Read Online Cereal Killer by G. A. McKevett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: G. A. McKevett
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kids.”
Marietta’s face registered the struggle between good and evil... for less than three heartbeats. She turned to Tammy and said, “William Albert Donaldson. Born 5-27-61. Check ’im out. And while you’re at it, find out if he’s got a pot to piss in.”
Savannah met Dirk in the parking lot and walked with him up the sidewalk toward the county medical examiner’s center. In keeping with the rest of the city’s government structures, the ME’s buildings were pseudo-Spanish style with beige stucco walls and red tile roofing. Ice plants filled the flower beds along the walkway... drought-resistant plantings only, of course. The occasional dry spell, complete with water restrictions, was just one of the unpleasant realities of Southern California living, along with earthquakes, brush fires, and Santa Ana winds.
“Thanks for inviting me along,” Savannah told him, as he opened the door for her. “I needed to get away before I did Mari some serious harm.”
‘Yes, you sounded pretty stressed out when I called,” he said with a chuckle. “I don’t know why you try to keep your dingbat sisters out of trouble all the time. It’s a waste of energy.”
“Ain’t it, though? As soon as anybody fishes them out of trouble and gets them hosed off, they find another dirty puddle to flounce around in. Sometimes I think they like the mud.”
“Now you’re figuring it out. What’s that your grandma says about singing pigs?”
“Don’t try to teach a pig to sing. It’s a waste of your time, and it irritates the pig.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Easier said than done when it’s your family.”
“I know. That’s why I don’t have one. Too much trouble.”
They approached the desk where they would have to sign in before proceeding to Dr. Liu’s autopsy suite in the rear of the building.
As a slovenly clerk in a badly fitting, wrinkled uniform sauntered around the partition, Savannah could feel her toes curl inside her loafers. Officer Kenny Bates. Her least favorite person on the planet.
“Hey, Savannah!” His pudgy face split with a wide, lecherous grin as he hurried over to her. “Long time no see. You’re lookin’ good, girl!”
Savannah ignored him and reached for the sign-in pad. With the pen that was attached to the clipboard by a piece of dirty twine, she wrote the name “Wilma Flint-stone” and shoved it over to Dirk. She had been using cartoon pseudonyms for years, and old Kenny had been too busy panting over her bustline to even notice.
“Back off, Bates,” Dirk growled as he scribbled his name. ‘You’re pollutin’ the air over here. Cheez, use some mouthwash, would ya?”
But Kenny didn’t even flinch. He leaned across the counter until his face was only inches from Savannah’s.
He smelled of something like egg salad and garlic, with the lingering note of eau de b.o.
“You never got back to me about when you’re coming over to my place,” he said in what he no doubt considered to be a deep, sexy voice.
She had received obscene phone calls with more appeal.
He glanced over at the glowering Dirk and whispered, “I just got some new black satin sheets. You oughta come check them out.”
“Trust me, Bates,” she said, fixing him with blue lasers. “I ain’t your type. I’m not inflatable.”
As she and Dirk walked away, Bates called after them, “One of these days, girl, I’m gonna tell the captain that you come in here with Coulter. He’d take exception to that, I bet. You and him never did get along. People around here say that’s why you got fired.”
Dirk spun on his heel and in less than a heartbeat had reached across the divider and grabbed Bates by the front of his too-tight shirt. He yanked him halfway over the counter, where he held him until Bates’s face went from red to purple.
“The day”—Dirk began with deadly emphasis on each word—“the day that you cause any trouble for Savannah or for me is the day that you suffer, Bates. You
Marietta’s face registered the struggle between good and evil... for less than three heartbeats. She turned to Tammy and said, “William Albert Donaldson. Born 5-27-61. Check ’im out. And while you’re at it, find out if he’s got a pot to piss in.”
Savannah met Dirk in the parking lot and walked with him up the sidewalk toward the county medical examiner’s center. In keeping with the rest of the city’s government structures, the ME’s buildings were pseudo-Spanish style with beige stucco walls and red tile roofing. Ice plants filled the flower beds along the walkway... drought-resistant plantings only, of course. The occasional dry spell, complete with water restrictions, was just one of the unpleasant realities of Southern California living, along with earthquakes, brush fires, and Santa Ana winds.
“Thanks for inviting me along,” Savannah told him, as he opened the door for her. “I needed to get away before I did Mari some serious harm.”
‘Yes, you sounded pretty stressed out when I called,” he said with a chuckle. “I don’t know why you try to keep your dingbat sisters out of trouble all the time. It’s a waste of energy.”
“Ain’t it, though? As soon as anybody fishes them out of trouble and gets them hosed off, they find another dirty puddle to flounce around in. Sometimes I think they like the mud.”
“Now you’re figuring it out. What’s that your grandma says about singing pigs?”
“Don’t try to teach a pig to sing. It’s a waste of your time, and it irritates the pig.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Easier said than done when it’s your family.”
“I know. That’s why I don’t have one. Too much trouble.”
They approached the desk where they would have to sign in before proceeding to Dr. Liu’s autopsy suite in the rear of the building.
As a slovenly clerk in a badly fitting, wrinkled uniform sauntered around the partition, Savannah could feel her toes curl inside her loafers. Officer Kenny Bates. Her least favorite person on the planet.
“Hey, Savannah!” His pudgy face split with a wide, lecherous grin as he hurried over to her. “Long time no see. You’re lookin’ good, girl!”
Savannah ignored him and reached for the sign-in pad. With the pen that was attached to the clipboard by a piece of dirty twine, she wrote the name “Wilma Flint-stone” and shoved it over to Dirk. She had been using cartoon pseudonyms for years, and old Kenny had been too busy panting over her bustline to even notice.
“Back off, Bates,” Dirk growled as he scribbled his name. ‘You’re pollutin’ the air over here. Cheez, use some mouthwash, would ya?”
But Kenny didn’t even flinch. He leaned across the counter until his face was only inches from Savannah’s.
He smelled of something like egg salad and garlic, with the lingering note of eau de b.o.
“You never got back to me about when you’re coming over to my place,” he said in what he no doubt considered to be a deep, sexy voice.
She had received obscene phone calls with more appeal.
He glanced over at the glowering Dirk and whispered, “I just got some new black satin sheets. You oughta come check them out.”
“Trust me, Bates,” she said, fixing him with blue lasers. “I ain’t your type. I’m not inflatable.”
As she and Dirk walked away, Bates called after them, “One of these days, girl, I’m gonna tell the captain that you come in here with Coulter. He’d take exception to that, I bet. You and him never did get along. People around here say that’s why you got fired.”
Dirk spun on his heel and in less than a heartbeat had reached across the divider and grabbed Bates by the front of his too-tight shirt. He yanked him halfway over the counter, where he held him until Bates’s face went from red to purple.
“The day”—Dirk began with deadly emphasis on each word—“the day that you cause any trouble for Savannah or for me is the day that you suffer, Bates. You
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