Cereal Killer (13 page)

When she finally moved her hands, Savannah saw tears in her eyes.

“Then Kevin was right,” Leah said. “Cait
did
kill herself trying to lose weight for this stupid cereal campaign.”

Savannah hesitated, wondering just how straight to aim with this self-acclaimed straight-shooter. She looked genuinely distressed, as anyone might who had lost a friend under tragic circumstances. The last thing she wanted to do was add to her grief.

“I’m just telling you what the medical examiner said,” she said. “The case is still open.”

Leah grabbed a tissue from a box on her desk, wiped her eyes—smearing her liner—blew her nose, and tossed the issue into a waste can. “And what do
you
think? Do you think she died because she was dieting and exercising too much?”

“I think the
cause
of her death was heat stroke, like the coroner said. But I don’t necessarily think her
manner
of death was accidental.”

‘You aren’t saying she deliberately killed herself, are you?”

Leah’s dark eyes searched hers so intensely that Savannah was tempted to glance away. But she didn’t.

“No, I don’t think she committed suicide,” she replied evenly.

Leah thought for a moment. “Then you’re saying it was homicide. That somebody murdered her.”

‘You asked me what I believe. And at the moment, I think that’s the most likely scenario.”

“Do you have any proof?”

“Nothing definitive.”

Again, the agent’s eyes probed hers. “Do you have any idea who might have done it?”

Savannah refused to blink. “Not yet.”

“And how about Kameeka?”

An ugly picture played across Savannah’s mental screen—the wound on the victim’s head, the tire marks on her bronzed skin.

“What
about
Kameeka?” Savannah said, hedging.

“Do you think it was simple hit-and-run?”

It was Savannah’s turn to do a visual probe, and she fixed the agent with her own blue lasers. “Probably not. How did you find out about Kameeka?”

“The modeling industry is a tight community—the legitimate sector, that is. News travels fast.”

“And,” Savannah repeated, unwilling to let it slide, “how did you find out?”

“Jerrod Beekman called me. He’s the president of the public relations firm that handles the Wentworth Cereal account.”

“How did
he
know?”

“He didn’t say.”

“And you didn’t ask?”

“No. He called me about an hour ago and told me that Kameeka had been killed by a hit-and-run driver while she was out jogging this morning. And, of course, he had heard about Caitlin on the news this morning. Needless to say, he’s quite upset.”

Savannah nodded. “I see. Then he knew both women personally?”

“No, but he’s based a multimillion-dollar, nationwide campaign on four plus models losing weight while eating Slenda Flakes, and now two of them are dead. He’s beside himself.”

“Hmmm... I’ll bet he is.” Savannah retrieved a notepad and pen from her purse and began to scribble. “And where can I reach him?”

Leah threw up her hands. “No, no, no. I don’t need you poking around, acting like a detective, asking people like Jerrod Beekman questions and causing problems.”

Savannah looked up from her writing. “But I thought that’s what you were hiring me to do, work this case as a private detective and—”

“Heavens no. That’s the last thing I want you to do. That would be a disaster!”

Savannah shook her head, confused. “Then why am I here? If you don’t want an investigator, I don’t think I can help you. I—”

“I don’t want you to work this case as a private detective,” Leah Freed said, clicking her long acrylic fingernails together in a manner that set Savannah’s teeth on edge. “No, no, no. That would be far too obvious.” She swept Savannah from head to toe with the experienced eye of a professional. “You’re a pretty girl, so we might as well take advantage of the fact. I want you to work the case as a model.”

Chapter

9

The next morning, Savannah stood at the foot of her bed and surveyed what seemed like an acre of accessories, makeup items, and foundation garments that she had spread across her satin comforter. In her right hand she held a black bag that was approximately the size of Marietta’s overnight suitcase.

Leah Freed had given her the bag... and the endless list that she held in her left hand.

Tammy poked her head through the half-open door. “Aren’t you packed yet?” she said with a sarcastic little grin on her face that made Savannah want to box her ears. “You’re going to be late for your first shoot.”

“Shut up and get out of here. I’m thinking.” Giggling, Tammy pushed the door open and walked into the bedroom. “Thinking? You mean it takes brains to be a model? I thought I heard you say that one of those supermodels on TV ought to get a real job and stop walking around in her underwear.”

“If you’re going to quote me, get it right; I said, ‘She should stop prancing around in her knickers there in front of God and everybody.’ And I only said that because she was skinny, and I was jealous.”

Savannah scanned the list once more, comparing it to the piles on the bed. “It’s not all that easy, you know, being a model. It takes brains, too.”

Tammy walked over to the bed and picked up a body shaper. She held it up, studied it, looked confused, then laid it back on the bed. “And when did you decide that?” she asked.

“Yesterday, when Leah Freed started telling me all the crap I’d need to know today.”

“Why do you have to take all of this stuff?”

“Because Leah says a professional model carries her model’s kit with her at all times, like a doctor and his black bag. And if anybody asks me for... say... some hairspray or a nail file, or a new pair of body-shaping panty hose, I’d better have them or they’ll get suspicious.”

“But what do you need body shapers for?” Tammy picked up a long leg girdle and frowned at the spandex panel across the front. “If Leah specializes in plus-sized models, you shouldn’t have to resort to all these torture devices to squash things in. Big doesn’t matter, right?”

“Wrong.” Savannah laid the list aside, took the girdle from Tammy, and tossed it into the bag. “I got some depressing news yesterday. I’m too hefty to be a bona fide model. Even a plus one.”

“You? No way!”

‘Yep. Get this: The ideal plus model is a size
twelve. ”

“
What’s
plus
about a
twelve?
Isn’t the most common size of women in the U.S. a fourteen?”

“My point exactly. I haven’t been a size twelve since I was twelve. And even if you’re a twelve, you’re still expected to be muscular and trim and superfit. No jiggles or ripples anywhere.”

“Hence the girdles and pressure-bandage panty hose?”

“Precisely.”

Tammy shook her head. “Wow, I’m so disillusioned. And here I thought the plus-model industry was promoting the idea of ‘beauty in all shapes and sizes.’ ”

“Maybe some agencies do. But Leah Freed’s certainly doesn’t. And unfortunately, she’s the one I’m supposedly working for this afternoon.”

“What sort of a shoot is it?”

Savannah tossed four pair of panty hose into the bag: suntan, black, smoke, and nude—followed by three bras: an uplifter, a minimizer, and a longline. “It’s part of that cereal promotion, the stuff that was supposed to cause Cait Connor to lose weight Apparently I’m one of the girls who
didn’t
eat their cereal, being the robust bigger-than-a-size-twelve that I am.” Adding a couple of swimsuits to the mix, she said, “It’s got something to do with a hot tub. With any luck, I’ll get to sit in a spa and soak all afternoon.”

“Sounds like fun. Can I go along?”

“I don’t think models take their personal assistants to shoots... at least, not the models in my category.”

“Which is...?

‘Just starting out. Green behind the ears.”

“I thought that was wet behind the ears and green around the gills.”

“Whatever.”

Savannah laid the big bag aside and began to fill one of three smaller makeup bags with every bottle, tube, and compact of face goop that she had been able to gather. She had raided old purses, coat pockets, miscellaneous drawers, and the stash beneath her bathroom sink, where she threw the drugstore rejects and department store promotion giveaways.

“I don’t think your heart’s in this gig,” Tammy said as she picked up one of the sample lipsticks and drew a line of Crimson Desire across the back of her hand. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like to go undercover, pretending to be something I’m not.”

“You do it all the time.”

“Do not.”

“Do, too.” She chuckled. ‘You dress up like a hooker all the time to do stings with Dirk.”

Savannah gave her a dirty look. “I know hookers. Way more than I want to know, having arrested a zillion of them over the years. I don’t know squat about modeling, and it’s just a matter of time until somebody nails me on it.”

Tammy shrugged. “Consider it incentive. You solve the murders before your cover’s blown, you get out alive.”

“We don’t know they’re murders yet.”

‘Yes, we do.”

Savannah dropped the five bottles of foundation she’d been holding. “We do?”

“Yes. At least Kameeka’s was. That’s what I came up here to tell you.” She smiled that little knowing grin she wore when she was holding a good hand at poker. “Dirk called a minute ago. I told him you were busy packing your girdles, and he said to tell you that he talked to Dr. Liu this morning. She says that Kameeka Wills was dead before the car ran over her.”

“The tire tracks on her thigh...?”

“Postmortem.”

“What killed her?”

“The blow to the side of her head.”

Savannah nodded as a mixture of anger and relief spilled through her system. She hated to hear that anyone’s life had been deliberately extinguished by another, but in this case she had known it from the beginning.

And she was relieved that now it was officially known by others, too.

“Dirk’s gotta get the Crime Scene Unit over to Luminol that kitchen,” she said.

Tammy grinned again. “That’s where he called me from. He’s over there with them now. They just sprayed it and then hit it with the lights.”

“And?”

“He said it lit up like Fourth of July fireworks.”

Savannah had been somewhat surprised to hear that the address where the shoot was being conducted was only a few blocks south of Cait Connor’s home on the beach. But this place was as traditional as hers was contemporary.

Looking like something that belonged on a rocky cliff in Maine, the house had a distinct nautical flair with its weathered gray siding, white shutters, and a turret on one corner that resembled a miniature lighthouse. Sitting directly on the beach, the property was surrounded by a heavy rope fence strung on pilings that served as posts. Driftwood had been scattered haphazardly around the house, along with some rusted, barnacle-encrusted anchors. A battered dinghy lay upside down on a sand dune near the porch. On its peeling hull a name had been painted—Timmy Tuna.

With feelings of trepidation, Savannah parked, grabbed her bag from the back seat, and got out of her car. She really hated this business of being unprepared. And she didn’t like the way she had allowed Leah Freed to bulldoze her into going undercover with such a flimsy front.

In her bag she carried the hastily prepared résumé that Leah had complied for her, along with a letter saying that although her experience was minimal, Leah considered her a “promising talent.”

But Tammy was right about the incentive that lying provided.
Get in, get out, before you get caught.
That was her mantra for the day.

The sound of activity led her around to the back of the house, where a bunch of people were milling about on an elaborate, three-level deck. On the upper level was a giant spa, and that seemed to be the hub of the activity.

Half a dozen large white screens and some things that looked like oversize umbrellas were set up around the tub, which was lit with bright spotlights, some on tripods and others on poles.

Savannah’s eyes scanned the crowd, looking for the photographer, Matt Slater, whom Leah had described as “tall and skinny with a long, oily ponytail.” He wasn’t hard to identify. The word “skinny” didn’t begin to describe him.
Ichabod Crane in a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts,
Savannah thought. Not what she had expected in a fashion photographer, but... what did
she
know?

And that had to be Jerrod Beekman in the white slacks and purple long-sleeved silk shirt with the sunglasses on his head and the scowl on his face. Leah had described the president of Stellar, the public relations firm that was handling the Slenda account, as “pushy, antsy, and as genuine as a centerfold’s bustline and front teeth.”