Killer Gourmet by G.A. McKevett

her in a voice both kind and stern. “Try to get ahold of yourself, darlin’. What’s done is done. It’s over.”
    For the first time, the woman appeared to see her, and she stopped crying. But she was breathing so deeply, so hard and fast, that Savannah knew she was hyperventilating.
    â€œCome over here,” Savannah told her. She led her toward the back door and sat her down on one of the vegetable crates where the same two fellows, who had been hiding there earlier, were cowering once again.
    â€œDon’t you two go anywhere,” Savannah told the men. “That policeman over there is going to want to talk to you both, for sure.”
    The workers exchanged quick looks of apprehension.
    â€œDon’t worry,” Savannah told them, anticipating the reason for their concern. “He’s not the immigration police.”
    She glanced back at the scene behind her—at Dirk, who had moved away from the body and was now scouring the area around it for anything out of the ordinary that might be evidential.
    Ryan and John were doing the same. Though it had been years since they had carried FBI badges, the skills and mind-sets of professional investigators never changed.
    Just outside the now-open double doors, Tammy and Waycross watched silently, their sweet faces registering the full horror of the situation. Behind them stood several of the waitstaff, looking equally traumatized.
    Savannah heard the woman sitting on the crates gagging, and a moment later the pungent stench of vomit joined the coppery scent of blood in the air.
    That particular nauseating combination was a common odor that Savannah had smelled many times.
    More than once, she had wondered if the millions of people who found the topic of murder so fascinating—even “romantic” in a perverse, macabre way—would have found the sordid reality so intriguing had they experienced it firsthand.
    She suspected that five minutes at a real homicide scene would have put much of the public off their true crime shows forever.
    One of the men left his hiding place behind the crates and stepped closer to her. “Your friend is not the immigration police?” He cleared his throat and shifted nervously from one foot to another, not meeting her eyes.
    â€œNo,” she replied.
    â€œWhat kind of police is he?”
    Savannah looked at Dirk, who was speaking on his cell phone. She could hear just enough of his conversation to know that he was requesting Dr. Liu’s presence. Dr. Jennifer Liu—the county coroner.
    â€œUnfortunately,” she said, “right now he’s the murder police.”
    Â 
    No matter how many years Savannah had known Dr. Liu, she would never get over the momentary surprise she felt when she saw the Asian beauty enter a crime scene. Tall, statuesque, and usually dressed in an outfit that would be more appropriate on a high-priced hooker, Dr. Jen hardly fit most people’s idea of a medical examiner.
    Tonight was no exception.
    She entered the kitchen by way of the back door. And as was her habit, she left the accompanying CSI team momentarily outside so that she could have a solitary “first impression” look.
    She was sporting a pair of over-the-knee, black leather boots with a matching miniskirt. Her blouse was sheer enough to be illegal, except for the two strategically placed and slightly less transparent front pockets.
    Her waist-long, silky black hair was pulled back and fastened with a large clip embellished with peacock feathers and rhinestones.
    Her exotic black eyes lit up when she spotted Savannah.
    â€œWhen I heard that he was the one who called this in”—she gave a curt nod in Dirk’s direction—“I was hoping you’d be here,” she told Savannah.
    Taking in the boots, the miniskirt, and the peekaboo blouse, Savannah said, “Sorry you got called away from your party. I’ll bet it was a fun one.”
    Dr. Liu gave