Killer Gourmet by G.A. McKevett

think you can hide in this cracker box? Get out here and talk to me.”
    The reply came in the form of much clanging and banging of metal. Savannah could hear the creaking of a water faucet being turned off.
    A moment later, Carlos appeared beside the young woman. He was drying his hands and forearms with the much-stained apron he wore.
    He gave Dirk a wary look. “I thought we were done talking last night,” he said. “I told you everything I saw. I’ve got nothing else to say.”
    Dirk took a step to the right and opened a small, rickety door that led inside the stand. “Come along, and let’s you and me take us a stroll through that park across the street. I’ll betcha we can think of something to chat about. Like, say . . . global warming, the next presidential election, those Lakers.”
    â€œI don’t have time to watch sports,” Carlos returned, tearing off his apron and pitching it into a bin of dirty cloths.
    â€œThen we’ll come up with another topic of conversation,” Dirk said as he motioned for Carlos to come through the open door. “You know, like, murder.”
    Dirk placed a companionable hand on Carlos’s shoulder—one that Savannah was sure the younger man did not appreciate. Dirk was taller and heavier than most men, and he knew all too well how to use that to his advantage. “Intimidation” was a well-sharpened, oft-used instrument in any cop’s toolbox.
    Savannah knew why he was leading Carlos away to question him. It was so that Savannah could talk to the young woman. If she worked with him, she might have some useful information herself. They operated on the assumption that it was best, whenever possible, to get two interviews for the price of one.
    But her possible interviewee was reaching down for the plywood again. Savannah quickly thrust her hand through the still-open window before the opportunity had passed.
    â€œI should introduce myself,” she said. “My name is Savannah Reid. And you are . . . ?”
    Looking more than a little uncomfortable, the woman set down the plywood and shook Savannah’s proffered hand.
    â€œI’m Maria,” she replied. “Nice to meet you.”
    The cautious, uneasy look in her dark eyes suggested the contrary. But she forced a smile, and it brightened her pretty face.
    â€œYou get really busy here at lunchtime,” Savannah said. “I’ve dropped by many times and seen you guys working your butts off. It must be a tough job.”
    Maria shrugged. “You do what you have to. It can’t be easy, you being a policewoman.”
    â€œI’m not a policewoman. Not anymore, anyway.”
    Maria looked confused. “But you’re . . .” She pointed toward the park where Dirk and Carlos were walking. “. . . you’re with him.”
    â€œI used to be a cop. His partner, in fact. Now I’m a private investigator. And I’m also Detective Coulter’s wife.”
    Raising one delicate eyebrow, Maria gave her a little smile and said, “That must be interesting, being married to a policeman.”
    Savannah chuckled and shrugged. “Well, you know what they say. ‘Sleep with a cop, you’ll always feel safe.’ ”
    â€œSo you both feel safe—you sleeping with him, him sleeping with you?”
    Savannah thought it over and nodded. “Pretty much, I reckon.”
    The two women shared a moment of companionable silence. Then Savannah said, “What’s it like, working here in this busy little taco stand with Carlos?”
    â€œOh, I do more than work with him. I’m married to him. And we own this busy little taco stand.”
    Savannah took a moment to digest this new information. Carlos Ortez wasn’t just working here for a cousin or uncle. He was the owner—the guy who, according to her earlier estimations, could probably afford to live in a mansion on the hillside.
    She could