LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Just a dumped car. No dead body.”

      “It ain’t all that good,” he said. “There’s blood spatter all over the interior.”

      “Oh.”

      “And brain matter on the dash.”

      Savannah felt her stomach do a little flip-flop. “Oh. Yeah, not all that good. Sounds like ol’ Billy Bob Jardin done lost his mind.”

      “Yeap. At least part of it.”

      Chapter 4

      “I can’t believe we’re driving down Sulphur Creek Road, and you’re not accusing me of eating chili for dinner last night,” Dirk said.

      Savannah looked out the passenger side window at the moonlit, prickly cactus-covered hills and tried not to breathe. This area of the foothills was known for its sulphur deposits and its distinctive odor. It smelled a bit like rotten eggs, week-old cabbage soup, and Dirk after a night of chili, tacos, or anything containing beans.

      For the past eighteen years, whenever they had ventured this way, she had accused him of polluting her personal airspace.

      But with age she had become wiser. Less judgmental. Less accusatory. Kinder and milder.

      “I know it’s not you,” she said, “it’s the creek.”

      “Damn right it’s not me. Glad you finally got that straight.”

      “Oh, yeah. Like you’re above it, you gaseous, odious beast.”

      Okay. Just wiser.

      Savannah glanced at her watch. 9:48. This was destined to be another one of those exhausting, draining, all-nighters, for which her only compensation would be the pleasure of Dirk’s scintillating wit and the warmth of his companionship.

      She could be home right now cuddled up in her bed with a steamy novel, Cleo draped across her feet, Diamante tucked under her left arm, a piece of Death by Chocolate cake heaped with whipped cream sitting on her nightstand.

      Someday she’d learn to say “no” to these invitations of working for nothing.

      But it wasn’t going to be tonight. Because a moment later, they rounded a curve and she saw the blue and red flashing lights from the police cruisers parked around their crime scene. The sight of the guys in uniform milling around, checking out the area, caused a major rush of adrenaline to hit her system.

      It was a hit that was stronger than any shot of espresso or slice of Death by Chocolate cake. And she knew she wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world right now.

      Dirk pulled the Buick off the road, onto the shoulder. There was barely enough room to park the car between the pavement and the steep, rocky hill that rose to their right. And to the left, on the other side of the road was a reinforced guardrail and less than two feet beyond that, a sharp drop of at least five hundred feet.

      All too well, Savannah remembered when they had responded to a call out here about ten years ago because a carload of drunken teenagers had gone off this cliff.

      That’s when the guardrail had been reinforced. Too late, of course.

      She had hated this crook in the road ever since.

      The locals had given it the terribly original name of Deadman’s Curve, and apparently, the notorious spot was living up to its name again. About sixty feet ahead of them, a bright red Jaguar convertible sat on the left side of the road nearest the cliff, only inches from the guardrail. It was facing the opposite direction.

      They got out of the Buick and walked down the road toward the Jaguar. “Looks like somebody’s awake enough to play the yellow tape,” Dirk said as they stepped over the yellow plastic ribbon that was strung around the scene.

      Savannah was glad that the area had been cordoned off, too, but for a different reason than Dirk. She had better, more pleasant, things to do than listen to him chew out his insubordinates—like clean her oven or visit her dentist. And since Dirk had been on the SCPD longer than almost everyone, including the captain and chief of police, the list of insubordinates he could abuse was a long one.

      As they approached the Jaguar, several of the policemen nodded to Dirk and greeted Savannah. They didn’t appear to be doing much except providing a “presence,” meandering around the scene, chatting with each other.

      Savannah knew the drill all too well. Cops were just as nosy as anybody else. Hanging out at a crime scene provided a lot better entertainment than sitting in your squad car in an all-night convenience store parking lot, sipping free coffee.

      A middle-aged cop wearing a uniform that was stretched tight across his ample belly walked over to them and put out his hand to Dirk.

      “Sergeant Coulter. Good to see you,” he said with a modicum of enthusiasm.

      Dirk gave him a grunt and a brief handshake that was dismissive at best.

      The cop turned to Savannah, perhaps searching for a warmer form of communication. “Hi, Savannah. You’re looking mighty fine tonight.”

      Savannah gave him a quick once-over, thinking that, even though he was totally bald—not a hint of a hair on his head—his appearance wouldn’t have been improved one iota if he’d had a world-class toupee.

      “Why, thank you, darlin’,” she replied, desperately trying to remember the guy’s name. “You’re pretty easy on the eyes yourself.”

      He flushed with pleasure at the compliment. In fact, he was so pleased that she felt only half-guilty for lying to him.

      If Granny Reid’s predictions were right, any minute now her nose would begin to grow, and her tongue would turn black and fall out.

      “Are you senior officer here, Wiggins?” Dirk asked him, waves of impatience rolling off him.

      “Yeah,” was the equally curt reply.

      “Start a log yet?”

      Rather than answer, Wiggins held up a clipboard with some forms attached.

      “Okay.” Dirk nodded toward the mob of blue uniforms crowding around the Jaguar. “Get all their names and tell them to stay at least twenty feet from the vehicle. Did you call CSI yet?”

      “Um…not yet.”

      “What are you waiting for? Do it! They should’ve been halfway here by now.”

      Wiggins walked away and once he was out of earshot, Dirk said, “Easy on the eyes, my ass. Herb Wiggins is as ugly as a junkyard dog, but not nearly as smart.”

      “Herb. That’s his first name.”

      “He’s fat and bald.”

      “He’s sweet.”

      “Hurrumph.”

      She could have added that Dirk wasn’t as svelte around the middle as he’d once been, not to mention a little thin on top. But in all the years she’d known him, he had never once criticized her midlife spread, so…

      Once Wiggins had delivered Dirk’s message, the uniforms scattered, standing a respectable distance away, and watched, eager to see what was going to happen next.

      “Tromped all over my crime scene,” Dirk mumbled as he and Savannah approached the Jaguar. Then, loudly, he said, “You bunch of morons. Don’t you know to respect the perimeter of a scene? All of you…check the treads of your shoes before you leave here. I don’t want anybody walking off with evidence, like a spent shell.”

      Immediately, fifteen to twenty policemen began hopping on one leg, then the other, as they lifted their feet and examined their soles. It reminded Savannah of a really bad Riverdance routine, and she had to suppress a giggle.

      Her moment of humor faded, though, as they neared the convertible.

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