Cereal Killer (12 page)

Diamante rubbed her cheek against Savannah’s chin and purred like her Mustang’s Holly carburetor right after the mechanic gave it a fine tuning.

Part of the irritation she had felt toward Marietta floated away. Ah... the healing qualities of unconditional kitty love.

“What did you find out about Mari’s mystery man?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“Nothing much. Not anything bad anyway,” Tammy said. “No criminal record that I could find. Not married. No kids. Pretty good credit rating. Owns his condo in West Hollywood.”

“Sounds too good to be true. He’s probably an ugly little nerd who sent her a picture of his next-door neighbor, or maybe a pervert who—”

She paused when she saw that Tammy was giving her an over-the-shoulder look she couldn’t quite decipher. “What?” she asked. “Is it something I said?”

Tammy gave her a sweet, somewhat understanding smile that, for some inexplicable reason, irritated the crap out of her.

“You think I’m being too hard on my sister and her so-called boyfriend?” she asked.

Tammy shrugged. “Maybe. I mean... I don’t really approve of hooking up with people that you meet on the Internet, but I’ve heard of some cases where it actually worked out. People really
have
met their soul mates in chatrooms. Stranger things have happened.”

Savannah scratched behind Cleo’s ear and was rewarded with a wet, sandpapery kiss on her wrist. “I suppose,” she said. “I want Marietta to be happy. And she sure appears to be smitten with this guy.”

“Besides, you may be worrying over nothing. Chances are, she’ll get one look at him in the flesh and decide that a drink is all she wants from him. She could be back here in an hour.”

Somehow, that thought didn’t offer Savannah any substantial comfort. And she felt guilty about it She should be happy at the prospect of spending time with her own flesh and blood. And she probably would have been, had she not been plagued with thoughts of homicide every time she was around Marietta.

She hadn’t always felt this way about her sister. They had once been close... in their preschool years.

But on the first day of kindergarten Marietta had started chasing boys, and she had been a sharp, aching pain in the hind quarters ever since. The very thought of being without a man to call her own was enough to send her into a dither. And Savannah had never had a lot of patience with dither-prone women. Life was too short and too precious to spend it in a state of agitation about a man. Her motto was: As appealing and delicious as some guys might be, there were just too many men in the world to get yourself all worked up over any one of them.

Savannah sighed. “If she does come back in an hour, she’ll be crying in her beer over the dirty, rotten liar who broke her heart. And if she stays the night with him—” Fortunately, before her mind could wander too far down that dreary path, the phone rang.

Tammy grabbed it, the picture of efficiency, and in her most official voice—the one tinged with just a tad of silver-screen siren—she said, “Moonlight Magnolia Detective Agency. May I help you?”

Her eyes widened with interest, and she looked over at Savannah. “Leah Freed? Certainly. Let me see if Ms. Reid is available.”

Savannah jumped up from her chair, dumping both cats unceremoniously off her lap in the process. They sauntered back to their window perch, die picture of wounded dignity.

Taking the phone from Tammy, Savannah entertained at least a dozen mental possibilities as to why Caitlin Connor’s agent might be calling her. But none of them made a lot of sense.

“This is Savannah,” she said into the phone, trying to keep the curiosity out of her tone.

“Yesterday you told me that you’re a private detective,” the voice on the other end stated without the customary greeting. Instantly, Savannah recognized the agent’s no-nonsense manner.

“Yes, I am,” Savannah replied.

“And that you sometimes work with that detective who was at Cait’s house yesterday...?”

“That’s right. In an unofficial capacity, that is.”

“Are you working with him on Caitlin’s case and Kameeka’s?”

So, she’s heard about Kameeka,
Savannah thought.
News travels fast.

“Like I said, only unofficially. Detective Coulter and I were partners for years when I was on the police force. Now, as friends, we sometimes help each other with our cases. May I ask why you want to know?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone, and Savannah thought she heard Leah Freed sniff. Then she said, “Ms. Reid, two of my girls are dead. I want to know all I can about what happened to them.”

‘Your girls? You were Kameeka’s agent, too?”

“Her agent and her friend, just like Cait. I can’t believe that they’d both die, unexpectedly like that, within twenty-four hours of each other... not accidentally anyway. Do you believe it?”

“That they both died accidentally? It could happen, I suppose, but—”

‘You don’t think so either, do you?”

Savannah made it a practice not to reveal too many cards too early in any poker game. But the woman seemed sincere and, considering her loss, deserved an honest answer.

“I have my doubts, Ms. Freed, that they died as a result of accidents. The coincidence is a bit much.”

“Then I want you to find out what really happened to them.”

“Well, this is Detective Coulter’s case, and he’s the best detective I’ve ever known. I’m sure that he’ll—”

“No, I want to hire you. I want you actively investigating this and reporting everything you find out directly back to me.”

At first, Savannah was taken aback by the job offer so blatantly stated. Then she decided that it had been too long between gigs if it took her that long to realize someone wanted to give her money for what she was doing with Dirk for free.

“Of course,” she said. “I’d be happy to have you as a client.” She waggled one eyebrow at Tammy, who suppressed a series of giggles with one hand over her mouth and did a little dance in her desk chair. “Let me give you back to my assistant. She’ll discuss my rates with you and set up an appointment for us to meet.”

“I’m sure your rates are fine,” came the immediate reply. “And I don’t have time to wait for an appointment. I want you to come to my office. Now. I’m on the tenth floor of the Plaza Del Oro Tower, Suite B. I’ll see you in...?”

“Fifteen minutes,” Savannah said.

“Good.”

Even the click as Leah Freed hung up sounded more decisive than most, Savannah thought as she handed Tammy the phone.

“We’ve got a client?” Tammy said, jumping up from her seat and following Savannah as she headed back to the hallway.

“We sure do.” Savannah snatched her keys and purse off the table beside the door. “Leah Freed was both Cait’s and Kameeka’s agent She wants me to find out what happened to her girls, as she calls them.”

“And she’s going to pay you?”

Tammy’s shock seemed to be as deep as Savannah’s— a realization that gave Savannah a moment’s pause to consider whether maybe she should have grown up to be a flight attendant or a movie star, as she had intended to when she was an adolescent Something that actually made money frequently enough that getting paid wasn’t a novel experience.

“Yeah,” she said as she hurried out the door. “She’s going to pay me. And that’s how I know she’s up to something.”

“What do you mean?” Tammy called after her.

“She’s an agent... and she didn’t even bother to dicker about the price. Something’s up, for sure.”

With fourteen stories, the Plaza Del Oro Tower provided the only high point in the San Carmelita skyline. As Southern California was earthquake country, high-rise buildings were the exception rather than the rule. Savannah would never forget how disappointed she had been the first time she had beheld the Los Angeles skyline. Expecting something similar to the photos she had seen of Manhattan and Chicago, she had wondered where the skyscrapers were. From a distance, L.A. looked more like a giant parking lot than a bona fide city.

But after having been jarred from her bed by several quakes, she found herself of the same opinion as most of her fellow West Coasters—skyscrapers were overrated... especially during a 7.1 rumbler.

So, as she approached the Plaza Del Oro financial center, she looked up at the “massive” fourteen-story building and congratulated herself for not being successful enough to warrant an office at that prestigious address.

The lobby with its sunlit atrium was cheerful enough, as was the bank of elevators with their tiled walls and floor, bright with primary colors and South American motifs.

She quickly made her way to the tenth floor, and when she stepped out of the elevator she entered a new world.

The colorful tiles and Spanish influence disappeared, replaced by a chic suite of offices that looked like an Ansel Adams photo.

The walls, the clean-lined, contemporary furniture, and the decorating accents were all shades of black, white, and gray. And on the walls hung life-size, full-length photographs similar to the one they had seen in Kameeka Wills’s house.

Beautiful women of abundant proportions lined the walls, each more exquisite than the one before. Whether they were standing on a beach, sitting in a tropical garden, or posed against a blank backdrop, they commanded the camera with their presence.

Not a skinny, heroin-addicted-looking one in the bunch,
Savannah thought as she walked across the dove-gray carpet to a sleek ebony desk in the corner of the room. They all looked healthy, vibrant, and fulfilled, their eyes sparkling with consciousness and confidence.

Females... in every sense of the word.

If this was what Leah Freed’s agency was all about, Savannah decided she liked her a lot more than she had five minutes ago. There needed to be more of these photos in the world—pictures that celebrated the beauty of women in all shapes and sizes.

“Hello,” she said to the receptionist, a young woman who was herself a generous size. “My name is Savannah Reid. I believe Ms. Freed is expecting me.”

Instantly, the receptionist jumped to attention. “Oh, yes. Leah
is
expecting you. Just one moment, please.” She lifted the phone and punched a button. “Ms. Reid is here to... yes, I’ll send her right in.”

Hanging up, she rose and ushered Savannah to one of the three doors that led off the reception area, the door imprinted with the gold letters “L.J. Freed.” Opening the door, she announced, “Ms. Reid, this is Leah Freed and—”

“Yes, yes, Belinda, we’ve met.” Leah Freed came out from behind an enormous desk piled high with papers, glossy eight-by-ten photos, and multicolored files. One glance around the untidy office told Savannah that the agency’s first impression of chic and organized, given by the reception area, might be smoke and mirrors.

Today, Leah was dressed in a hot pink suit with white piping and a white neckerchief with pink polka dots. On a woman of lighter coloring, the ensemble might have been gaudy, but on a deeply tanned person with Leah’s black hair, it was only mildly garish.

Leah’s more attractive accessory, the cocker spaniel puppy, was nowhere in sight, and the agent seemed less personable without the softness of her canine companion.

She motioned Savannah inside with an impatient wave of her hand.

The receptionist, formerly identified as Belinda, asked Savannah, “Would you like a cup of coffee or tea or—?”

“Nothing!” Leah snapped. “Leave us alone and hold all my calls.”

With a submissive nod, Belinda turned and quickly disappeared.

“Here, sit down,” Leah said as she swept an armload of papers and files off one of the chairs beside her desk.

Savannah could feel the ruff on her back rising, as it always did when she encountered gruff, controlling people. Or at least, anyone who was more gruff and controlling than she was. But she decided to give Leah Freed the benefit of the doubt and chalk it up to the fact that she was probably in shock, grieving the loss of her friends.

“What do you know so far?” Leah said as she plopped down in her own chair behind the desk and folded her arms in front of her.

“Bottom line, huh?” Savannah couldn’t resist giving her a small, baiting grin.

Leah registered the challenge and, for a moment, lowered her intensity a notch. “Always the bottom line,” she said, a bit more softly. “I’m not one to pussyfoot around.”

“Me either.”

“Good. Then we’ll get along. So, what really happened to Cait?”

Before Savannah could answer, Leah added, “I figured that stupid husband of hers did her in, but now that Kameeka’s gone, too...?”

For a moment, the agent’s lower lip trembled just a bit; then her face hardened as though she were steeling herself for Savannah’s answer.

“It’s a bit early to make any sort of determination about either of their deaths,” Savannah told her. “According to the medical examiner, Caitlin died of heat stroke, brought on by strenuous exercise coupled with dehydration.”

Leah gasped and covered her face with both hands. Savannah saw a shudder go through her as she fought to control her emotions.