Cooked Goose

by G. A. McKevett

  Margie saw him, too, and took her cue. “I’ll take the kids to the rest room and wash their hands,” she said. “Then we’ll play in the balls.”

  “Thanks a lot.” She smiled at Margie and delighted in the warmth of the smile she received in return. This tough, bratty kid was turning out to have a sweet soul after all. “You know,” Savannah added, “you should have been a big sister. You’re really good at it.”

  “Not as good as you.”

  “Actually, better.”

  Margie and the kids vacated the booth and Dirk took their place.

  “Tracked me down, huh?” she said.

  “I didn’t exactly find this detective’s badge in a Cracker Jack box, you know.” He reached for some of Jillian’s cold, leftover fries.

  “Who ratted me out, Tammy or Vi?”

  “Fluff head.”

  “That does it, I’m going to take away all those benefits of hers, all those fancy perks.”

  “Perks? She gets perks?”

  Savannah laughed. “Heck, at the moment she does well to get paid. So, why did you track me down?”

  “I wanted to give you the good news and the bad news.”

  She took another drink of her malt. “Okay, give me the bad first. I’m ready.”

  “Another cop is missing.”

  She nearly choked on her drink. “You’re kidding. Shit. Who is it?”

  “Well, that’s what might be construed as the good news. Or maybe not . . .” He looked over at Margie, who was laughing, playing with the children, tossing them into the middle of the balls. “It’s Bloss. He didn’t come into the station this morning, or call in.”

  “Did anybody go out to the house?”

  “We sent Famon and McMurtry out. They looked the place over, said nothing seemed out of the ordinary.”

  “Wanna go look ourselves? See if we can find anything out of the ordinary?”

  The very thought of getting to snoop through the high and mighty Captain Bloss’s things brought a grin to her face. Dirk was wearing one just like hers.

  “Sure,” he said. “There are several things I’d like to look for.”

  “Like maybe a certain ring?”

  “Exactly. Sh-h-h, we probably shouldn’t tell her yet.” He nodded toward Margie, who was coming back to the table.

  “No, there’s no point in worrying her any more than she needs to be, but . . .”

  “I came back for my Coke,” Margie said, reaching for the soda. “They’re really having fun in there.”

  “I know,” Savannah said, “but we’re going to have to cut out of here in a few minutes. I have to go somewhere with Dirk. I’ll drive you three back to the house first.”

  “Okay, but you have to drag them out of the balls. I can tell you right now, it won’t be easy.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Savannah hesitated, then said as casually as possible. “Margie, does your father still have his wedding ring, the one he wore when he was married to your mom?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess so. I never heard that he threw it away or gave it to anybody.”

  “If he did have it . . . or some other sentimental piece of jewelry . . . like maybe an old watch, where do you think he would keep it?”

  “I’m not sure, but he has an old green box, like a little trunk with metal corners. I think it was from when he was in the Army. He’s got some keepsake type things in there, like his Army medals and his birth certificate, stuff like that. He keeps it under the sleeping bag in his bedroom closet. Why?”

  Savannah looked over at Dirk, but she could see he was going to let her handle this one.

  “Savannah . . .” Margie sat down on the seat next to her, looking worried. “. . . is my dad in some kind of trouble?”

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Margie,” she said, “He may be. We aren’t sure yet. Dirk is going to do everything he can for your dad because your father is Dirk’s captain. And I’m going to do all I can because he’s your dad and you’re my friend.”

  “Thank you. Can you at least tell me what kind of trouble it is?”

  “I would, honey, but right now, I’m not sure myself.”

  “Is he going to die like those other policemen?”

  Dirk cleared his throat, leaned across the table and patted the girl’s hand. “Not if we can help it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  2:03 P.M.

  Going into someone’s house, when they weren’t at home, without their knowledge or permission, had always given Savannah tingles along the spine. But entering Bloss’s gave her a downright chill. She had been there before, when she had collected Margie’s clothes for her. But that entry had been at the request of one of the house’s occupants.

  If Bloss knew they were there, he would have a fit; she had no doubt about that.

  Unless, of course, he was as dead as the other missing cops and didn’t care about anything.

  “Not a bad place,” Dirk remarked, looking around at the heavy, dark Spanish-style furniture set off against cool, white walls. Plants hung from the high, beamed ceilings and mint green and coral Oriental rugs covered the oak-planked floors. Everything was neat and tidy, obviously cleaned by a maid service, Savannah surmised. Captain Harvey Bloss wouldn’t have the time to do much dusting or vacuuming on his workaholic schedule.

  “Must have had it decorated by a professional,” she said. “Anybody who wears hot pink, palm tree neckties and isn’t couth enough to use a tissue for his nose wouldn’t come up with this.”

  Dirk’s own nose twitched, like it was out of joint. “I guess on a captain’s salary, you can afford a pad like this. Too bad he doesn’t deserve it.”

  “You go see if you can find that chest Margie was talking about,” Savannah told him, “while I snoop around.”

  “How come you get to do the fun stuff?”

  “’Cause I’m a girl and I’m not getting paid.”

  “I’m not sure what that has to do with anything,” he grumbled as he headed off toward bedroom to check out the closet.

  Savannah made a beeline for the bathroom.

  “What are you gonna do in there?” he called after her.

  “Contrary to popular belief, it’s the bathroom, not the bedroom, that’s the best place to snoop. It’s where you find the coolest stuff, every time.”

  A couple of minutes later, after Dirk had searched the bedroom closet and Savannah had finished with the bathroom and poked around the rest of the house, they met in the kitchen.

  “Any sign of the ring?” she asked. Dirk was holding something behind his back.

  “Nope,” he said. “I’ll bet whoever nabbed him took it, too. This was all that was in the chest, and I don’t know for sure if it was for that ring.”

  He held out a small, black velvet, ring box that was empty, but it bore the imprint of a large ring on the nap of the fabric inside.

  “At least I didn’t see no blood,” Dirk continued, “or nothin’ that would make you think he got hisself killed here.”

  “Bloss didn’t get nabbed,” Savannah said, quite sure of herself. “He isn’t missing, he’s hiding.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “There’s no suitcase or overnight bag in any of the closets, except a Barbie one in the second bedroom, which must have been Margie’s, when she was a kid. A man who travels as much as Bloss does would have at least one handy.”

  Dirk shrugged. “Maybe he just throws his junk in a pillowcase like I do.”

  Savannah made a face and shook her head. “And . . . his shaving stuff is gone.”

  He thought that one over for a second, then nodded. “Gotcha.”

  Opening her purse, Savannah took out her memo book and cell phone. She consulted the book, then dialed a number.

  “Mama Talula, this is Savannah Reid,” she said brightly. “I was in your shop earlier today.”

  “Yes, of course,” Mama replied in her charming, gracious accent. “The very happy woman. Are you st
ill happy, child?”

  “Oh yes.” Savannah took the ring box from Dirk and turned it over and over in her hand. “Tell me one more thing, Mama. The rings you sold those men . . . the ones we were talking about today . . . did you put the rings in boxes when you gave them to them?”

  “Of course. A work of art must be properly displayed.”

  Savannah smiled to herself. “Do you happen to recall what kind of boxes they were?”

  “The same boxes I always use . . . just your standard ring box covered with black velvet.”

  “Thank you, Mama. Keep smilin’.”

  She switched off the phone and handed the tiny box back to Dirk.

  “Well?” he said.

  “No applause,” she said, grinning from ear to ear, “just throw money.”

  On a built-in desk at the end of the kitchen counter, a telephone jingled. Savannah and Dirk looked at each other.

  “Do you think we should . . . ?” he said.

  “No, wait a minute. Let his machine pick it up.”

  They listened as Bloss’s gruff voice basically demanded that the caller leave a message or else.

  But after the long beep, instead of a human reply, they heard a series of beeps and clicks. Then the tape on the machine began to rewind.

  “It’s Bloss,” Savannah said. “He’s calling in to get his messages.”

  Dirk reached for the phone. “I think I’ll answer it. Ask him where the hell he is and what’s goin’ on.”

  Savannah grabbed his hand. “If he’s hiding, he probably won’t tell us. Wait . . .”

  They listened as two messages played, both from concerned personnel at the station, asking if he was intending to report to work today.

  Savannah pointed to the caller identification box. “We don’t have to ask him,” she said. “That’ll tell us.”

  They peered at the read-out.

  “Jackson’s Diner?” she said. “That sounds familiar. Where is that?”

  “It used to be Angel’s Taco Heaven. It’s just down the street from the Blue Moon Motel.”

  Savannah’s eyes sparkled. “Ah, ha! Figures. Let’s get going.”

  2:25 P.M.

  The rapist sat on the edge of the bed in the dark room, armed and waiting.

  One more. Just one more, he told himself. This one was a matter of principle. Nobody got away. Nobody. It was his code.

  He gritted his teeth and promised himself that when this was over he was going to sleep, for days, weeks, for eternity.

  At this point he didn’t give a damn. His life was over anyway.

  This wasn’t fun anymore. Whatever charge he had gotten in the beginning—it was dead. As dead as he was inside.

  He knew he was a corpse walking. But alive or dead, he would settle this last score. Yes. It was a matter of principle. And only a matter of seconds. Because he could hear footsteps approaching.

  He wasn’t the only corpse walking. No, he wasn’t.

  There were two.

  2:30 P.M.

  As Dirk drove toward the outskirts of town and the Blue Moon Motel, Savannah couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling she had first experienced when she had driven Margie and the kids back to her house.

  “Still bothering you?” Dirk asked her as they passed over the Rio Verde Bridge, marking the city’s border.

  “Yeah,” she said. “And it’s getting worse.”

  She pulled her cell phone from her purse and gave Tammy a call.

  Briefly, she explained the situation to her assistant. “The kid’s really worried about her old man,” she told Tammy. “We had to ask her some questions and she’s no dummy; she figured out that something’s up.”

  “Do you want me to go over there?” Tammy offered. “I’ll just keep her company until you get back.”

  “Would you mind? I’d really appreciate it. Vidalia and Butch are a bit too wrapped up in themselves right now to provide much support for her. She’s been through a lot lately.”

  “No problem, I’m on my way.”

  “Thanks, Tam. I’ll give you a raise in pay.”

  “Pay? You’re going to start paying me? I don’t have to work for love and personal fulfillment anymore?”

  “Goodbye, smartass.”

  When Savannah hung up, Dirk said, “So, feel better now?”

  Savannah shrugged. “I guess so. A little.”

  “We’ll check out the motel and get you back as soon as we can,” he said.

  She continued to stare out the window and wonder. “Thanks.”

  He stepped on the gas.

  2:37 P.M.

  When the door opened and the intended victim stepped into the motel room, Officer Titus Dunn found that the feeble rush of adrenaline wasn’t enough to carry him this time. His hand shook violently as he lifted his gun from his lap and pointed it at Harvey Bloss.

  The infection was too deep, the fever was too high, and his strength was almost gone.

  But all he had to do was pull the trigger. Number Three would be properly dispatched. Vengeance complete. Mission accomplished.

  He had anticipated the look of shock on Bloss’s face when he flipped on the light and turned to see him sitting there. But he was disappointed. Bloss didn’t even look surprised as he walked across the room to the dresser, picked up a whiskey bottle that had been sitting there and poured a plastic cup half full.

  “Dunn,” he said calmly as he drank about half of the amber fluid in one gulp. “I was wondering what took you so long.”

  A surge of anger shot through the killer, giving him the extra jolt of adrenaline he needed. He steadied his gun.

  “With two fingers,” he said, “pull your weapon and put it on the table there. Slowly. Now sit in that chair.” He waved his gun toward a rusted contraption with a torn leatherette seat.

  Reluctantly, the captain complied.

  Dunn tossed him a pair of handcuffs. The simple gesture caused a pain like white lightning to shoot through him, but he pushed past the misery.

  “Cuff your right hand to the chair arm,” he said. “Do it! Now!”

  Dunn studied his captive with eyes that burned. But it was a cold fire. “So, you were expecting me sooner?” he said as he watched Bloss struggle with the cuffs, trying to put them on with his left hand. “It’s not easy, running around for days with two bullets lodged in you . . . bullets your ‘brothers’ gave you. Thanks a lot . . . Bro.”

  Finally, Bloss snapped the cuffs closed on his own wrist, then squinted at Dunn with those dark, slitted eyes that Dunn had come to hate.

  “You came after my daughter,” Bloss said. “My own kid! What the hell did you think I’d do?”

  “What made you think it was me?”

  “She saw your ring, you moron.”

  “It could’ve been DeCianni or McGivney. They’re Marshals. They’ve got rings.”

  “I checked them out. They had alibis. Both were accounted for; you weren’t.” Bloss shook his head and gave Dunn a contemptuous look that made Dunn want to go ahead and blow his brains out on the spot. But he had waited for this a long time. The fantasy of carrying out this execution was the only thing that had gotten him through the night before, when the fever had been so high, the pain so bad.

  And since this would be his last killing, he didn’t want to rush it.

  “I can’t believe you wore one of our rings to do shit like that,” Bloss continued in that self-righteous tone that made Dunn furious. “Those rings were a symbol of justice and the power of the law. But rape? What kind of lowlife are you? I can’t believe you were even a cop, let alone that we let you join the Marshals.”

  Titus laughed, but the movement caused an agony in his ribs. One of the bullets had struck there, in his side, and passed on through. The other was still lodged in his left shoulder. A bucketful of stolen antibiotics and driving rage had kept him going so far, but he had just about reached the end.

  “You didn’t mind us wearing those rings when we took care of dirty business for you . . .�
� he said, “. . . like that pimp in Oak Creek, the coke dealer in the valley, or that kid in East L.A. All that boy did was steal your wallet and whack you around a little. But you couldn’t report it because you got robbed with your pants down, bangin’ a hooker.”

  “That kid was trouble, had been all his life.” Bloss passed his left hand over his forehead that was slimy with a film of sweat.

  “And you decided he had to die,” Dunn said, “so we killed him for you.”

  “I told you to rough him up, not kill him.”

  “Sometimes things don’t go as planned; he had a gun in his boot and he drew it on us. Of course, you didn’t exactly shed any tears when we told you he was dead.”

  “That was different. It was justice. That’s why I formed the Marshals in the first place, why I invited you guys in . . . to administer justice when the system broke down and let a criminal slip through the cracks. And that’s a long way from raping and beating innocent women.”

  While Dunn silently seethed, the only sound was that of the clock ticking on the nightstand. Dunn felt a wave of weakness and nausea sweep through him. He could taste the saltiness of his own sweat that ran down into his eyes and the corners of his mouth. He allowed the rage to build to a crescendo inside him

  The more fury he felt, the more steady his hand became, but the more difficult it was to breathe.

  “And is that what you thought you were doing when you sent McGivney and DeCianni after me?” he said. “My so-called brothers, coming to murder me in my own home? Did you think you were administering justice?”

  Bloss glowered at him, not bothering to hide his hatred; not a smart move for a man staring down the barrel of a gun, Titus decided. This guy deserved to die, because he was stupid, if for no other reason.

  “It was justice,” Bloss said. “And if you’d gotten what you deserved, you’d be dead and McGivney and DeCianni would still be alive. They were good men, not scum like you.”

  “Well, this is what I call justice. Marshal Dunn strikes a blow for law and order and takes out the brother who betrayed him. Maybe they’ll carve that on my tombstone.”

  “Your tombstone? You’re the one holding the gun.”