Part 26 (1/2)
”If we help you catch this killer,” he said, ”there's something I want from you. In fact, I demand it.”
”What's that?” La Cross asked suspiciously.
”I want a heartfelt apology from you. My wife is shapely, not husky. And this bomber jacket of mine is a cla.s.sic.”
”I agree. Your wife is a lovely woman,” she said grudgingly.
He scowled. ”And my jacket?”
”If you help me catch the killer, we'll talk about that jacket.”
As Savannah slid between the sheets and pulled the quilt up around her, she glanced over at her cell phone on the night table to see if she'd gotten any calls while in the bathtub.
”Fluff Head didn't call,” Dirk told her as he got in beside her. ”And you know what they say about how a watched phone never rings.”
”I thought it was a watched pot that never boils.”
”Same principle.”
She grimaced as he tossed one leg over hers, rubbing a tender spot on her s.h.i.+n-residual battle damage from the no-longer-mentioned ”Xenos Affair.”
”You really have to stop calling her stuff like that. It's rude and stupid, when you consider she does stuff to help us solve these cases that we could never do ourselves. Like run this partial plate number.”
”Ryan and John are helping her.”
”Yeah, because you and I couldn't even talk their lingo, let alone get results. You need to show your superiors proper respect, meadow m.u.f.fin.”
”And speaking of showing respect, why do I get a feeling that little term of endearment isn't all that reverential?”
She snickered and tickled his ribs until he wriggled and slapped her hand away. ” 'Cause you're a cynical ol' curmudgeon,” she told him.
”Hey! Why is it wrong for me to call Tammy a 'fluff head,' but you can call me a 'curmudgeon'?”
”Because in your case, it's true, where Tammy-”
Her phone began to play ”You Are My Suns.h.i.+ne.”
”Where Tammy is calling me right now.” She reached for the phone and flipped it open. ”Hey, babycakes. What's happenin'?”
”It's not too late, is it?” came the voice on the other end.
”Not for you. Got good news for me?”
”I have news. Whether it's good or not . . . that's up to you.”
”Lay it on me.”
”I got a possible on that plate.” She drew a deep breath. ”Those first four characters you gave me don't suggest it's a vanity plate.”
”Right. So?”
”And La Cross said it was a Jeep, about ten years old.”
”Okay?”
”Ten years ago, the sequence of letters and numbers on California plates that weren't vanity went-number, three letters, then three numbers.”
Savannah looked over at Dirk, who was waiting on pins and needles, and rolled her eyes. He mouthed the words ”Fluff head.” She smacked him on the arm.
”What did we find, Miss Tammy, darlin'?”
”Well, I checked most of the nine hundred ninety-nine combinations of numbers for those last three, missing digits, and I found a black 2001 Jeep that belongs to someone living there on Santa Tesla.”
”And it is . . . ?”
”Actually, it's not a person. It's more like an organization. It-”
”Tammy Hart, you are wearin' my nerves to a frazzle! What have you got?”
”The Island Protection League.”
”No way! Dr. Glenn's group?”
”The very one.”
Savannah turned to Dirk. ”And she seemed so nice!”
Dirk shrugged and looked obnoxiously smug. ”I told you to take me along when you interviewed her. She never would've pulled the wool over the eyes of a cynical ol' curmudgeon like me.”
”So, what's the full plate number?” Savannah asked.
As Tammy rattled off the numbers, Savannah wrote them down on a sc.r.a.p of paper on the nightstand.
”That's wonderful, honey bun,” she said. ”You did good.”
There was a little giggle on the other end, but not the enthusiastic response Savannah expected from her usually overly effervescent a.s.sistant.
”How's it going back there?” she asked.
”Okay.” Again, the answer was a tad lackl.u.s.ter.
Savannah glanced over at Dirk, who was busy beating and folding his pillow, getting it just right. ”Is our little project coming along all right?” she asked.
”Yeah. That's coming along great.”
Hmmm. So, if everything's so great, why are you so glum? Savannah thought.