Hide and Sneak

by G. A. McKevett

  Savannah stood, hearing her right knee crack and pop as she did. Rubbing it briefly, it occurred to her, not for the first time, that she wasn’t getting any younger. She liked to think she was every bit the woman she had been in her twenties and thirties—even better with all that accumulated experience and wisdom.

  But if she was honest, she’d have to admit that with each passing decade, she was getting just a wee bit slower and feeling a few more aches and pains than she had before.

  She was discovering that getting older wasn’t a heck of a lot of fun.

  But it beat the alternative.

  Looking down at poor Pilar, she reminded herself that aging is a great honor. One denied to far too many people.

  Chapter 7

  “When did Dr. Liu say she’d be getting here? How about the CSI unit?” Savannah asked him, trying not to sound anxious as she looked down at the body beneath the giant oak.

  “CSI said they’d be here soon. But Dr. Liu . . . not as quick as I’d like. She’d just got called out to Twin Oaks for another one.”

  When he saw the expression of horror on Savannah’s face he quickly added, “Don’t worry. It’s not one of yours. Some ninety-five-year-old dude passed away in his bed. But he’s rich and has a bunch of disgruntled relatives, so she wants to make sure nobody helped him make an early exit.”

  “Ninety-five is ‘early’?”

  He shrugged. “It would be if you didn’t leave naturally and weren’t ready to go.”

  “True.”

  She looked around and took in the surrounding area. Other than having fewer trees, it all seemed pretty much the same to her. Daisies, sage, prickly pear cactus, and hills the same tawny brown color as the mountain lions that occasionally roamed them. Just the standard Southern California landscape.

  Other than a few weeks in spring, when tropical storms swept across the sea and pounded the area, and the desert hillsides transformed into those resembling the verdant landscapes of Ireland, this was the view.

  Savannah enjoyed it, embraced it, felt her soul relaxing and being restored when she was in it.

  Unless she was investigating a murder.

  “I saw Jake’s and Mike’s unit when I pulled in,” she said, looking around for them on the nearby hiking paths. “Where are they?”

  “Don’t know. I told them to cordon off the scene and then search the area. Haven’t seen ’em since. If they’re layin’ under a tree somewhere, taking a nap or watching porn on their phones, I’ll—”

  “I’m sure they’re not. Jake and Mike are good cops.”

  “They only sleep and check out smut on duty when they aren’t working a murder scene?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hey, speak of the devil, and he’ll appear.” Dirk nodded back toward the park, where the dirt hiking trail met the pavement. “It’s McMurtry.”

  Savannah turned to look and was disturbed by the expression on the young cop’s face.

  “He seems upset,” she said. “That’s not good.”

  “No, it’s not,” Dirk agreed. “’Cause that means I’m about to get upset. And I don’t like that.”

  “I like it even less. Because it means I’ll not only have to be upset myself, but I’ll have to deal with you being all crabby on top of it.”

  “Life sucks.”

  “At the moment, yes, it pretty much does.”

  Jake came pounding up the hill toward them, his normally ruddy face even redder from the exertion of running.

  When he reached them, he had to bend over for a moment, head down, hands on his knees, to catch his breath before he could speak.

  Savannah could feel her anxiety level rising by the second. As frequently happened during stressful moments, she felt time slow and her own senses sharpen.

  As she waited for what seemed like an hour, but it was actually only a few seconds, she heard birds rustling in nearby bushes, a crow cawing in the distance, and above her head, the great oak’s leaves dancing in the hot, dry Santa Ana wind.

  Unable to bear the suspense any longer, she said, “What is it, Jake? What’s up? Did you guys find something?”

  He nodded, still gasping for breath. Finally, he straightened up and wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand. “Yeah. Down in the parking lot. By that white Porsche. Between the car and the Dumpster.”

  “Not a body, right?” Savannah asked, dreading the reply.

  “No. It’s like a fancy backpack or something. I’m not even sure it has anything to do with . . .” He waved a hand toward the body on the ground, while trying to not actually look at it. “. . . you know . . . her.”

  But Savannah didn’t hear the last part of his sentence, because she was already racing down the path toward the parking lot.

  Of course, she was glad they hadn’t found another body, but his words still sent a chill through her.

  As she ran, she remembered a couple of Ethan’s comments earlier that morning.

  “Freddy’s backpack. She always takes it with her when she goes out with him,” and “He liked the Porsche Cayenne SUV I gave him for Christmas.”

  She tried to tell herself that the backpack would contain some careless student’s textbooks or a homeless person’s hoard.

  “Please don’t let it be filled with toys and kid snacks,” she whispered. “Please, God. I won’t ask for anything else for at least a week.”

  No sooner had she uttered the prayer than she realized she would be breaking her promise before the day was done, asking the Almighty for help in finding that little lost boy and his mother.

  Without a doubt, when she was in the middle of a difficult case—a matter of life and death—she uttered more prayers in one day than she usually did in a month.

  She asked for more than she gave thanks for. She wasn’t proud of it, and she probably wouldn’t admit it to Granny Reid, but it was the truth.

  When she rounded a curve in the path and saw the big white Porsche in the lot, she wondered how she had missed it when she’d arrived.

  She kicked herself mentally for not asking Ethan Malloy the make, model, and plate number of his wife’s vehicle. Rookie mistake, she told herself. You know better, girl.

  As she approached the luxury vehicle with Dirk and Jake right behind her, she could see Patrolman Mike Farnon standing just on the other side of the car, a serious expression on his round face.

  She continued to berate herself as the license plate came into view. If you’d only done your job and asked for the plate number, whispered an ugly, critical voice inside, you’d know right now that isn’t her car, and you’d feel a lot better.

  Another even nastier one replied, Yeah, sure. Dream on, girl. We’ll pretend that we don’t know he gave Beth that Porsche when he gave his father one. Let’s act like we don’t know that some Porsche dealer gave him a heckuva deal last Christmas.

  She reached the car, and in an instant, Dirk was beside her.

  “Is it hers?” he asked. “Is that her car?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I didn’t ask. Like a dang fool I didn’t think to ask him what—”

  “I got it.” His face was soft, his eyes kind as he began to dig in his bomber jacket pocket for his cell phone. “I got it, Van. Really. Don’t worry.”

  He punched a couple of numbers, and she heard him say, “Yeah, Coulter here. I need you to run a plate for me.”

  Savannah left him and hurried over to where Mike stood, guarding their latest find.

  It wasn’t hard to spot, tossed onto the ground, half leaning against a Dumpster—a bright red designer mom’s backpack. It appeared new, and Savannah could tell by the fine, quilted leather that it would have cost more than the average American baby’s entire layette.

  More than anything, she wanted to grab the pack, tear it open, and see if it contained any ID. But even if she were still a cop, even if she were the investigating officer, she would have to show restraint and avoid contaminating what might very well be evidence.


  Instead, she reached into her purse, took out her phone, and reluctantly called Ethan Malloy. It was always difficult to relay bad news to a client.

  When the news was especially terrible, she made it a practice to always deliver it in person, if at all possible.

  He answered after the first ring. “Hello, Savannah,” he said, his deep, theatrical voice shaking. “Did you find them?”

  “No, I haven’t. I’m sorry, Ethan, but I won’t give up until I do. I just have to ask you a couple of quick questions.”

  He sounded slightly relieved when he said, “Sure. Go ahead.”

  “You told me what Freddy and Beth and Pilar were wearing when you last saw them. You also told me that Beth usually carries some sort of backpack. Could you describe for me?”

  “It’s leather. Red. Freddy’s favorite color is red. I got it for her last Mother’s Day.” There was a long pause as Savannah searched for her next words. “Does that help?” he asked, filling the silence.

  Yes, she thought, as she stared at the abandoned, red backpack. It helps like a knife to the heart.

  “It does,” she said, trying to sound casual and not succeeding. “Thank you, Ethan. And another thing—what’s the make and model of your wife’s vehicle? The plate number and color, too, while you’re at it.”

  “Her car is a Porsche Panamera. This year’s model. White.”

  As he named off a series of letters and numbers, Savannah stared at the car’s front license plate, seeing the exact sequence.

  She felt her knees go weak as her heart sank.

  When Ethan had finished his recitation, he said, “What’s this about, Savannah? Why are you asking me about her backpack and her car?”

  She closed her eyes, needing to blot out the scene in front of her, at least for a moment. “Those are just routine questions, Ethan,” she told him. “I should’ve asked them this morning.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  She could hear the suspicion in his voice, and she was about to make it even worse. “Is there anyone there at the house with you right now?” she asked.

  “Yes. Amy’s here. Why?”

  “That’s good. Someone needs to be there to answer the house phone, if Beth should call.”

  “But I don’t understand. I’m here.”

  “I know. But I need you to come to San Carmelita. I need you to do that now.”

  “But why?”

  “We’re going to have to talk to you. In person.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Me and my husband.”

  “Why would I need to talk to your husband?”

  Savannah watched in her peripheral vision as Dirk had finished his phone call and walked over to stand beside her.

  “He’s a policeman,” she said, looking up at her husband and feeling a sense of pride, as she always did when making that statement. “He’s a sergeant named Dirk Coulter. He’s also a detective, Ethan. A very good one, if I do say so myself.”

  “I’m sure he is. But I told you, I don’t want to bring the police into this. Not yet.”

  “Yes, you do, Ethan. Now.”

  “What’s going on, Savannah?” he demanded. “What’s happened? Did you find them?”

  Savannah drew a deep breath, chose her words carefully, and said, “I haven’t found your family, Mr. Malloy. I wish like all get-out that I could tell you I have. But you need to trust me now when I tell you that you can’t keep this a secret any longer.”

  She waited but there was no answer.

  “Ethan, listen to me. I want you to find Amy and tell her that you’re going out for a while. Tell her she needs to stay at the house and answer the phone. If she hears anything, anything at all, having to do with the disappearances, she’s to call you or me right away. Make sure she’s got my number. Are you with me so far?”

  She heard a hoarse, “Yes.”

  “Okay. Then I want you to get in your car and drive straight to San Carmelita. Come to my house. The address is on the card I left with you. Do you have it?”

  She could hear him rummaging about for a moment, then he said, “Yes. I have it right here.”

  “Good. I’m out in the field right now, but I’ll head home and be there when you arrive in about a half an hour. Okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay, if you say it’s necessary, then I believe you.”

  “Thank you, Ethan. I appreciate your trust.”

  “Just don’t stop looking.”

  Savannah was only vaguely aware that she was gripping the cell phone far too tightly with her left hand and sinking her nails into the palm of her right when she answered, “I won’t stop searching, Mr. Malloy, I promise you I won’t. Not until I find them. None of us will. Now go do what I asked, please. I’ll see you in half an hour or less.”

  Savannah tucked the phone back into her purse. Dirk walked closer and put his hand on her arm.

  “I’m going to have to talk to him,” he said.

  “He knows. I told him it was necessary. Didn’t say why. But he agreed.”

  Dirk ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “But first I have to . . . you know.”

  “I’m sorry. I sure don’t envy you.”

  “Of all the times I miss having you for a partner, this is the worst.”

  “Yes, I know, darlin’.” She stood on tiptoe and gave him a quick, soft kiss on the lips, not minding, for once, that there were other cops around to see it.

  And for once, he didn’t seem to mind either.

  “Go get it over with,” she told him. “I’ll see you back at the house.”

  She squeezed his hand, told Jake and Mike good-bye, walked back to her Mustang, and got inside.

  She watched as her husband knelt on one knee beside the red backpack, took a few pictures of it with his phone, then put on a pair of surgical gloves, and began to rifle through its contents.

  She knew he would wait until Dr. Liu and the CSI team arrived before he left the scene. She knew him well enough to predict that he wouldn’t leave until he absolutely had to.

  Because once he did, Det. Sgt. Dirk Coulter would have to do the one thing that most cops found to be the most difficult part of their job.

  He would have to inform a family that someone they loved, more than life itself, was gone forever.

  Chapter 8

  Ethan Malloy pulled into Savannah’s driveway exactly twenty-seven minutes after their phone call. She was sitting in one of her white wicker chairs on the front porch, waiting for him.

  As he climbed out of the big pickup and walked up the sidewalk to the house, she came down the steps to greet him. From the expression on his face she could tell that he sensed something was badly wrong.

  While Dirk’s job of informing the family was infinitely worse, she wasn’t looking forward to the upcoming conversation she and her client were going to have either. She attempted a bit of small talk to temporarily delay it.

  “Nice truck,” she said, pointing to the oversized GMC Sierra Denali that dwarfed her Mustang that was parked beside it. “Somehow, I was expecting another Porsche.”

  He half smiled, then shrugged. “Naw. I’m not a Porsche kinda guy. At heart, I’m just a good old boy from Amarillo.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Savannah told him as they stepped onto the porch. “Good ol’ boys are my absolute favorites.”

  He gave her a sly, sideways look that weakened her knees and said, “Are you married to a good ol’ boy, Savannah?”

  “Of course. Though he’s not from Texas.”

  “Aw, well. Nobody’s perfect.”

  They shared a companionable, if brief, laugh while she opened the door and ushered him inside.

  Other than Diamante and Cleopatra, the house was empty, as it had been when she had first returned home. The cinnamon aroma of Gran’s apple pie scented the house most pleasantly. It occurred to Savannah that if, at the end of their conversation, Ethan appeared composed enough to eat, she would offer him a slice.

  She glanced at t
he rolltop desk’s empty chair, thought of Tammy, and wondered how she was doing. By now, surely her parents had arrived and they were visiting, preferably drama-free. Savannah hoped Tammy and Waycross might actually enjoy the Harts’ visit, but considering all she had heard about Mr. and Dr. Hart, that seemed a bit too much to wish for.

  “Wow, what pretty cats,” Ethan said, as he walked over to their window perch where they lay, sunning themselves. He gave them each a scratch behind the ear, instantly making two new feline friends.

  Savannah decided, then and there, that no Post-it with his name on it would ever appear at the top of her suspect list. Any man who liked cats was a good guy in her estimation.

  It was the number one reason why she had married Dirk—or at least in the top five.

  “Let me take you to my office,” she told him, as she led him through the living room and into the kitchen. “Would you like an iced tea, or soda, or a beer?”

  “A beer sounds wonderful, if your good ol’ boy hubby can spare it.”

  “He keeps close count, but I reckon he could turn loose of a can under the circumstances.”

  She reached into the refrigerator, took out one of Dirk’s most prized possessions, and handed it to her new client.

  “Thank you,” he said, popping the top and immediately downing much of it. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he sighed and said, “It’s a bit early in the day for me, but then . . . it’s been a pretty lousy day.”

  She felt a pang of sympathy for him, thinking his day was about to get far worse.

  “Let’s go out in the backyard,” she said. “That’s where I usually talk to my clients. My husband should be along pretty soon. He, well, he had some matters to attend to that couldn’t wait. But I know he’s eager to talk to you.”

  She escorted him out the back door and across the lawn to a couple of comfortable patio chairs situated beneath an arbor, heavy with wisteria in full bloom.

  He sat down, quickly disposed of the remainder of his beer, then set the empty can on a nearby side table. She sat a few feet away in a matching chair, thought of what she had to tell him, and felt her temples start to throb from a tension headache.