His usually florid face blushed even redder. She could tell she was really pissing him off. She couldn’t be more pleased.
“Look, Reid,” he snapped. “You know as much about this case as I do. I just figure it’s a good idea at this point for her to stay at your place. I can’t keep paying for a hotel room and all that room service.”
“Oh, I see,” she said sarcastically. “It’s an issue of economics.”
“It’s an issue of my daughter getting on with her life. She won’t stay cooped up in a hotel room anymore.”
“And you need a baby-sitter.”
“I’ll pay you.”
“How much?”
He named an amount that was larger than she had anticipated, a sum that would make a tidy difference in her overdrawn bank account.
“That’s not nearly enough.”
He upped his offer by fifty percent. But she was feeling perverse.
“I don’t want your damned money. I want you to bring a couple of bags of groceries over—all her favorite stuff.”
“I don’t know what she likes.”
Savannah shook her head. “What a sorry excuse for a father you are. Ask her. Tell her to make a list and you go shopping and you deliver it to my door. I want to make sure she’s got everything she wants to eat. Nobody’s ever fainted from hunger in the Reid household.”
“Obviously.”
“Up yours.”
“So, you’ll pick her up right away and take her home with you?”
Savannah nodded. “And you’ll drop off the groceries this afternoon?”
He agreed. As he walked away, he said over his shoulder, “Watch out for her, you hear? I don’t want anything happening to that kid.”
As Savannah watched him leave, she lifted one eyebrow and mumbled, “You’d better be careful, Captain. There for a second, I thought I saw a flicker of humanity.”
Then she reconsidered. “Naw.”
9:42 A.M.
When Margie opened her hotel-room door and saw Savannah standing there, she nearly “cut a rug” as Savannah’s Granny Reid described the little dance done by extremely happy people.
“Savannah! Hi!” She threw the door open wide and practically pulled Savannah inside. “I thought it was my dumb dad. Come on in.”
“You should have looked through the peephole first, and then you would have known who it was,” Savannah told her. “And you oughta stop calling him your dumb dad.”
“Why? He is.”
“Because it confuses me . . . makes me think you’ve got a smart one around somewhere.”
“What?”
“Never mind.” Savannah sat on the edge of the bed that was littered with deflated potato chip bags, an empty pizza box, makeup and lots of new clothes that looked like they had been purchased at the gift shop downstairs. Yeah, Harvey Bloss was going to have a four-figure bill to pay. And it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy.
“The point is,” Savannah continued, “he’s still your father, and where I come from, you don’t talk that way about your elders . . . no matter what their I.Q. . . . or lack thereof.”
Margie plopped down on the other side of the bed and put on a sourpuss. “I thought you came by to see me, maybe to hang out. But I guess you’re here to lecture me about respecting my parents.”
Savannah grinned. It was always fun to make somebody’s day. “No,” she said. “I came by to spring you outta this joint. The parole board granted you a pardon.”
Margie jumped up from the bed, scattering bottles of blue and black nail polish. “No kidding?”
“I kid you not, kiddo. Get your stuff packed.”
“All right!” Then she looked suspicious. “Where am I going? Not back to my house.”
“Nope. Back to my house.”
“He’s going to let me stay with you? He actually agreed to that?”
“He did, indeed. Said he thought you’d feel safer at my place. See there, the old far- . . . fella . . . does something right once in awhile.”
“Fantastic! I asked him if I could . . . well . . . actually, I threw a fit . . . but he said no way, because he really, really hates you, no offense.”
“None taken.”
“I can’t believe he said yes. This is just too cool!”
“Seems your father put your feelings and desires ahead of his own this time.” Savannah nearly gagged on the words. It really grumped her butt to say anything nice about that s.o.b., but she sensed his daughter needed to have some positive thoughts toward the man who had sired her.
Margie started throwing her new clothes and makeup into shopping bags. “He’s not letting me do this because he’s a nice guy,” she said, tossing in some teen magazines. “It’s just that he was afraid that if he made me stay here another night by myself, I’d run away to Hollywood, become a hooker/drug addict on Sunset Boulevard.”
“Now, where would he get an idea like that?” Savannah mused, stretching out on the bed. “How imaginative. A teenage, runaway, drugged-out hooker on the streets of Hollywood. How unique.”
Margie giggled. “Okay, so it might not have been the most creative threat in the world, but—”
“It was right up there with holding your breath until you turn blue.”
She hurried into the bathroom where she scooped miniature shampoos, conditioners and lotions into the bag. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”
“Only because you have a dumb dad. Leave the towels.”
Sheepishly, she hung them back on the rack. “What would you do if your kid threatened to run away to Hollywood?”
“I’d tell them to go right ahead . . . everybody’s entitled to follow their dreams of stardom. Then I’d follow them every step of the way, sneaking around behind shrubs and hiding behind lampposts to make sure they didn’t get in real trouble. But my kid wouldn’t take it that far, and neither would you. You’re much too smart a woman for that.”
Margie halted in midstep and studied Savannah carefully. “You think of me as a woman?”
“Usually, unless you’re throwing a hissy fit. Don’t you?”
“I guess not, because I was surprised to hear you say it.”
“Well, maybe you’d better start thinking of yourself in terms of adulthood. You’ll be twenty-one so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
“And you think I’m smart?”
“Except for opening the door without looking through the peep first, absolutely.”
Margie beamed.
“So, don’t use a lame threat like that Hollywood hooker malarkey on me, ’cause I won’t buy it,” Savannah said as she rose from the bed and grabbed one of the full bags. “Let’s blow this joint. We’ve got two pints of Chunky Monkey waiting in my freezer with our names on them.”
7:30 P.M.
“Hit me! Come on, land a good one!”
Ryan Stone—all 6’3” and 200 muscular pounds of his gorgeous self—stood in the middle of the mat, encouraging a dainty, Sunday school teacher type to kick the crap out of him. Only the Stone rocks were covered with extra padding in the form of a discreet, but industrial-sized cup.
Finally, the lady gave him a kick that was slightly more than half-hearted. Savannah sighed, knowing that was all he was going to get out of that student.
She had asked her close friend, Ryan Stone, former FBI agent, present bodyguard of some of the richest and most famous bodies in Los Angeles, to demonstrate self-defense techniques to a class that had suddenly tripled since the last attack.
At first, the ladies had been too enchanted by the tall, dark, gorgeous guy to do more than gaze at him. Finally, they were getting into the act.
“That’s right. Another one!” he shouted at his wannabe attacker. “Another!” She landed a solid kick to his shin. Savannah saw him wince. “Hey, that hurt,” he told the student. “Good job!”
Savannah motioned for the next combatant to step onto the mat. “Okay, Angie,” she said. “It’s your turn. Front and center.” Less timid tha
n her predecessor, Angie rushed to get into place. Having seen the result of Charlene Yardley’s attack, she seemed especially motivated.
“He’s coming at you,” Savannah yelled to her. “What are you going to do?”
“Scream.”
“Scream what?”
“No-o-o-o!”
Ryan grabbed her by the forearm and held tightly, towering over her. She seemed momentarily frozen, her bravado gone.
“Again!” Savannah jumped onto the mat beside her and shouted into her ear. “Tell him no! Mean it!”
“No-o-o!” she shrieked. “No-o-o! No-o-o! No-o-o!”
“That’s it! Knee him in the groin! Stomp his instep! Gouge out his eyes!”
Ryan effortlessly blocked each punch and thrust, but the girl’s aim was excellent and her delivery enthusiastic.
“Yes!” Savannah yelled. “Now run! Run! Run!”
Angie flew off the mat and didn’t stop running until she hit the figurative safety of the far wall.
“Fantastic!” Savannah said. “Now . . . Margie, step lively, darlin.’ You’re next.”
Margie backed away from the mat as though it were covered with burning coals and Ryan were some sort of fire-breathing monster. “I don’t want to do it.”
“I know you don’t,” Savannah said gently as she put her hand on the teenager’s back and gave her a firm push forward. “But you need to, of all people. Get in there and show him what for!”
Margie walked up to Ryan and gave him little more than a nudge with her foot.
He laughed at her and shoved her hard, taunting her. “Ah, what kind of lousy kick was that?” he said. “I didn’t feel a thing.”
Savannah stood at her back, too close for comfort, deliberately invading her space. “Hit him again,” she told her. “You know you want to. Pretend he’s the bastard that nabbed you and let him have it.”
Margie hit him this time with her fist in his chest. A second later her foot met his shin with a blow hard enough they could all feel it.
“Come on, break something,” he said. She punched and kicked him again, much harder than before and she began to sob . . . but her crying sounded, not like a victim, but like someone enraged.
“Atta girl!” Savannah shouted. “Again!”
Margie attacked him with a vengeance, tears streaming down her cheeks, pummeling him for all she was worth. He could only ward off so many of the blows. Others hit, hard and solid.
“Ow-w-w,” he yelled. “Okay, okay.”
“That’s enough,” Savannah said, pulling the girl away from him and into her arms.
She clung to Savannah, her face buried against her shoulder, crying out the pain and fear she had been hiding since her abduction.
“That’s my girl,” Savannah said, stroking her hair. “that’s my brave girl. You did great, sweetie. You showed that sonofabitch he was messin’ with the wrong woman.”
Finally, when the girl’s sobs quieted down to simple, silent weeping, Savannah turned to Ryan. “Hey, buddy, are you okay?”
“It’s nothing a quick trip to the emergency room won’t put right. Congratulations, Margie. I pity the next guy who tries to take advantage of you.”
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Margie asked between hiccups.
“Not really, but I’m glad to see that you can turn into a tiger when you need to. That’s what the class is all about.”
“Okay, ladies,” Savannah said. “I think we—especially Mr. Stone—have had enough for one night.”
As she watched them leave, pausing to fawn over Ryan, she prayed they would all remain safe until the next time she saw them. “Just remember,” she coached them as they walked out the door . . . together. “Avoid trouble, run from confrontation, but if you have to fight . . . whup the everlovin’ shit out of ’im!”
8:40 P.M.
One of the many things Savannah loved most about her friends, Ryan Stone and John Gibson, was their uncanny ability to know exactly when she needed a pleasant diversion from life’s challenges. And dinner at Chez Antoine was as pleasing a pastime as could be afforded.
Of course, on a seldom-employed private detective’s income, Savannah couldn’t possibly afford Chez Antoine, but being the quintessential gentlemen, neither Ryan nor Gibson would dream of allowing her to pay.
Another thing she loved about them.
Like the hosts who had invited her, the establishment was pure elegance. From its beveled glass screens between the tables, lush palms, glimmering brass accents and teak paneling, to its celebrated chef, Chez Antoine was a class act.
And it was Savannah’s favorite place to hang out, pretend to be an adult, and act classy herself.
As she sat at the table, with its glistening white linens, sparkling silver and crystal, savoring the last bite of salmon mousse, she fell in love with the two stunningly handsome, completely debonair men. And, looking across at Margie, she could see that the young lady had fallen under their spell as well.
Every woman between the ages of four and ninety-four would fall in love with Ryan Stone. And the British silver-haired fox, John Gibson, was a treat for the eyes, as well. He might be pushing sixty, but Gibson was one of those men who only became more dashing with age.
Yes, women loved Ryan and Gibson. And they loved women. But only as friends. They were life partners and had been for years. But that didn’t stop ladies everywhere—including Savannah—from fantasizing about ways to reorient their sexuality.
“I can’t tell you what a delight this is, having not one, but two lovely ladies for company this evening,” Gibson said, toasting them with a glass of Chardonnay.
Ryan raised his glass as well, looking like a cover model for GQ. “Hear, hear. To the most beautiful women in the room tonight and the men fortunate enough to be their escorts.”
Margie blushed sweetly. She actually looked pretty and feminine tonight, having taken Savannah’s advice and “spiffied up” for the occasion. Her cobalt blue shift was simple but elegant, and she wore an antique, marcasite choker and matching bracelet.
Savannah thought that, for once, the teenager seemed to be enjoying her own femininity. Ryan and Gibson seemed to have that effect on females.
“Thanks,” Margie told Ryan, not quite meeting his eyes. “This is a nice place.” She sighed and looked a bit sad. “We used to go to restaurants like this when I was a kid,” she added, “before my dad . . . well . . . before my mom kicked him out. Now, he doesn’t sit down and eat at a table. He just grabs something and eats it at his desk or in his car.”
Savannah, Ryan and Gibson sat silently for a long moment, digesting this information and what it revealed about Captain Bloss’s grownup little girl.
Finally, Ryan said, “I’m sorry to hear that, Margie. We all get busy sometimes.”
“But I haven’t sat at a table and ate with him even once since then.” .
“Have you told him that you’d enjoy sharing a nice dinner with him sometime?” Savannah asked, unable to believe it . . . until she reminded herself this was Old Man Bloss they were talking about. Not so tough a stretch for the imagination after all.
“No, I don’t tell him I want to eat with him,” Margie replied, petulance covering her hurt. “He’s a dad. He’s supposed to just know stuff like that.”
“He’s a man, Margie,” Ryan said softly. “And I’m ashamed to admit that we men don’t know a lot of things we should. The ones we love have to teach us. Tell your father what you need and—”
“Oh, I do. I nag him for stuff all the time.”
“I’m not talking about a new outfit at the mall or the latest CD,” Ryan told her. “I mean truly important things—things you really need, not just material things you want—like sitting down to a table, eating a nice meal and spending some time with him.”
“Ryan is absolutely right,” Gibson added. “We chaps are a bit thick-skulled at times. You must be frightfully blunt with us. Don’t expect your father to know how much that would mean to you; tell him. G
ive him the opportunity to do the right thing.”
Margie thought it over for a long time, staring down at her plate. “And if he doesn’t?” she asked, tears puddling in her eyes.
“Then he really is a miserable asshole,” Savannah mumbled under her breath. She looked around the table to see the three of them staring at her and realized they had heard. “Oh, sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean that. It just sorta slipped out.”
“You meant it,” Margie said, but she was grinning.
“All right, I did, but I shouldn’t have said it. He’s your dad and Ryan and Gibson are right. You need to give your relationship with him all you’ve got. He might surprise you and come through for you. It’s possible; it’s worth a try.”
“Excuse me for changing the subject,” Ryan said, turning to Savannah, “but speaking of giving something your best effort, I understand your partner is working night and day on this case of the missing officer. Has he come up with anything?”
“I talked to him on the phone right after the defense class, and he said there’s nothing new. Titus’s girlfriend, Christy, is coming back for a few days to see if she can help with the search for him. I don’t know what she thinks she can do.”
“She probably needs the comfort of being with those who love him, who are worried about him,” Gibson said.
“You never know; she might come up with something.” Savannah’s enthusiasm was subdued at best. “Dirk’s over at Titus’s house right now, going through his papers and personal stuff, trying to find anything that might point to a motive for the attack.”
“Does Detective Coulter believe the officer’s disappearance is connected to this unfortunate rapist affair?” Gibson asked as he motioned for the waiter to bring the dessert tray.
“It may be related,” Savannah said, perking up at the sight of chocolate cakes, berry tarts, Napoleons and eclairs, rolling toward her on a dainty, deliciously overburdened cart. “But Dirk doesn’t know how. Titus answered the call when Charlene Yardley was found, and he helped search the scene. Why that would make him a target, we don’t know.”
“Well, we’re terribly grateful that this young lady escaped that brute,” Gibson said, patting Margie’s hand. “You displayed extraordinary courage and resourcefulness in the face of danger. Your family must be enormously proud of you.”
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