Savannah Reid 12 - Fat Free and Fatal (19 page)

C
ameron Field’s house was less than a mile away, so Savannah was nearly there when her cell phone rang. She reached for her purse, which was lying on the Mustang’s passenger seat, and fumbled inside it until she found the phone.

A glance at the caller ID told her it was Dirk.

She wasn’t surprised. Tammy had taken a little longer than normal to rat her out. But then, it had been a hard day for everyone, Tammy included. And she would have had quite a bit to tell him.

“Hello, Dirk,” she said. “I hear you have Dr. Liu working after hours for you there. How is the autopsy going?”

“Don’t you ‘how’s it going’ me! Tammy just filled me in on everything.”

“I’m sure she did. Tammy is thorough, if nothing. Especially when she’s being a tattletale.”

“It’s one thing,” he said, “for you to go running off on your own to talk to that agent dude, but now you’ve got a solid lead on a guy who really may be our killer, and you’re going over there without backup?”

“You’re busy.”

“Tammy was there with you when you left. She could have gone.”

“She needed to stay with Dona and watch the house.”

“And Ryan and John?”

“Boy, Tammy
was
thorough.” She sighed and turned off the major road onto a side street that headed up the hill, into an exclusive area of San Carmelita where only those who were fiscally privileged could afford to live. Panoramic views of the Pacific Ocean didn’t come cheap. Neither did the luxury of having one’s house slide down the hill onto one’s neighbor’s house when storm after springtime storm rolled in off that not so pacific sea.

“What’s wrong with you, Van?” Dirk was asking her. “This isn’t like you. You know the rules. You don’t go to interview a suspect like that one without backup. If he’d pick innocent people off with a rifle from a hillside, think what he’d do to you if he could.”

“I’m not going to give him the chance to do a damned thing to me,” she said, feeling a steely coldness in her chest that was unusual in its intensity, but not unwelcome. It felt good. Strong. Hard. And that was just what she needed right now.

“Van, I’m on my way,” he said. “Tammy gave me the address. I’m leaving the morgue right now and—”

“No! Stay where you are, Dirk! I’m not kidding, boy. I mean it.”

“You aren’t thinking straight, Savannah. And I know why you’re doing it. You feel bad about that boy, seeing him die right in front of you. You blame yourself and now you’re being reckless. You know how that works. You’ve seen it before with other cops. And it’s dangerous.”

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she recognized his good sense and solid advice. She knew that if Jack hadn’t died that day on her watch, she’d have taken Ryan or John with her on this run, or waited for Dirk to join her.

She heard him, and yet she couldn’t back down. At least, not all the way.

“I won’t make contact,” she said. “I’m just going to go look. I want to see his place, maybe look in a window. That’s all.”

“I don’t like that either.”

“That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.”

“I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“But I’m going to be there in thirty seconds.”

There was a long, tense silence on the other end. “No contact. Promise?”

“I promise. You know how good I am at sneaking around and peeking into windows. Don’t worry. And don’t you come over here. You stay there with Dr. Liu and get all you can from her. This is nothing.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He sounded anything but convinced. “Call me.”

“As soon as I have something, you’ll be the first to know.”

She hung up and slowed the Mustang at the entrance to Field’s cul-de-sac. It was a short road, only a block long, with only three houses. His was the one on the right—with the breathtaking view of the city below and the ocean beyond.

It was a white, modern, boxy affair with odd angles and lots of skylights. The grounds were austere, more cement than vegetation. In fact, the only greenery she saw was a large lemon tree to the left of the front door.

She could see into the backyard well enough to know he had an infinity pool. And for half a second she experienced a pang of jealousy. How nice would it be every evening to sit and watch the sun slide into the sea with your own infinity pool pulling your spirit over the edge and into the world’s largest pool of peace?

Maybe money
could
buy happiness, or at least a moment of it, here and there.

She didn’t dare pull into the cul-de-sac. Her Mustang was far too conspicuous. If Field was, indeed, the killer, he may very well have seen it parked in Dona Papalardo’s driveway. So, she drove several blocks away and pulled into yet another cul-de-sac where there were plenty of trees and shrubbery.

The sun had been down for half an hour and, fortunately for her, darkness was quickly enveloping this area that had no streetlights.

She took her time, strolling back to his street, trying to look like an ordinary woman from the neighborhood, out for her evening after-dinner walk.

As she approached the entrance to his cul-de-sac, she slowed even more, taking a long look at the house. The windows in the front were lit, the back dark.

The other two houses were completely dark.
All the better
, she thought. The fewer people at home, the less chance she’d be observed lurking around.

She was just about to turn down the street when the lights in the front windows of the house went off, and a few moments later, she heard a loud, whirring sound.

Field’s garage door was opening.

“Holy crap!” she whispered, as she looked around for a place to duck out of sight. One of his neighbor’s poinsettia bushes provided the cover she needed.

She jumped behind it and watched from among the plant’s branches as a big, black Dodge Magnum pulled out of the garage and headed toward her, the door closing behind it.

In the darkness she didn’t get a good look at the driver, but her limited view gave her the impression that he was a large Caucasian, maybe in his mid-thirties.

Ah…his house all to myself
, she thought as she meandered on down the street.
And just the way Dirk wants it—no contact.

She didn’t mind. For now she was content to gather what she could from his surroundings. Long ago, she had realized the value of a simple “break and enter” to a nosy gal who knew what to look for and where to find it.

She glanced around one more time to make sure she was alone, and from what she could tell, she had the cul-de-sac to herself.

Ducking between the houses, she made her way quickly to the back of his house. It took her only two minutes to find a waist-high, sliding window that wasn’t locked.

And less than a minute later, she had the screen off, the window open, and she was stepping through it into what appeared to be a guest bedroom.

Once inside, she stood very still and listened. More than once she had entered a house only to find that, although the owner was gone, the owner’s Rottweiler or Doberman was still home and on patrol.

She frequently carried some chicken livers in a plastic bag in her pocket for Rottie and Dobie bribing, but tonight she was liver-free, so she had to be extra careful.

She walked across the dark, sparsely furnished room, past the twin bed that had only a bare mattress and TV tray next to it with a simple gooseneck lamp.

Opening the door, she paused and listened again for any occupants, human or canine, but heard nothing. She flipped on her penlight that she always had attached to her key ring, and used it to light her way as she passed through a hallway and into the living room.

In this part of the house she didn’t even need her penlight. The recessed overhead lighting had been turned off, but several lamps had been left on a low setting, and their light was enough for her to see by.

For a moment, she felt as though she had stepped into some sort of black-and-white photograph. The walls were a light dove gray and all of the contemporary furniture was in white, tones of gray, and black.

She recognized fine leather when she saw it, and realized Field had spent a fortune on the sleek sofa and accent chairs, though the cushion on one end of the sofa was depressed in the form of a human’s rear end, detracting from the overall look. Apparently, Cameron Field was a bit of a couch potato and a pretty heavy guy, considering the depth of the indentation.

On the walls was a series of black-and-white photographs, beautifully framed, of different types of seashells: conches, sand dollars, starfish, displayed on sandy beaches with sea foam sudsing around them.

The chrome-framed, glass coffee table was spotless, as was the entertainment center. Not a speck of dust or a casually tossed magazine gave a hint that anybody actually live here—other than the dent in the cushion.

Cameron Field might be a murderer, and might not play well with others, but he got an
A
for neatness.

She turned from the living room and started to walk into the dining area, a loud barking sound caused her to jump, reach for her gun, and nearly faint—all at the same time.

Her mind couldn’t quite process the strange sound. It wasn’t exactly a dog and yet it was alive. No doubt about that!

Her Beretta drawn, she whirled around, and looked behind her.

Along the other side of the room, beyond the chrome-and-glass dining set, was a large terrarium. And inside it, lit with a full-spectrum lamp, was a dark gray lizard with reddish spots.

The animal was only about a foot long, but it had a fierce expression on its face and obviously didn’t like the fact that she was there. It blinked at her several times, its tongue lolling in and out of its toothy mouth. Then it barked at her again, making a noise that sounded like “too-kay, too-kay.”

Savannah recognized it as a Tokay gecko from its distinctive coloring and strange cry. Years ago, she and Dirk had run across one of these while raiding the home of an organized crime figure in Los Angeles. Dirk had made the mistake of sticking his hand in its terrarium and still had the scars to prove it. He had learned later that the Tokay was the pit bull of gecko-dom. Once they had a bite, they didn’t turn loose until they were good and ready.

It barked at her again, and she said, “Eh, shut your trap. I already met one of your cousins, and I didn’t like him either. Mess with me and I’ll make a purse and a sandwich out of you. You’d probably taste like chicken.”

As if it understood her, the thing scurried behind some plants and peeked out at her between the leaves.

“That’s better,” she said as she continued on to the kitchen, which was equally spotless as the living room. Other than a bowl of green apples on the counter, there was no sign that anyone actually ate or drank there.

She walked back down the hallway, past the guest bedroom where she had entered the house, and into a master suite.

The room was massive, as large as the living room. With ceilings that soared at least thirteen feet high and windows that overlooked the town that twinkled with night lights, the room was a place that she could have stayed for days at a time.

Or at least, she thought so, at first.

But when she dared to turn on the light, using the dimmer switch to keep it as low as possible and still be able to see, she changed her mind.

The furnishings here were like those in the rest of the house, contemporary and sparse. There was only a bed with a charcoal gray comforter that was neatly tucked in all the way around the bottom of the mattress. And two black pillows with white piping.

Other than two nightstands on either side of the bed and one bureau, the enormous room was empty.

Except for the Dalí.

On second glance, Savannah realized that the painting on the wall just around the corner from the door wasn’t really a Dalí, but the artist who had done it must have been an enormous fan of Salvador’s.

The work was a nature scene, a field of green grass where red and yellow flowers dripped and ran into each other, then morphed into other blossoms that waved in the wind before dissolving into puddles of their own.

Savannah couldn’t take her eyes off it. She turned the light up a tiny bit more so that she could get the full effect. She studied each flower up close, then slowly walked backward, taking in the painting as a whole.

It was when she was about ten feet away from the painting that she saw it. Collectively, the yellow flowers formed a much larger shape—that of a woman sprawled on her back in the grass, one arm twisted cruelly behind her, her right leg at an awkward angle that indicated it could even be broken.

The red flowers joined to create a horror of their own, a river of blood flowing from her throat and spilling across the grass.

And in the lower right corner of the painting were the initials, bright and bold, signed by the proud artist: CF.

“Cameron, you sick bastard,” she whispered.

A cold sense of knowing swept through her. If she hadn’t known for sure before, she did now. Cameron Field was a psychopath. And he was the killer they had been looking for.

She had no idea why he would want to murder Dona Papalardo, but now that she knew who he was, she would find out. One way or the other.

Turning the light off in the room, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone. She dialed Dirk as she made her way back to the guest room and the open window.

He answered after only one ring. “Yes?”

“It’s him.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw him leave as soon as I got here, so I had the house to myself. He lives alone, he’s insanely clean, and he has this sick painting of a dead, bleeding woman in his bedroom.”

Dirk was quiet as he processed that. Then he said, “Well, the clean part is highly suspicious, him being a bachelor, but I don’t know if that nails the case.”

“He keeps an ugly pet lizard just like the one that nearly bit your pinkie off.”

“It’s him! I’ll put an APB out on him. We’ll get him into the station, and I’ll lean on him so hard that—”