Killer Physique (A Savannah Reid Mystery) (4 page)

Again, there was a long, painful silence on the other end. Then, “No. When we got to the hotel, we found him. I mean, his body.”

“Are you stil there at the Island View?”

“Yes.”

“Hang tight, darlin’,” she said. “We’re on our way.”

Chapter 4

On the few occasions when Savannah had strol ed through the lovely lobby of the Island View Hotel, she had thought it would be a charming place for a romantic rendezvous. But until recently, romance hadn’t been high on her list of priorities. Mostly because . . . to be high on the list, it would have to actual y be on the list. And until things had taken a pleasant turn with Dirk, her list had been mostly romance-free.

Unfortunately, now that a passion-fil ed overnight might be a possibility, she couldn’t afford to spend one here. The five-star hotel—with its sunlit atrium and meandering stone walkways that led visitors beside sparkling fountains, koi ponds, and exotic tropical plants—didn’t come cheap. A drink at the bar and a kiss beside the fountain was the best they could do.

As they emerged from the elevator, Savannah and Dirk could already hear the commotion down the hal way to their right—excited male voices and a couple of worried female ones, mixed with the scratchy static of walkie-talkies.

“Oh, man,” Dirk said, “I hope they haven’t stomped al over the crime scene already.”

“Crime scene? Why are you already cal ing it a crime scene?”

“You were with him less than two hours ago. Did he seem to you like a guy who was about to keel over from natural causes?”

“Wel , no, but . . .”

For everyone concerned, she wanted desperately to argue with him. The loss of such a beloved person as Jason Tyrone was going to be bad enough, without adding homicide to the tragedy.

But she couldn’t help thinking back to those moments on the red carpet: the apprehension in his eyes, the tension in his big “superhero” body, his near-panic at the simple sound of a bal oon popping.

The negative, frightened energy she had felt radiating from him had to have been more than simple opening-night jitters.

“Hopeful y, somebody thought to tape it off,” she said, admitting in her own way that Dirk was probably right. They were most likely on their way to the scene of a homicide.

They rounded a corner, and the room in question was only a few yards down and to their left. She knew without even noting the numbers on the doors. Because that was where the crowd had assembled.

Two EMTs stood in the hal way, near an empty gurney and several cases bulging with medical equipment. They were whispering excitedly to each other. Savannah couldn’t help thinking what a sad claim to fame this would be for them. She could just see them tonight on the eleven o’clock news. “Yes, we were the first responders who tried to save Jason Tyrone,” they would say, without risking their careers by giving away too many salacious details.

Nearby stood three cops, hands on their hips, looking most officious. One held a clipboard and a pen. Instantly, Savannah recognized him as Mike Farnon, one of her favorite members of San Carmelita’s finest. Back in the day when she herself had been a police officer with the SCPD, Mike had assisted her on more than one case. And she had always found him to be personable and professional.

He saw them approaching and cut a path through the mob of hotel employees, who wore maroon blazers with the hotel logo embroidered on the pocket.

“Hey, Savannah. Good to see you, girl.”

“You too, Mike.”

He turned to Dirk. “Evenin’, Sarge. Oh, and congratulations, you guys. Haven’t seen you since the wedding. How’s it going?”

“It goes better when I don’t get cal ed out the middle of the night,” Dirk grumbled.

“You caught this case?”

Savannah slipped her hand around Dirk’s arm and gave it a little squeeze. “It’s more like we’re here in a personal capacity,” she said.

Mike held out his clipboard to Dirk. “I started a log, Sarge. You want it, or should I hang on to it?”

“Yeah,” Dirk said, reaching for it, “I’l take it.” He pointed to the yel ow crime-scene tape that was stretched across the partial y open door. “Did you string the tape, too?”

“No, that big, tal guy inside the room did it. I think he’s with the FBI or something.”

“That’d be Ryan,” Savannah said. “He used to be with the bureau.”

“Once a fed, always a fed?” Mike chuckled.

“Cops never stop being cops—no matter what’s printed on the badge,” Savannah agreed.

Dirk nodded toward the EMTs. “They couldn’t revive Tyrone?”

Mike shook his head. “No. They worked on him quite a while. But I think they were mostly doing it to cover their own asses—you know, him being a famous person and al . One look and you could tel he wasn’t coming back.” Overhearing their conversation, one of the EMTs joined in. “We were going to transport him to the hospital,” she said, “but this guy here said we should just leave him for the coroner.” She gave a nod toward Mike.

“That’s right,” Mike admitted. “I already cal ed Dr. Liu. She’s on her way with her team.”

“Yeah, okay,” Dirk muttered. “I guess you guys didn’t screw it up too bad.”

Anyone else might have been offended by such lackluster praise, but Savannah saw a smal grin flicker across Mike’s face. He’d worked with Dirk long enough to know that was a glowing compliment, coming from Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter.

“Excuse me,” said a woman who was wearing one of the maroon blazers. She wedged herself between Dirk and Mike, then poked Dirk on the chest with her forefinger. “Are you some sort of policeman or something? I’m the manager here, and I have to tel you I’m not happy about being locked out of one of my own rooms—the executive suite, no less.”

Dirk reached down, grabbed the tip of her finger, and then bent it backward, just enough to make her wince and snatch it away. Then he reached inside his leather bomber jacket and pul ed out his badge. He flipped it open right in front of her nose.

“Yes, Ms. Manager. I most certainly am some sort of policeman or something. And once we find out what’s going on inside your executive suite, you’l be the first to know—or the second, or third, or fourth, or . . . We’l letcha know. Okay?” In typical, Dirk linebacker style, he shouldered his way through the smal crowd. Savannah fol owed in his wake.

The door was open about a third of the way. Inside Savannah could see John Gibson pacing the length of the room, his silver head bowed, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.

Dirk loosened one end of the tape and swung it aside so that Savannah could enter. She pul ed the end of her sweater sleeve down over her hand and gave the door a gentle nudge. Careful y she avoided the doorknob area and any fingerprints that might have been left there.

Dirk fol owed her inside the room and gently closed the door behind them.

When John saw them, a look of relief flooded his face, and he rushed over to Savannah. He threw his arms around her, hugging her tightly, pressing his face into her shoulder.

“Oh, love,” he said with a half-sob, “I’m so very happy you’re here. I can’t tel you how awful it was, finding him like that.” She held him until he final y broke the embrace. “I can’t even imagine,” she said. “I only knew him a few hours and can’t picture him gone. But you and Ryan finding him—I’m just so, so sorry.”

Dirk cleared his throat, then reached over and gave John a couple of thumps on the back that were, no doubt, meant to be gestures of consolation. “By the way, where is Ryan? And the, um, Jason?”

John nodded toward a door in the back of the room, beyond the suite’s kitchen and dining area. “Back there, in the bedroom,” he said. “Ryan wanted to stay with him until you guys got here. But I just couldn’t.”

“I understand,” Savannah said, kissing him on the cheek. “You go sit over there on the sofa and rest yourself a while. You’ve had a powerful shock to the system. Don’t wanna go taxing yourself at a time like this.”

“That’s true,” Dirk said. “Take a load off while we check stuff out.”

“Thank you,” John replied, as he did as he was told and col apsed onto the sofa. Once settled, he propped his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.

Savannah walked to the bedroom door and found it ajar. Again she pul ed her sleeve down over her hand, then pushed it open.

Taking a step inside, she glanced around the strangely quiet room and saw Ryan. He was sitting in a comfortable reading chair to the right, against the floor-to-ceiling glass wal . Normal y, that window would have revealed the spectacular panorama of the Pacific Ocean in al its grandeur.

But tonight the view revealed only the blackness of the sea.

And to Savannah that seemed appropriate under the circumstances.

Like John in the other room, Ryan was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands over his face. It was as though both of them were trying not to see the sad truth they had just witnessed.

“Ryan,” she said softly. “It’s us, honey. You okay?”

He jumped to his feet and hurried toward her. “Savannah, I’m so glad you’re here.” He saw Dirk right behind her. “And you too, buddy. You have no idea how glad.”

Even as Savannah gave him a hearty hug, the former cop in her couldn’t resist the urge to glance around the room.

And there he was.

At least, there was Jason Tyrone’s body—stretched out on the floor beside the bed, wearing only a pair of jeans. His feet were bare and so was his massive chest.

Dirk had already walked over to the corpse and knelt beside it. “Sorry about this, man—him being your friend and al .”

“Thanks,” Ryan said. “Ordinarily John and I, we’d be better at handling something like this. But when it’s someone you know, somebody you care about. . . . It’s real y hard to think at a time like this.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to us,” Savannah said, as she gave him a comforting pat on the back; then she left him to join Dirk.

“That’s for sure,” Dirk added. “When Savannah got hurt so bad, you should’ve seen me. I was a basket case.” Savannah looked down at her newlywed husband, kneeling beside the body on the floor. She remembered al too wel what a rock he had been the night she had been shot and nearly kil ed. Were it not for him and his ability to function in terrible circumstances, she would be as dead as poor Jason here.

She knelt next to Dirk and, along with him, began to give the body a cursory inspection.

Jason Tyrone, superhero to the masses, the brightest star in Hol ywood’s sky, was dead al right. His beautiful, blue eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. That famous, masculine jaw sagged downward toward his chest. And it occurred to Savannah, not for the first time, that the Grim Reaper was particularly unkind in the way he robbed elegant and graceful people of their basic dignity in the end.

It seemed terribly unfair, especial y since human beings place such importance on the first time they meet someone and the last time they see them.

She knew this terrible vision would be the one Ryan and John would see in their mind’s eye every time they remembered their dear friend in the years to come.

Instinctively, she reached over, closed his eyes, and gently eased his mouth closed.

Of course, the county coroner, Dr. Jennifer Liu, would have objected to any manipulation of the body she had yet to examine. But the Crime Scene Investigation team wasn’t there yet, and Savannah figured that what Dr. Jen didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. And, more important, it wouldn’t hurt Savannah.

Having done the “decent, humanitarian” deed, Savannah made the conscious effort to turn off her emotions and flip the switch into inspector mode.

A quick, overal appraisal told her little. She saw no fatal wound. No wound of any kind, for that matter. Nothing amiss. Nothing to indicate any type of violence, foul play, egregious accident, or obvious il ness.

The body on the floor was the picture of robust, masculine health. The golden skin and wel -defined musculature exemplified raw, male power—

Adonis in the flesh.

Except for one thing.

Unlike the perfect, blemish-free pectorals that she and the rest of the audience had gaped at for two hours in the theater, the real Jason Tyrone’s chest had an al too human malady—acne.

Terrible, deep, red, and raw . . . the skin even looked infected in places.

“Wow,” Dirk whispered to her. “Get a load of those pimples. Have you ever seen zits like that in your life?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Savannah replied, keeping her voice low, for fear Ryan would hear.

And he did.

“The steroids wil do that to you,” Ryan said, a sad note in his voice. “That and a lot of other bad stuff, too.” She looked up at him as he walked over and stood at his friend’s feet. “Jason took steroids?” she asked, somehow knowing the answer.

Perfection, like that stretched out on the carpet before her, seldom came natural y.

“Sure he did,” Ryan replied. “To get a body like that, you have to do more than just lift weights and eat a ton a steak every day.”

“I wondered about that,” Dirk said, “when we were watching the movie. There’s muscle, and then there’s . . . this. A guy like me could work out twenty-four hours a day for a year and not even come close to this.”

Savannah got up from her kneeling position and began to walk slowly around the room. On the nightstand next to the bed, she saw at least a dozen bottles of various sizes and colors. As she read the labels, she recognized a few as nutritional supplements that she had seen in her own local health food store. But most of them she had never heard of, and some of them had no label at al , which piqued her curiosity.

Among the bottles was a smal , cardboard box with the word “Lido-Morphone” printed on the side. The lid was open, and inside she could see numerous blue envelopes, each about four inches square.

Beside the box was a plastic container fil ed with empty syringes.

Savannah couldn’t help flashing back on numerous death scenes she had examined as a police officer where syringes were customary, an al -

too-frequent component of a drug overdose.

She glanced back at the corpse on the floor and wondered if Jason Tyrone had gone down that road himself. He wouldn’t have been the first Hol ywood star to tumble from the sky fol owing a particularly decadent bout of self-indulgence.