“Oh please. Tammy Hart, stylist to the stars,” Savannah said, giving her friend a grin.
“Actually,” John said, “Tammy’s right. You do look stunning in that sweater.”
“I agree,” Ryan added.
“Oh, right.” Savannah snorted. “Like either of you would even notice.”
“We notice.” Ryan lifted one eyebrow and gave her a quick once-over that set her pitter to patting all over again. “Notice is all we do, but we notice.”
Dirk reentered the room and shuffled across the floor in his socks. He sat down on the rug next to the television, reached over, and turned up the volume.
The blond cutie at the anchor’s desk began the story. “And this afternoon in a San Carmelita supermarket, an altercation sent a local accountant to the hospital. As seen here on the store security videotape, two shoppers exchanged words, and their discussion rapidly escalated into an argument. The woman you see there at the bottom of your screen is Savannah Reid, formerly a police officer with the San Carmelita Police Department.”
The living room erupted in whistles and cheers. Savannah held up both hands, “Quiet! Quiet! Listen now; throw cash and gifts later.”
The newscaster continued, an amused look on her face. “At this point in the argument, Reid held up one finger—no, ladies and gentlemen, not that finger—her pinkie—but even that appeared to enrage Timothy Barnett, who took a swing at her. As we can see, Ms. Reid has not forgotten the self-defense training she received from the S.C.P.D. and there…only a few seconds later…you see Barnett on the floor amid a pile of fallen produce, tumbled cans, and broken bottles.” The reporter grinned her perfect, bleached white smile. “Yes, folks, we do have a major cleanup on aisle five.”
“Yay-y-y-y! That’s our girl!” Ryan shouted.
“Here, here!” John saluted her with his cup of Earl Grey.
“Oh, Savannah! I’m so proud of you,” Tammy said, her pretty face shining, tears in her eyes. “You blocked him with an exquisitely executed gedan barai. The mae geri kick to his chest was flawless, and that nage waza was the perfect choice to put him on the floor.”
Savannah stared at her for several seconds, then said, “Uh, okay. Thanks, Tam.” And she decided to cut back a bit on Tammy’s martial arts training.
Dirk smirked. “I see you’re still using that ‘the average size is…’ line to provoke suspects,” he said.
Savannah winked at him. “Hey, the classics hold up.”
The only less than jovial person in the room was Gran, who sat with her arms crossed over her ample chest, a scowl on her face.
From Savannah’s seat on the floor beside her grandmother, she looked up into that infinitely dear face and cringed. Her grandmother had raised her and her eight brothers and sisters. Savannah knew the look all too well—she was in trouble.
“What was that business you did with your finger there?” Gran wanted to know. “Is that what I think it was?”
Savannah giggled and nudged Gran’s leg. “Naw, it wasn’t that at all. Like the gal there on TV said, it was my pinkie. A perfectly innocent gesture. I’d never do that other one…after you teaching me to be a genteel Southern lady and all.”
Dirk cleared his throat, and Savannah shot him a warning look.
“Well, you must have said something pretty unladylike for him to take a swing at you like that,” Gran said.
“He was being nasty to his wife and little boy, mouthing off and threatening them,” Savannah told her. “And I just couldn’t abide it. You know, like ol’ Leon Hafner used to do. And Gran, I remember all too well what you did to Leon that Saturday night when he came calling uninvited.”
A mischievous grin flitted across Gran’s face. She shrugged. “Eh, well, Leon deserved to get a skillet upside his head,” she said. “He was always thumpin’ on poor Alice and her too scared and broke to leave him with three little young’uns in tow. She came over to our house that day with a bloody nose and a black eye, and when he came bustin’ through my kitchen door after her, hollering and carrying on, I had to do something. So, I grabbed a twelve-inch skillet and gave him a good talkin’ to.”
Savannah laughed. “After their little, uh, conversation, Leon needed seven stitches to close that gash on his forehead. But he never came over to our house in a rage again. Not even when Alice finally left his ugly a—, I mean, left him flat.”
“It looked like that accountant in the grocery store was needing some stitches himself,” Tammy said. “There was blood everywhere!”
“Naw,” Savannah laughed. “Most of it was ketchup.”
“Most?” Gran asked.
“Ketchup?” Ryan added.
“She was next to the condiment section,” Dirk explained. “You work with what you’ve got.”
John nodded. “Our Savannah is resourceful, if nothing else.”
“Did they arrest that fellow?” Gran wanted to know. “Are you going to have to go to court and testify and all that rigmarole?”
“Naw, I didn’t press charges,” Savannah told her. “He never actually got the chance to lay a finger on me, so why bother?”
Dirk reached for the plate of fudge. “I’d say he got the point when that shelf full of ketchup and mustard came crashing down on him. I swear I saw a pickle sticking out of his ear.”
“Oh, you did not.” Savannah chuckled. “But I wasn’t trying to make a point with him. Guys like that never get the point anyway, so what’s the use? My statement was for his wife. I wanted her to see that he’s not God Almighty, no matter what he’s told her. Seeing another woman take him down a notch or two might have done her some good. I sure hope so.”
A cell phone began playing the theme song to The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Dirk reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his phone. “The captain,” he offered in explanation. He shrugged and added, “Seemed appropriate somehow.”
They nodded, understanding perfectly. Dirk’s rocky relationship with his captain—and everyone else in the S.C.P.D.—was common knowledge. The brass didn’t like him. He hated them. And most of his fellow cops respected his work but would have run ten miles in the opposite direction to avoid working with him.
Dirk had only slightly less luck with partners than with women. And the only person who had actually enjoyed working with him, had been Savannah. Since she and the S.C.P.D. had parted ways years ago, Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter had been the proverbial lone wolf, and nothing made him happier than to be pack free.
When he wanted companionship, howling at a full moon or whiling away the boring hours of a stakeout, he invited Savannah to come along.
She was so much better than Detectives Demitry, Averick, or Bura—way better looking, and she always brought food.
“Coulter,” he barked into the phone, chatty as always. He listened for a few seconds, then began to scowl. “Why? No. I don’t think so.”
Savannah perked up as they all listened intently. While they wouldn’t have admitted it for all the rocky road fudge in the world, they lived vicariously through Dirk and his cases. Since Savannah was no longer a cop, Ryan and John had long ago left the FBI, and Gran and Tammy were merely Nancy Drew wannabes, they had to get their true crime fix somehow.
“If it’s only been nineteen hours, what’s the big deal?” Dirk was asking. “Whatever happened to the twenty-four-hour rule?”
Ah, a missing person, Savannah thought. Not as interesting as some cases,