Just Desserts by G. A. McKevett Read Free Book Online Page A

sympathetic smile.
    “Thank you, Jerry,” Beverly said as they hurried past. Savannah could see the guard’s affection for the councilwoman all over his face. A lot of people loved this lady—a fact that made Savannah all the more uncomfortable with the questions she would soon be asking her.
    Before they reached her office they were intercepted by an apparently harried and concerned chief of police, Norman Hillquist. One of the qualities Savannah had always admired about the chief was his ability to remain unruffled no matter what the circumstances. She had seen him face mobs of disgruntled constituents, the occasional desperate criminal, and ruthless political opponents without breaking a sweat on his wide brow.
    But this morning ... he definitely looked ruffled. He was even sweating, in spite of the lightweight white golf shirt he wore. Apparently he had received the call while on the green. She couldn’t remember a time when the chief had forsaken his game for anything as mundane as a homicide. His career was his life, but golf was his obsession.
    “Detective Reid,” he said, hurrying to her side, “I’d like to have a word with you.”
    He nodded briefly to Beverly Winston before ushering Savannah through the nearest door and into a supply closet. He shut the door behind them, and Savannah was momentarily confused by the darkness. Then he threw the light switch, and she experienced a pang of claustrophobia as the towers of photocopy paper, stick-on notepads, and adhesive tape seemed to close around her.
    Or, perhaps, it wasn’t the office materials intimidating her after all. Maybe the source of her discomfort was the almost palpable agitation radiating from the chief as he leaned closer to her, his breath warm on her cheek. She could smell the faint odor of beer and spices and guessed that he had enjoyed his usual Bloody Mary on the course.
    “Was it him?” he asked. “Did she identify Winston?”
    “Yes, I’m afraid so,” Savannah replied.
    “Damn.” The look of concern deepened on Hillquist’s tanned face and he shook his head. “Okay, so what have you got?”
    She stared at him for a moment, puzzled, then glanced down at her watch. “I’ve been on the investigation for an hour and a half, give or take ten minutes. I don’t have a hell of a lot yet.” He didn’t appear amused, so she continued. “Shotgun, three wounds—face, arm, leg. The janitor found him in his studio office on Main Street. No signs of forced entry or a struggle. Nothing obvious lying around at the scene.”
    “Have you questioned Mrs. Winston yet?”
    “Only briefly. That was my next step.”
    “Are you intending to do that now?”
    Somehow she got the feeling he wasn’t going to like her answer. “Well, yes ... I mean, she is the next of kin, and—”
    “Have you interrogated the janitor?”
    “Ah, no, but I got the idea from the patrolmen on the scene that his statement would be rather predictable.”
    He raised one carefully trimmed eyebrow. “Oh, really? Are you forgetting, Detective, that the person who calls in the homicide is often the perpetrator?”
    “No, Chief,” she replied, trying not to sound or look miffed. “I haven’t forgotten. I was simply proceeding with my investigation in the manner which I felt was most appropriate under the circumstances.”
    “The circumstances, Detective Reid, are these: Jonathan Winston has been murdered and his wife is the most influential force on this city’s council—and, may I add, she has been a steadfast supporter of the police department in all of her decisions. This is a small town, Savannah, full of individuals with big mouths. Councilwoman Winston could be destroyed within twenty-four hours, and a lot of people’s dreams with her.”
    “I realize the gravity of the situation, Chief,” she said, trying to appear more patient than she felt. Although she seldom experienced symptoms of claustrophobia, the closet walls appeared to be closing in around