Unscrewed (11 page)

“Well…” I stood up. “I’m sorry to rush off, Officers, but my bicuspid has been killing me.”

“Uh-huh. You’re an actress?” They never turned toward me. I was vacillating between reminding them to breathe and kicking them in the gonads, which might, actually, have had the same effect.

“Aspiring,” she said, and smiled.

I thought White was going to wet his pants.

“You going to an audition now?” Bjorklund asked.

“I got a callback.”

“Which studio?”

“NBC.”

“The one-oh-one’s going to be a parking lot.”

“And I can’t be late.” She gave them another smile. Bjorklund looked like he couldn’t take much more. “This is my first callback in months.”

“What’s the title?”

“Amazon Queen.”

“You playing the lead?”

She crossed her fingers. I’m not sure why even that was sexy. “Hoping.”

“Would you…” White cleared his throat. “Would you be wearing that?”

“I’m afraid not,” she admitted. “The producer said something about a thong.”

Bjorklund grabbed the couch’s armrest for support. I stared at Laney and made a shoveling motion with both hands. It was getting deep enough to swim. But her eyes were laughing like a mad monkey’s.

“Tell you what,” White said. I think he might have been holding his breath. “We’re going back that way. We could give you a ride. Don’t you think, Ted?”

“Ride.” Poor Officer Bjorklund was down to monosyllables. I wasn’t impressed. I’d once seen Laney strike a district attorney absolutely mute, and she’d been fully dressed at the time. What if she’d lost a shoe or something?

“Thank you,” Laney said, “but if I hurry I can—”

“We don’t want to hear you’ve been speeding,” White said.

“Speeding,” Bjorklund echoed.

“Might have to get out the handcuffs.”

“Handcuffs.” Bjorklund was a goner. Holy crap. He looked like he was going to keel over on my carpet. I gave Laney the throat-cutting sign, and she laughed out loud.

“Thanks again,” she said, “but I’ll be fine.”

They wouldn’t leave. So I stood up, trying to shoo them along like lost lambs. They rose shakily to their feet.

“Well, if you have any more questions for me, be sure to shove them up your nose,” I said.

“It wouldn’t be any trouble,” White was saying as they toddled into the hallway after Elaine. She grabbed her purse from the desk, gave me a smile, and opened the door. They trundled after her, still talking.

I considered locking up and getting into my car to continue the ruse, but it hardly seemed worth the effort, since they were already leaving the parking lot, sirens screaming, as Laney pulled sedately into the siphoning traffic behind them.

12

B
IG BILL’S.”

“Yes.” I had agonized over how to find out whether or not Rivera had ever made dinner reservations. After thirty-five minutes it had occurred to me that I could simply ask. “Can you tell me whether Jack Rivera reserved a table for March third?”

“The third?”

“Yes.”

“Last Saturday?”

I was too nervous to answer.

`”No, ma’am,” she said finally. “I have no one by that name.”

“How about Gerald Rivera?”

She checked and sounded a little peeved when she finally told me, “No.”

I chanced her wrath and tried every other name I could think of. Still nothing.

By eleven o’clock I felt sick to my stomach, raw and fidgety and desperate to know the truth. Bolstered by the success of my last call, I picked up the receiver again.

“Infinity Air.” The voice on the other end of the line was male, probably middle-aged, and bored.

“Good day,” I said. Back in ’88 I had taken two semesters of French. When I graduated I could say “Where’s the bathroom?” and “Yes, the woman is wearing a pink hat.” Now I can only say “Yes.” But I had developed a kick-ass accent, which I was currently implementing. “My name is Antoinette Desbonette.” The original Antoinette had been a countess in one of those paranormal romance novels. She’d been elegant and witty. Of course, her lover tended to morph into a wolf at unexpected junctions. But he’d been sexy as hell. Wish I could find me a nice werewolf. “May I speak to the person in charge?”

There was a slight pause, then, “One moment, please.” Elevator music played in the background. I waited. It wasn’t as if I was getting involved in Rivera’s problems. But I couldn’t help being curious. Why the hell had his father asked me to lunch? I had been about as informative as a slug, and it was fairly obvious he had un-slug-related means of gathering information.

So why had he spent a small fortune to inform me his son was innocent? Yes, Rivera Junior was an unmitigated pain in the ass, but that didn’t mean the senator should automatically assume I would think he was guilty.

“Can I help you?”

I found my sexy center, introduced myself again, and launched into my spiel. “Yes. I most fervently hope so. I am calling from the Boston Convention Center. We are hosting a seminar at which Senator Miguel Rivera is scheduled to speak. We sent a car for him, but he has failed to appear. Can you tell me if, perhaps, he missed his flight?”

There was a pause, then, “I’m sorry. I’m afraid we’re not allowed to give out that information.”

Damn it! “
Non?
”

“No. Company policy.”

“But I cannot reach him by telephone. And we are quite concerned. Perhaps this once you could make an exception?” I put a little purr at the end of the sentence, but I might as well have saved my feline imitation.

“Like I said, I’m sorry. We can only give out that information to authorized individuals.”

“Such as?” I put my utmost into sounding blonde.

“Police officers and the like.”

An idea clicked into my head. I forced a little laugh. “So if I had introduced myself as
Detective
Desbonette, I would now have the information I so eagerly seek?”

He was neither amused nor charmed. “That and a badge number.”

“Ahh, well…” My mind was racing. “I shall speak to the authorities, then. Perhaps they will call you in my stead.”

A moment later I plopped the receiver back and cursed a blue streak.

Where was I going to get a badge number? I mean, sure, I could call Infinity back and give them a phony name and a bunch of digits, but I didn’t even know how many digits they needed. I could imagine the conversation.
“Yes, this is Officer Petty, badge number…ahhh, four?”

I glared at the phone, tapped irritably on my kitchen counter, and paced five times across my living room, mind boiling.

Twenty minutes later I was whipping west on the 210 at eighty-five miles per hour. An old lady in a silver Lincoln passed me like I was standing still. I refrained from flipping her off and leaned on the accelerator.

By the time a trooper stopped me, my little Saturn was rattling like a can of loose pebbles. I crunched onto the shoulder, heart pounding, gearing up for my performance.

The officer who sauntered toward me was tall and lean. He wore the regulation uniform and reflector sunglasses with a macho arrogance that made my feminist hackles rise. This might not be as difficult as I had anticipated.

I said a prayer for fools and psychotics and powered down my window.

“Damn it!” I said. “What the hell’s wrong with you cops? Can’t you see I’m in a hurry?”

For one bladder-quivering moment I thought I had overplayed my hand. I imagined him reaching through the window and fishing me from behind the steering wheel by the nostrils. But apparently that’s a no-no—even in L.A.

Fifteen minutes later, after a performance that would have earned me an Oscar on the big screen, I had Officer Caron’s full name and badge number. I also had a two-hundred-dollar ticket and an ulcer. But it was worth it.

I repeated that seventeen times as I crept shakily into the parking lot of the nearest Marriott. My legs felt a little bit gelatinous when I trekked into the lobby. It was nearly empty. A mulatto supermodel with a five-million-dollar smile manned a desk the length of my living room. But I was still too shaken to feel inferior. I asked for a pay phone and was directed to an area near the Nevada Ballroom.

Once there, I picked up the receiver, deposited a handful of quarters, and punched in the numbers I’d scribbled on a discarded envelope. By the time I was connected to the proper person at Infinity Airlines, I felt like I was going to pass out from sheer nerves. What if they knew Officer Caron personally? What if they had a photo of him? What if they realized he was a baritone instead of a quivery-voiced alto?

As it turned out, they neither knew him nor, apparently, cared to know him. A badge number was enough. Their asses were covered.

I remained lucid long enough to get my information.

The senator had indeed been on flight 237 from L.A. to Boston on the evening Salina Martinez was murdered. First class. Seat 1A.

13

I
SPENT THE REST of the afternoon trying to talk myself out of being stupid. No luck. No surprise.

Salina’s memorial service was held at Ventura Mortuary at seven o’clock in the evening. I paced around my office like a gerbil in a maze while reviewing the myriad reasons it would be idiotic for me to attend.

There were eighteen of them. The first and most poignant was that Rivera might decide to kill me. The last and most practical was that my favorite panty hose had a run in them.

At 7:27 I parked in the lot behind the funeral home and walked the half block to the front door. I had dressed conservatively in black—black skirt and black blouse. Even my hose were black, partly because it was a funeral, but mostly in concession to the demise of my nude pair. I stopped short of wearing a black hat. Some people look classy in hats. I look like a bobble head.

The music was the first thing to strike my senses. Muted and low, it had a vampirish tone to it and immediately lifted the hair at the back of my neck. Some distance from the front door, a young couple stood apart from the muffled crowd, signing the leather-bound register. When they headed for the exit, blond heads tilted in quiet conversation, they looked like nothing so much as Ken and Barbie come to life, both tall, slim, and so beautiful it made my self-confidence sting.

The polished teak coffin stood near the south wall, surrounded by a forest of neon-bright flowers and polished greenery. I approached with some misgivings. After all, I wasn’t really Salina’s friend. Hell, I wasn’t even an acquaintance. But morbid interest drew me like a red ant to a picnic. Truth is, I’m not all that comfortable with the living. The dead make my throat close up.

Once there, however, I couldn’t seem to look away. Salina Martinez was stunning even in death. Her hair shone sapphire black in the fluorescent lights and her face, high-boned and tight-skinned, looked serene and youthful.

“Christ, she’s even gorgeous postmortem.”

I turned slowly, hoping to hell I hadn’t said the words out loud. The woman next to me didn’t glance up. “Never had a bad hair day in her entire goddamn life,” she added.

“I…” I glanced around, wondering rather numbly if she might be talking to someone else. No one was within hearing. It occurred to me that that might be a good thing. “I beg your pardon?” I said.

She gave me an assessing glance and thrust out her hand. “Rachel Banks.” Several years my junior, she was blond, lean as a boxer, and pretty in a hungry tigress sort of way.

“Christina McMullen.” Our hands met. Her fingers felt strong and sharp-boned. I could smell liquor on her breath. Bourbon. Noah’s Mill maybe.

“You work for the senator?” she asked.

“No. I’m just…a…a friend.”

She gave me a glance from beneath her lashes. Perhaps it was supposed to be knowing. It looked a little like she was going to nod into oblivion at any given second. Alcohol was not good to her. “She had a shitload of them.”

“What?”

Her expression suggested she didn’t think I was the brightest star in the heavens. Pretty perceptive considering her alcohol level. “Salina,” she said, and nodded jerkily toward the casket. “She knew everyone. All the right people.” Her lips drooped a little at the corners, but she was still smiling, a strange mix of expressions and emotions. “All the wrong people.”

“She had a lot of friends?”

“Friends.” Her eyes looked runny. “Enemies.”

I glanced about, feeling like a voyeur, but unable to stop the question. “Who were her enemies?”

She stared at me a moment, then laughed out loud. The sound was low and throaty. Still, it echoed like a banshee’s howl in the cavernous room. Beside the register, a woman in a navy blue pantsuit turned to scowl at us, while near the east door, two gentlemen stopped their conversation to glance our way. I cleared my throat and stared at my shoes as if they were the most fascinating things in the universe.

“You’re kidding, right?” she said.

I glanced back at her. “I didn’t know her well.”

“Then I guess you’re not on the list of people who hate…” She paused, scowled at the coffin. Her face contorted. “
Hated
her.”

I was momentarily speechless. It doesn’t happen often. “Are…” I paused. Some people think I live dangerously, but I’m generally not foolish enough to speak poorly of the dead. At least not until the body’s cold. “Are
you?
” I said finally. “On the list?”

Her lips twitched. For a moment she didn’t speak, then, “I started the damned thing.”

I took an involuntary step back, but suddenly there was a hand wrapped around my biceps.

I jerked, glanced up, froze.

Lieutenant Rivera was standing not three inches away. His eyes were as dark as hell, his body stiff with what I could safely presume was anger. He only has a couple of emotions. Anger is the safest of the two.

“Ms. McMullen.” His voice was low. A muscle danced unhappily in his jaw, and I realized a bit distractedly that this might be the first time I had ever seen him clean-shaven. His suit was black, well tailored, handsome. His shirt was gray, the exact same color as the slim tie that bisected the V made by his jacket. “What are you doing here?”

A fair question. My mind tried to come up with an answer that wouldn’t get me killed. My mouth did the same. Neither was wildly successful.

“Aren’t you even going to say hi?” Our stare-down was broken.

He turned slowly away, hand still banded tightly around my arm. “Rachel,” he said, and I thought for a moment that his fingers twitched a bit. It was difficult to say for sure, though, since my arm was beginning to go numb.

“I haven’t seen you in…” She narrowed her eyes. Her similarity to a hunting cat increased tenfold. “How long has it been, Jack?”

The muscle jumped again in his fresh-shaven cheek. “I heard you were in D.C.”

“I got back day before yesterday.”

He nodded.

“And you didn’t call.”

“Listen,” I said, trying unobtrusively to tug out of his grip. “I can see you two have a lot to talk about, so I’ll just—”

Rivera turned back toward me, eyes sparking fire, stopping me in my verbal tracks.

“If you’ll excuse us, Rachel, I have something to discuss with Ms. McMullen.”

“I bet you do,” she said, and I was turned away from the casket like a recalcitrant hound. I shuffled along beside him, not wanting to make a scene, but not crazy about our respective positions, either.

“She seems nice,” I said.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” His words were a snarl through clenched teeth. I realized in that moment that his clean-shaven jaw was the only thing ready for prime time. The rest of him looked jungle crazy. Well, except for the clothes. The suit was kick-ass perfect.

“I’m just paying my respects,” I said, and managed to pry my arm out of his grasp.

“Respect?” He choked an almost silent laugh. “You’ve got no damned respect, McMullen.”

Anger was working its way through the chinks in my fear. “I’ve got every right to be here, Rivera.”

He gritted his teeth, glanced about the room, eyes hungry and dark before they grabbed me again. “Did you enjoy your little luncheon with the senator?”

“That’s none of your…” I paused, catching my breath, feeling anger meld madly with the terror. “So you’ve stooped to spying on me, Rivera?”

“Spying?” He laughed. The sound was ultra-low and made the hair on my arms stand at attention, but not a head turned toward us. “Why? Was it a secret meeting, Chrissy?” he asked, and moved a quarter inch closer.

“Listen, Rivera, I don’t know what the hell you’re thinking, but I didn’t do anything wrong.” And yet I felt strangely guilty. “I didn’t contact your father behind your back or anything. He called me and—”

He laughed again. I ground my teeth. “Is something funny?” I asked.

“Of course he called you, McMullen.” He took a step closer, swallowing my personal space, breathing my personal air. Reaching out, he pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. Like we were lovers, like he had a right. Which he didn’t, and yet his touch was electrifying, a strange blend of danger and affection. “How could he resist?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice sounded funny, kind of breathy, like a porn star’s.

He lifted his hand again. Maybe I should have backed away, but I was frozen in my tracks.

“You’re female,” he said, and skimmed the back of his fingers down my cheek. His thigh felt ridiculously hard against mine.

My stomach squeezed up tight into my chest, leaving plenty of room for my spleen to wrap itself in knots.

“And you’re crazy about me,” he added.

My mouth opened. I hope I was going to object, but he was standing awfully close, his lips inches from mine, his fingers warm against my skin.

“Gerald,” someone said.

He froze at the sound of his name. Our gazes locked for a fraction of a second before he drew a careful breath and turned slowly toward the speaker.

The woman next to us was small and striking, with eyes as dark as my thoughts. Life sparked from her like fireworks. Her hair, an intense shade of black, was pulled demurely back at the nape of her neck. But it was her dress that caught my attention in a stranglehold. Canary yellow, it hugged her curves with the intimacy of a banana peel.

“Mama,” Rivera said, deadpan.

My mind popped. My eyes did the same, then skittered from her to him in a wild attempt to determine whether he was joking.

“Gerald…” She pronounced the “G” with a rolling H sound. “You must introduce me to this friend of yours,” she said.

I waited for him to say something rude. He didn’t. Which spurred the weird realization that she really was his mother. Holy shit.

“Christina McMullen,” he said, “this is my mama, Rosita Rivera.”

She watched me, perfect brows arched over tell-all Spanish eyes. “Christina. How did you meet my Gerald?”

I opened my mouth.

“Ms. McMullen’s a psychiatrist,” Rivera said.

“Psychologist,” I corrected.

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “She helped me with a couple cases a while back.”

I would have liked to object just for the hell of it, but I could feel the tension radiating off him like a toxic cloud. Besides, his mother didn’t need me to tell her what to think. She was assessing body language like a speed-reader. Her carefully groomed brows rose a little. Her red lips curved up. This woman was nobody’s fool. “You were a friend of Salina’s?” she asked me.

“No, ma’am,” I said, mind whirling like a top-of-the-line bidet. “I’m afraid I never got a chance to meet her.”

Even in strappy, wedge heels, she had to tilt her head back to look into my eyes. “You are more lucky than some, then,” she said.

“Mama.” Rivera’s voice held dark warning, but it was careful, contained. “A little respect.”

“Respect?” She snorted. “I do not respect that
barato
—”

But in that moment we were interrupted.

“Gerald,” said a deep voice. I lifted my focus, feeling dizzy.

The newcomer was well into his seventies and stood just behind Rosita. At one time he had been tall. Now he was stooped and broadening across his middle, which was cinched by tooled leather and accented with a belt buckle the size of my head. It sparkled silver in the overhead lights. He removed his bone-colored cowboy hat with a hand that was narrow and blue-veined. The other held the ivory grip of a fine-grained cane.

“Mr. Peachtree,” Rivera said grimly, but his mother was more effusive as she turned toward the newcomer.

“Robert!”

“Rosita,” he said. “I didn’t recognize you.” Taking her by the arm, he kissed her cheek. “Thought you were some teenage girl your boy here was wooin’. You age like a cactus flower, just keep getting prettier and prettier. But dang, it’s good to see you.” He had an accent strong enough to wrestle steers.

She smiled. “This is Christina McMullen, a psychologist.” Her eyes were sparkling. “And Gerald’s special friend.”

The muscle jumped in Rivera’s jaw again.

“A psychologist, eh?” Peachtree gave me a quick once-over and a lopsided Texas grin. Age, I had to deduce, had not yet diluted his Lone Star personality.

“She helps Gerald,” added Mrs. Rivera.

I couldn’t take it anymore. If there’s one thing I didn’t need, it was to feel like Rivera’s damn lackey. “Actually, I have my own practice,” I said. I could feel the grumpy lieutenant’s impatience, prompting me to ramble on. Some people think I have an ornery streak. Some people are extremely astute. “Over in Eagle Rock.”

Rivera’s scowl was burning a hole through my forehead.

I smiled merrily. “Not so far from here. Forty-five-minute drive maybe. I’m the only therapist, but—”

“I’m sure Mr. Peachtree has people to see,” rumbled Rivera, and took my arm again.

“So you’re pretty
and
smart. You look like just the kind of filly that could lasso Miguel’s boy here, too,” Peachtree said. “You ever think of doing corporate work?”

“What?”

“I’ve got me a little business. We’re thinking of hiring someone like you.”

I was floored…and flattered. I’d never been offered a job that didn’t somehow involve cleaning up vomit.

“I suspect this ain’t the place to discuss such things, but you think about it,” he said, and turned back toward Rivera’s mother. “So what about you, Rosita? You’ve been good, I hope.”

“
Sí.
Yes. And you?” She leaned back, taking him in with her snapping eyes. “What are you doing in Los Angeles?”

“Just here on business. Straightening out a few snarls.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“No, no.” He shook his head, negating her concern and glancing around the room. “Thought I might see Danny here, though.”

“I believe he just now left.” She smiled. “It has been too long since I have seen you.”

“Since Boston.”

“Ohh.” She made a sound of exasperation. “The most tedious meetings I have ever yet attended.”