"You said that two people who might have posed a threat to her came to mind," Savannah said. "Who was the other one?"

Edward hesitated, as though reluctant to talk about the second individual. He looked at Savannah, then at Dirk. The expressions on their faces clearly showed they weren't going to leave without this additional information.

"Well?" Dirk snapped. "Who's the other one?"

"Ian Xenos."

The name rang a slight bell for Savannah, but she couldn't recall where she'd heard it before. Something to do with organized crime or fashion?

"Who the h.e.l.l's Ian Xenos?" Dirk asked. "And what kinda name is that?"

"Probably fake," Edward told him. "Xenos is head of a group of fashion merchandise counterfeiters who sell designer knockoffs in Los Angeles and New York. Amelia not only exposed his organization, but she proved the money was being funneled to a terrorist group."

"Yes, I can see why that wouldn't make her very popular with him," Savannah said as she texted Ian Xenos, background to Tammy and Waycross.

"Where's Xenos right now?" Dirk asked.

"About six weeks ago, they arrested him. He's out on bail, awaiting his trial in a month or so. He's the reason we're so tight with our security at the moment. Thanks to her expose on his group, we're on high alert around here. At least until the trial's over."

"Yes, I'll bet you are," Savannah said, her stomach roiling at the thought of terrorists.

She knew she would never, for the rest of her life, get over 9/11 or the Oklahoma City Bombing. They were the only two events-other than her own personal-life tragedies-that simply thinking of them would instantly cause tears to spring to her eyes.

Though Granny Reid had taught her to forgive her enemies and not to hate anyone, she truly despised terrorists, both homegrown and foreign alike. And she didn't feel one bit guilty about it, Granny's upbringing aside.

"I understand," she said, "that Ms. Northrop was married. Can you tell us anything about her husband, her marriage?"

"Not much," Edward replied. "Amelia had an established career in journalism before they met, and it took a lot of her time and energy. He's a very successful businessman, and that kept him busy. But they seemed to have a good marriage. Can't say I saw them together all that often, but at office parties and stuff like that, they seemed like a loving couple."

"Other than those two guys you told us about, is there anyone else you can think of who might do harm to Ms. Northrop?" Dirk asked. "Personal or professional?"

Edward seemed to think it over before saying, "Not really. Amelia was ruthless as a reporter, but around here she was very loved and respected." He paused, and Savannah saw him bite his lower lip before continuing. "We're going to miss her. A lot."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Savannah said, meaning it. In her career she had seen far too many people suffer terrible losses, precious loved ones gone forever because of someone else's violence. "I wish there was something we could do for you."

Edward looked her squarely in the eyes, and for a moment, the otherwise lackl.u.s.ter, even mousy-looking guy behind the desk radiated an unexpected, ferocious energy.

"If what you're telling me is true," he said, "and Amelia was really murdered, get whoever did it and see to it that they pay. I want justice for my reporter."

Dirk and Savannah stood. Dirk reached across the desk and offered him his hand.

"Mr. Deville, we're going to do our very best. We promise."

As Dirk drove them along Interstate 10 toward Luna Bonita, Savannah called Tammy on her cell phone.

Tammy snapped it up on the first ring. "Those are bad, evil, nasty guys that you had us check out," she said without her customary sunshine-and-light "h.e.l.lo."

"Oh, we know," Savannah told her. "We just wanted you to find out how bad."

"Stay the heck away from them! That's how bad. One stalks and beats up women, and the second one makes the first guy look like a saint."

"Yes, we know. We're on our way right now to try to find the stalker dude in Luna Bonita. Got an address?"

Tammy rattled off the information as Savannah jotted it and directions on the back of one of Dirk's bank deposit receipts, which she'd found lying on the floorboard. She quickly ran out of room on the tiny sheet and had to write the rest on a discarded McDonald's bag.

"Someday you gotta clean out this car, boy," she mumbled as she scribbled.

"If I do, you won't have anything to write on," he shot back.

"This guy you're on your way to see," Tammy said, "is a felon. Served two sentences for a.s.sault on two different women. Then there are all the times the police arrested him, but the females wouldn't press charges."

"How bad were his attacks?" Savannah asked.

"He's been violent for years. But the earlier accusations were for pushing, shoving, slapping . . . that kind of thing. It was six years ago that he beat the c.r.a.p out of his ex-wife. Broke her jaw. He served a year for that. He'd only been out six months when he messed up a girlfriend really, really bad. She was in a coma for weeks. He served two years for that. I can see here that Amelia Northrop had an RO against him."

"Yes, he was stalking her."

"Oh no! Poor woman. And he was escalating." There was a long, heavy pause on the other end before Tammy added, "They always do."

"Yes, darlin', they do," Savannah agreed.

She hated to hear such pain in Tammy's voice. This was a difficult topic for them both. Like many strong, intelligent, loving women, Tammy had once found herself ensnared in an abusive relationship. She had finally gotten out, but the price for her freedom had been terribly high. Neither Tammy nor Savannah could ever forget how high.

"Want me to whack him upside the head or across the chops one for you?" Savannah asked, trying to lighten the mood of the moment. "Or, like Granny says, I could jerk a knot in his tail."

"I like the sound of that one," came back the half-playful, still half-sad reply.

"Then consider it done."

Savannah saw their exit ramp approaching and knew she would soon have to be directing Dirk to Burt Ferris's residence. "I gotta go, sweet cheeks," she said. "Thank you for that good work."

"Okay. No problem. But I have to go home and throw some things into a suitcase, get ready to go out to the island with Ryan and John. I'll get back to my research once I'm there."

"Sounds good, kiddo. Bye-bye."

She hung up and turned to Dirk. "Would you mind terribly if I conducted this upcoming interview myself?"

He gave her a quick sideways glance, then snickered. "Can I watch?"

"Sure. You get a ringside seat."

"How many rounds you figure it'll go?"

"As many as it takes to get the job done."

Chapter 9.

There were some lovely residential areas in Luna Bonita. Areas where flowers bloomed in well-kept yards; lawns were not only mowed but nicely edged. Houses were freshly painted. Most cars were parked in garages, and those that sat in driveways were clean and had all four tires.

Burt Ferris didn't live in one of those areas.

He lived on a street of deteriorating apartment buildings with broken windows, broken-down cars lining the driveways, and people with broken dreams sitting on stoops and curbs, swigging alcoholic beverages.

"Strange, ain't it?" she told Dirk as they pa.s.sed one building after another, looking for number 163. "You never see folks sitting on street curbs suckin' on beer cans in good neighborhoods."

"That's 'cause they do their swilling inside closed doors," he replied. "And you don't see a lot of wrought-iron bars over the windows in good neighborhoods either."

Savannah glanced up. "Even on the second story. We may do well to get outta here alive."

"What are you talking about? We worked worst places than this in our day. With our eyes blindfolded and our hands tied behind our backs. We were bada.s.ses."

"And now?"

"You're still bad. I'm just an a.s.s."

They looked at each other and grinned.

"I love you, Van," he said.

"I love you, too. You grew on me when I wasn't looking."

She saw some numbers on a building to her right. It looked like "193," but then she realized the "9" was a "6" that had fallen over.

"There it is," she said. "Wouldn't you know it. It'd be the worst one on the block."

"Well, of course. If we're going to spend our honeymoon slumming, might as well be for real."

They parked, and as Savannah got out of the car, she was nearly run over by a young girl on a bicycle.

"Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am," the girl said humbly, stopping and stepping off the bike. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, sugar. I'm fine. But you really shouldn't ride on the sidewalk."

"I don't most places," the child replied. "But there's bad holes in the street here. I fell in one the other day." She pointed to a badly skinned knee, which didn't appear to have received any first aid at all.

Savannah gave her a smile and a pat on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it then, punkin'. You ride on the sidewalk, if you need to. Just be careful and don't mow anybody down. 'Kay?"

The girl nodded, got back on her bike, and rode away. Savannah watched her, thinking of how she had once been much like that little girl. Poor and neglected, living in an area unsafe even for hardened criminals, let alone softhearted children.

"Tell me something," Dirk said as he walked over to her and laced his arm through hers, "why is it that you Southerners always call children by food names?"

"What? Food names?"

"Yeah . . . 'sugar,' 'honey bun,' 'dumplin',' 'sweet cakes,' 'punkin,' 'b.u.t.ter bean,' 'cow pie.' "

"I'd never call a child a 'cow pie.' "

"You call me a 'cow pie'!"

"That's different."

"One of these days, I'm gonna ask Granny to tell me what all these phrases mean that you've been using on me over the years."

"I wouldn't recommend that."

"Why not?"

Savannah gulped, then shrugged. "Um, let's just say Southernisms lose a lot in translation."

They reached the building and located apartment number 13, which was upstairs and on the far end.

"Guess he wasn't superst.i.tious when he rented it," Savannah said as she checked her weapon, which was now strapped in its holster on her left side.

Dirk readied his as well; then he gave the door his loudest, most official, authoritative "police" knock.

It was a while before anyone answered, and then it was only a shout through the closed door.

"Yeah? Who are you, and what do you want?"

"San Carmelita Police Department. Open up!"

Savannah suppressed a chuckle. She couldn't help noticing that he had mumbled the "San Carmelita" part of his announcement and emphasized the "Police Department."

While California law would allow him to make an arrest if necessary, even outside the San Carmelita city limits, Amelia Northrop's murder wasn't officially his case. And it certainly wasn't hers. So their presence at ol' Burt's place of residence might be questionable at best.

But that sort of thing had never stopped them before. And it wasn't likely to now.

The door opened a crack with the chain on, and a guy whom Savannah could only cla.s.sify as "weasely-lookin' " peeked out.

"What do you want?" he repeated.

"To talk to you," Dirk said. "Are you Burt Ferris?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Open the door."

"I don't have to. Nothing's going on in here that needs cop attention. Huh, babe?" He turned around and nodded to someone behind him. "Tell 'em there's nothing they need to worry about going on in here."

"Nothing's going on," came a quavering female voice from inside. "Nothing at all."

Savannah felt like it was Christmas morning, and she had won the lottery and had gotten exactly what she wanted from Santa Claus-all at the same time.