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CHAPTER 1
Not for the first time, it occurred to Savannah Reid that she led a less than conventional existence. Not every Southern Californian spent their morning lying on a park bench, dressed in bag-lady garb, staring up at the rustling palm fronds overhead, waiting to be attacked. And, also not for the first time, it occurred to her that if it weren't for the guy lying on a bench a hundred feet away from her — similarly outfitted, equally bored — she might have a real life.
Naw.
As much as she would have liked to blame her eccentricities on Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter, Savannah had to admit she loved lying there, hoping the heartless jerk who was going around spraying homeless people with red paint swastikas would mark her as his next target. He would be in for a little surprise. His previous victims hadn't been armed with a 9mm Beretta, a black belt in karate, and a wicked temper made worse by PMS.
Then there was Savannah's vigilante mentality, a holdover from a childhood spent in rural Georgia among feisty nonconformists. A stint in law enforcement hadn't mellowed her much. Although she was reluctant to admit it, her rebel attitudes were largely the reason why Savannah was no longer a member of the San Carmelita Police Force.
She might not be a cop anymore — like the guy stretched out on the bench opposite her — but as a private detective Savannah loved to get the bad guy and make him pay, pay, pay for his wicked ways. Nothing relieved the symptoms of PMS quite so effectively — except maybe a bag of nacho-flavored Doritos, chased by a two-pound box of See's candies.
"I'm bored," growled the bum. She could hear him through the tiny earpiece hidden under the gray thrift-store wig she wore under her red thrift-store stocking cap. "It ain't gonna happen today. I can just tell."
"We've only been here twenty minutes," she whispered into the microphone tucked into the collar of her lumberjack's plaid shirt. Also a thrift-store acquisition. "Have a little patience."
"Screw patience. I gotta take a leak."
That was what she liked about Dirk: his delicacy, his genteel manner, his laid-back, "go with the flow" outlook on life, and, of course, the way he always addressed her as a lady.
He was hauling his body off the bench as though he were a ninety-five-year-old with lead-plated underwear. "Gonna go tap a kidney," he grumbled. "Dangle the snake, hang a rat."
Oh, yes, and she adored his colorful vocabulary.
She watched him stumble across the park lawn to a small, cement-block building that served as a public rest room. Ladies to the right; gents to the left.
Dirk made a good drunk. He had the stagger down pat, and he looked the part — even when he wasn't deliberately dressing for the role — in a baggy sweatshirt, faded jeans with ripped knees, and battered sneakers. To go "undercover" he just raided the laundry pile on the floor of his house-trailer bedroom for something dirty and rumpled, but the basic wardrobe remained the same.
Except for a little beer roll around his middle, Dirk had a pretty good body for his forty-plus age. He wasn't a bad- looking guy, in a street-tough sort of way. Dirk just didn't know the words "vanity" or "fashion."
"Adequate hygiene" was his only personal standard.
A moment later, the sound of his urinating tinkled in her earpiece.
"You wanna turn down the volume on your mic?" she said into her collar. "I don't exactly need to hear you, ah, draining your dragon."
"Like you haven't heard it before," she heard him mutter just before the sound went dead in her ear.
Of course she had heard it before. For years, Dirk had been her partner on the San Carmelita Police Force. Many times, she had pulled over to the side of the road while he emptied his thimble-sized bladder behind a secluded bush. But that didn't mean she was going to pass up a chance to complain about it now.
This stakeout was a freebie from her to Dirk, a favor for an old friend, because he didn't like to work alone, and the department was too tight with the purse strings to give him a partner for this little detail. And if she was going to do the old boy a favor, he was going to pay in guilt, or maybe chocolate. Expensive Valentine chocolate. She hadn't decided which.
When Dirk didn't come out in thirty seconds, she knew it would be another five minutes at least. She had seen the newspaper tucked under his arm when he had disappeared inside the "library."
Yes, she decided. She knew Dirk Coulter and his habits far too well. It was a simple case of familiarity breeding contempt. She made her decision then and there on payment. A big box of candy. A red heart-shaped one. After all, Dirk was the closest thing she had these days to a Valentine.
Now there was a scary thought.
Corey McPherson stood at the edge of the city park, checking out his next victim. The excitement was building inside him, and his palms were wet as he clutched the can of spray paint he had hidden inside his camouflage jacket.
He had seen the old lady shuffle over to the bench and lie down about twenty minutes ago. She'd been there, stretched out, staring up into the big palm tree and mumbling to herself ever since. A nutcase if he'd ever seen one.
Corey was nineteen and more than a little pleased with himself. A few weeks ago, he had been accepted into the White Warriors, a skinhead, white-supremacist group, which had further inflated his already bloated ego. He and his newfound compatriots met twice a week in the leader's basement, beneath a six-foot swastika scrawled — along with some cool skulls and crossbones — in red chalk on the wall. They would have painted the symbols on, but the kid's mom had complained about having "that ugly crap on my wall," so they had to wipe everything off after every meeting.
At their biweekly gatherings the Warriors discussed what an awesome dude Hitler had been and how the Nazis had been right on, getting rid of the Jews, bums, fags, and retards. The Warriors weren't in any position to actually get rid of anybody, yet, but they did their part for society by making life miserable for anyone they decided fit in one of the "undesirable" categories. And that was pretty much everyone outside their small group.
The old gal on the bench was obviously a society reject. The Nazis would have picked her up and shipped her off right away. It irked Corey that he couldn't actually kill her — although he fantasized all the time about that sort of thing — but he could make a statement. That's what the blood-red paint was all about. Making a statement.
Maybe someday it would be more than just paint. At the age of five, Corey had wanted to be a fireman or astronaut. But lately he had narrowed it down to anarchist or maybe serial killer. He figured he'd be good at either one, and neither career required a high-school diploma.
But, for now, he'd just settle for spray-painting bums.
He made his way quietly across the grass toward the old woman on the bench. His heavy combat boots with their white laces, symbolic of his white-supremacist affiliations, made no sound as he crept closer to her. His fatigues were baggy enough to be fashionable in his age group and didn't come close to the standards of army neatness. His auburn hair was cut short and spiked with gel. Also pseudo-military. The can of spray paint inside his jacket was definitely not GI issue.
As he drew nearer to his intended victim, he could hear her still muttering something to herself, no doubt holding a conversation with some figment of her tortured imagination. Corey wished he could put her out of her misery, rather than just scare her silly.
Oh, well. If he frightened her badly enough she might pack up her one bag and get the hell out of his town. They certainly didn't need her type stinking up the place.
For half a second, he saw her glance his way, focus on him, then stare up at the palm tree again and mutter to herself again. That was good. Corey didn't like it when they got a good look at him. He wanted to just spray them in the face, squirt a quick swastika on their chest, and then run away before anyone could get a good description of him. He had done this more than a dozen times and not been caught yet. Yep, he was good. And proud of it.
He took a few more steps and waited for the woman to notice him. She didn't seem to. In fact, she looked the other way. Toward the rest rooms. His pulse rate doubled and throbbed in his ears.
Now was the time.
He rushed her, paint can in front of him, pointed at her head. "Hey, you, you old bitch!" he shouted at her.
He waited for her to turn around and face him. He tensed, finger on the trigger, ready to depress the button and give it to her full force.
But when she turned to look at him, she raised her own hand. And Corey saw a gun that was roughly the size of a cannon. Or it seemed that large, because it was aimed directly at him.
"You talkin' to me?" she asked as she sat up, pistol still trained on him. Her voice didn't sound shaky or quavery like an old lady's. It was soft and sweet, with a heavy Southern accent. But the cold, hard glitter in her blue eyes wasn't that of a gentle Dixie belle — or that of a feebleminded street person either.
The red stocking cap slipped to the side of her head, along with the ratty-looking gray hair. Corey saw the black curls sticking out from beneath the disguise and knew he'd been had.
"Take your finger off the button," she told him as she stood and took a step closer to him.
Corey couldn't move. He was so scared he couldn't even breathe.
"I said, take your finger off the button, or I swear I'll shoot you dead." She sounded like she meant it. She looked like she meant it.
Corey removed his finger from the spray button.
She held out her left hand. "Give it to me," she told him.
Slowly, carefully, he surrendered the can.
A second later, both her gun and his paint can were aimed at his face. The angry gleam in her eyes seemed to change. She smiled a little, as if she were enjoying herself.
That was worse. Much scarier.
"So, you like to terrorize old people," she said. "Poor people, sick people, folks who've got a few screws loose, huh?"
Corey squirmed inside his baggy fatigues. "Ah, no, I mean, I don't terrorize them. I just mess with them, a little, you know."
"Yeah, I know. I know all about you, you little Nazi-wanna-be punk. You think you're real bad. Well, you're not. You've got no balls, or you wouldn't be hurting people weaker than you."
Corey felt his face flush, scalding hot with embarrassment and fury. He wanted to hurt her, kill her, show her she was wrong about him. But she had that gun — and that scary grin on her face.
"Are you a cop?" he asked in a small, squeaky voice that shamed him even more.
"Nope," she said.
"Then who are you?"
"Just somebody who doesn't like nutless Nazi punks."
She took another step toward him, and for a second Corey thought she was going to shoot him after all. He started shaking, a violent tremble that coursed in waves through his body from his head to his combat boots.
"Look at you, big tough guy," she said, "shaking like a mange-bald hound dog in a snowstorm. How does it feel to be so scared that you don't have any spit in your mouth? To have somebody treat you like you're less than dirt under their feet?"
Corey glanced around quickly, hoping that maybe someone would see what this crazy woman was doing and come to his rescue. But they were the only two in sight. He had picked a solitary place, a solitary victim. And now it looked like he was going to be the victim. The game had definitely gone sour for Corey McPherson.
"There's something else you need to experience firsthand," she continued in that cold voice with the deceptively soft, feminine accent. "You need to find out how much fun it is to scrub paint off your bare skin, to get it out of your hair once it's all dried and matted. Oh, yeah, and then there's the humiliation."
She lowered the barrel of the pistol, and for a moment, Corey was relieved. Until he saw she was pointing it at his crotch.
"Pull out the waistband of those baggy breeches of yours," she told him. Her nasty grin widened. "Do it now."
Corey couldn't believe what he was hearing. Didn't want to believe it. "What?"
"You heard me. You've got enough room in those pants for you and the jackass you rode in on. Now do what I said and hold the waistband out in front of you."
Corey shook his head. "No. I won't. What are you, some sort of pervert?"
"Maybe I am." She laughed. "Now there's a scary thought, huh? If I'm a real sicko, heaven knows what I'll do to you before I'm finished with you. Pull those pants open, now!"
Corey was afraid to. But he was more afraid not to. He did as he was told.
"Your underwear, too," she said. She took a step closer to him.
"I haven't got any on," he replied, feeling four years old.
"How unsanitary."
She closed the small gap between them. Pressed the barrel of her gun against his neck. Pointed the spray can directly down the front of his opened pants.
"You're not gonna. ... You're not ...!" he shouted.
"Oh, yes-siree-bob," she replied in that silky Southern voice. "I most certainly am."
* * *
"I don't quite understand this," Tammy Hart said as she watched Savannah add three eggs to the skillet and several slices of bread to the toaster. "You help him nab the bad guy, and he rewards you by letting you fix him breakfast?"
The "him" she was referring to was sitting at Savannah's kitchen table, a satisfied smile under his nose. Dirk was always happy when food was imminent. Especially if that food was free. And in keeping with her Southern heritage of hospitality, Savannah made sure that everyone in her presence was stuffed like her Granny Reid's Thanksgiving turkey. Heaven forbid anyone should feel a pang of hunger. It wasn't to be tolerated.
Savannah shrugged. "I'm a sap for a pretty face."
"And what does that have to do with Dirk?" Tammy shot a contemptuous look toward the table and its occupant, who was still dressed like a street bum.
Savannah chuckled and took a sip of the hot chocolate she had poured for herself, laced with Bailey's, topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. Savannah suffered few hunger pangs herself, as was evidenced by her ample figure.
Tammy, on the other hand, was svelte, golden tanned, golden blonde, the quintessential California surfer beach beauty.
Savannah loved her ... anyway.
So, the kid was scrawny and ate mostly mineral water, rice cakes, and celery sticks. Everyone had their faults.
Savannah retrieved several jars of homemade jams and preserves from the refrigerator and shoved them into Tammy's hands. "Put these on the table," she told her.
The younger woman took the jars and looked at the labels disapprovingly. "Gran's blackberry jam. Probably full of sugar."
"I'm fresh out of sea-kelp spread," Savannah muttered under her breath, and swigged the hot chocolate.
Tammy sashayed over to the table and plunked the jars in front of Dirk, who gave her a cocky smirk. "Now I have to serve him, too?" she complained. "It's bad enough that you're his slave, but now I have to —"
"Oh, stop. Enough already." Savannah snapped her on her teeny-weeny, blue jean-covered rear with a dishtowel. "I'm not Dirk's slave, but you are my assistant, so assist. Butter that toast."
"With real butter?"
Savannah sighed. "Yes. Cholesterol-ridden, fat-riddled butter. I'm fresh out of tofu."
"I'll go shopping for you."
"No, thanks."
"Why are you having breakfast at four o'clock in the afternoon, anyway?" Tammy dipped only the tip of the knife into the butter and made a production of spreading the one-eighth of a teaspoon over the slice of bread.
"Because we didn't eat this morning," Dirk replied, watching the meal's progression with the acute attention of a practiced glutton. "We were working, remember?"
"Spraying the genitalia of youthful offenders," Tammy said with a giggle. "That's work?"
"Savannah did that all by herself. Thank God, or I'd be up on charges. You shoulda heard that guy screeching when they were scrubbing him down in the emergency room."
He and Savannah snickered. Tammy shook her head, pretending to be appalled.
"There are advantages to going freelance," Savannah said as she dished the eggs, some link sausages, and thick-sliced bacon onto the plate, then ladled a generous portion of cream gravy beside a scoop of grits. Where she came from, grits might be optional, but gravy was considered a beverage.
Dirk's eyes glistened with the light of hedonism as he picked up his fork. "Van, you've outdone yourself. This looks great."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Sugar and Spite"
by .
Copyright © 2000 G. A. McKevett.
Excerpted by permission of KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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