, leaving no stone unturned.”

Savannah tried one more time, knocking with all her might. Tomorrow her knuckles would probably be bruised—but all for a good cause. “Yeah, but you'll make a fool out of yourself for a stale donut and a cup of cold coffee. Me, I will debase myself only for the very best.”

Reluctantly, she turned away from the door, surrendering the battle. The war was lost. She had to admit it was over and abandon all hope as gracefully and with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Dadgum-it!” She kicked a metal trash can beside the door. And because the simple act of violence felt so satisfying, she kicked it twice more just for good measure.

“Jeez, Van,” Dirk said. “It was one meal. I hate to say it, babe, but you might be overreacting just a little bit.”

She turned on him with a vengeance. “One meal? Ryan and John invited us to join them for a chef's audition! And not just any chef. A world-class chef! Even they can't believe their good luck in maybe getting Chef Baldwin Norwood to run their restaurant. He was here tonight, cooking just for them—and Tammy and Waycross and us, if we'd been here. It was a private dinner where one of the best chefs in the world was trying to impress them and us! Can you even imagine how good that would've been?”