Killer Honeymoon (21 page)

“Ten years ago, the sequence of letters and numbers on California plates that weren’t vanity went—number, three letters, then three numbers.”

Savannah looked over at Dirk, who was waiting on pins and needles, and rolled her eyes. He mouthed the words “Fluff head.” She smacked him on the arm.

“What did we find, Miss Tammy, darlin’?”

“Well, I checked most of the nine hundred ninety-nine combinations of numbers for those last three, missing digits, and I found a black 2001 Jeep that belongs to someone living there on Santa Tesla.”

“And it is . . . ?”

“Actually, it’s not a person. It’s more like an organization. It—”

“Tammy Hart, you are wearin’ my nerves to a frazzle! What have you got?”

“The Island Protection League.”

“No way! Dr. Glenn’s group?”

“The very one.”

Savannah turned to Dirk. “And she seemed so nice!”

Dirk shrugged and looked obnoxiously smug. “I told you to take me along when you interviewed her. She never would’ve pulled the wool over the eyes of a cynical ol’ curmudgeon like
me.
”

“So, what’s the full plate number?” Savannah asked.

As Tammy rattled off the numbers, Savannah wrote them down on a scrap of paper on the nightstand.

“That’s wonderful, honey bun,” she said. “You did good.”

There was a little giggle on the other end, but not the enthusiastic response Savannah expected from her usually overly effervescent assistant.

“How’s it going back there?” she asked.

“Okay.” Again, the answer was a tad lackluster.

Savannah glanced over at Dirk, who was busy beating and folding his pillow, getting it just right. “Is our little project coming along all right?” she asked.

“Yeah. That’s coming along great.”

Hmmm. So, if everything’s so great, why are you so glum?
Savannah thought.

“How’s Waycross?” she asked.

There was a long, telling pause. “Okay, I guess. Haven’t seen much of him because he’s been busy, you know, with that. When he is around, he’s . . . well . . .” Another silence. “He’s okay, I guess.”

Savannah’s heart sank, in spite of the intriguing information she’d just been given about the case. “Okay, darlin’,” she said. “Excellent work there. I’ll call you again tomorrow after I’ve reinterviewed Dr. Glenn.”

“Nighty-night.”

“Sweet dreams.”

Savannah hung up the phone and switched off the light. Moonlight shone through the mullioned window, casting prison bar shadows across the bed. Every few seconds, the beam from the lighthouse made its round, bathing the room in a momentary silver glow.

“That’s some pretty exciting news, huh?” Dirk said. “Finally we’ve got a halfway decent lead.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

He turned onto his side to face her. “What’s up with you? Usually, you’d be dancing a jig around the room.”

“I’m worried about Tammy and Waycross.”

“You sound like Granny. Don’t worry. They’re old enough to behave themselves. And if they don’t, they’ll be careful.”

“That’s not what I mean. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“But they were getting along good. Great, in fact. What’s wrong with that?”

“Waycross is backing off.”

“You’re kidding! Tammy’s a doll, and hotter than a pistol. She’s obviously crazy about him.”

Savannah felt a tightening in her throat. Her eyes stung with unshed tears that seemed to well up from out of nowhere.

Not exactly nowhere,
she reminded herself. Her tears and her brother’s sprang from the same source.

“He doesn’t feel worthy of her,” Savannah said, her voice catching on the lump in her throat.

“Why the hell not? He’s a great guy.”

“A great guy from a family tree with some really rotten branches on it,” she said.

“Oh.”

Savannah could hear the hurt in his voice—a lot of it—echoing in that one word. She had made her statement without thinking. In light of Dirk’s recent revelations about his own family, she should have known better. This had to be a painful topic for him, too.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said finally.

“Of course, something like that shouldn’t matter at all,” she offered, thinking how lame it sounded.

“But it does.”

“Does it?”

“Absolutely.”

In the darkness, she could hear him swallow . . . hard.

“It can keep a guy from going after a special gal for a long time. Years even.”

Savannah thought of all the years of friendship between Dirk and herself. Years when they were dear friends, but they could have been lovers.

She rolled onto her side, facing him, and gently touched his cheek. “What a shame,” she said.

He kissed her, softly and sweetly. “Ain’t it though?”

S
avannah and Dirk had been unable to find Dr. Glenn at the office where Savannah had interviewed her before, but a volunteer, who was manning the desk, suggested they look at a nearby lake.

“Once a week, Dr. Glenn goes out there and picks up litter,” the woman had told them. “She may be our director, but she isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty when she has to.”

“I wonder just how dirty she gets her hands,” Savannah mused as she drove the Jaguar into a valley between two of the island’s largest mountains.

Hills that looked like they had been covered with tawny-beige suede rose on either side of them, dotted with dark green sage bushes here and there. Yellow daisies and bright orange California poppies bloomed in profusion. Alongside the road, a creek burbled over its stony bed, reaching ever inland, flowing to the center of the island. Along its banks grew the occasional grove of ancient, gnarled oaks.

“A little mud on your hands is one thing,” Dirk said as he enjoyed the view from the passenger seat. “Now, if we’re talking blood, that’s another story.”

“I have to tell you, this one surprises me.” Savannah shook her head. “You wait till you meet her. Dr. Glenn comes across as a quality person—intelligent, devoted to the well-being of this island. I just can’t imagine her hanging out the window of a Jeep, shooting at a police chief.”

Dirk sniffed. “Yeah, well, considering who the police chief is, I can imagine myself taking a shot at her. La Cross doesn’t exactly bring out the best in people. She’s a real battle-axe.”

“That’s a highly sexist remark.”

“Why? What’s wrong with it? She is.”

“If she were a man, you wouldn’t say that. You’d say he had a strong personality.”

“Naw. That’s not true. I’d hate La Cross no matter what gender she was.”

“How much of that is because she insulted your jacket?”

He glanced down and ran his hand lovingly over the old, cracking leather. “The woman’s obviously got no taste. In men or in jackets.”

“That’s true . . . about the ‘men’ part.”

He shot her a look.

“You know what I mean,” she added quickly. “Northrop’s obviously a jackass.”

Up ahead, they could see the creek widening and spilling into a small lake, surrounded by reeds, massive rocks, and a few trees.

“Hey, look at that.” Dirk pointed to a rusty black Jeep parked at the end of the road, near the water’s edge. “And check out the plate number.”

“That’s the one,” Savannah said, still not quite believing it.

Certainly, over the years, she had been fooled by suspects. Many times, in fact. But this one shocked her all the way to her core. She would have bet any amount of money that Dr. June Glenn was exactly what she had appeared—a woman dedicating her life to worthy causes.

The idea that Dr. Glenn was involved in anything so sordid and violent as these attacks was unthinkable. But there was the evidence, parked right in front of her.

She parked the Jaguar beside the Jeep and turned off the engine. Glancing around, she didn’t see Glenn or anyone else, for that matter.

Except for a few seagulls circling overhead, a half-dozen snowy egrets roosting in trees, and a pair of ducks paddling around in the water, the lake was remarkably, deliciously peaceful.

“Well, let’s get out and find her,” he said. “She can’t be far away.”

Once they were out of the car, it didn’t take them long to spot the doctor. She was standing in the shallows at the water’s edge. She had on a pair of rubber boots, which reached up to her knees, and she was bending over, pulling something from among the reeds.

“Is that her?” Dirk asked.

Savannah nodded. “She looks a little different in dungarees, but yes.”

She headed in Glenn’s direction, with Dirk following close behind.

“Dr. Glenn!” Savannah called.

When the woman turned, Savannah motioned to her. “It’s me, Savannah Reid. Can we talk again?”

June Glenn nodded and began to wade through the reeds toward them and the bank. She was holding several soda cans and a plastic grocery bag in her hands.

Savannah was amused and a little surprised to see that she was wearing a bright red sweatshirt with an enormous Mickey Mouse face on the front. The word “Disneyland” was emblazoned over his head.

Dr. Glenn seemed to notice her staring at the shirt, because she chuckled as she stepped up onto the bank and said, “I can’t help myself. I’m a big fan. Worked there as a kid and never got over it.”

“Hey, don’t apologize,” Savannah replied. “My granny’s in her eighties and still madly in love with Sir Mickey. She’ll never get over it either. I’m sure she’d work there now, if they’d hire her.”

Glenn walked over to a bag, which was stashed on the bank, and dropped the garbage into it. “Those darned kids,” she said. “Teenagers mostly. They come up here to drink, smoke pot, and do God only knows what else. Then they leave their litter behind. We had to rescue a heron last week that was tangled up in some of their trash.”

She walked up to them and took off her rubber gloves. “I’m June Glenn,” she said, offering Dirk her hand.

“This is my husband, Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter,” Savannah said. “He’s investigating that case with me, the one we spoke about the other day.”

Savannah watched Dirk as he shook the doctor’s hand. His quick eyes swept over her, evaluating her with the same scrutiny he would any street person or recently released ex-con.

Dirk was no great respecter of titles, wealth, degree, or position. All that interested him was whether or not a person was capable of committing the crime he was investigating on that given day.

“Nice to meet cha, Doc,” he said in an unconvincing tone.

“Please, just call me June,” she said. She turned back to Savannah. “Obviously, you went to a lot of trouble to track me down today. May I ask why?”

“Something’s come up in the course of this investigation, and I need to talk to you.”

“Certainly. About what?”

“Your vehicle.”

“My Mercedes? Why? What about it?”

“No, not your personal car. That Jeep parked over there. Do you drive it often?”

“Once in a while. When I come to places like this, where I wouldn’t drive, well . . .”

“Your fancy car,” Dirk supplied.

“Yes.”

“Were you driving it this past Sunday morning?” he asked.

“No, but it’s funny you should ask.”

“Why is that?” Savannah wanted to know.

The doctor reached down and picked up her bag of trash and started to walk toward the Jeep.

“Here, let me get that for you,” Dirk said, taking the bag from her hand.

They followed her as she continued toward the old vehicle.

“Because,” she said, “even though everyone in the league drives it from time to time, no one in our group used it that morning. Yet, strangely enough, it was missing.”

“Missing?” Savannah didn’t know whether to be relieved or discouraged. Maybe a bit of both. Relieved that, if she was telling the truth, this could clear Dr. Glenn of suspicion. Discouraged that they would be sitting back on square one, with no suspect.

“Yes. It’s usually parked overnight behind our office, where you visited me before,” Dr. Glenn said. “But when one of our volunteers went to get it Sunday morning to take a drive on the beach, it was gone. Weirdly enough, the next night, it was back again, sitting in its usual spot.”

“Who has keys to it?” Dirk asked.

“Keys? We usually leave the key above the driver’s sun visor and the door unlocked.” When he looked surprised, she added, “This is Santa Tesla Island, Sergeant Coulter. Thankfully, we live a bit differently here than you do on the mainland.”

“Obviously.”

“Even stranger still,” Dr. Glenn continued, “that wasn’t the only time it happened. It was taken a couple of weeks ago. The same way. Also for an overnighter.”

“Do you remember the exact date that occurred?” Savannah asked.

“No. I’m sorry. I can’t. We just figured one of our volunteers took it without permission and was afraid to own up to it later. But then when it happened again, we were a bit more curious.”

“If you were all that curious,” Dirk said, “did you consider reporting it to the police? That’s what most people do the first time their cars go missing, let alone if it happens twice.”

A solemn, unpleasant look crossed Dr. Glenn’s pretty face. Her eyes didn’t meet theirs when she said, “No. I didn’t consider calling the so-called authorities. I’m not a fan of the current police department. We haven’t found them to be fair in their dealings with the league, so we have as little to do with them as possible.”

They approached the Jeep, and Dr. Glenn started to reach for the handle to open the back door. Savannah put out her hand and stopped her.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Glenn, but I’m going to ask you not to touch this vehicle again until after it’s been processed.”

“ ‘Processed’?”

“Yes, for fingerprints.”

The doctor looked shocked, even horrified. “Are you telling me that our Jeep is somehow connected to a crime?”

“That’s right,” Savannah told her. “A rather nasty crime, at that.”

“Attempted murder,” Dirk added. “Doesn’t get much worse than that.... Unless, of course, you actually kill somebody.”

Two hours later, Savannah and Dirk stood beside the Jaguar and watched as Chief La Cross directed a young woman who was swirling fingerprint dust around the driver’s door handle of the Jeep.

Many, many times they had watched professionals perform this task. It was painfully obvious that this technician was an amateur at best.

“Doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, does it?” Dirk said as the chief grabbed the brush out of her hand, pushed her aside, and took over the job herself.

“Nope. It doesn’t. In fact, it sends hot and cold chills running through my bloodstream. This might be our only shot, and they’re blowing it.”

“Did you call Ryan and John yet?”

“I certainly did. They said if we get anything, send it right over.”

“Good. With their old FBI connections, they’ll find out if there’s a match anywhere in the system. Heck, they’re even faster than Fluff . . . er . . . I mean, Tammy.”

Savannah smiled up at him. Maybe there was hope for him, after all.

They continued to watch for as long as they could stand it. Finally, when they saw La Cross apply tape for the fourth time, lift another print, and affix it to a fourth evidence card, Savannah couldn’t take it any longer.

“That’s it,” she said. “She’s either gonna give those to me or she isn’t. I’m gonna find out which.”

She stomped over to the Jeep and Dirk watched as she had a few words with La Cross.

The police chief shook her head and held the cards behind her back, like a kid refusing to share their favorite toys.

Savannah said something else and La Cross wavered, started to surrender the prizes, then snatched them back, then . . . finally . . . gave them up. Savannah took a camera from her pocket, laid the cards on the Jeep’s front fender, and, one by one, took several close-up shots of each one.

Then she handed the cards back to La Cross and returned to Dirk, with a big smile on her face.

“Got ’em!” she said.

“So I see.”

“Let’s get going. I can send these to Ryan on the way.”

As they climbed into the Jag, she was already texting like crazy. “Okay,” she said as he started the car’s engine. “He’s got them! Now it’s just a matter of waiting.”

When they pulled away from the scene, leaving a more-disgruntled-than-usual police chief in their wake, Dirk asked, “What did you say to her to get her to hand ’em over?”

“Nothing much.”

“I know better than that.”

“I just mentioned that if she didn’t share them with me, a certain Los Angeles station was going to hear all about her affair with Northrop in time for it to be the lead story on the six o’clock news.”

“You’re a wicked, ruthless woman.”

“Don’t you ever forget it.”

 

Savannah figured she did a few things well. She was a better-than-average private detective, an excellent cook, and a decent housekeeper. She was a superb cat owner, and to hear Dirk tell it, a great wife—though time would tell on that one.

But Savannah was pretty honest when it came to self-evaluations. She knew that the one thing she did worse than anything else was wait.

When she had something important or something difficult, or both, to do, she wanted to get it over and done with as soon as possible. And cooling her heels waiting for something to happen that was out of her control, something that prevented her from getting on with her dreaded task—it was a pure vexation to her soul.

However, Savannah had learned that one way to soothe her spirit and clear her mind was to enjoy a bit of nature while she waited. Even if it was five minutes in her rose garden, two minutes looking up at the clouds in the sky, one minute of stepping outside and feeling the cool ocean wind on her face—it was often enough to put her right with the world again.