Free Bitter Sweets by G. A. McKevett Page A

heard him draw a ragged, strangling gasp.
    Returning the pistol to its holster, she placed one hand on his chest and gently coaxed him backward. Maybe he hadn’t seen the ripped sheet or the bloody pillow. “I’m not sure,” she said. “But it doesn’t look good.”
    â€œDo you think her ex-husband did something to her?”
    â€œI don’t know. We’ll have to call the police and—”
    At that moment they heard a loud noise; someone had thrown open the front door. Heavy footsteps. Male voices.
    â€œStay here,” she whispered to Brian as she pulled her gun again. Pushing him aside, she crept along the wall and took a peek around the corner into the living room.
    By the light of the open doorway, she saw three silhouettes, a trio of men, standing in the center of the room. As her eyes adjusted to the brightness, she recognized the one nearest her.
    â€œDirk?” she asked.
    He whirled around, obviously as shocked to see her as she had been to identify him. “Van?”
    â€œIt’s me. And who are . . . . ?”
    Even as she uttered the words, she realized that the fellow by the door was Colonel Forrest Neilson, and the third was one of her least-favorite people.
    â€œWhy, Captain Bloss,” she muttered with saccharine sweetness, “what a pure dee-light to set eyes upon you again.”
    â€œYeah, right,” he replied with that grating nasal voice and perpetual liquid sniff that had always made her hate him . . . . along with a few other hundred reasons that came immediately to mind. As her superior, Bloss had forced her out of the San Carmelita Police Department for grossly unfair reasons. That was her foremost reason for wanting to see him roasting on a spit at a country barbecue, and she knew at least a couple dozen individuals who would eagerly stand in line for the chance to turn him.
    â€œWhy are you in my daughter’s house?” Colonel Neilson took a step toward her and she fought the urge to back away from him. In spite of his age and disabilities, he was still an intimidating figure.
    â€œI had an appointment with Mrs. Mallock,” she replied evenly, stretching the truth only a bit. Lisa hadn’t exactly been expecting her, but she had promised to be in touch soon.
    Close enough.
    â€œAt what time?” Bloss said.
    â€œFive minutes ago.”
    â€œYou saw Lisa five minutes ago?” Dirk asked.
    â€œNo,” Savannah had to admit. “She doesn’t appear to be at home.”
    â€œOf course she isn’t home,” the colonel interjected, his bass voice booming through the eerie silence of the house. “Why do you think we’re here?”
    â€œWhy are you here?” Savannah addressed the question to Dirk, who was looking unusually miserable, even for him.
    â€œBecause Colonel Neilson believes his daughter is missing,” he said quietly.
    â€œShe is missing.” Neilson took another step toward Savannah, his arthritic hands curled into impotent fists. “That no-good son of a bitch has her . . . . and my granddaughter, too, thanks to you, Miss Reid.”
    â€œDo you know that for a fact, sir?” she asked, deliberately keeping her voice even, despite her rising pulse rate.
    â€œDon’t you get smart with me, young lady. Everything was fine until you came along and—”
    â€œExcuse me. . . .” A soft voice interrupted and Brian O’Donnell stepped from the hallway, where Savannah had left him, into the living room.
    The colonel jumped, Bloss snorted, and Dirk’s hand went to his gun.
    â€œDid I hear you say that Susie O’Donnell is your daughter?” Brian asked Neilson.
    The colonel said nothing for a long moment. Even in the dim light, Savannah could see him turn pale beneath his deep California tan. Then he snapped, “Who the hell are you?”
    â€œBrian O’Donnell.” The younger man held out his hand to Neilson. “I’m