Bitter Sweets

the slammed door, four inches from her nose, and her ears were ringing from the concussion.

    So much for that interview and whatever it might have revealed.

    She supposed she was lucky.

    At least he hadn’t given Beowulf permission to eat her.

    As Savannah walked through the front door of the San Carmelita Main Street Police Station, she wondered if she would ever enter this building again without feeling queasy and more than a little sick at heart.

    Probably not.

    She had enjoyed being a cop. Well...maybe “enjoyed” wasn’t the word, she thought, reconsidering. There had been plenty of nightmare experiences, too. Dark, painful, infinitely sad and downright terrifying times. But she had thrived on the stress and reveled in the satisfaction that she had been good at her job.

    Too good.

    She had solved the wrong homicide case, exposed the wrong individuals, and gotten her butt canned. When the “truth” involved the chief of police and a prominent councilwoman .. . one’s investigatory skills could prove detrimental to one’s career advancement.

    Since she had been unceremoniously dismissed from the force, she had limited her trips to the station to after hours. This way, she could be assured of avoiding Chief Hillquist and Captain Bloss, her two least-favorite people in the world.

    She nodded to Denise Harmon, who held down the fortor more specifically, the front desk-during the night shift. Like most of the department personnel Savannah met from time to time, Denise greeted her warmly. It was a commonly held opinion among the rank and file that Savannah had been badly mistreated and unfairly dismissed.

    “Hey, Savannah. How are you doing?” she said with a bright, open smile that was her most attractive feature. Maybe it was Denise’s only attractive feature-she was a bit streetworn and rough around the edges-but Savannah had stopped noticing that a long time ago. Some people were just so nice and good-hearted that such things didn’t matter.

    “How am I doing?” Savannah responded, donning her thickest Southern accent. “Thanks for asking. As a matter of fact, I’m just sweeter than peee-can pie, darlin’.”

    “And nuttier, too,” said an underly enthusiastic male voice.

    Savannah turned to see Dirk standing in the squad room doorway, a goofy grin on his face. He spotted the brown bag in her hand and the smirk widened.

    “You brought it!” he exclaimed.

    “Of course.” She held out the bag to him. “I know better than to appear around here without a sacrificial offering of burnt flesh for the beast.”

    “Burnt flesh?” He crinkled his nose.

    “Honey baked ham and smoked turkey. I realize it’s a departure from your usual three-pounds-for-a-dollar bologna, but-”

    “I’ll take it.”

    “Somehow I thought you would.”

    He ushered her into the squad room with more aplomb and respect than usual. Much more.

    Long ago Savannah had discovered that food was the most tried-and-true way to any human being’s heart. There was hardly any soul so hardened that it couldn’t be softened with a Black Forest cake or a piece of apple pie.

    Besides, the more generous individuals sometimes shared the gift with the giver.

    That wasn’t going to happen, she realized as she watched Dirk walk over to his desk, unwrap the sandwich, and bury his face in it. When it came to food, Dirk never shared.

    “So, what do I have to do for this?” he asked around the mouthful of ham and turkey.

    “Run a name for me.”

    “Only one?”

    “To start with.”

    Having consumed half of the sandwich in three bites, he laid the rest aside and rolled his chair in front of the computer. She grabbed a nearby chair and sat beside him.

    “Who?” he asked, trying to sound gruff. Early in their relationship, Savannah had figured out the rather simple psychic puzzle that was “Dirk Coulter.” Dirk would do anything in the world for anyone, but he wanted them to feel at least a wee bit guilty for squandering his precious time and interfering with his life.

    As though he had a life.

    “Lisa Mallock,” she replied, then spelled the last name. “Date of birth: June 13, 1951.”

    He accessed the Department of Motor Vehicles records first. Peering anxiously at the screen, Savannah was disappointed to see the same address as she had just visited, 1513 N. Lotus. But at least she had a physical description and picture - her first look at the lady in question.

    Lisa Mallock was an attractive