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which way he went.”
    She nodded thoughtfully. “Your old geezer neighbor said you were running around in the altogether. Come to think of it, he told the cops that, too. You’d better call this in, buddy, before they get here.”
    Dirk glanced over at Polly, at the pool of blood around her, and he shuddered. “It looks bad, huh, Van?”
    His eyes looked directly into hers. She saw and felt his fear. She wanted to say something to allay his concerns. But she and Dirk had always shot straight with each other in times of trouble. This wasn’t the time to start lying to him, no matter how altruistic her reasons.
    “It looks bad, buddy. She’s shot with your gun, in your trailer. You’ve got her blood all over you. You say you were arguing right before, and you’ve got nosy neighbors only a few feet away who probably heard you. You’re in deep, pal. Right up to your gills.” She reached for the cell phone, sitting on top of the television, and handed it to him. “You’d better make that call.”
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CHAPTER FOUR

    Dirk and Savannah sat across from each other at the no-frills table in the no-frills interrogation room in the San Carmelita Police Station. The cubicle-sized enclosure had been designed to give the invited “guests” of the SCPD that claustrophobic, we-got-you-now-sucker feeling. And it was most effective. With nothing to look at but the gray paint on the walls, nothing to sit on but the gray aluminum folding chairs, and the temperature raised to at least eighty-five degrees, the occupants had that snug, cozy feeling usually associated with being inside a pressure cooker.
    Dirk was looking a bit better, Savannah noted with a sense of relief. At least he had some color in his face, his hair was dry, and he was dressed in his usual past-its-prime polo shirt, jeans, and sneakers. He seemed less vulnerable… though, from the haunted look in his eyes, she suspected that wasn’t altogether true.
    “I can’t believe they put you in the sweat tank,” she said, drumming her fingertips on the gouged surface of the table. “I mean, I’m persona non grata around this place, but you… you’re still family, for cryin’ out loud.”
    Dirk reached beneath the table and yanked the wire off the tiny microphone installed there. “Yeah, you’d think we could talk this over at Joe’s Bar. At least I could get bombed there. Boy, do I feel like it.”
    “We’ll… ah… raise your spirits later, buddy. Just give them what they want and we’ll get outta here. Be careful though. Don’t let ‘em hang you out to dry.”
    Dirk cleared his throat and stood, trying to see out the tiny window in the door. “What do you suppose they’re doing out there?”
    “Fighting, like a pack of jackals, over who gets to pick your bones.”
    He turned back to her, one eyebrow quirked. “Thanks. I knew there was some reason why I made them let you in here.”
    “I meant to ask—how did you do that?”
    “I told them I wanted either you or a lawyer.”
    “I’m flattered… I guess.”
    “Don’t be. I like lawyers even less than I like doctors.”
    He sighed and dropped back onto his chair, which complained with a rusty, grinding sound.
    “If that chair breaks and dumps you on your rear, you could sue the city for a wrenched heinie,” Savannah said brightly. Too brightly.
    Again he gave her a rueful not-quite grin. “Stop trying to cheer me up, okay? It ain’t cuttin’ it.”
    She nodded. “Gotcha.” Instantly, she turned serious. “What are you going to tell them when they ask you what—”
    The door swung open and Lieutenant Quince Jeffries marched into the “tank.” Jeffries was a company man all the way. Three-piece charcoal suit, thick, prematurely silver hair slicked back in a GQ do, and ramrod posture that would make a Marine look like a slouch.
    Savannah had always suspected that a three-feet-long steel ramrod had been surgically implanted in his colon, forever stiffening his posture and detrimentally