"If we help you catch this killer," he said, "there's something I want from you. In fact, I demand it."

"What's that?" La Cross asked suspiciously.

"I want a heartfelt apology from you. My wife is shapely, not husky. And this bomber jacket of mine is a cla.s.sic."

"I agree. Your wife is a lovely woman," she said grudgingly.

He scowled. "And my jacket?"

"If you help me catch the killer, we'll talk about that jacket."

As Savannah slid between the sheets and pulled the quilt up around her, she glanced over at her cell phone on the night table to see if she'd gotten any calls while in the bathtub.

"Fluff Head didn't call," Dirk told her as he got in beside her. "And you know what they say about how a watched phone never rings."

"I thought it was a watched pot that never boils."

"Same principle."

She grimaced as he tossed one leg over hers, rubbing a tender spot on her shin-residual battle damage from the no-longer-mentioned "Xenos Affair."

"You really have to stop calling her stuff like that. It's rude and stupid, when you consider she does stuff to help us solve these cases that we could never do ourselves. Like run this partial plate number."

"Ryan and John are helping her."

"Yeah, because you and I couldn't even talk their lingo, let alone get results. You need to show your superiors proper respect, meadow m.u.f.fin."

"And speaking of showing respect, why do I get a feeling that little term of endearment isn't all that reverential?"

She snickered and tickled his ribs until he wriggled and slapped her hand away. " 'Cause you're a cynical ol' curmudgeon," she told him.

"Hey! Why is it wrong for me to call Tammy a 'fluff head,' but you can call me a 'curmudgeon'?"

"Because in your case, it's true, where Tammy-"

Her phone began to play "You Are My Sunshine."

"Where Tammy is calling me right now." She reached for the phone and flipped it open. "Hey, babycakes. What's happenin'?"

"It's not too late, is it?" came the voice on the other end.

"Not for you. Got good news for me?"

"I have news. Whether it's good or not . . . that's up to you."

"Lay it on me."

"I got a possible on that plate." She drew a deep breath. "Those first four characters you gave me don't suggest it's a vanity plate."

"Right. So?"

"And La Cross said it was a Jeep, about ten years old."

"Okay?"

"Ten years ago, the sequence of letters and numbers on California plates that weren't vanity went-number, three letters, then three numbers."

Savannah looked over at Dirk, who was waiting on pins and needles, and rolled her eyes. He mouthed the words "Fluff head." She smacked him on the arm.

"What did we find, Miss Tammy, darlin'?"

"Well, I checked most of the nine hundred ninety-nine combinations of numbers for those last three, missing digits, and I found a black 2001 Jeep that belongs to someone living there on Santa Tesla."

"And it is . . . ?"

"Actually, it's not a person. It's more like an organization. It-"

"Tammy Hart, you are wearin' my nerves to a frazzle! What have you got?"

"The Island Protection League."

"No way! Dr. Glenn's group?"

"The very one."

Savannah turned to Dirk. "And she seemed so nice!"

Dirk shrugged and looked obnoxiously smug. "I told you to take me along when you interviewed her. She never would've pulled the wool over the eyes of a cynical ol' curmudgeon like me."

"So, what's the full plate number?" Savannah asked.

As Tammy rattled off the numbers, Savannah wrote them down on a sc.r.a.p of paper on the nightstand.

"That's wonderful, honey bun," she said. "You did good."

There was a little giggle on the other end, but not the enthusiastic response Savannah expected from her usually overly effervescent a.s.sistant.

"How's it going back there?" she asked.

"Okay." Again, the answer was a tad lackl.u.s.ter.

Savannah glanced over at Dirk, who was busy beating and folding his pillow, getting it just right. "Is our little project coming along all right?" she asked.

"Yeah. That's coming along great."

Hmmm. So, if everything's so great, why are you so glum? Savannah thought.

"How's Waycross?" she asked.

There was a long, telling pause. "Okay, I guess. Haven't seen much of him because he's been busy, you know, with that. When he is around, he's . . . well . . ." Another silence. "He's okay, I guess."

Savannah's heart sank, in spite of the intriguing information she'd just been given about the case. "Okay, darlin'," she said. "Excellent work there. I'll call you again tomorrow after I've reinterviewed Dr. Glenn."

"Nighty-night."

"Sweet dreams."

Savannah hung up the phone and switched off the light. Moonlight shone through the mullioned window, casting prison bar shadows across the bed. Every few seconds, the beam from the lighthouse made its round, bathing the room in a momentary silver glow.

"That's some pretty exciting news, huh?" Dirk said. "Finally we've got a halfway decent lead."

"Yeah. I guess."

He turned onto his side to face her. "What's up with you? Usually, you'd be dancing a jig around the room."

"I'm worried about Tammy and Waycross."

"You sound like Granny. Don't worry. They're old enough to behave themselves. And if they don't, they'll be careful."

"That's not what I mean. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"But they were getting along good. Great, in fact. What's wrong with that?"

"Waycross is backing off."

"You're kidding! Tammy's a doll, and hotter than a pistol. She's obviously crazy about him."

Savannah felt a tightening in her throat. Her eyes stung with unshed tears that seemed to well up from out of nowhere.

Not exactly nowhere, she reminded herself. Her tears and her brother's sprang from the same source.

"He doesn't feel worthy of her," Savannah said, her voice catching on the lump in her throat.

"Why the h.e.l.l not? He's a great guy."

"A great guy from a family tree with some really rotten branches on it," she said.

"Oh."

Savannah could hear the hurt in his voice-a lot of it-echoing in that one word. She had made her statement without thinking. In light of Dirk's recent revelations about his own family, she should have known better. This had to be a painful topic for him, too.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said finally.

"Of course, something like that shouldn't matter at all," she offered, thinking how lame it sounded.

"But it does."

"Does it?"

"Absolutely."

In the darkness, she could hear him swallow . . . hard.

"It can keep a guy from going after a special gal for a long time. Years even."

Savannah thought of all the years of friendship between Dirk and herself. Years when they were dear friends, but they could have been lovers.

She rolled onto her side, facing him, and gently touched his cheek. "What a shame," she said.

He kissed her, softly and sweetly. "Ain't it though?"

Chapter 21.

Savannah and Dirk had been unable to find Dr. Glenn at the office where Savannah had interviewed her before, but a volunteer, who was manning the desk, suggested they look at a nearby lake.

"Once a week, Dr. Glenn goes out there and picks up litter," the woman had told them. "She may be our director, but she isn't afraid to get her hands dirty when she has to."

"I wonder just how dirty she gets her hands," Savannah mused as she drove the Jaguar into a valley between two of the island's largest mountains.

Hills that looked like they had been covered with tawny-beige suede rose on either side of them, dotted with dark green sage bushes here and there. Yellow daisies and bright orange California poppies bloomed in profusion. Alongside the road, a creek burbled over its stony bed, reaching ever inland, flowing to the center of the island. Along its banks grew the occasional grove of ancient, gnarled oaks.

"A little mud on your hands is one thing," Dirk said as he enjoyed the view from the pa.s.senger seat. "Now, if we're talking blood, that's another story."

"I have to tell you, this one surprises me." Savannah shook her head. "You wait till you meet her. Dr. Glenn comes across as a quality person-intelligent, devoted to the well-being of this island. I just can't imagine her hanging out the window of a Jeep, shooting at a police chief."

Dirk sniffed. "Yeah, well, considering who the police chief is, I can imagine myself taking a shot at her. La Cross doesn't exactly bring out the best in people. She's a real battle-axe."

"That's a highly s.e.xist remark."

"Why? What's wrong with it? She is."

"If she were a man, you wouldn't say that. You'd say he had a strong personality."

"Naw. That's not true. I'd hate La Cross no matter what gender she was."

"How much of that is because she insulted your jacket?"

He glanced down and ran his hand lovingly over the old, cracking leather. "The woman's obviously got no taste. In men or in jackets."

"That's true . . . about the 'men' part."

He shot her a look.