by GA McKevett
“Someday you gotta clean out this car, boy,” she mumbled as she scribbled.
“If I do, you won’t have anything to write on,” he shot back.
“This guy you’re on your way to see,” Tammy said, “is a felon. Served two sentences for assault on two different women. Then there are all the times the police arrested him, but the females wouldn’t press charges.”
“How bad were his attacks?” Savannah asked.
“He’s been violent for years. But the earlier accusations were for pushing, shoving, slapping . . . that kind of thing. It was six years ago that he beat the crap out of his ex-wife. Broke her jaw. He served a year for that. He’d only been out six months when he messed up a girlfriend really, really bad. She was in a coma for weeks. He served two years for that. I can see here that Amelia Northrop had an RO against him.”
“Yes, he was stalking her.”
“Oh no! Poor woman. And he was escalating.” There was a long, heavy pause on the other end before Tammy added, “They always do.”
“Yes, darlin’, they do,” Savannah agreed.
She hated to hear such pain in Tammy’s voice. This was a difficult topic for them both. Like many strong, intelligent, loving women, Tammy had once found herself ensnared in an abusive relationship. She had finally gotten out, but the price for her freedom had been terribly high. Neither Tammy nor Savannah could ever forget how high.
“Want me to whack him upside the head or across the chops one for you?” Savannah asked, trying to lighten the mood of the moment. “Or, like Granny says, I could jerk a knot in his tail.”
“I like the sound of that one,” came back the half-playful, still half-sad reply.
“Then consider it done.”
Savannah saw their exit ramp approaching and knew she would soon have to be directing Dirk to Burt Ferris’s residence. “I gotta go, sweet cheeks,” she said. “Thank you for that good work.”
“Okay. No problem. But I have to go home and throw some things into a suitcase, get ready to go out to the island with Ryan and John. I’ll get back to my research once I’m there.”
“Sounds good, kiddo. Bye-bye.”
She hung up and turned to Dirk. “Would you mind terribly if I conducted this upcoming interview myself?”
He gave her a quick sideways glance, then snickered. “Can I watch?”
“Sure. You get a ringside seat.”
“How many rounds you figure it’ll go?”
“As many as it takes to get the job done.”
Chapter 9
There were some lovely residential areas in Luna Bonita. Areas where flowers bloomed in well-kept yards; lawns were not only mowed but nicely edged. Houses were freshly painted. Most cars were parked in garages, and those that sat in driveways were clean and had all four tires.
Burt Ferris didn’t live in one of those areas.
He lived on a street of deteriorating apartment buildings with broken windows, broken-down cars lining the driveways, and people with broken dreams sitting on stoops and curbs, swigging alcoholic beverages.
“Strange, ain’t it?” she told Dirk as they passed one building after another, looking for number 163. “You never see folks sitting on street curbs suckin’ on beer cans in good neighborhoods.”
“That’s ’cause they do their swilling inside closed doors,” he replied. “And you don’t see a lot of wrought-iron bars over the windows in good neighborhoods either.”
Savannah glanced up. “Even on the second story. We may do well to get outta here alive.”
“What are you talking about? We worked worst places than this in our day. With our eyes blindfolded and our hands tied behind our backs. We were badasses.”
“And now?”
“You’re still bad. I’m just an ass.”
They looked at each other and grinned.
“I love you, Van,” he said.
“I love you, too. You grew on me when I wasn’t looking.”
She saw some numbers on a building to her right. It looked like “193,” but then she realized the “9” was a “6” that had fallen over.
“There it is,” she said. “Wouldn’t you know it. It’d be the worst one on the block.”
“Well, of course. If we’re going to spend our honeymoon slumming, might as well be for real.”
They parked, and as Savannah got out of the car, she was nearly run over by a young girl on a bicycle.
“Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am,” the girl said humbly, stopping and stepping off the bike. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, sugar. I’m fine. But you really shouldn’t ride on the sidewalk.”
“I don’t most places,” the child replied. “But there’s bad holes in the street here. I fell in one the other day.” She pointed to a badly skinned knee, which didn’t appear to have received any first aid at all.
Savannah gave her a smile and a pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it then, punkin’. You ride on the sidewalk, if you need to. Just be careful and don’t mow anybody down. ’Kay?”
The girl nodded, got back on her bike, and rode away. Savannah watched her, thinking of how she had once been much like that little girl. Poor and neglected, living in an area unsafe even for hardened criminals, let alone softhearted children.
“Tell me something,” Dirk said as he walked over to her and laced his arm through hers, “why is it that you Southerners always call children by food names?”
“What? Food names?”
“Yeah . . . ‘sugar,’ ‘honey bun,’ ‘dumplin’,’ ‘sweet cakes,’ ‘punkin,’ ‘butter bean,’ ‘cow pie.’ ”
“I’d never call a child a ‘cow pie.’ ”
“You call me a ‘cow pie’!”
“That’s different.”
“One of these days, I’m gonna ask Granny to tell me what all these phrases mean that you’ve been using on me over the years.”
“I wouldn’t recommend that.”
“Why not?”
Savannah gulped, then shrugged. “Um, let’s just say Southernisms lose a lot in translation.”
They reached the building and located apartment number 13, which was upstairs and on the far end.
“Guess he wasn’t superstitious when he rented it,” Savannah said as she checked her weapon, which was now strapped in its holster on her left side.
Dirk readied his as well; then he gave the door his loudest, most official, authoritative “police” knock.
It was a while before anyone answered, and then it was only a shout through the closed door.
“Yeah? Who are you, and what do you want?”
“San Carmelita Police Department. Open up!”
Savannah suppressed a chuckle. She couldn’t help noticing that he had mumbled the “San Carmelita” part of his announcement and emphasized the “Police Department.”
While California law would allow him to make an arrest if necessary, even outside the San Carmelita city limits, Amelia Northrop’s murder wasn’t officially his case. And it certainly wasn’t hers. So their presence at ol’ Burt’s place of residence might be questionable at best.
But that sort of thing had never stopped them before. And it wasn’t likely to now.
The door opened a crack with the chain on, and a guy whom Savannah could only classify as “weasely-lookin’ ” peeked out.
“What do you want?” he repeated.
“To talk to you,” Dirk said. “Are you Burt Ferris?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Open the door.”
“I don’t have to. Nothing’s going on in here that needs cop attention. Huh, babe?” He turned around and nodded to someone behind him. “Tell ’em there’s nothing they need to worry about going on in here.”
“Nothing’s going on,” came a quavering female voice from inside. “Nothing at all.”
Savannah felt like it was Christmas morning, and she had won the lottery and had gotten exactly what she wanted from Santa Claus—all at the same time.
Thi
s was going to be better than she’d even hoped.
“Open this door,” Dirk said. “Now. Or I’m gonna kick it down. If you’re standing behind it when I do, all the better.”
The guy stood there, staring at Dirk—as best he could with one eye. He quickly scanned Dirk, taking in his height and bulk, head to toe. Then he glanced at the small, flimsy chain.
Finally he closed the door and they could hear the chain rattling as he removed it from its slot. They could also hear him barking some sort of order to the woman behind him.
A moment later, he opened it.
“Who called you guys?” he asked, looking and sounding severely annoyed. “There wasn’t no reason for anybody to call you guys this time.”
“This time?” Dirk asked. “You get a lot of visits from the boys in blue, huh?”
“I got nosy neighbors who’ve got nothing better to do than eavesdrop on other people’s business and then call the police over nothing.”
“Thank the good Lord in heaven for ‘nosy’ neighbors,” Savannah said, trying to see past him. “And for people who care about others, and who pick up a phone and call the cops to get ’em some help when they need it most. I call those folks ‘saints.’ ”
She glanced over Burt Ferris’s naked chest and wondered, not for the first time, why so many criminals went shirtless. Good guys ran around bare-chested, too, but she had noticed years ago that bad guys made a habit of it. Especially when they were up to no good.
“Step aside,” Dirk said. “We need to come in.” When Burt hesitated, Dirk added, “Unless you want to talk to us outside, where all your nosy neighbors will hear every word of it. Keep in mind, I talk loud.”
“Yeah,” Savannah added. “He’s got one of those voices that really carries.”
Burt glanced nervously back over his shoulder. “Yeah, well. Let’s talk outside, but try to keep it down, would you? I don’t need everybody knowing all my business.”
“Whatever you say,” Dirk told him. “Inside or outside, we’re definitely talking to your ol’ lady. We’re not leaving here without seeing her, so it’s your call.”
Burt let out a long sigh and stepped back into the apartment. Then he motioned them to enter.
As they walked in, Savannah gave the small studio a quick once-over, taking everything in with a glance.
The place was sparsely and poorly furnished. One small table and two chairs. A ragged pullout sofa bed. Two mismatched end tables, with a couple of mismatched lamps.
And yet, the apartment was neat and clean. As though someone had spent a lot of time making it as livable as possible.
Something told Savannah that someone wasn’t Burt.
“All right,” Burt said, “let’s get this over and done with. I’ve got things to do, and there’s gotta be something illegal going on in this town that you two could be tending to, instead of harassing innocent citizens like me.”
Savannah looked him over and wondered how any woman could find him attractive. But then, he probably wore a shirt on most of his first dates. Might have combed his hair. And it was almost a lock that he would have pasted a smile on his face when he first met a potential bed partner, and not worn the surly smirk he was wearing now.
After years of observation, seeing the misery they brought into the lives of their victims, Savannah had formulated the hypothesis that loser abusers were often even better than normal guys at pouring on the charm, at least long enough to worm their way into a woman’s life. She had also seen that once they were there, much like any other vermin infestation, it was next to impossible to get rid of them.
“Where’s the woman?” she asked him. “Did you tell her to hide in the bathroom?”
He gave her a cold, threatening look, which she was pretty sure he would never have given Dirk. She would bet he saved it for women.
She had to admit, it probably worked very well for him, because he was particularly good at it.
So she stepped closer, invading his “space” and gave him a look that was even colder and more threatening than the one he had generated.
“Do you really think you’re just going to banish her to the toilet, and that’s gonna be that?” she asked him. “Do you really think we’re going to walk out of here without questioning her about what you’ve done to her?”
“She won’t tell you nothin’,” he said, practically spitting the words in her face.
“You’re pretty good at keeping your women under control, aren’t you, Burt?” she asked. “Most of them. You take pride in that. But then, there’ve been a couple who pressed charges against you and sent you away for a year here, a couple of years there.”
His face flushed bright red and a dew of sweat suddenly appeared across his forehead.
“They did not press charges against me! They didn’t!”
“Oh, so the state charged you? That’s fine. Doesn’t matter who did it, as long as it got done.”
“I was innocent. Those women just got what they had coming to them. You don’t know what they were like! They’re the ones who should’ve been thrown in jail, not me!”
“Yeah, yeah, we’ve heard it all before,” Dirk said as he walked over to him and pointed to one of the two folding chairs that sat across from each other at a battered card table. “Sit yourself down there, Mr. Ferris. While my partn—I mean, my wi—I mean, that lady there goes and has a talk with the woman in the bathroom, you and I are gonna have our own little chat.”
“What about?”
“About yesterday morning. ’Cause we caught a glimpse of you, running around in some trees, right after you did a really awful thing. . . .”
Savannah left the men to their conversation and walked to the small door in the rear of the room.
She knocked softly. Then a second time, a bit harder, but there was no answer.
She glanced over at Burt and saw he was watching her as he talked with Dirk. He gave her a satisfied I-told-you-so look, which made her blood pressure rise a couple of notches.
She turned back to the door and said, “My name is Savannah, and I’m coming in now. Don’t worry. I just want to talk to you. Everything’s gonna be just fine.”
She twisted the doorknob, praying the door would open. And it did.
Inside the small bathroom, she found a woman who looked like every other woman she had found over the years, hiding from her life and the intolerable situation she was in.
This woman wore a simple tee-shirt and jeans. But Savannah had found them in their various hiding places, wearing everything from designer evening gowns and priceless jewels to rags or, in a few cases, nothing at all. Domestic abuse crossed all social and economic lines.
Rich and poor, educated and uneducated, drug users and nonusers, drinkers and teetotalers, religious and nonreligious, straight and gay, male and female, they all wore one thing in common: a horrible, frightened look on their faces.
“It’s okay, sugar,” she told the woman. “I’m here to help you. Everything’s going to get better for you, starting right now. I promise.”
The woman stared back at her with eyes that were filled with hopelessness—something else these victims had in common that broke Savannah’s heart and made her feel the intense need to pummel guys like Burt.
Savannah wriggled her way through the half-open door and into the small room. Closing it behind her, she turned to the woman. “Like I said, my name’s Savannah,” she told her, holding out her hand.
After a moment, the woman shook her hand and with a half-smile said, “I’m Georgia.”
Savannah was taken aback. “You’re kidding.”
“No, really. That’s my name.”
“Well, I reckon that’s some sorta sign that this was meant to be,” Savannah said. “Were you born in Georgia?”
“No, but my momma was, and she always wanted to go back.” Georgia grinned, and it occurred to Savannah that the expression seemed awkward for her, as though she didn’t do it often.
“I don’t have to a
sk,” Georgia said, “if you were born there. I can tell by your accent. You sound like my mom.”
“Good. ’Cause I want you to listen to me, just like you would your momma if she was standing here right now, okay?”
The fear crept back over Georgia’s face, but she nodded.
Savannah looked down at the woman’s hands and arms and saw what she somehow knew she would. The telltale signs of violence. Her wrists were red and so were her upper arms.
“Does he hit you every day, or just when he’s not getting what he wants, the way he wants it, as fast as he wants it?”
“No! Not every day, he”—she gulped and looked away—“he doesn’t mean to do it. He’s out of work, and so am I, and we can’t pay the bills. So he’s under a lot of pressure.”
“If he can’t pay the bills, then you can’t pay them either. So you must be under a lot of pressure, just like him.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“But I’d bet dollars to donuts that you don’t beat him up. Right?”
Georgia shrugged. “He was out looking for work this morning. When he got back, he saw that I hadn’t cleaned up the place. You can’t blame him for getting mad about that.”
“It looked pretty clean to me. What was wrong with it?”
“He found a ball of dust in the corner by the bed. Burt’s a very neat person. Real particular about where he lives and what he wears. He hates stuff like dust or dirt of any kind.”
“He’s a very neat person? Always picks up after himself, does he? He works his fingers to the bone vacuuming and dusting and scrubbing the commode?”
“Well, no.”
“Let me tell you something about guys like your ol’ Burt there. They’re big on everything being neat and clean and perfect, as long as they’ve got somebody else to do the work. I’ve seen, time and again, that the minute it’s on them to do the cleaning, they live like pigs.”
Georgia bit her lower lip. “But I know he feels bad when he hurts me,” she said. “Sometimes he buys me stuff . . . you know . . . afterward. He swears he won’t ever do it again, but he’s got a bad temper. His daddy had a bad temper. Sometimes, when I forget stuff or don’t do things the right way, he just can’t control himself.”