07 Uncorked - Chrissy McMullen Mystery (19 page)

“Are you doing okay?” I asked and struggled for the über practical tone I had learned in shrink school.

“I was until you got here. It’s hard enough to sleep without your damn legs showing up in my dreams.”

“Oh.” I blushed again, like a pimply faced teenager. All that was missing was the tuba from my high school years. But I searched for my professional demeanor and charged on. “As I said, I was out of clean shirts.” He didn’t argue. In fact, he almost smiled. “And that little dress just needed an outing?”

I shrugged one bare shoulder. “It’s hot.”

“God bless global warming.

"So what’s wrong?” he asked.

I began to shake my head, then realized it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to defuse whatever situation might be brewing in his mind. Add a little small talk. Maybe reduce the tension. “Laney’s pregnant.”

“Really.” For a moment, honest happiness shone in his eyes. “That’s nice.”

“What are you talking about?” My horrified expression wasn’t entirely fake. “Do you know who the father is?”

“I’m going to have to assume it’s her husband.”

“That’s right, Solberg,” I said. “The ickiest guy on the face of the earth.” He almost smiled. The sight made my heart feel strangely warm. “He’s not so bad.”

“What are you talking about? He tried to proposition me.” One eyebrow rose a fraction of a millimeter. “Recently?”

“Well, no. It was before he even knew Laney existed in his universe. But it’s still disgusting.”

He shrugged, letting his gaze skim me again. “The man’s not a complete idiot.” His eyes were about to burn right through my solar plexus. I managed not to squirm, but it was physically impossible to hold his gaze. “Listen, I just came by to ask you a few questions about—”

“No.”

I glanced up. His tone was still dark and deep, but the flirty edge was gone, replaced by that hard-ass implacability that had made my teeth grind from the first day we’d met.

I drew a deep breath, watched him with what I hoped was casual affability and changed my verbal attack. “—the cactus you gave me,” I said.

He narrowed his eyes and sat absolutely still.

I refused to look away. “Should I fertilize it or do you think it’ll be okay fighting its own battles?”

He remained silent for a moment longer, then shook his head slowly, gaze never leaving mine. “Stay out of this,” he said.

My hackles were beginning to rise like a damn Rhodesian Ridgeback’s, but I put on my patient face and capped it with a raised eyebrow of surprise. “Why are you getting all wound up? I’m just asking about fertilizer.”

“No,” he said, voice just above a rumble. “You’re asking for trouble.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking—”

“Listen,” he said, and leaned forward suddenly. I was almost tempted to tilt backward even though there was glass between us. “Things are shitty enough without having to spend every waking second worrying about—” He stopped abruptly, gaze glued to my throat. I froze. Swear to God, I could feel the blood pulsing through the very spot at which he stared. “What happened to your neck?” His body had gone rock still again, his eyes dark and steady and as angry as hell.

I didn’t know if I should play stupid or play dead. It took me a minute to decide I was better at stupid, and although I wanted desperately to cover the bruise with my hand, I kept my fingers tightly tangled in my skirt. “What are you talking about?”

“Damn it, McMullen.” The words were a low growl, barely audible in the quiet room.

But his eyes shouted volumes. “Don’t fuck with me.”

“I’m not. I just don’t—”

“Was it Carlton?”

“What?”

“Your fucking boyfriend!” The words were an animalistic snarl from between clenched teeth. “Carlton. Was it him?”

I blinked in honest-to-God surprise. “Marcus? I thought you didn’t even believe I had a

—”

“Was it fucking him?”

“Rivera,” the guard warned quietly from behind.

“Answer me, God damn it or—”

“Rivera!” Louder now. A little more aggressive.

Rivera pulled back and drew a hard breath through his nostrils, though his gaze never shifted from mine. “Everything’s fine,” he said.

“All right.” The guard was as big as a boulder but not quite as cuddly. “See that it stays that way.”

Rivera stared at me, opened his fist with an obvious effort and let his fingers curl softly against the worn counter, but his knuckles looked suspiciously pale.

“If you want to keep the asshole alive, you’ll tell me the truth.” His tone was almost civil now, but his eyes were predatory.

“It wasn’t him,” I said.

He smiled. I knew it was for the guard’s benefit. But if that esteemed individual thought the expression looked friendly, he needed to be reintroduced to the human race.

“You’re lying,” Rivera said.

“I’m not.”

“It’s always the boyfriend.”

“Not this time. He’s out of town.”

He snorted, incredulous, head jerking back just a little so that the tendons in his neck jerked tight. “Don’t tell me he’s still in Belarus?”

“How did you know he was—”

“You’re shitting me!” He leaned forward again, hand fisting. “He’s still flitting around Europe while you’re getting—”

The guard stepped toward us. Rivera raised a placating hand and pulled his gaze from me as if it were being dragged through sledge. “Just…” He unlocked his teeth.

“Give me a damn minute.”

Boulder widened his stance. “Listen—”

“Just one minute,” Rivera said, then turned his head and lowered his voice. “Please.” Boulder scowled but backed away.

Rivera returned his attention to me. “Just tell me who did it.” I raised my chin, ready to deny everything, but murder flared in his eyes like summer lightning and the truth seemed like a refreshing alternative.

“I don’t know,” I said.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Swear to God it wasn’t Carlton?”

“Yes.”

He inhaled, nostrils flaring. I squirmed. “Tell me what happened.”

“It doesn’t matter. I—”

“Tell me now or Carlton will wish he’d never seen your fucking legs.” His eyes dipped, and although he couldn’t see past the counter above my lap, his eyes fired up again. “And if that asshole has any balls at all, that’s going to take a hell of a lot.” I was holding my breath. His gravelly tone and enraged expression vowed vengeance.

It was barbaric. It was disgusting. I had never in my life wanted to jump him more.

“Tell me,” he repeated.

I cleared my throat. The memories burned like acid, but I tried to ignore the fear and push through to the facts. “I bought gas and a car wash.” A muscle bulged like an angry python in his jaw. I watched it and swallowed.

“When I returned to my car, someone was in the backseat.” Except for the slightest tremor, he sat perfectly still. “Tell me you killed the son of a bitch.”

“I—”

“Tell me you killed him, McMullen.” His voice was low and steady, evenly modulated, devoid of emotion, but somehow that only made the tension more palpable.

“No. I…” I shook my head, struggling. “I kicked him, though…in the face, I think.” I paused to clear my throat, to breathe, to gather my courage. “The door popped open. He fell out.” I managed a shrug. It wasn’t easy. “I never saw him after that.” He drew a deep breath as if pulling in calmness, as if sorting through his lists of questions to find the most pertinent ones. “Had you locked your car?” I scowled, barely noticing that the other men had begun to file out of the room.

“When I got—”

“Before you went to pay…” He paused momentarily as if gathering patience. “Did you have the Saturn locked?”

“Yes. I mean…” This was the hard part. If Rivera had told me once, he’d told me half a trillion times to lock everything. If he had his way, chastity belts would be the new look for fall. “I was sure I had. I—”

“You were sure?” His fingers twitched with tension. “Or you think you were sure?”

“It doesn’t matter.” The memories were overwhelming me, drowning me. “The fact

—”

“It does matter.” His voice broke. "It matters to me." His calm shattered for a second, but he drew a steadying breath and slowly lifted his hand to the glass between us.

I couldn’t help but do the same. Our fingers almost met, almost touched.

“Jack…” My voice was no more than a murmur of emotion, but he drove me back to practicality,

“It matters,” he said. “Think back. What were you wearing?”

“What difference—”

“Recreate it, McMullen. Think it through.”

I sunk into his eyes.

“A dress? Slacks?”

I swallowed, remembering my skirt twisted around my thighs. “An ivory skirt. Navy blue blouse.”

Emotion flared in his eyes but he nodded, holding himself in tight restraint. “You were on your way to…” He clenched his fist. “A date?”

“No. Not really. I was—” A sudden memory caught me. “I did lock it. I remember. I was getting out. I dropped my keys and bent to get them. The kid behind me…” Jealousy and anger burned in his eyes in sufficient amounts to make me decide to withhold the story of the wolf whistle. “I picked them up by the remote. The button was right under my thumb. I’m sure I locked it.”

He nodded brusquely. “When you got back, was there any sign that the door had been tampered with?”

I shook my head. “Not that I noticed. But I wasn’t looking. I mean—”

“How about later?”

“What?”

“Did you notice anything later?”

I shook my head.

“When you leave here, I want you to check.”

“Time’s up, Rivera,” the guard said.

“Look for any new scratches, gouges. Any sign that force was used to pry open the door,” he said, rising to his feet.

I did the same. “Why? What difference does it make? I can’t—” I began, then fell into his eyes. “If there’s no sign of entry, it was a professional.”

“What did he strangle you with?”

I put my hand to my neck, feeling nauseous, but he pushed on.

“Did he have a rope? A cord?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t—”

“You do know,” he insisted.

“It’s…” I stopped suddenly as another fresh memory stormed in. I shook my head at the onslaught. “His hands were empty.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. They jerked up when he fell out. They were pale." I scowled. "Or he was wearing gloves. Rubber gloves. But there was nothing in them.”

“Maybe he dropped the garrote in the backseat.”

“I don’t think so. I would have seen it.” I barely breathed the words.

“If you’re right—”

“He used something that was already there.” I finished the thought for him.

“The seat belt, maybe.”

“Which means…”

We stared at each other.

“He didn’t plan to kill me.”

He nodded once, expression unreadable.

“Just warn me, maybe,” I reasoned. “But I kicked him and he got mad.” For a second I would have sworn I saw pride fire up in his eyes, but then it was gone.

“Is Elaine still in Matamata?”

The guard stepped up behind Rivera. “Time’s up.”

I nodded. “But how did you know—”

“Go stay with her,” he said. His voice had gone very soft, very low, almost pleading.

“What kind of therapist would I be if I ran out every time things got a little…” I stopped, mind jumping. “Andrews is in intensive care," I said. Or at least he had been when I'd called that morning. "So it couldn't be him, but-"

“Take what you know to Captain Kindred. Don’t do anything on your own.”

“But he owned an auto repair place in Commerce." My late night communions with Google hadn't been a complete waste of time. "There were allegations that it was a chop shop. So he could easily have had an employee who would be able to-"

“Let’s go, Rivera.” The guard nudged him from behind, but he remained where he was.

“Do you hear me?” he asked. “Forget it.”

“He would have had the tools to get into my car and…" I paused, mind spinning.

"But maybe I'm looking at this upside down.” I was excited now, talking fast. "Maybe the same guy who shot Andrews was after me. Maybe he was trying to keep me from learning the truth. To make sure I didn't-"

“Dammit McMullen! Tell Kindred you want police protection. Do you hear me?"

“Rivera…" The guard nudged him again. “Don’t make this difficult.”

“This isn’t something to mess with. It’s out of your league.”

“If I could find out who attacked me maybe I could link it to Andrews's hit and prove that you're-”

“Fuck it!” he swore, leaning in. “Listen to me.”

“Code red,” the guard said into his radio.

“Don’t get messed up in this,” Rivera growled. “Leave it alone. Do you hear me?

Leave it alone.”

“Trouble in the visiting room!”

“Or if Andrews's did order the hit on me, that could shed light on your case. I mean-"

“Fuck that! Fuck the case.”

“Rivera!” the guard warned. “I’m giving you one more chance.”

“Fuck chances,” he snarled, swinging toward the guard. “I want to talk to—” But before he could finish his sentence, he was zapped with a Taser.

Chapter 20

If God wanted me to be brave, why’d he give me so many legs?

—Harlequin, the thinking girl’s companion

For the remainder of the day, I considered what I had learned about the Backseat Bastard: He had left no marks on the door of my Saturn when he broke in, which implied that he was good at the task. But did that mean he was a criminal or a cop or neither? He had come to threaten me, but not necessarily to kill me. He had a temper, but he was cautious. He’d worn a mask of sorts, and the more I thought about it, the more I believed he had been wearing rubber gloves. Did that mean he was a known criminal? And if so, did that even narrow down the field?

In the end, I called the hospital again. The bubbly soul on the other end of the line was thrilled to tell me he had been moved out of intensive care and could accept visitors in room 324. I digested that news slowly, changed into a pair of jeans and a baggy T like one in a trance and drove west, knuckles white against the steering wheel.

I turned onto Beverly Boulevard, took a left on George Burns Road and parked in the lot beside a monstrosity with a wavy metal exterior. Once there I sat unmoving in the Saturn for what seemed forever. But finally I unlocked my knees, quieted my weak bladder and shambled into the hospital.