Killer Gourmet (21 page)

There had to be a way. There was always a way.

To Savannah's way of thinking, the cause of justice was a sacred endeavor. And she liked to think that she and her loved ones, who were seated around the table, fought on the side of the angels.

More than once she believed they had received a bit of celestial assistance when working a case that appeared to be stuck at a dead end. She couldn't help thinking that now would be a good time for a bit of divine guidance.

Glancing to her left, she saw that Granny was chewing her bottom lip, her forehead wrinkled in a deep scowl, her eyes narrowed.

Savannah knew the look.

When she had been a kid and saw “The Look,” she knew that either she or one of her siblings was about to “Get It.” That expression on Granny's face indicated that she had just figured something out. Like: Marietta hadn't spent the night at her girlfriend's house after all but had lied so she could sneak out with that worthless Randall Cooter kid again. Or: Macon's new bicycle that he said he found in a ditch somewhere bore an unsettling resemblance to the one reported stolen at a carnival over in Ringgold the week before.

“What is it, Granny?” she asked. “Have you got something?”

“I do believe I might.”

Dirk perked up. “Then let's have it.”

“Now ain't the time to be shy,” Waycross added.

Granny drummed her fingertips on the table. “I don't want to get everybody's hopes up. It might be nothin'.”

“Don't worry about that, love,” John said. “ ‘Nothing' is all we have at the moment anyway. That's the only good thing about floundering down here in the Well of Despair. There's nowhere to go but up.”

“Okay, then. Here goes.” Granny drew a deep breath. “Who says this Francia Fortun was the only person in the kitchen area when the chef was murdered?”

“Are you suggesting someone else was in there, too?” Savannah asked.

Granny shook her head. “No. I'm literally asking you—who said that she was the only person in there? Who told you that?”

“An eyewitness,” Dirk said.

“Eyewitnesses can be wrong,” Granny argued.

“Yes,” Savannah said. “But this particular witness seems reliable, and he's unbiased. He has no reason to lie.”

“Unless
he's
your killer.”

Granny's simple statement hung in the air, like smoke after a fireworks explosion.

“Think about it,” she continued. “We've pretty much proven that what he said happened couldn't have happened. It's not possible.”

“What do you mean?” Savannah asked.

“He told you that Francia went inside to go to the bathroom. The chef got killed, according to Dr. Liu, with a rod, knife, and meat cleaver. And nobody but y'all who were officially working the case have gone in and out of that room since then. Except for those three kitchen workers, Francia, Manuel, and Carlos. And none of them carried the weapons out. Right?”

“Right,” Savannah said. “We checked them. Nobody was carrying anything on their person.”

“Now, see there?” Granny smiled. “According to your feller, nobody left with the weapons, and yet the weapons ain't there. That just makes no sense. And I learned a long time ago, when somethin' don't make sense, most times it's 'cause it ain't true.”

Savannah began to chew on her bottom lip, just as Granny had done, as the pieces of the puzzle rearranged themselves in her head. “We based all of our assumptions on what Otis Emmett told us,” she said.

“Sure we did,” Dirk replied. “He was the one in the back alley with a front-row seat to everything that was going on. He was the one keeping an eye on the back door when it all went down.”

“So he says,” Granny answered. “But who was keeping an eye on him?”

“He's a vet,” Dirk said softly.

Savannah reached over and touched his hand. “I know, darlin'. But even veterans are human beings. Precious as they are, some of them lie from time to time.”

Tammy had her tablet out and was vigorously working the screen. The light of discovery glowed in her eyes. “He's more than a vet,” she said. “He got a medal for taking out a bunch of enemy snipers single-handedly and saving a dozen of his fellow soldiers.”

“Great,” Dirk said, sinking even lower in his chair. “You're suggesting that our killer could be a decorated war hero.”

“I don't like it any more than you do, Dirk,” Ryan said. “But Granny's right. It doesn't make sense that—”

Tammy gasped, and everyone at the table turned to stare at her, watching as the blood drained from her face.

“Oh no,” she said. “You're not going to believe this.”

Waycross laid his hand on her shoulder. “What is it, sweetie?”

“It's how he killed those enemy soldiers. They were hiding individually in various places along the top of a ridge. He had to sneak up on them and take them out quietly, one by one.”

Time seemed to slow for Savannah, as it did at moments like this . . . important moments, when a case turned 180 degrees.

She knew what Tammy was going to say even before she spoke the words: “He used an ASP baton and a Ka-Bar—”

“—U.S. Marine Corps fighting knife.” Dirk shook his head, looking heartsick. “I used one myself. It's exactly the right length and has a combo blade, partially serrated. Why the hell didn't I think of that before?”

“Because you couldn't bear to, sugar,” Granny told him sweetly. “You soldiers never stop being soldiers, ever. And you're all brothers. How could you stand to think a brother could do such a thing?”

Dirk rose from the table, ran his fingers through his hair, adjusted his jeans, and checked the Smith & Wesson in his shoulder holster. He turned to Ryan and John. “He's probably still out back in the alley. Do you two wanna come along when I talk to him?”

“The guy who closed down our restaurant?” Ryan asked.

“The bloody maggot who murdered our chef in our own kitchen?” John added. “Let me at him.”

As the three men started for the door, Granny said, “Those fellas take their restaurant business mighty serious.”

“You have no idea.” Savannah jumped to her feet. “Let's go, too. With any luck, they'll need some assistance.”

O
tis Emmett wasn't in the alley.

But fortunately, the Moonlight Magnolia gang found a young lady loitering in the vicinity who was a good friend of his, and she was all too eager to talk.

Wearing nothing but a low-cut tie-dyed tee-shirt and crocheted shorts that left little to the imagination, the woman introduced herself to the group as “Chicago.”

At first, Savannah thought it was a ridiculous name. But on second thought, she decided she was in no position to judge, considering her own name and those of her eight siblings, also named after cities in Georgia.

The crocheted shorts, though . . . she had no problem condemning those. She could see all the way to Kalamazoo, and if Chicago moved just wrong, she was afraid she might see Kalamazoo, too.

However, Chicago was friendly enough and helpful as she rattled on about how handsome, smart, brave, and strong Otis Emmett was.

Apparently, true love could blossom in alleys as abundantly as anywhere else.

After listening to the woman prattle on about her beloved for several minutes, Dirk asked the million-dollar question. “So, tell me, Chicago . . . do you happen to know where your boyfriend is right now?”

She blushed and giggled, more like a maiden in an all-girl parochial school than a gal who was making a public spectacle of herself. “Aw-w-w. Get out. Otis isn't my boyfriend. I wish he was, but he's just not that interested. I think the war did something to him. He's a really sweet guy, but he just doesn't seem to—”

“Chicago!” Savannah's last nerve snapped. She could almost hear it twang. It had been a long day and it was only midafternoon. “Girl! Listen up. Where . . . is . . . Otis?”

“Oh, he's at his mom's.”

“His mom's?” Dirk asked.

“Yeah. She comes and picks him up here in the alley every Saturday morning and takes him home with her. She fixes him his favorite meal and lets him shower and stuff. She's always offering to wash his clothes, too, but he doesn't want to put her out too much. She's old, see, and it's hard on her just to drive here and get him. Last week she had a wreck and totaled that junky old car of hers. Otis was so upset when he heard. She really needed that car, and she couldn't afford another one.”

“Why doesn't Otis live with his mom?” Ryan asked.

“He just has too many problems to live with anybody, even his own mom. I asked him one time if he'd like to move in with me somewhere, if we could get the money together to rent a room or something, and he told me that he's too messed up to be with anybody. Even his own family. It's a shame, too, because Otis has so much to offer. He's just the most—”

“When does this charming lad of yours usually return from his mother's home?” John asked.

Savannah could tell by the strained look on his usually jovial face that he, too, was feeling the stress. She was hoping Chicago wouldn't say, “Around midnight.”

“Right about now,” was the welcome answer. “She usually pulls up over there and . . . Oh, hey! Look at that! There they are!”

Savannah turned to the left, where Chicago was pointing, and indeed there was a car pulling in. It was an older PT Cruiser, but the electric blue paint glistened in the afternoon light. A used car dealer's sticker was affixed to the rear driver's-side window.

“Oh, good!” Chicago exclaimed as she clapped her hands and wriggled her barely covered butt. “He said she might get a Cruiser. I love those cars. Maybe she'll let me drive it sometime.”

Savannah saw that the male members of her gang had donned seriously somber faces and were standing at attention, waiting for Otis Emmett to exit his mother's car and walk their way.

They were positioned back a bit, in the shadow of the building and close to its rear wall, so they wouldn't be so obvious.

Tammy and Gran looked equally grim and were partially hidden behind a stack of produce crates.

Savannah reached over and took Chicago firmly by the upper arm. “Listen, girlfriend,” she said, “you're gonna wanna haul those bare buns of yours out of here.”

“What do you mean?” Chicago's eyes were wide and frightfully vacant.

Savannah couldn't help but feel a surge of concern for Chicago. The streets—any streets, even the streets in as nice a town as San Carmelita—were no place for a woman with vacant eyes, wearing crocheted shorts, and showing off her Kalamazoo.

“Just trust me,” Savannah told her, giving her a gentle push in the opposite direction. “Something's going to go down here in a minute or two, and you don't want to be any part of it. Skedaddle now.”

Chicago didn't need to be told twice. With a confused and frightened look on her face, she turned and ran away as fast as her flip-flops could take her.

“So much for standing by your man,” Savannah muttered as she watched her scurry around the corner.

Turning back to the action at hand, Savannah saw Otis open the passenger door and lean over and kiss his mother on the cheek.

Savannah felt sorry for the woman in the car. Before the day was over, she might receive the sad news that her son had been arrested for a vicious, cold-blooded murder. What woman could hear something like that and ever be the same again?

No one.

Otis closed the car door. When he stepped away, he waved once more to his mom. She blew him a kiss and drove away.

He watched until her car was gone, before turning around and walking toward them. Savannah's pulse raced as she reached under her jacket to unsnap her holster.

She reminded herself—as was the rest of the group, she was sure—that this man coming their way might look like a street bum but he was a trained Marine who had taken out enemy sharpshooters with the most rudimentary of weapons.

He wasn't someone to trifle with.

Having escorted Chicago off the scene, she was farther away from the suspect than the rest of her gang. So she quickly closed the gap and hurried to stand next to Dirk.

On the other side of him, Ryan and John were ready, too. They carried no weapons, but they had their FBI combat training, should they need it.

Waycross brought up the rear.

“Let me,” Dirk whispered, his face as serious as she had ever seen it.

They all understood and moved back a bit, letting him step forward to intercept Emmett.

The moment the two men's eyes met, Emmett's body stiffened, as though he was standing to attention.

Watch the hands
, Savannah thought, her academy instructors' voices echoing in her mind.
It's the hands that kill you, not the face. Watch the hands
.

Otis Emmett's right hand was balled into a fist. His left held a battered backpack.

Suddenly, Savannah was afraid—very afraid—for her husband. This man was highly dangerous, but she knew Dirk would cut him some slack because he was a veteran.

She only hoped his generosity didn't get him hurt.

Or worse.

Emmett stopped walking and stood perfectly still as he looked around. He glanced from one member of their group to another, as though sizing each one up. Then he turned his attention to Dirk, who was now only a few feet from him.

“I need a moment of your time,” Dirk was saying. “I've got something important to ask you, and I need you to stay calm. If you do, then so will I. Okay?”

Emmett shot Savannah another quick look, and she knew he was taking note of the fact that she had her hand under her jacket.

He was no fool. He would know she was armed.

Dirk had both hands open and out in front of him, but Emmett had to know he was armed, too.

Those were at least two guns he would have to contend with. Even if he was carrying his knife and billy club on him, he had to realize he was at a disadvantage, should he try to fight.

But there was no way to tell what people would do. Under stress, they often chose the most foolish of their options.

“Okay,” he told Dirk. “What do you want to ask me?”

Dirk took a step closer.

Savannah did, too. Just in case.

“We're following up on a couple more leads,” Dirk said in his calmest, quietest voice. “And I need to ask you for a favor.”

“What favor?”

“I'd like to have your permission to take a look inside that backpack you're carrying.”

Though his body didn't even flinch, the expression on Otis Emmett's face was the same as someone who had just received a swift roundhouse kick to the solar plexus.

For several long moments, he said nothing. And when he finally spoke, his voice sounded high and tight. “Why do you want to look inside my backpack?”

Dirk drew a deep breath and stepped even closer until the two men were face-to-face. “Come on, buddy,” he said. “You know why. Just let me do what I gotta do. Okay?”

When Emmett didn't reply, Dirk slowly reached down and took hold of the backpack's shoulder straps.

Emmett tried to jerk it away, but Dirk held fast and said, “Don't do it, man. Don't go there. Nobody has to get hurt today. We're just going to take this nice and slow. Let it go now. Just let go. Everything's gonna be okay. I promise.”

Emmett stared at Dirk, his face growing redder by the moment. Savannah could see his pulse pounding in his temples. His entire body began to shake violently, as though he were standing in a Category 2 hurricane.

But he let go of the pack.

Dirk took two steps backward, out of Emmett's reach.

“I'm going to have to look in here sooner or later,” Dirk told him. “You can make me get a search warrant, or you can give me permission to look right now. But either way, it's going to happen. Understand?”

Emmett's body sagged, as though he were some sort of helium balloon that had lost half of its air. “Yeah,” he said. “You might as well. Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” Dirk unzipped the backpack and looked inside. Savannah held her breath as he searched the pack's interior briefly. Then he closed it and set it on the ground behind him.

“Why?” he asked Emmett. “You're a Marine, a hero. There's nothin' on earth better than that. But you throw it all away, live here in an alley like a cat that was dumped on the side of the road.”

“That's what I feel like, okay?” Emmett blurted. “They dumped me. I got back stateside and they turned their backs on me like I was nothin'! Nobody shows us vets any respect anymore.”

“That isn't true,” Dirk told him, his voice soft and controlled. “I've shown you respect. My wife showed you respect. Everybody standing here right now respects you for your service to our nation, for your heroism. And there's a lot more of us out there in the world, so don't tell me that.”

“You don't understand.”

“I understand better than you think. I know what it's like to kill enemy soldiers because your country tells you to. I know what it's like to come back home to a lot of people who don't have a clue what that took out of your soul. But what I don't understand is how you could use the training the Corps gave you to murder a soft, defenseless guy like Norwood, who didn't stand a chance against you.”

“He disrespected me!” Emmett shouted. “I asked him nice if I could have a bowl of something, anything out of his kitchen. Something he was just going to throw away. But he called me a ‘damn bum' and pushed me away from his door.”

Tears filled Otis Emmett's eyes and spilled down his cheeks into his beard. “I fought for him. I risked my life for his family and everybody he knows. I watched my buddies die for him, and I nearly did myself, but that bastard couldn't give me a stale piece of bread?”

The alley was silent for a long time as no one spoke. No one moved.

Then Dirk reached behind his back and brought out a pair of cuffs. “Chef Norwood was a sorry excuse for a human being, I'll grant you that,” he told Emmett. “And he shouldn't have treated you, or anybody else, that way. But that didn't give you the right to kill him.”

Savannah tensed and so did Ryan and John as Dirk stepped behind Emmett and started to cuff him.

But the defeated soldier surrendered without resistance.

Once Dirk had finished his task, they all began to breathe again.

Their homicide case was solved, their suspect had confessed, and Dirk had him in custody.

Savannah turned to John and said, “See, what Granny said was true. This trial and tribulation y'all have been going through . . . now it's just a thing of the past.”