Cereal Killer by G. A. McKevett Page B

rather than murdered. And I could still believe that maybe Cait Connor died of dehydration.”
    “True. Killing yourself through stupidity is better than getting murdered.”
    “A little better.”
    “Yeah, a little. But, then, dead is still dead.”
    Savannah sighed. Detective Sergeant Dirk Coulter, she thought, a man of few words. But not few enough.
    On the front door of the cottage hung a wreath of dried grapevines sprigged with lavender and wild sage. The aroma scented the whole porch and gave the home a cozy, welcoming presence.
    Dirk rang the doorbell several times, but there was no sound of movement within, and no one pulled the curtains aside to look out.
    He turned the doorknob and gently pushed; the door opened an inch. Turning back to Savannah, he said, “How sure are you that was Wills back there on the road?”
    “Sure,” she replied.
    “Sure, sure?”
    “I hate to say it, but I’m sure as shootin’.”
    “Okay then,” he said, slowing pushing the door open. He took one step inside. “Anybody here?” he called. “San Carmelita Police Department. Anyone home?”
    Instinctively, Savannah’s hand slipped under her sweater, and she unsnapped the holster that held her Beretta. She noticed that Dirk had reached under his leather jacket, too, for his Smith & Wesson.
    She followed him into the gloom of the living room, where they waited just inside the doorway for their eyes to adjust to the dim light.
    White wooden shutters were closed over the windows, and only a small amount of sunshine filtered between the slats, throwing thin blades of golden light onto a cream-colored Berber carpet.
    The room was sparsely but tastefully decorated with the clean lines of contemporary furnishings. In front of the window sat a tan leather sofa, and a chest with brass fittings served as a coffee table. Over a fireplace in the center of the far wall hung a large black-and-white photograph of Kameeka Wills. Draped in a sheer, hooded robe, she stood on a rugged cliff overlooking the ocean in a landscape that reminded Savannah of the Monterey area.
    A wind was whipping the garment around her long, shapely limbs, and she had a look of unworldly peace and soul-deep contentment on her beautiful face as she stared out across the horizon.
    Savannah’s mind flashed back to the bruised and bloodied body she had just seen on the side of the road, and her heart ached.
    “That her?” Dirk asked, nodding toward the picture.
    “It was,” Savannah replied.
    “Too bad. A pretty girl,” he said.
    Savannah smiled in spite of her sadness. One of Dirk’s most endearing qualities as a man was his complete oblivion to weight issues. The only time she had ever heard him complain about a woman’s build was when he occasionally remarked upon seeing an extremely thin woman, “Boy, she looks like she could use a cheeseburger and a milkshake.”
    “Anybody here?” Dirk called out again, projecting his deep bass voice down the hall to their right.
    As before, there was no reply.
    Ahead lay a dining area with a glass-topped table and bamboo chairs with comfortable-looking seat cushions. In the middle of the spotless glass sat a crystal vase and a simple arrangement of multicolored tulips.
    On the wall, stainless steel shelves that were equally free of dust or fingerprint smudges held a dozen picture frames containing photos of what must have been Kameeka’s family and friends.
    Loved ones—who probably didn’t know yet that she was gone from their lives, Savannah thought as she studied one picture in which Kameeka was in the center, her arms around the shoulders of two younger women who looked so much like her that they had to be sisters.
    For a moment Savannah allowed the thought to play through her mind of how she would feel to lose one of her own sisters in such a way. But just as quickly as the thought sprang into her mind, she pushed it firmly away. Professionals couldn’t think of such things when they were “on the job.” It