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Savannah liked to think that her adrenaline rush had nothing to do with the pile of greenbacks and the promise of more.
    Nope. Nothing at all.

CHAPTER FOUR
    N ot for the first time, Savannah pulled into the Shady Vale Trailer Park and wondered where this nondescript piece of real estate had gotten its name. Without a tree in sight or even a minor indentation that might be considered a ditch, let alone a valley, she couldn’t imagine.
    Near the beach in San Carmelita was another mobile-home park, one with perfectly manicured lawns and spacious homes that were like miniature mansions inside. But that park had nothing in common with Shady Vale.
    Situated on the outskirts of town, the park housed Dirk Coulter, twice-divorced police detective, a few lower-income families with young children, who were starting out in life, and one old codger and his wife who were ending theirs. Not quite soon enough was the opinion held by some at Shady Vale, including Dirk.
    Savannah had long held the notion that pure and simple meanness had the power to preserve certain individuals, not unlike pickling vinegar, alcohol, and formaldehyde.
    More often than not, when Savannah came here to see Dirk, she had to run the gauntlet of Mr. and Mrs. Biddle’s verbal abuse and interrogation. Having lived in the park longer than anyone else, and possessing the first lot on the right near the entrance, they seemed to think that they owned the place—locks, stocks, and trailer hitches.
    â€œHey you! Who are ya and whatdaya want?” Mr. Biddle hollered across the narrow dirt road as Savannah climbed out of her Camaro and headed for Dirk’s green-and-white-striped and rust-streaked trailer.
    â€œMr. Biddle, don’t hassle me,” she snapped, not in the mood for his foolishness. “You know darned well who I am.”
    From his seat on a broken-down plastic chaise in front of his trailer, Mr. Biddle could see everything in his “domain.” Or at least, he could if he weren’t as blind as a bat with faulty sonar. What he lacked in perfect vision, he seemed to make up in pure nasal audacity, Savannah surmised. Even in her tiny hometown in Georgia, people weren’t that nosy.
    Well, maybe they were, but they were far too well mannered to appear so. If they were going to spy on you, they had the common decency to do it while peeking from behind drawn curtains.
    â€œIf you’re goin’ to see that cop fella, he ain’t outta bed yet,” Mr. Biddle announced over the top of his beer can ... the breakfast of champions. Most of the ale he had consumed over the past few decades seemed to have settled around his midriff. The rest of his lanky body was thin, so he looked like a donut stuck halfway down a stick.
    â€œHow do you know Dirk isn’t up yet?” She couldn’t resist asking, because she could never tell herself. Dirk always kept his curtains drawn; he seemed to think it negated the need for dusting. And he seldom ventured outside unless he was in the process of coming or going.
    His old Buick was parked in his gravel driveway.
    Mr. Biddle grinned a sly, toothless smile. “Ain’t heard his commode flush yet,” he announced proudly.
    Not bad detective work, she mused. If old Mr. Biddle would only use his powers for good.
    â€œHe’ll get up for me,” she said before considering the possible sexual innuendo. No matter; Old Man Biddle probably hadn’t even heard her.
    Quickly she passed Mr. B., his trailer, his chaise, and his beer. Today, his vision seemed better than usual. His bleary eyes followed her as she walked by, and she could almost swear he was checking her out.
    â€œYep ...” He nodded his approval. “... I’d say, if you can’t get ’im up, missy, nobody can.”
    Savannah did a double take to see if she had heard correctly. Yes, there was definitely a leer on the wrinkled face—toothless, perhaps, but a distinct leer.
    â€œHarry,