Sour Grapes (A Savannah Reid Mystery #6) (3 page)

Dirk leaned across her and yelled, "May have an Uzi. Watch yourself."

The officer nodded. "We'll surround them, light 'em up, and announce. You guys take the left rear."

Savannah gave him a nod. "Gotcha." She rolled the window back up and, in unison with the patrol cars, increased speed until they had closed the gap between

them and their targets.

The robbers' cars were side by side, the Lexus in the middle lane, the Acura in the fast lane. It took less than five seconds for the police to take their positions, one unit to the right, one on the left shoulder, another behind the Lexus and the Mustang behind the Acura. Blue-and-red revolving lights began to flash. A siren gave a couple of short shrieks.

"Hey, Van. . . been a while since you've done this sort ' take-down," Dirk remarked.

Savannah could hear it in his voice, the adrenaline-pumped charge of the chase. Her own pulse was pounding in her ears, her mouth was dry, her palms wet. "Yeah, a long time," she said, her eyes on the car ahead-- major tunnel vision.

"Cool, huh?"

She grinned. . a little. "Yeah, way cool. If we don't get killed."

At that moment, the three patrol cars directed high-powered spodights on the suspects' cars, lighting up the interiors so brightly, they could clearly see each occupant. The gangsters' heads were whipping right and left, as they sized up their situation: Grim.

"They look a little shook," Dirk said, a smirk on his face.

Savannah nodded. "Shook is good. Shook is how we want them."

A deep, authoritative voice boomed from a loudspeaker. "Drivers, this is the San Carmelita Police Department. Bring your vehicles to a slow, controlled stop. Now, drivers. Slow your vehicles and come to a complete stop."

Savannah glanced in her rearview mirror. Not a headlight in sight. Jake must have had the freeway closed behind them, too.

Not that it would matter. The kids weren't stopping. "They're not even slowing down," she said.

"Did you really expect them to?"

She shrugged. "Yeah, but I also believe in the tooth fairy, and that I'm going to marry Mel Gibson someday,

so. .

Suddenly, the robbers' cars shot forward. Dirk swore and Savannah pressed her gas pedal to the floor. Thanks to Ray the mechanic, she had no problem keeping up, even when they reached 90 mph. Neither did the cops, who maintained their positions on each side, lights still flashing, more sirens blaring.

"Morons," Dirk said, hanging on to the console and - armrest. "Where do they think they're gonna go? Have you got plenty of gas, Van?"

"Over half a tank. We're in there for the long haul. Sit back and enjoy the ride."

"Not with a broad driving," he muttered under his breath.

"Would you prefer to get out and run alongside?" "Just keep your eye on. . . Hey, what's goin' on?" Savannah was wondering the same thing. The patrol

cars had suddenly pulled back. Way back. She and Dirk appeared to be the only ones continuing the chase.

"Do you see anything?" she shouted as she maintained speed and their position behind the Acura, while trying to look into the cars. "What. . . ? Are they shooting? Do you see guns?"

Dirk was leaning forward, gripping the dash. "I don't see anything." He looked back at the cruisers, who were still with them but far behind. "Why did they--?"

Savannah saw it lying across the road ahead of them. A bar of metal, shining silver in their headlights.

Now she knew, but it was too late to stop.

The Acura shot across the metal. So did the Lexus. And the Mustang.

"Shit, spike strip," Dirk said. "Hang on, Van."

She heard the fatal, popping sound of her tires as they disintegrated beneath her. The Mustang shuddered, pulled sharply to the right, then the left, and she felt as though she were driving through half-set cement. Just ahead, the Lexus and Acura fishtailed, slamming back fenders before the Acura spun off the road and

into the median.

Even as Savannah fought to maintain control of her

automobile, she saw half a dozen patrol cars, some from SCPD, some from the county sheriffs, and Jake McMurtry's van.

They were converging on the suspects' vehicles be

-

fore they even came to a complete stop. Behind them,

she saw some cops scrambling to retract the spike strip.

The units that had been pursuing along with her and

Dirk were approaching, driving through the median.

She brought the car to a halt on the right shoulder as

the acrid stench of scorched rubber filled the interior.

Dirk jumped out of the Mustang, gun drawn, and

SOUK UKAPES 27

ran to the suspects' vehicles. Savannah followed right behind him, coughing, her eyes and throat burning from the smoke of twelve ruined tires. By the time they had reached the cars, Jake and his fellow officers had unloaded the suspects and had all six of them spread, facedown, on the asphalt.

One by one, they were cuffed, searched, and had their rights read to them. As Savannah ran her hands over the girl's body, she found a .22 caliber pistol shoved in the waistband of her jeans and a switchblade

taped to her ankle.

"Didn't your mama ever tell you that ladies don't

play with those kinds of toys?" Savannah asked as she turned the girl around to face her.

Even in the dim light of the freeway lamps, Savannah saw the look of recognition, followed by astonishment and anger, cross the young face.

"Hey, bitch," she said, "what're you doin' bustin' us? Where's the cannibal dude?"

"Right over there, reading your main man his rights," Savannah replied.

"Reading him his . . . what? He's a cop? The cannibal's a stinkin' pig?"

Savannah chuckled. "Oink, oink."

The girl was dumbfounded, devastated. Savannah hadn't seen such a look since her brother had told her

younger sister that there was no Santa Claus or Easter

Bunny. . all on the same day.

"Oh, man . . . a cop." She shook her head, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed. "I didn't think they let serial killers be cops. I mean, how screwed up is that?"

It was Savannah's turn to stare, confused. Stupidity never failed to amaze her.

"Sounds like there are a few other things your mama

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didn't teach you." She slapped her on the back. "You'd better get your act together, darlin', 'cause you're not sharp enough to be a criminal."

Savannah handed her over to Jake, then strolled back to her Mustang and began to inspect her tires. Eventually, Dirk joined her.

"Sorry about that, kid."

Savannah reached down, picked up a strip of shredded rubber, and held it out to him. "Just how sorry are you, big boy?"

He shrugged and looked away. "You know, sorry. Real sorry."

"About a grand sorry, I'd say. They were steel-belted, custom red-walled radials"

"No way!" He bristled; she could practically see the hair rising on the back of his neck. `They were recaps! Thirty-buck-apiece recaps. I was with you when you bought 'em!"

"Oh, yeah.. . . I forgot." She nodded toward the big, black, late-model Mercedes that had just arrived, bearing the auspicious person of their police chief, Norman Hillquist--the individual who held the dubious honor of being "Numero Uno" on Savannah's fairly lengthy "Shit List."

"But as far as he's concerned," she added, lowering her voice, "they were red-walled beauties."

Dirk grinned, eager as always to stick it to his boss. "You've got it. Let's see if we can get your car towed and bum a ride off Jake. It's the least he owes us."

"Of course. Couldn't expect you to spring for a cab." As they walked over to Jake's van, Savannah glanced sideways at Dirk and saw that something was troubling

him. Something heavy.

"What is it, buddy?" she asked, slipping her arm companionably through his. "What's bothering you?" "I was just wondering . . ."

"Yeah?" She donned her most sympathetic, maternal, tell-me-all-about-it look.

"If I get the department to cough up the fancy tires . . ."

"Yeah?"

"You'll let me off the hook for the burger dinner that

you didn't get to finish, right?"

avannah Reid, transplanted Georgian belle, was Onever happier than when those she loved were

seated around her kitchen table, and she was stuffing their faces with good, Southern home cooking. And at that moment, four of her favorite people were finishing off a platter of fried chicken, a bowl of mashed potatoes, and a boat of cream gravy.

Well. . . three of them were eating the calorie-laden goodies. Savannah's health-conscious assistant, Tammy Hart, was enjoying her usual salad. At least, she said she was enjoying it, though Savannah couldn't grasp the concept of "savoring" lettuce.

"Tammy, you need to eat something," she told her, passing a golden drumstick under her nose. "You're so skinny now, you'd have to run around in a rainstorm just to get wet."

The petite blond reached down and patted her

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nonexistent fanny. "Actually, I've got to watch it. I've put on a couple of pounds lately."

Savannah tossed the chicken leg onto Dirk's plate

and tried not to burp. A couple of pounds. . . on that size zero butt. Please.

She had decided long ago to feel no envy, only deep sympathy, for this emaciated waif Okay, so Tammy might look great in a bikini, but she would never know the deep, soulish thrill of eating a huge slice of cheesecake, double-dipped in chocolate and topped with raspberry liqueur.

The poor child wasn't svelte; she was tragically deprived.

Savannah turned her attention to the opposite end

of the table, where the object of most of her sexual fantasies sat . . . Ryan Stone, tall, dark, gorgeous, suave, debonair, her dear friend and sometimes fellow private detector.

And next to Ryan sat the reason why those delicious

fantasies would never become reality--John Gibson, Ryan's life partner, an older, silver-haired, completely sophisticated and charming British fellow. She very simply adored them both. Sadly, so did Tammy and every other female who crossed their paths.

On the other hand, Dirk--being a red-blooded, all-American, highly heterosexual and not particularly tolerant male--had only recently learned to appreciate their unique skills. As retired FBI agents, they had used their expertise to help both Dirk and Savannah solve

some difficult cases. Savannah had noticed that, after they had pulled Dirk's butt out of the proverbial

wringer a few times, he had dropped the "fairy" and "twinkle-toes" comments.

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At the moment, he was making no comments at all, because he was quickly dispensing the chicken leg off

to "drumstick heaven." Dirk was never particularly conversational in the presence of food. Especially free food.

"This meal was absolutely delightful, my dear," John said, dabbing at his silver mustache with his napkin. "I can't believe I've lived my entire life thus far without

the pleasure of Dixieland cooking."

She walked over to the kitchen counter where she

began to slice a fresh-from-the-oven apple pie. "Then you should come over more often and make up for lost

time," she said. "We can't have you walking around with a cholesterol level less than three hundred."

She slid a piece, dripping with French vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce, under Ryan's nose and was rewarded with a breathtaking smile. "Savannah, you spoil us rotten. Please don't ever stop."

"Never. Besides, we've gotta celebrate Dirk's big bust here."

She saw him glance down at his chest, and she was thankful his mouth was too full for him to make the

predictable, corny joke.

"Yes, congratulations, Sergeant Coulter," John said, lifting his teacup, which was brimming with his own special blend of Earl Grey. "A most impressive showing on your part. . . and Savannah's as well."

"Five wanted felons and nine guns," Ryan added. "Good haul."

Dirk grunted, and his face flushed slightly. He wasn't particularly adept at accepting praise . . . receiving so

little of it.

"Mmm, yeah, thanks," he muttered. "Those damned

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pngbangers . bunch ' punks. I'm tellin' you, when [ see the kids today, I just wanna get myself neutered, if pm know what I mean."

Savannah reached into a drawer and pulled out a

:an opener. "If you're serious, I can take care of that right now for you."

"Gimme some pie instead."

"Say, 'please.'"

"Oh, yeah . . please."

She gave him a double-sized piece. Might as well, she igured, and save herself a trip; he was sure to ask for ;econds.

As she joined them at the table, her own generous ;ening in hand, Ryan asked her, "How is your schedule low, Savannah? Do you have time for a little extra work?"

She perked up instantly. As a private detective, she )ften found herself on the "famine" side of the "feast or imine" wheel of fortune.

"Work? Real work. . . like for real money." She gave )irk a loaded, sideways glance, which he conveniently gnored.

"Well, I don't know how much work will be inrolved," Ryan said between sips of coffee. "It's more ike presenting a presence. I've been hired by a )eauty-pageant promoter to 'guard' some lovelies who

ire competing for the Miss Gold Coast crown."

"Miss Gold Coast?" Tammy asked, nearly choking on salad. "What a disgrace. . . evaluating women on he basis of physical attributes like a herd of cattle."

"Yeah," Dirk agreed. "Disgusting. Do they need an )ff-duty cop as a chaperone for those chickie-poos?" "I heard they have one more position to fill, and they pecifically asked for a female," Ryan said.

"Reverse sexual discrimination. That's what it is. A middle-aged, white guy can't get a break in this country anymore."

"Hush and eat your pie, Dirk," Savannah said, nudging him under the table with her foot. "Guarding a batch of beauties would be bad for your blood pressure."