Killer Honeymoon (4 page)

“It’s okay,” Savannah lied as she pressed her palms over the dark wounds, an action that did absolutely nothing to stanch the flow. “You’re okay.”

“No,” the woman whispered. “Not okay.”

Savannah looked deep into the victim’s eyes and knew—this wasn’t the time for lies.

“I’m going to stay with you,” Savannah said. “I’ll be right here with you. Okay?”

The woman seemed to understand and nodded slightly.

“The worst has already happened,” Savannah told her. “I know you’re scared, and I know it hurts. But it’s going to get better.” She glanced down at the blood pouring through her fingers at an impossibly high rate, staining the sand and water around them.

“Soon,” Savannah told her. “It’s going to get better soon. All right?”

The woman on the sand nodded again. Some of the fear seemed to leave her face as she stared up into Savannah’s eyes.

For the briefest moment, it occurred to Savannah that she might know this woman. Something about her was familiar, but she couldn’t place her.

There would be time for that later. The trained police officer in Savannah came to the fore, pushing everything else to the background.

“Who shot you?” Savannah asked her. “Who did this?”

The victim moved her lips, though the sound she made was little more than a whisper. The dreadful gurgling sound was diminishing. Instinctively, Savannah knew she had only moments to live.

“Who were you running from?” Savannah asked again. “Who did this to you?”

Savannah leaned closer, her ear nearly against the woman’s mouth. She heard one word, feebly uttered, but clear all the same.

“William.”

“William? William shot you?” Savannah asked, feeling a rush of discovery, even in such sad circumstances.

But then the woman shook her head. “No. Not William. William . . .”

And that was all.

Savannah moved her hands away from the wounds and reached to grasp the woman’s hand. It was limp. As lifeless as the eyes that now stared blindly up at her.

A moment later, the gargling stopped. So did the blood flow.

Savannah felt the strength go out of her own legs. She sat down abruptly beside the body.

In an unconscious movement—her mind frozen from the trauma of having just watched someone lose her life—she spread her fingers and held her hands down below the surface of the waves. She watched as the water flowed over them, washing away the blood. She watched for what seemed like a very long time, as with each wave they got cleaner.

She watched because she didn’t want to see the beautiful young woman stretched out on the sand beside her.

“Van.”

The miracle of life gone forever from her eyes.

“Savannah.”

The woman she hadn’t been able to save.

“Savannah. Honey, are you okay?”

She turned her head and looked up. Dirk was standing over her, staring down at her, a dark expression on his face.

“Yeah,” she said.

He glanced toward the body. “She’s gone,” he said. It was more of a statement than a question.

“Yeah.”

He reached down and offered Savannah his hands. She took them, and he pulled her gently to her feet.

“I didn’t see the shooter,” he told her. “I found the spent casings over there, under that big oak tree.”

“Okay.”

“There’s a road only about fifty feet in. He’s probably long gone.”

Savannah was barely listening. She was forcing herself to look at the dead woman’s face. A lovely face, even in death. A face that did, indeed, look very familiar to her.

“Amelia,” she said, more to herself than to him.

“What?”

“I knew I’d seen her before. So have you. That’s Amelia Northrop.”

Dirk studied the victim for a moment. “The Channel Seven newscaster that we watch every night?”

Savannah nodded solemnly.

He bent down and took a better look. “Holy cow, you’re right. It’s her. Now that I think about it, I heard that she has a vacation home here on the island, her and her big-time land developer husband, William Northrop.”

“William. Yes, William.”

“Huh?”

“She said his name . . . before. . . .”

“Like, ‘Tell William I love him’?”

“No. I asked her who shot her, and she said, ‘William.’ Then I said, ‘William shot you?’ and she said, ‘No.’ She passed before she could say any more.”

“Great. Just what you want at a homicide. An incomplete dying declaration.”

Suddenly Savannah began to shiver violently. Though she blamed it on the fact that her clothes were wet, she knew better, because the chill reached deep inside her.

Dirk wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. She buried her face against his warm chest and closed her eyes. But she could still see it—all that blood pooling between her fingers. The light going out in the young woman’s eyes.

“I couldn’t save her, Dirk,” she said softly.

He hugged her more tightly. “You did what you could.”

“I was hoping I could save her.”

“You did all you could. You kept her from dying alone.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

He reached down, put his hand under her chin, and forced her to look up at him. His eyes were moist, like hers, when he said, “Savannah, listen to me. You risked your life for her. It
was
enough.”

His eyes searched hers, looking for a sincere response.

“Do you hear me?” he asked.

Finally she nodded. “I hear you.” And the words were from her heart.

Yes
, she told herself as she pressed her face, once again, to his chest.
I did all I could do. And “all” has to be enough.

O
ne phone call to 911 and twenty minutes later, the shoreline was crawling with Santa Tesla’s finest. But there weren’t that many of them. And Savannah and Dirk weren’t at all impressed.

They had expected the police force arriving at the crime scene would be minuscule compared to the LAPD or even San Carmelita’s teams. The island had a reputation for being virtually crime-free, so why would they need a massive department?

But even the smallest and least busy law enforcement agency needed a rudimentary knowledge of how to process an area where a felony had occurred. And their total lack of efficiency was driving Savannah and Dirk crazy. Standing on the sidelines, watching the so-called investigators walk around in circles, was almost more than they could stand.

What impressed them least was the fact that no one had even debriefed them about what had happened. Not interviewing eyewitnesses was a highly unusual procedure, considering the gravity of the crime and the fact that they had seen it happen firsthand.

Two uniformed policemen, a man wearing a white smock, which suggested he might be a coroner or CSI, and a woman in a black suit strolled around, the four of them chatting among themselves, while occasionally stopping to study the body and the surrounding beach area.

“Shouldn’t we go grab one of them and tell them about the cartridges we found, and the shoes, and the purse?” Savannah asked Dirk, who was leaning on the rocks they had previously hidden behind when they had witnessed the shooting.

His arms were crossed over his chest and the scowl etched on his face told it all. Dirk didn’t like standing by and watching people bungle a job when he could—with his characteristic total lack of humility—tell them how to do it much better.

He was especially offended when the shoddy job being done was police work.

And he certainly didn’t like being ignored.

“Naw,” he replied. “Let ’em contaminate the scene a little more. There might be some area of it that they haven’t tromped on yet.”

“Maybe they’re waiting for the dogcatcher and the librarian to arrive and lay down a few more footprints here and there.”

“Smash some more evidence down into the sand.”

“Handle the body and see if they can drop a little more hair and fibers on it before they bag it.”

They sighed and shook their heads in unison, as only a pair who had worked together far too many years and processed far too many crime scenes together would do.

“Somebody might’ve already took off with that purse back there,” he grumbled.

“If any woman who wears that size shoe sees those pumps, she’s gonna nab them and giggle all the way home, figuring she’s hit the jackpot.”

Dirk watched the woman in the suit walk over to the body, once again, and stand there, staring off into the ocean, as though hoping the sea would offer clues as to what had happened on land. “Not our problem,” he said.

“Apparently, not even our concern,” she replied.

“If they ain’t worried, why should we be?”

As they stood there in silence and watched one of the patrolmen pick up a small bit of seaweed, look it over, and then throw it down, Savannah felt her indignation rise to uncontrollable levels.

“If I don’t do something, I’m gonna pop,” she told him. “That woman layin’ there has a right to a proper investigation. If these nincompoops aren’t gonna give her one, we are. Come on.”

“But—”

Before he could register any sort of complaint, Savannah was gone, striding across the sand toward the body and the gal in the black suit. She was a woman with a purpose. Following a few paces behind her, Dirk knew better than to try to stop her when her mind was set, her mission as clear as this one was.

By the time he caught up with her, she was already in the midst of her verbal tirade, giving the woman in black what-for.

As usual, when Savannah’s ire was raised to dizzying heights, her Southern accent was as thick as Mississippi sorghum.

“. . . nothing like this in all my ever-livin’ days,” she was saying, her hands on her hips, her face only inches from the woman’s. “My partner . . . uh . . . husband and I told that young patrolman over there that we were eyewitnesses to the whole thing. And we’ve been standing over there by that rock, our teeth in our mouths, waiting for somebody to give a tinker’s damn and come question us about what we saw. But
nooo.
Y’all are too busy pussyfooting around here, accomplishing absolutely nothing to—”

“Excuse me?” the woman interjected. “Do you want to tell me who the hell you are?”

“Savannah Reid . . . er, Coulter . . . um, Reid. I’m a private detective from the mainland and a former cop. This is my husband, Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter, of the San Carmelita Police Department. We saw this woman get shot and watched her die. So it might behoove you knuckleheads to have a word with us about what happened here, before you do much more muckin’ around.”

Savannah glanced down at Amelia Northrop’s lifeless corpse, her sightless eyes, and a wave of sadness and pity swept through her. “Except maybe to cover up that poor woman’s body,” she said. “If you have something clean that won’t contaminate it any more than y’all have already done.”

The woman in black stood there quietly for a long moment, studying first Savannah, then Dirk, with eyes so dark they didn’t seem to have pupils. Her black hair was short and lay in tight waves close to her scalp.

She was a large woman, as tall as Savannah and just as full-figured. Her rigid posture suggested a military background; the scowl on her face and the way her black eyes bored into both of them might have intimidated lesser souls.

“Yeah!” Dirk snapped. “You wanna hear what we got or not? We have better things to do than cool our heels at your crime scene. We’re on our honeymoon, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know,” she replied coolly. “In fact, no one even told me that we had eyewitnesses.”

At that moment, a patrolman rushed up to them and tried to wedge himself between the woman and Savannah. Savannah gave him a look that caused him to think better of it. He moved aside just a little.

“Sorry, Chief,” he said to the woman. “I don’t know how they got out here.” He turned to Savannah and Dirk. “You two can’t be here. We’ve got a dead . . . I mean . . . we’re conducting an investigation, and you don’t belong on the beach.”

“Actually, Franklin, it appears they do,” the newly identified chief of police told him. “In fact, someone should have notified me of their presence long ago. It seems they’re eyewitnesses to the killing.”

“Oh,” Franklin said sheepishly. “I didn’t know. . . .”

“What’s worse,
I
didn’t know.” The chief gave the young man a withering look, which made Savannah feel a little sorry for him.

After having been fired from the police force by a crooked chief, she wasn’t fond of “the brass.” And this woman in her austere black suit, with her piercing black eyes and her black mood, seemed to be a particular pain in the “brass.”

Savannah didn’t envy Franklin having to work for her.

“You and I will discuss this later,” the chief told the patrolman.

He ducked his head and scurried away, reminding Savannah of Beauregard the bloodhound, after an especially harsh scolding from Granny Reid—usually regarding the evils of chicken chasing.

The woman held out her hand to Savannah. “I’m Chief Charlotte La Cross, of the Santa Tesla Police Department. I regret all the inconvenience your waiting must have caused you,” she added with more than a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

Although she didn’t look all that remorseful, Savannah shook her proffered hand anyway. After all, there was little advantage to offending the chief of police—any more than she already had.

Though Savannah figured any former rudeness on her part should be overlooked.

What? This gal never heard of wearing a uniform, or, at the very least, a badge?
she thought. How was she supposed to know the woman was the frickin’ chief of police before she ripped into her, verbal guns ablazin’?

Any decent person would have held up a warning hand and said something like, “Excuse me. Before you dig your grave any deeper, you should know you’re addressing the head honcho here.” Especially once an uninformed body started using words like “knuckleheads” and “muckin’ around” to make their point.

Savannah swallowed a little lump in her throat, which tasted just a tad like crow, and said, “Nice to make your acquaintance, Chief La Cross. Or, at least, it would be, under pleasanter circumstances. You’ll have to pardon me if my words had a bit of an edge to them earlier. You see, we’ve had a pretty rough last couple of hours.”

“Yeah,” Dirk said, accepting the lukewarm handshake that was offered to him as well. “When we set out this morning to have a nice, relaxing day here on your pretty little island, we weren’t expecting to wind up in a situation like this.”

“No. I don’t suppose you were.” Chief La Cross studied them for a long time before adding in a guarded tone, “Hardly any serious crimes occur on Santa Tesla. Certainly, no violent crimes. Why, this island is the closest thing you’ll find to paradise anywhere on God’s green earth.”

Savannah couldn’t help wondering what travel brochure she had taken that line from. It reminded her that tourism was everything to Santa Tesla and its permanent inhabitants. Without mainland dollars flowing through its stores, hotels, and eateries, the island’s economy would collapse within weeks.

It also occurred to Savannah that if word got out that an innocent woman had been gunned down in cold blood on one of their beautiful, pristine beaches, that might not be good for Santa Tesla’s bottom line.

Although, considering the identity of the victim, it certainly wasn’t a secret that could be kept. Short of a media blackout, this would be the lead story on the six o’clock news.

Amelia Northrop was as well known for her ferocious approach to expository journalism as she was for her exceptional beauty. More than one of her scathing, in-depth reports had brought people in high places, their companies and organizations, their extravagant lifestyles, crashing to the ground.

Savannah couldn’t help thinking that if she were Chief La Cross, the first place she’d look would be that list of former demigods and demigoddesses, now ruined and publicly disgraced.

The chief turned from Savannah and Dirk, long enough to wave over the second patrolman on the beach.

“How long until you’ll be bagging this body for transport?” Chief La Cross asked him.

“Uh, well, Martin has to take some pictures of it before we—”

“Then tell him to get them taken, and then either remove it or cover it with a tarp. The press will be arriving any minute. If any unauthorized photos are taken, I’m holding you two responsible.”

“Yes, Chief.”

The patrolman hurried away and returned almost instantly with the man in the smock, who took out a camera and began taking shot after shot of the body.

Chief La Cross led Savannah and Dirk across the beach, back to where they had been standing beside the rocks. “So,” she said, “what do you have to tell me about this? What exactly did you see?”

“We saw that woman run out of the woods toward the water,” Dirk told her. “We heard the shots and saw her fall.”

“If you want more detail than that,” Savannah added, “we’d be glad to fill in all the blanks. But before we do that, you’ve got some evidence lying just around the corner and down the shore a piece.”

“What evidence?” La Cross asked.

“Some discarded high heels and a purse.”

A look passed over the chief’s face that Savannah recognized. It was one she’d seen many times. It was an expression that flashed across someone’s features, right before they told a lie.

“That’s good,” the chief said evenly. “Maybe it’s hers and will have her ID in it. Then we can find out who she is.”

Savannah stared at her for a long time, searching her eyes. Finally she said, “Are you telling me that you don’t know who that is, lying back there on the beach?”

“No. Why would I? Do you?”

It was another lie. Savannah could tell, and one quick glance at Dirk told her that he knew it, too.

“Of course I do,” Savannah replied. “I’m surprised that you don’t. It’s the news reporter Amelia Northrop. One of your more prominent and famous residents, I should think.”

For what seemed like a very long time, Savannah and Chief La Cross stood, staring into each other’s eyes with the intensity of a couple of gunfighters. Finally it was the chief who broke the silence.

“You may be right. You may be wrong,” she said. “But until we know for sure, I’m going to insist that you keep your opinion to yourself. You’re to say nothing to anyone at all about what you think you saw here today. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Savannah didn’t like her tone. She didn’t like the chief’s black suit or the way her eyes bored into hers. She didn’t like her ramrod posture that gave the impression Chief La Cross was constantly looking to fight with anyone over anything . . . and expected to win every fight she began.

Dirk took a step toward the chief, his own stiff body language telegraphing his fury. “Now see here,” he began.

Savannah held up one hand, signaling him to let her have this one. It was a gesture she’d used many times over the years, and he knew better than to ignore it.

He backed off.

“Now, Chief Charlotte La Cross,” she began, her accent thick and bittersweet, “you don’t want to go threatenin’ me like that. Last I checked, there was still freedom of speech in this country.”

“If you mean by ‘this country’ the United States of America, let me remind you that Santa Tesla Island may be a territory of the U.S., but we are self-governing in every way. We have our own system of law enforcement, and I’m the head of that system, so you will do exactly as I say, or you’ll find yourself spending your honeymoon in separate cells in our jail.”