Killer Honeymoon (22 page)

Or at least lessen her cantankerous mood.

So she decided that while she waited for Ryan and John to get back to her about the fingerprints, she would leave Dirk in the lightkeeper’s cottage, where he could take a peaceful nap. That way, he wouldn’t have to watch her pace the floor or listen to her mumble curses under her breath.

Having covered him with the quilt and kissed him on the forehead like he was a kindergartner settling down for an afternoon “time-out,” she stuck her cell phone in her pocket and headed for the lighthouse.

After climbing the 137 steps to the top, she had expended a great deal of her nervous energy. And when she stepped out onto the gallery and felt the sea wind swirl through her hair, she was happy she had decided to wait this way.

As she stood at the railing and looked down on the harbor, filled with fishing boats, yachts, ferries, and sailboats and motorboats, she thought about what a crazy honeymoon this had been.

Who else began their married life together chasing a killer?

Who else considered it marital bliss to track down leads, interview suspects, and butt heads with local authorities? No one else that she could think of.

Maybe everyone else she knew led boring lives compared to hers and Dirk’s. But as she leaned against the rail, her body tired and aching from all it had been through in previous days, she thought that perhaps “boring” would be a nice change of pace.

But then, she reminded herself, if she’d liked “boring,” she probably should have chosen another occupation. Something other than law enforcement and private detecting. Some field where you weren’t expected to shoot at anyone, and had every reason to expect that no one would shoot at you.

Maybe in her next lifetime, she’d become a mortician. That would probably be peaceful enough. At least your clients wouldn’t talk back to you. Or maybe a first-grade schoolteacher. Then, if you got into a scuffle on the job, you’d probably win the fight.

“Who are you kidding, Savannah?”
she heard a voice deep inside ask.
“A pack of wild hyenas couldn’t drag you away from this job. It’s in your blood. And there’s no place in this world you’d rather be than right in the middle of all this mess. Even if it is your honeymoon.”

She shook her head, trying to get rid of those thoughts. But, of course, they were right. The “voice” was always right.

A trio of brown pelicans flew by, nearly at her eye level. It was the closest she had ever been to these strange, exotic-looking creatures, which, in flight, had the appearance of a flock of pterodactyls. As she watched, they swooped down to the sea in unison, fishing its bounty.

Savannah walked slowly around to the other side of the light—because she knew she had to. Although she didn’t want to relive it, she had to.

She had to see the place, the stretch of beach, where she had first witnessed Amelia Northrop running for her life.

And there it was, glistening golden in the sunlight . . . as natural and lovely as any bit of sand in the world, the foaming waves rolling onto it and settling in.

Quite a few times before, Savannah had felt a shock at the irony of having a beautiful place become the scene of a terrible crime.

She had walked through fantasy forests where someone had been murdered. She had roamed fragrant, sun-warmed orange groves where rapes had occurred. She had sat on the shores of lakes where brutal acts had led to the loss of life and wondered how such things could happen among such peace and loveliness.

It was as though something sacred had been defiled.

This stretch of beach beneath her was no different. No one should have died there.

Amelia’s world may have become complicated and sad in her final days, but she shouldn’t have lost her life at another’s hands. And Savannah was damned determined to find out who had done it and see him or her brought to justice. She wasn’t going to leave this island until it was settled.

“Help me,” she whispered . . . to the blood-soaked sand below her, the sun above, the wind caressing her face, and to the Maker of brown pelicans and nature. “Lead me to them. Show me the truth.”

As though in answer to her impromptu and informal prayer, the phone in her pocket began to chime. It was Ryan.

“Hi,” she said breathlessly.

“Hi. We got it.”

Ryan’s smooth, sexy voice sounded excited. Her heart rate soared.

“Who is it?”

“There were several, as you could expect. One from Dr. Glenn, another from a gal named Sadie, who does a lot of volunteer wildlife rehabilitation with Glenn. But the one you want belongs to a guy named Harry Jacobsen.”

“Who’s that?”

“A guy who was busted in 2006 for possession of illegal explosive devices.”

“Okay.” Her mind raced, trying desperately to fit this new piece into the puzzle.

“You’ve interviewed him already,” Ryan was saying.

“No . . . I don’t think so. I—”

“He doesn’t go by ‘Harry Jacobsen’ anymore. Now he’s ‘Hank Jordan.’ ”

Savannah grabbed the railing as the adrenaline rush hit her knees and nearly made them buckle beneath her. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Thank you” to the sand, the sky, the wind, and the Maker of pelicans and nature.

“You’re welcome,” came the sweet reply over the phone. “All you had to do was ask.”

 

When Savannah rushed into the house to tell Dirk the news, she could hear him talking upstairs. Curious, she went up to see who was there.

As she reached the top of the stairs, she heard him say, “I know. I used to feel the same way. I mean, look who I’m married to. I don’t have to tell you how fantastic she is.”

Savannah paused on the top step. She didn’t want to eavesdrop on his conversation, but she couldn’t resist hearing just a bit more before either announcing herself or going back downstairs.

“Well, you know what they say,” he continued, “she married beneath her. All women do.”

Savannah grinned. He had told her that on their wedding day, on the ferry to the island. He’d also told her she was the best person he’d ever met in his life and he was darned lucky to have her.

You could forgive a guy for a lot of chili belches and for leaving the toilet seat up when he said stuff like that.

As a woman—especially as a young woman—Savannah knew you always had to judge a man’s motives when he was sweet-talking you face-to-face. You had to ask yourself what he was up to, what he was hoping to get for all that honey he was smearing on so thick. But when a guy said sweet things about you to other people behind your back, you could be pretty darned sure he meant it.

“But you can’t worry about stuff like that, dude,” Dirk was saying. “If you think she’d be willing to take you, go for it. It’s up to her if she’s gettin’ a deal or not.”

A long, silent pause caused Savannah to realize that he was on the telephone.

“Sorry, but you gotta be a little selfish here. What makes you so sure she’d find somebody better than you down the road? She hasn’t yet. She might do worse. Hell, she’s done way worse than you already.”

Ah, Mr. Smoothie all the way,
Savannah thought with a sweet ache in her heart as she realized he was giving her kid brother advice about women.

It was all she could do not to run into the bedroom and lay a big smooch on him.

“Listen, I have it from your big sister that Tammy’s very interested. So what if your dad couldn’t keep his damned zipper closed . . . so what if your old lady’s the town drunk . . . that’s got nothing to do with you. You’re a good kid. So’s Tammy. You two deserve to be happy. Go for it!”

In the silence that followed, Savannah’s conscience got the better of her and she continued on up the stairs, walking heavy so as to be heard.

She entered the bedroom and saw Dirk sitting on the bed, the phone to his ear. He was wearing his shirt, boxers, and black socks.

Ordinarily, that wasn’t a look that set her heart to pitter-pattering. But after what she’d just heard, she could have thrown him back onto the bed and ravished him—had he not been talking to her little brother.

He looked up, gave her a wink, and said, “Your big sis just walked in the room. I can ask her the mystery question now, if you want.” A pause. “Okay, hold on.”

Dirk held the phone away and said, “Your brother wants me to tell you that they didn’t have the color you wanted. So, do you want blue or beige?”

Savannah thought for a moment. “Blue.”

“Blue,” he said into the phone. “Is that all? Okay. You think about what I said, all right? Bye.”

He hung up the phone and tossed it onto the nightstand. “What’s gonna be blue?”

“None of your business.”

“You Reids got some sort of secret? Something’s going on behind my back?”

“Behind your back, over your head, up our sleeves—you name it.” She sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. “From what I heard coming up the stairs, it sounded like you were playing Cupid.”

He laughed and held out his arms to her. “I was certainly trying. Wanna roll around in the hay with Cupid, the god of love?”

“More than life itself. But you and I have more important things to do, boy.”

“What could possibly be more important than sex on a honeymoon?”

“Hank Jordan’s prints were on the Jeep’s door.”

“Lemme grab my pants!”

T
his time, when Savannah and Dirk marched into the Santa Tesla police station, they didn’t even bother with the formalities of stopping at the front desk and waiting to be invited in.

As they hurried by Kenny Bates II, he shouted out, “Hey! You hold on a minute! You can’t go back there!”

He came out from behind the desk and stood in front of them.

“No. You don’t want to do that,” Dirk said.

“If it’s the chief you want to see, I-I have to call her on the phone f-first,” he stammered.

Savannah stepped up to him, nose to nose, and said, “Move, or I swear I’ll hurt you.”

Something in her eye must have told him that she meant it, because he moved out of her way and returned to his desk.

They could hear him phoning someone, but they were already at the chief’s office door, so the alert did little good.

Dirk knocked once; then, without waiting for an invitation, he opened the door.

Chief La Cross was jumping up from her chair as Savannah entered after him. “Stop right there! How dare you barge into my office like that!” She reached for the phone on her desk and punched a number. “Get in here right now. I have two people who—”

Dirk reached over, took the phone from her, and hung it up. “You don’t want to do that,” he said. “Believe me.”

“Unless,” Savannah added, “you want them to walk in here in the middle of you telling us why you lied to us and covered up for Hank Jordan. Maybe they want to hear why their chief would give an ex-con a fake alibi for a murder.”

Two large, young cops barged into the room. Savannah recognized them as the two who had been milling about the beach at the murder scene.

But before they could grab Savannah or Dirk, Chief La Cross said, “Never mind, Franklin. It’s okay, Rhodes. I’ve got it under control. You can leave. Close the door behind you.”

As soon as the patrolmen were gone and the door shut, Savannah walked over to one of the chairs beside La Cross’s desk and sat down. Dirk did the same in the chair on the other side.

“You might as well take off your coat and stay awhile.” Savannah tossed her purse onto the desk. “We got plenty to talk about.”

“Actually, Chief,” Dirk said, “it’s you who’s gonna be doin’ the talkin’. Why did you say Hank Jordan was here at the station all morning on Sunday, when Amelia Northrop was killed, when you—and now we—know he wasn’t?”

Savannah looked from Dirk to the chief and was impressed with how convincing his accusation was. Of course, they didn’t know any of this for certain. But if you were going to accuse a chief of police of conspiring to murder, you didn’t do it timidly.

And Dirk’s bluff worked.

La Cross sat down abruptly in her chair and began to shake like a palm tree in a Pacific typhoon. She looked like she was going to burst into tears at any moment.

“Why did you lie for him, Charlotte?” Savannah asked, her voice much gentler than Dirk’s.

She often played “good cop” to his “bad.”

“Because he asked me to” was the unexpected reply. “And because I was in love with him.”

Savannah looked over at Dirk and saw that he was taken aback by this, too. They had both been expecting a denial.

Charlotte and that nasty dimwit, Hank? Really?

The only word that came to Savannah’s mind was
“yuck.”

“Yuck,” Dirk said.

There it was. Great minds
did
think alike.

“You were in love with ol’ Hank Jordan?” Savannah asked. “Well, I wouldn’t have guessed that, but I reckon you must’ve seen something in him that I didn’t.”

Chief La Cross looked at her, stunned. Then she turned to Dirk. “What are you talking about? Hank Jordan? I wasn’t in love with that slimeball. I was talking about William.”

Savannah’s brain pulled the emergency brake, skidded to a stop, and did a U-turn. “What? You just said . . . Oh . . . it was
William
who asked you to cover for Hank? To give him an alibi?”

La Cross nodded as tears started to roll down her cheeks.

“How did he talk you into doing something as stupid as that?” Dirk asked with his usual tact.

“He said Hank was innocent, that he had nothing to do with Amelia’s death. William said Hank was with him that morning, and they were doing something that had to do with the casino.”

“Like what?” Savannah asked.

“He said he couldn’t tell me, that it was confidential and it might put me in a compromising situation if I knew. But he assured me it was all legal and honest.”

“And you believed him?”

La Cross began to cry in earnest. It was a sad, ugly sight as she wept bitterly. Harsh, wracking sobs shook her entire body. “Yes, I believed him about a lot of things,” she said, choking on her own tears. “I was crazy about him. He told me he felt the same way about me.”

Savannah reached into her purse and pulled out a handful of tissues. She handed them to Charlotte, who blew her nose violently into them, then handed them back to Savannah.

She stared at the wad of sodden tissues in her palm for a moment; then she spotted a trash can nearby and quickly deposited them there.

So much for showing compassion to a fellow human being,
she thought.

“He was just using me to get his damned casino. He needed some obstacles removed, and as police chief, I could do it. But now that the road’s clear for him, he’s dumping me.”

It occurred to Savannah that as Charlotte La Cross sat there at her desk, sobbing her face off over a guy, Santa Tesla’s chief of police looked a bit like a distraught teenager who had just lost her first love.

The thought also crossed Savannah’s mind that William Northrop might have, indeed, been the first serious love affair Charlotte had ever experienced. Dirk had suggested that she wasn’t an attractive woman by any measure, but, more important, she had a cold, standoffish personality that probably didn’t attract a lot of people—friends or lovers.

“Let me get this straight,” Dirk said. “Northrop told you that he and Hank knew each other. And that they were together doing some sort of casino stuff on Sunday morning when Amelia was killed?”

“Yes, that’s right. But now you’re telling me that he wasn’t? That he was doing something else?” Charlotte wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. “What did you find out? Well, Ms. Reid? What was he doing?”

Savannah shot a sideways glance at Dirk. He had that frozen-as-an-ice-cream-cone look on his face. A look she’d seen plenty of times before. It meant he had nothing and wasn’t going to be any help. She was on her own with this one.

“Um . . . actually . . .” Her own brain went Popsicle on her, too. “Honestly, we don’t know for sure what he was doing that morning. But we did uncover a piece of evidence that would probably represent possible cause, so you could bring him in and question him about it.”

Chief La Cross stared at Savannah long and hard. Finally she said, “What?”

“Hank Jordan may be the dude who shot at you,” Dirk blurted out. “Those prints you lifted off the league’s old black Jeep, some of them were his.”

The chief looked dumbfounded. “They were?”

“Yes,” Savannah told her. “And Dr. Glenn told us the vehicle was stolen for twenty-four hours, then returned.”

“The twenty-four-hour period that both you and William were fired on,” Dirk added.

“But I don’t understand. William was very nearly killed by those shots. Why would he ask me to provide an alibi for someone who tried to murder him?”

“I don’t know,” Savannah replied, “but I have an idea. Why don’t we go pick up Hank Jordan and drag his mangy, sorry butt in here and ask him real nice. . . .”

“If that doesn’t work,” Dirk added, “I’ll ask him.”

Savannah chuckled and said to La Cross, “And he’s not so nice.”

La Cross shot Dirk a long, scathing look. “Believe me,” she said, “I never thought he was.”

As they gathered their things and prepared to leave La Cross’s office, both Savannah and Dirk reached down and subconsciously checked the weapons in their shoulder holsters beneath their jackets.

“You two won’t be needing those,” La Cross said as she pulled her own from a drawer and began to strap it on.

“I beg your pardon,” Savannah said. “This man should be considered armed and dangerous. We won’t be going after him without our weapons.”

“You won’t be going at all.” La Cross’s dark eyes went totally black. “This guy shot at me. He’s mine.”

“Hey! You wouldn’t even know about him if it wasn’t for us,” Dirk snapped back. “We’re coming along.”

The chief stepped out into the hallway, stopped, and turned back to them. Her chin was elevated several notches, and her hands were on her hips. “You are welcome to wait here at the station house,” she said. “Either in the coffee room or a jail cell. Your pick.”

Savannah realized they had met their match. Chief La Cross wasn’t going to budge on this one. And Savannah realized that if someone had put a bullet in one of her front yard’s trees, while aiming at her head, she’d feel the same way.

“Is the coffee any good?” she asked.

“No. But feel free to make a fresh pot.”

With that, La Cross spun on her heel, executing a precision about-face that would have made a U.S. Marine jealous, and marched away.

“Battle-axe,” Dirk muttered under his breath.

Savannah nodded. “Yeah. But you have to kinda like her . . . a little bit.”

“No, I don’t.”