Unmanned (14 page)

He glanced at the other officer.

“We didn’t see any blood,” he said.

“Look again,” Rivera ordered.

Cutie nodded and disappeared around the corner of the house.

“And that’s the last you saw of him?”

I drew a shuddering breath. “I was kind of out of it. Didn’t really…I wasn’t really very aware until Pete came running out.”

Rivera shifted his dark eyes to my brother, then touched my back, ushering me inside. Pete shuffled into the kitchen, hands in his hip pockets. “You scared the shit out of me, Christopher.”

“You were here?” Rivera’s voice was deep and low.

We turned our attention toward him in unison.

“Huh?” Pete said in typical Pete style.

“You were here in the house the whole time?”

“I didn’t know there was any trouble,” he said. “Not until it was too late.”

“You must have seen the bastard.”

“No.”

Rivera remained silent for a fraction of a second, eyes narrowed. “There were two shots before he ran off. You must have gone to the window when you heard the first one.”

“I had the television on. Thought I heard something, but…” He shrugged. “If I had known Chrissy was home, I would have gone to check, but—”

“So you did hear the shots.”

“Maybe. It’s hard to say. But like I said, I didn’t know she was out there.”

“It was late. What time did you think she’d get home?”

“I wasn’t expecting any trouble,” Pete said, sounding agitated. “I thought everything was all cleared up after Chicago.”

The room went absolutely silent. I jerked my gaze from Pete to Rivera, breath held.

“What about Chicago?” Rivera said, and I felt like throwing up.

17

Expect stupid. It’s everywhere.

—Unknown East Hollywood graffiti artist

I
WAS FROZEN
like a winter salamander. I mean, yeah, some guy had just tried to kill me on my doorstep, but that seemed tame compared to the flames that suddenly shot out of Rivera’s nostrils.

“What happened in Chicago?” he asked, staring at Pete.

My brother snapped his gaze to me and back, but Rivera stepped between us, breaking our eye contact.

“What about Chicago?” he asked again.

“Not much,” Pete said. “There was just a little trouble with—”

“With Mom,” I spouted, breaking out of my trance. “But we thought everything was okay now.”

“What was wrong with your mom?”

“Oh, she was just a little…upset.”

“About?”

“Peter leaving.” I nodded to the rhythm of my lies. “So close to the nuptials. She thought he should stay home…with Holly.”

“So you thought…”—Rivera turned his searing gaze on Peter—“…it might be your mother threatening Chrissy on her stoop.”

“Never know,” Pete said. “Mom’s full-blooded Irish.”

I laughed. It sounded like the guffaw of a certified nutcase. Rivera turned on me. I sucked in my breath and felt the blood rush from my face.

“Want to tell me what’s going on, McMullen?”

“Uhhh,” Pete and I said in unison. We glanced at each other, pale-faced, before my brother realized Rivera had been addressing me. Even Pete wasn’t stupid enough to protest.

“Someone grabbed me,” I said. “I don’t know who or why.” I sounded panicked. Like I was going to pee in my pants and didn’t know quite what I was saying. I’m a hell of an actress.

“What does that have to do with Chicago?” he asked.

“Nothing.” My voice cracked. “Nothing. But…” I tried a shrug. It came off fairly well. “…things have been pretty scary and I didn’t want to tell Mom. But I didn’t want to stay here alone, either, so…” I let the sentence trail off and tried a wimpy shrug.

“Are you saying you asked your brother to come here and protect you?”

This was not going to be an easy sale, but I gave it a go. “I was frightened. You can’t blame me for that. I didn’t know—”

“Jesus!” he said, and stepped forward, but in that instant the door opened and Officer Cutie entered. Rivera turned toward him, expression crackling with disapproval. “Well?”

Cutie shook his head. “Sorry.”

Rage sparked in Rivera’s eyes as he looked at me. For a moment I thought he would swear or rant or spit, but finally he said, “I think we’re done here for tonight,” and pulled his gaze from mine. “I’ll get back to you. After I look into things.”

Maybe to some innocent and somewhat naïve bystander that might have sounded like a promise. To me it was a threat, plain and simple. Nevertheless, I managed a thank-you as Cutie stepped out the door.

Rivera turned, speared Pete with his lightning eyes, and returned his gaze to me. “Lock the damned door,” he said, and left.

I locked the damned door and dropped my head against the rotting wood.

“Holy fuck!” Peter said from behind me.

I turned on him with a snarl. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He pulled his head back as if affronted. “What’d I do?”

“I was just about killed.”

“And that’s my fault?”

“Of course it’s your fault,” I snarled, and charged toward him like a storm trooper. “Who was it?”

“What?” He didn’t back down. The McMullen brothers may be a trio of cement-headed buffoons, but never let it be said that they’re cowardly buffoons. “How the hell would I know?”

“You must have seen him.”

“I didn’t. I swear.”

“You heard the shots.”

“Well, yeah, but shit, I was watching
24.
They’re always shooting someone. When I realized there was trouble, I went straight to the door. My damn heart just about stopped when I saw you—”

“Who was it?” My voice sounded crazed.

“You think I’m lying?” His tone was wounded, and for a moment I felt guilt shift through me. Then I remembered the droppings. The dead rodents. The gigantic bloomers.

“I went to Chicago,” I growled. I was panting a little. “Paid three hundred dollars for a ticket on a plane flown by a pilot with the sensitivity of a road mender. And why? What for? So I can be attacked on my own stoop?”

“Maybe D didn’t get the word out yet. You only just got back. Maybe he hasn’t been able to get a hold of his knee-breakers yet.”

That made a certain amount of sense. Maybe too much for Peter, but I couldn’t think of any other explanations. Finding my purse, I sat down on a chair in the kitchen, dug out D’s card, took a deep breath, and found my cell phone. Long distance was free. I dialed. It rang four times before it was picked up.

“I got to tell you, Christina, I didn’t think you’d call.”

I was temporarily speechless, then, “D?”

“How are you?”

“I’m…fine.”

“Good. Safe trip back to L.A., I hope.”

“It was a little bumpy but—” I stopped myself, realizing my flagging sanity, and let the surreal dialogue wash over me. “Listen, D…” I cleared my throat, remembering he was the kind of guy who threatened livers. “I don’t mean to bother you, but I was wondering, did you get a chance to call off your hit guys?”

He delayed a second as if thinking. “I believe we discussed this before, Christina.”

My mind felt moldy. “What’s that?”

“That’s a rather antiquated term.”

I closed my eyes. “Right. Sorry. Did you get a chance to talk to your…ahh, collection engineers?”

“Why?” I could hear his chair squeak, imagined him sitting up, putting the leather soles of his snakeskin boots on the floor. “What happened?”

I shot my gaze to Pete. He was standing perfectly still, suspended in stupidity.

“I, um…I had a little trouble,” I said.

“What kind of trouble?” His tone sounded concerned. The kind of concern a brother should have for his sister.

“Someone threatened me on my doorstep.”

There was a moment of silence, then, “I’m sorry. Truly I am.”

“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “Well…thank you.”

“Maybe you should move back to Chicago. I can guarantee you protection here.”

God help me. “Well, I’ll think about that, but I was wondering if you would mind calling off your guys. You know, while I’m still in L.A.”

There was another instant of silence, then, “I hate to admit this. I mean, it’s embarrassing as hell, but the truth is…my contractors haven’t been outside of the greater Chicago area for several months.”

My world ground to a halt. “What’s that?”

He sighed. “It’s been crazy busy. What with the economy like it is. Loans late everywhere. I planned to get around to your brother, but…” I could almost hear his shrug.

“You…” I shot my gaze to Pete again. He remained as he was…stupid. “You mean, you didn’t try to kill my brother?”

“Honey, I don’t mean to be vain or anything, but we don’t
try
to kill people.”

“So you didn’t try to drag him into a van.”

He chuckled, quietly amused. “If we want someone dead, he’s dead, Christina. If we want someone in a van, he’s in the van…and maybe dead, too.”

I felt sick and a little light-headed. “Oh.”

“I hope I haven’t disappointed you. I mean, it could have been my guys. It just wasn’t. But your brother was on the docket. I hope you don’t think your trip here was a waste of time. It was very nice meeting you.”

It hadn’t been D. So who the hell had it been? “Thank you,” I intoned.

“We would have gotten around to his knees eventually, had you not shown up with the cash. It was very brave of you.”

“Okay.”

“You sound a little hazy. Are you all right?

“Sure. Yes, I’m all right.”

“Have you been eating?”

“What? Oh, yes, eating.”

“People don’t take hypoglycemia seriously enough,” he said. I rather foggily remembered telling him about my blood sugar problem. “It’s nothing to fool around with.”

“I’ll remember.”

Pete was scowling. Did he know more than he was saying? It seemed unlikely, and yet…

“…want, I can send someone down there.”

I snagged my attention from Pete to the phone, senses fully focused once again. “What’s that?”

He paused as if surprised by my tone, then, “I’m a little busy to come myself, but if someone’s bothering you, I could send a guy to—”

“No!”

There was a pause. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. But thank you.” I meant it quite sincerely.

“No problem. You take care of yourself, Christina.”

“I will.”

“Good. And if you change your mind, let me know.”

“About the…the engineer?”

“That or sleeping with me. Either one.”

“Oh.” I cleared my throat. “Thank you. I’ll do that. Well…good-bye.”

The distance between us was silent for a moment, then, “Christina?”

“Yeah?”

“Your brother doesn’t deserve you.”

I clicked the phone shut.

Pete shuffled to his other foot. “What’d he say?”

I blinked at nothing. “He said you’re a fucktard.”

“What?”

“And I should watch my sugar level.”

“Did you drink that whole glass of whiskey?”

“It wasn’t him,” I said. “Not at the van. Not in the supermarket. Not at my door.”

“Huh! Do you think he was telling—” he began, but I didn’t let him finish.

“So who was it?” I asked.

“How the hell would I know? Maybe D’s lying.”

“Maybe
you’re
lying,” I said, and stood up.

“Damn it, Chrissy,” he said, “You think this is my fault.”

“Your fault? Your fault!” I was starting to scream a little and gesture rather wildly. “Everything’s your fault, Peter. I haven’t been able to look at raisin bread since I was ten.”

“What the hell…” he began, then laughed as he caught my drift. “Shit, Chrissy,” he said, finishing off his drink and setting the glass on the table. “If I thought that little prank would make you so crazy, I would have…tried it again later.”

I think it was then that I went totally bonkers, because that’s when I snatched my purse from the counter and pulled out the Glock.

18

The trouble with insanity is it can flare up at the most inconvenient moments.

—Dr. Frank Meister, Chrissy’s Psychotropic Medication professor, after doing a little freelance marijuana testing…again

I
POINTED THE PISTOL
at Pete. He stared at me, expression blank.

“Who was it?” I asked.

“What the hell?” He was still grinning a little and sounded only mildly surprised that I was pointing a gun at his left eyeball. What should that tell me?

“I tried to save your sorry ass,” I said. “Spent the day with a mobster.” I nodded. “He propositioned me. Did you know that?”

“No kidding? D?” His grin lit up a little. “Shit, he’s worth a damn fortune. You didn’t turn him down, did you?”

I stared at him in stupefaction for a moment, then: “Does this thing have a safety?” I asked, remembering a dozen past movies. I didn’t want to be one of those hapless bimbos who couldn’t shoot her brother because the safety was on.

“You can’t shoot me, Chrissy.”

“Not until the safety’s off,” I said, still searching.

“Mom would be madder than hell.”

“You know…” I lifted the muzzle and pointed it at him again. “…I don’t think she likes you any more than I do.”

“You kidding?” His grin had amped up a couple more watts. Maybe some women would find it infectious. I found I wanted to slap him silly. But that seemed kind of anticlimactic when I was pointing a gun at him. “
Everyone
likes me more than you do.”

“Tell me what just happened,” I said.

“You think I know?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re wrong. I told Robocop the truth. I thought everything was all hunky-dory after you came back from Chicago.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I borrowed twenty thousand dollars from my best friend in the universe. Wore the same underwear for days.”

He made a face. Apparently even a half-witted barbarian sets his standards above recycled underwear.

“But I figured it was all worth it when D promised asylum.”

“Asylum?” His lips twitched.

“If you laugh, I’m going to shoot your ear off your head,” I said, tone neutral.

He snorted. “You couldn’t hit my ear with a baseball bat.”

“Then maybe I’ll shoot your head off your ear.”

He was starting to scowl a little. “Listen, Chrissy, you got a right to be pissed. Hell, I’d be shitting bricks. But I don’t know what’s going on no more than you do. That guy
must
have been one of D’s boys.”

“He promised—”

“Asylum. Yeah, I know,” he said, struggling with his grin again. “But maybe he lied.”

Mob bosses could lie? I shifted my weight. My feet were sore. Perhaps I wasn’t wearing the proper shoes for being attacked in. “Maybe
you
lied,” I said.

“I’m your brother.”

“My point exactly,” I said, and widening my stance like I’d seen on the cop shows, embraced the Glock with both hands.

“Holy crap, Chrissy, are you out of your fucking gourd?” Pete asked.

I scowled, giving that some judicious consideration, nodding finally. “There are some fairly reliable indicators.”

He was starting to look worried.

“I’m going to count to three,” I said.

“Mom’ll tan your hide. I’m giving her her first grandchild, you know. She’s going to be really torqued if you kill me.”

“You’re probably right,” I said, and tilting my head thoughtfully, lowered the muzzle a little, looking for the most shootable part of his anatomy. “I believe tradition insists that I shoot out your kneecaps in this situation.”

“Ahh, hell.” He shuffled his feet, looking irritable, then: “Okay. Fine. Maybe it was Springer.”

I squinted at him. “What’s a Springer?”

“The guy at the door just now. One of the guys who tried to drag me into the van. Maybe it was Bill Springer, the Vette’s owner. I told you about him before. Springer.”

“Was it?”

He threw up his hands, looking peeved and frustrated. But I wasn’t all that jolly, either. “Could be. How would I know? It was darker than shit out there.”

I thought about that for a second. “Did he ask for the keys?”

And now he just looked confused, but it seemed like a fairly straightforward question. I wanted to shoot him just for his stupid-ass expression. “When he was dragging you toward the van. Did he ask for the keys?”

“I don’t know. How the hell would I know? I was busy bleeding from my head. Remember? Shit, you’re such an—”

“Did he?” I repeated, voice dropping an octave.

There was a pause, then, “No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t that seem like an obvious first step if he wanted his car back?”

“I don’t know. He loves that car like a kid. Maybe he wanted to kill me first. Get the keys later.”

“How?”

“What?”

“How’s he going to get the keys if you’re…” I closed my eyes but kept the gun trained on him…kind of. “Never mind. Who else have you pissed off?”

“No one.”

“You know how I know that’s a lie?”

“Damn it, Chrissy—”

“Because I’ve met you.”

“Put that thing down before—”

“Talked to you,” I continued.

“This isn’t funny.”

“Neither was the time you locked me out of the bathroom after the Kool-Aid drinking contest. Who else wants to kill you?” I asked, squinting at him with one eye.

“Besides you?”

“Besides me.”

He tilted back his head and released a long-suffering sigh. “Joey’s kind of ticked.”

“Joey…”

“Petras. He’s in the department with me.”

“A firefighter?” I was surprised. Pete was a firefighter down to his asbestos underwear. And those firefighters always look so chummy…at least on the calendars.

“Yeah.”

I twisted my mind away from the thought of calendars, even though sometimes they don’t wear much more than suspenders. “What’d you do to piss him off?”

“Nothing.”

“What else?”

He exhaled dramatically, slumped over to the couch, and flopped diagonally onto the cushions, head draped over the armrest. “Charlene…” He shook his head. “She is so damned hot. Swear to God, you could cook an egg on her—”

“Please.” I closed my eyes. I wanted to keep threatening him, but his current position was awfully discouraging. It didn’t seem right to kill him while he was just lying there looking pathetic. I let the pistol drop to arm’s length. “Please tell me you didn’t seduce Petras’s wife.”

“No! No.” He sat up abruptly. “She seduced
me.
I swear it.”

I groaned and plopped into the La-Z-Boy.

“Besides, I didn’t even sleep with her.”

“Right.” I dropped my head against the cushion. “So it’s all just a big misunderstanding.”

“Yeah. It is.”

“I should have shot you while I was in the mood.”

“It
is,
” he repeated.

I sat up, glaring. “So you never slept with her.”

“Well…”

“God help me.” I dropped my head into one hand. I was holding the Glock with the other…just in case I came to my senses.

“Well, technically, we were in bed, but we didn’t do nothing.”

“Just tired?”

“Well, no.” He grinned. “We was gonna go at it like adolescent squirrels. I mean, shit, this chick was smoking—”

I put the gun to my temple in one smooth motion.

He stopped.

“Honest to God,” I said. “If you tell me how hot she was, you’re going to have to clean up the mess.”

He scowled, then shook his head. “You’re so damn dramatic.” Sliding forward, he took the gun from my hand, stood up, and put it on the end table. “Anyway, Joey walked in on us before—”

“I don’t want to hear this.”

“Before,”
he repeated, raising his voice, “we did anything.”

I shrugged, made a face. “So everything’s okay.”

“Sure.” He emulated the shrug and the face. “Why not? Hell, she still had her panties on. A thong. Red with little—”

“Sometimes I fantasize that you were adopted.”

He grinned. “Mom says she was in labor with me for fourteen hours. Reminds me every time she irons my jeans.”

“She irons your jeans?”

“Yeah. Not Holly, though.” He whistled low. “She doesn’t even own an iron. Burned herself once or something. Guess I’ll have to learn to—”

“Maybe
I
was adopted.”

He shook his head. “Saw you when you come home. You were wearing the same ugly-ass expression then that you got now.”

“I’m sorry. Is my mood ruining your day?”

He bounced to his feet. “Hey, I know I screwed up with Petras. It was a dumb-ass thing to do. You think I don’t know that?”

“I do sort of wonder.”

He stared out my window. It was nightmarishly dark beyond the feeble light of my security lamp. “Been thinking about…” He paused. “…about what it will be like to have a daughter.”

I remembered now that he was going to be a dad. It made me want to run out and buy a package deal of tubal ligations.

“She’ll grow up. Get boobs.” He swallowed and made a face I’d never seen him make while referring to the female anatomy. “Get married.” He was scowling at his imaginings. “Probably to some asshole who…” His mouth twitched. “…who will cheat on her.” He sighed. “Then I’ll have to kill him.” His tone was introspective, making me think he was maybe growing up, but I yanked myself out of that fantasy before it could get me killed.

“When did this all happen?” I asked.

“What?”

“The Joey Petras debacle. How long ago?”

He shook his head. “Half a year, but Joey’s still cranked.”

“Go figure. So you were dating Holly then?”

He wobbled his head. “Off and on.”

“Did she think it was on?”

He plopped back down on the couch. “Naw. She didn’t want to get serious. Holly, she’s…” He scowled. “She’s funny. Says she’s crazy about me ’cuz I don’t have a fit if she goes out with her friends and I can make her laugh even when she’s barfing up her breakfast. Which happened a lot a while back, and of course I’m great in—”

I put my finger to my head in lieu of the Glock.

He flapped a dismissive hand in my general direction and continued. “Anyway, she says I’m the opposite of her tight-ass ex who watched her every move, but…”

“But she still wants someone who doesn’t forget she exists every time she steps out of the house?”

“I know I fucked up,” he said. “I just didn’t think…”

“What?”

“Didn’t think Joey would take it this far. Shit, I fed you sheep droppings and you never tried to kill me.”

“Until now.”

“Till now,” he conceded.

“So you think it was him…on my stoop?” I stifled a shiver.

“Joey? No.” He shook his head and sighed. “But his old man owns a string of clubs.”

I stared at him, not comprehending. “Clubs?”

“Exotic dancers, that sort of thing. Got a couple in L.A.,” he added.

The truth was beginning to dawn on me. “You think his father might have paid one of his employees to avenge his son?”

“Them bouncers ain’t exactly clean as Sunday laundry. You know what I mean?”

I picked up the receiver, dialed 411, and asked for Chicago, Illinois.

He scowled. “Who you calling?”

I ignored him and spoke clearly into the phone. “Petras,” I said. “Joseph Petras.”