Sour Grapes Page 2

  Predictably, there was no reply, silent or otherwise. What she had in mind probably wouldn’t work. But she couldn’t think of anything else, and she’d much prefer to be active than wait and react to a roomful of armed kids with hardened, criminal mind-sets.

  “Did you get me those breadsticks?” Dirk asked, loudly, rudely as she reached the table. He, too, was “getting into character” for their little drama, sitting there in the booth looking grouchy. Fortunately, for Dirk, acting grouchy wasn’t exactly a stretch.

  “Nope, I didn’t get your breadsticks,” she told him, “or my pudding either. They’ve put everything away. You’re outta luck.”

  Taking a deep breath and saying a quick prayer for safety that Granny Reid had taught her more than thirty years ago, she stood next to Dirk. She felt him tense and knew he, too, was ready.

  Suddenly, she grabbed him and yanked him out of the booth and onto his feet. A half second later, she had plastered his face against the nearest wall. “All right, buddy,” she told him, kicking his legs apart, “you spread ’em and don’t make a move!”

  She heard the gang members gasp collectively, and one of them said, “Hey, man . . . what the hell?”

  Only then did she allow them to see the 9mm Beretta she had drawn from her shoulder holster. “I’m a cop,” she told them, showing them Dirk’s badge in her other hand, “and I’m arresting this man. Just stay where you are and be cool, and I won’t let him hurt you.”

  She put the badge away, grabbed a pair of handcuffs from her slacks pocket and put them on his wrists. “And you,” she said, giving him an elbow in the back for emphasis, “better not cause me any trouble, or I’ll part your hair with a bullet. What little you’ve got, that is.”

  Dirk growled under his breath; he was more than a little sensitive about his thinning, not-so-luxurious mane. “Watch it,” he said. “You’ll pay later.”

  “Was that a threat?” she said, showing him the Beretta. “Did I hear you threaten me, you lowlife scum?”

  One of the hoods and the girl got out of their seats and took a couple of steps toward Savannah. She watched them warily.

  “So, what’d he do?” the girl asked.

  The big guy at the door strolled over. “Yeah, whatcha bustin’ him for?”

  “Murder,” Savannah said. “I’ve been after this guy for a long time.” Turning back to Dirk, she said, “That’ll teach you to go on a blind date that your ex-girlfriend arranged. She fixed you up with a homicide detective, Lame Brain. We both owe her one.”

  Savannah gave the gangsters her best deeply concerned, maternal look. “You guys oughta get outta here while you’ve got the chance. I’ve already called for backup, and in a minute this place is gonna be swarming with cops . . . reporters, too. Maybe even the America’s Most Wanted crew. If I were you, I wouldn’t want to be in the middle of a mess like that. Once they start asking you questions, they never let you go.”

  The older guy gave his troupe a curt nod, and they rushed the door, en masse. Only the girl lingered, gazing at Dirk with what looked a lot like groupie adoration.

  “You’ve been on America’s Most Wanted?” she asked him, batting her eyelashes. “Who’d you murder?”

  “He’s a serial killer,” Savannah supplied. “Murdered at least a dozen teenage girls . . . about your age.”

  Dirk shot Savannah a look. He was frowning, but his eyes were sparkling.

  “Really?” The girl was completely smitten. “Wow!”

  “Yeah . . .” Savannah added, on a roll, “even ate parts of ’em. Cooked ’em up, right there in his kitchen along with some onions, turnips, and mustard greens.”

  Dirk turned his face to the wall and cleared his throat. His shoulders shook slightly.

  “Latisha!” The leader was holding the door open. “Move your ass, bitch!”

  “Hmm, smooth-talkin’ laddie, treats his ladies nice,” Savannah mused as she watched them hustle out the door. “Busting him would be almost as much fun as slapping cuffs on you, Babycakes.”

  “Speaking of cuffs,” Dirk said when the last one had stepped outside, “these are loose enough for me to slip ’em off if I need to, right?”

  “Of course. You don’t think I’d bind those mighty fists of fury, do you? I might have needed you to duke it out with the big guy.”

  “Yeah, right. How much of a head start are we gonna give ’em?”

  “Not much. We’ve gotta see which entrance they take when they get to the freeway, north or south. Let’s get going.”

  Keeping her gun in hand and highly visible, she led her “prisoner” across the restaurant and out the door. The gangsters were piling into two late-model luxury cars. Apparently robbery paid better than private detecting, Savannah decided as she directed Dirk to her 1965 Mustang on the opposite side of the parking lot. Its China red paint glowed a sickly coral in the light of the yellow parking-lot lamps. The feeble illumination also made it difficult for her to read the license plate on one of the cars that was revving up and getting ready to leave.

  “I’ve got the Lexus,” she told Dirk, who was shuffling along in captured-cannibal-serial-killer style.

  “Yeah, and I’ve got the Acura. You carryin’ your cell phone?”

  “It’s in my car pocket.”

  “Your what? Oh, yeah, I forgot . . . that’s Southern for glove box.”

  When they reached her Mustang, Savannah opened the passenger door and shoved Dirk inside, then slammed it closed. A quick glance at the car nearest them told her the gang was watching. Sitting in the backseat, the girl had her nose pressed against the window and was practically drooling on the glass. Savannah was amazed; females who were hopelessly smitten with Dirk were a rare commodity.

  She hurried to her side of the car, slid into the driver’s seat, and got the motor humming. Her Mustang might be ancient, but thanks to her skilled mechanic, Ray, it could burn the wind when she applied a heavy foot to the pedal.

  Dirk had already slipped off the cuffs, had her cell phone out, and was dialing. He ducked, hiding his face beneath the dash, as the first gangster’s car peeled past them.

  “Hey, Jake,” he shouted into the phone. Dirk had never grasped the concept that you don’t have to scream into a cell phone to be heard. “Where are ya? Yeah, right now.” He listened for a second. “Good, I got a hot one for you. How would you like to help bust the ‘Burger Bandits.’ I kid you not, my man. Get as much backup as you can muster . . . a chopper if possible . . . and head for the 101. I’ll be tellin’ you north or south in a minute or so.”

  Savannah waited until both cars full of suspects had left the parking lot before following at a discreet distance. As she had anticipated, they were heading toward the freeway entrance ramps.

  “Northbound,” she said, a bit surprised at their choice. “I figured they’d be heading home to L.A. I guess we didn’t put the fear of God in ’em after all.”

  Dirk conveyed the newest bulletin to Jake McMurtry. “They’re probably on their way to Santa Barbara,” he added. “There’s plenty of burger joints to hit between here and there.”

  Savannah nudged him with her elbow. “Tell Jake we gotta take them before they leave the freeway. The next ten exits go into residential areas. And if they get to another restaurant, we’ll be in the same situation we were before.”

  “Did you hear that, Jake?” Dirk barked into the phone. “Don’t screw this up, man. We need lots of units, and everybody’s gotta know they’re armed . . . at least one Uzi. Don’t want nobody dead, unless it’s them.”

  Savannah winced. Dirk wasn’t known for keeping his negative, even hostile, opinions to himself. Even after years of seeing the worst of humanity, Savannah chose to look for the good in people, although it wasn’t always immediately obvious. Dirk didn’t bother. Dirk’s theory: Life stinks, the world stinks, and everybody in it stinks. And with an attitude like that, he daily collected enough evidence to prove his hypothesis.

  “Damn it, Van,” he said, “I wish w
e were in my car. Not having a radio stinks.”

  “Don’t gripe. Your heap isn’t even running right now. Is Jake calling it in?”

  Dirk growled and nodded as he listened on the phone. “Yeah. I hear him. He’s outta breath . . . must be trottin’ out to his car. Jake eats too damned much pizza.”

  This, from a guy whose decrepit Buick was a repository for a year’s worth of junk-food wrappers and fast-food sacks. Dirk hadn’t seen his rear floorboards since he had bought the Skylark in 1969.

  Savannah speeded up a bit, keeping the two sets of taillights ahead well in sight. Other than a couple of eighteen-wheelers, they and the gangsters had the Ventura Freeway all to themselves. Recalling the hard, cold look in the leader’s eyes and the dead expressions on the other kids’ faces, she felt a shiver of healthy fear. She would be glad when the cavalry reinforcements arrived.

  Like a fairy godmother’s wish come true, three cruisers magically appeared in her rearview mirror. “Good goin’, Jake,” she whispered. “They’re he-e-e-re,” she told Dirk. “You’ve got backup.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘we’?”

  “No way. I’m just the chauffeur along for the ride. Shall I move closer?”

  Dirk looked over his shoulder, observing the units that were quickly closing the gap. “Where the hell are you, Jake?” he shouted into the phone. “You want a piece of this or not?”

  Turning back to Savannah, he said, “Jake’s north of us . . . about ten miles. They’re closing off the freeway, in case they run when we try to stop ’em.”

  The three SCPD cars pulled even with them, one on each side of the Mustang and the third behind. Savannah cursed her lack of a radio to communicate with them and rolled down her window. The officer riding in the passenger seat did the same.

  “The Acura and the Lexus, right?” he shouted.

  She stuck her head out the window, and the night air whipped her hair into her eyes and took her breath away. “Yeah,” she said. “Three passengers in each. Gangbangers . . . armed-robbery suspects.”

  Dirk leaned across her and yelled, “May have an Uzi. Watch yourself.”

  The officer nodded. “We’ll surround them, light ’em up, and announce. You guys take the left rear.”

  Savannah gave him a nod. “Gotcha.” She rolled the window back up and, in unison with the patrol cars, increased speed until they had closed the gap between them and their targets.

  The robbers’ cars were side by side, the Lexus in the middle lane, the Acura in the fast lane. It took less than five seconds for the police to take their positions, one unit to the right, one on the left shoulder, another behind the Lexus and the Mustang behind the Acura. Blue-and-red revolving lights began to flash. A siren gave a couple of short shrieks.

  “Hey, Van . . . been a while since you’ve done this sort o’ take-down,” Dirk remarked.

  Savannah could hear it in his voice, the adrenaline-pumped charge of the chase. Her own pulse was pounding in her ears, her mouth was dry, her palms wet. “Yeah, a long time,” she said, her eyes on the car ahead—major tunnel vision.

  “Cool, huh?”

  She grinned . . . a little. “Yeah, way cool. If we don’t get killed.”

  At that moment, the three patrol cars directed high-powered spotlights on the suspects’ cars, lighting up the interiors so brightly, they could clearly see each occupant. The gangsters’ heads were whipping right and left, as they sized up their situation: Grim.

  “They look a little shook,” Dirk said, a smirk on his face.

  Savannah nodded. “Shook is good. Shook is how we want them.”

  A deep, authoritative voice boomed from a loudspeaker. “Drivers, this is the San Carmelita Police Department. Bring your vehicles to a slow, controlled stop. Now, drivers. Slow your vehicles and come to a complete stop.”

  Savannah glanced in her rearview mirror. Not a headlight in sight. Jake must have had the freeway closed behind them, too.

  Not that it would matter. The kids weren’t stopping.

  “They’re not even slowing down,” she said.

  “Did you really expect them to?”

  She shrugged. “Yeah, but I also believe in the tooth fairy, and that I’m going to marry Mel Gibson someday, so . . .”

  Suddenly, the robbers’ cars shot forward. Dirk swore and Savannah pressed her gas pedal to the floor. Thanks to Ray the mechanic, she had no problem keeping up, even when they reached 90 mph. Neither did the cops, who maintained their positions on each side, lights still flashing, more sirens blaring.

  “Morons,” Dirk said, hanging on to the console and armrest. “Where do they think they’re gonna go? Have you got plenty of gas, Van?”

  “Over half a tank. We’re in there for the long haul. Sit back and enjoy the ride.”

  “Not with a broad driving,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Would you prefer to get out and run alongside?”

  “Just keep your eye on . . . Hey, what’s goin’ on?”

  Savannah was wondering the same thing. The patrol cars had suddenly pulled back. Way back. She and Dirk appeared to be the only ones continuing the chase.

  “Do you see anything?” she shouted as she maintained speed and their position behind the Acura, while trying to look into the cars. “What . . . ? Are they shooting? Do you see guns?”

  Dirk was leaning forward, gripping the dash. “I don’t see anything.” He looked back at the cruisers, who were still with them but far behind. “Why did they—?”

  Savannah saw it lying across the road ahead of them. A bar of metal, shining silver in their headlights.

  Now she knew, but it was too late to stop.

  The Acura shot across the metal. So did the Lexus. And the Mustang.

  “Shit, spike strip,” Dirk said. “Hang on, Van.”

  She heard the fatal, popping sound of her tires as they disintegrated beneath her. The Mustang shuddered, pulled sharply to the right, then the left, and she felt as though she were driving through half-set cement. Just ahead, the Lexus and Acura fishtailed, slamming back fenders before the Acura spun off the road and into the median.

  Even as Savannah fought to maintain control of her automobile, she saw half a dozen patrol cars, some from SCPD, some from the county sheriffs, and Jake McMurtry’s van.

  They were converging on the suspects’ vehicles before they even came to a complete stop. Behind them, she saw some cops scrambling to retract the spike strip. The units that had been pursuing along with her and Dirk were approaching, driving through the median.

  She brought the car to a halt on the right shoulder as the acrid stench of scorched rubber filled the interior.

  Dirk jumped out of the Mustang, gun drawn, and ran to the suspects’ vehicles. Savannah followed right behind him, coughing, her eyes and throat burning from the smoke of twelve ruined tires. By the time they had reached the cars, Jake and his fellow officers had unloaded the suspects and had all six of them spread, facedown, on the asphalt.

  One by one, they were cuffed, searched, and had their rights read to them. As Savannah ran her hands over the girl’s body, she found a .22 caliber pistol shoved in the waistband of her jeans and a switchblade taped to her ankle.

  “Didn’t your mama ever tell you that ladies don’t play with those kinds of toys?” Savannah asked as she turned the girl around to face her.

  Even in the dim light of the freeway lamps, Savannah saw the look of recognition, followed by astonishment and anger, cross the young face.

  “Hey, bitch,” she said, “what’re you doin’ bustin’ us? Where’s the cannibal dude?”

  “Right over there, reading your main man his rights,” Savannah replied.

  “Reading him his . . . what? He’s a cop? The cannibal’s a stinkin’ pig?”

  Savannah chuckled. “Oink, oink.”

  The girl was dumbfounded, devastated. Savannah hadn’t seen such a look since her brother had told her younger sister that there was no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny . . . all on th
e same day.

  “Oh, man . . . a cop.” She shook her head, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed. “I didn’t think they let serial killers be cops. I mean, how screwed up is that?”

  It was Savannah’s turn to stare, confused. Stupidity never failed to amaze her.

  “Sounds like there are a few other things your mama didn’t teach you.” She slapped her on the back. “You’d better get your act together, darlin’, ’cause you’re not sharp enough to be a criminal.”

  Savannah handed her over to Jake, then strolled back to her Mustang and began to inspect her tires. Eventually, Dirk joined her.

  “Sorry about that, kid.”

  Savannah reached down, picked up a strip of shredded rubber, and held it out to him. “Just how sorry are you, big boy?”

  He shrugged and looked away. “You know, sorry. Real sorry.”

  “About a grand sorry, I’d say. They were steel-belted, custom red-walled radials “

  “No way!” He bristled; she could practically see the hair rising on the back of his neck. “They were recaps! Thirty-buck-apiece recaps. I was with you when you bought ’em!”

  “Oh, yeah . . . I forgot.” She nodded toward the big, black, late-model Mercedes that had just arrived, bearing the auspicious person of their police chief, Norman Hillquist—the individual who held the dubious honor of being “Numero Uno” on Savannah’s fairly lengthy “Shit List.”

  “But as far as he’s concerned,” she added, lowering her voice, “they were red-walled beauties.”

  Dirk grinned, eager as always to stick it to his boss. “You’ve got it. Let’s see if we can get your car towed and bum a ride off Jake. It’s the least he owes us.”

  “Of course. Couldn’t expect you to spring for a cab.”

  As they walked over to Jake’s van, Savannah glanced sideways at Dirk and saw that something was troubling him. Something heavy.

  “What is it, buddy?” she asked, slipping her arm companionably through his. “What’s bothering you?”

  “I was just wondering . . .”

  “Yeah?” She donned her most sympathetic, maternal, tell-me-all-about-it look.

  “If I get the department to cough up the fancy tires . . .”