Killer Gourmet by G.A. McKevett Page A

getting pretty good at this.
    â€œWe’ve got some of that Chantilly cream left over,” she told him with a little elbow nudge and a sideways wink. “Whatcha say we put it to good use tonight?”
    The clouds parted, and sunlight shone on his face. “You betcha, babe! Wow! Great idea!”

Chapter 6
    I n order to avoid the brass, who had fired her—thereby also avoiding the temptation to murder any of them for doing so—Savannah always snuck through the back door of the police station.
    Although she was held in only the highest esteem by the rank and file of the SCPD, she was pretty sure that the suits were about as eager to run into her as she was them.
    All parties involved would prefer to tippy-toe, naked and barefoot, through a field of poison ivy and cockleburs.
    Plus, the back entrance was the shortest way to get to the interrogation rooms. Just through the door, down a dark and depressing hallway, and to the left was an equally dark and depressing room that was little more than a cubicle.
    Dirk fondly referred to it as the “sweat box.”
    â€œYou wanna watch through a one-way mirror?” he asked her.
    She shot him a look of disdain.
    â€œOr would you rather climb in the ring with us?”
    â€œDoes Victoria’s Secret have fancy bloomers?”
    â€œGotcha.”
    She took a seat inside Interrogation Room B and waited while Dirk went to the reception area to collect his interviewee.
    At least she called them “interviewees.” Dirk had other, more colorful names for them. Terms best not used in front of news cameras or defense attorneys.
    As she sat on the hard, cold, gray metal chair and wished for a couple of warm, comfy cushions, she took a moment to contemplate the wisdom that had been employed when decorating this room.
    The walls were covered with dingy and stained, white-in-a-past-life, acoustic tiles. They were the sort that one would normally only have the opportunity to enjoy on an old and badly neglected schoolroom’s ceiling. Savannah supposed they had been installed—rather than, say, paintings of the bucolic, rural roads of Vermont—for soundproofing. But their primary purpose was probably to convey the message, “Go ahead and scream all you want, nobody’s going to hear you.”
    In all of Savannah’s law enforcement years, she could honestly say she had never witnessed an act of cop violence toward a suspect, beyond what was absolutely necessary to apprehend and control them.
    But this room, with its gray walls, gray chairs, and gray table, had no doubt been designed to suggest to bad guys that they were very much in the hands of the law and therefore in danger of some serious unpleasantness.
    So when Dirk marched his interviewee into the room, pulled out one of the metal chairs from the metal table, and gave him a moderately gentle nudge in that direction, Savannah wasn’t surprised. Nor did she consider it strange to see that the gentle, affectionate teddy bear of a guy, who petted and cooed to her cats for hours on end at home, was wearing a scowl that would have intimidated a male rhinoceros during mating season.
    It was all an act. And within these walls, Dirk had won far more than his share of Academy Awards.
    For that matter, so had she.
    â€œHave a seat over there, Manuel, my man,” Dirk told him. “It’s time you and I had a serious talk. Mano a mano.”
    Manuel sank onto the chair, leaned back, and folded his arms across his chest. His denim shirt and jeans—threadbare, stained, and ragged—were simple testaments to years of hard labor. From the high decree of sun damage on his handsome, young face, Savannah suspected that he had spent more of his life working outdoors than inside a restaurant kitchen.
    Everything about his appearance bespoke poverty, except for the simple but shiny gold wedding ring on his finger. Pristine and without a scratch, it seemed out of place with the rest