Unscrewed (16 page)

“When did you get into town?”

She leaned toward me, eyes bright. “I can see why Rivera hates you.”

“I—”

“Don’t get me wrong. It’s not an insult. He’d never get serious about a woman he couldn’t hate.”

“Did he hate Salina?”

Her lips quirked into a parody of a smile. “There was a time.”

“But no more?”

She shook her head.

“Is that why you think he didn’t kill her? Because he didn’t hate her?” And if that was the case, what did that say for my own longevity?

“That and pride.”

“What?”

She drank, raised her empty glass to the waiter, and turned her attention back to me. “He’s too damn cocky to kill her. Wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.”

“Ummm…”

“Christ!” She snorted a laugh. “She was screwing his old man. You think that didn’t get his dick in a twist? Back in the day, it drove him crazy just thinking she might…” Her voice trailed off.

“Thinking she might what?” I asked.

She shrugged. For a moment I thought she’d remain silent, but Absolut is not a great speech inhibitor. “When they were engaged…” She paused. “Shit, it seems like a hundred years ago. He must have been…what? Twenty maybe. Eyes like a fucking forest fire.” She chuckled at her own fanciful thoughts. “Anyway, there was a rumor.”

I waited.

She drew a deep breath and fiddled with her straw. “A rumor that she was sleeping around.”

“With whom?”

She laughed, waited, then, “His old man.”

What a tangled frickin’ web. “Was it true?”

“He seemed to think so, and I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.” She shrugged and narrowed her eyes. “She did it eventually anyway, didn’t she?”

“Is that what broke them apart? The rumor?”

She was silent for an instant. “That? No. Actually…” Her face looked pale, kind of stretched tight. “I think he might have been more upset for his mother’s sake than his own.”

“How’d she handle it?”

“Rosita?” She grinned and made a sort of salute with her glass. “Now, there’s a woman who knows how to hate.”

“Enough to kill?”

She tilted her head, noncommittal. “If she did it, it’s going to put Jack in a hell of a spot, isn’t it?”

“How do you mean?”

“He’ll have to choose between his mama and his badge.”

“You think he’d cover it up?”

“She’s his mama. He’s Latino.”

“Still…”

She sat up straight, eyes bright, staring at me. “Good God! You don’t know him at all.”

“We’re just—”

“You really haven’t slept with him?”

“As I said—”

She laughed, mouth open. “You really haven’t.”

I gave her a prissy look. “There are others I haven’t slept with, too.”

“Touché,” she said, and finishing her vodka, she watched me over the top of her glass before setting it on the table.

I refused to squirm under her perusal. “What about the senator?” I asked. “Was he in love with Salina?”

“If you’re asking if he killed her…” She shrugged, accepted a fresh drink with a tipsy smile. The waiter moved away. She watched his ass, sighed, turned back to me. “You really haven’t slept with him?”

“No.” I felt a little like slapping her, but I refrained and wondered if I would regret my phenomenal restraint later. “What about the senator? Do you think he’s capable of murder?”

“Sure.” She shrugged. “But I don’t think he’d let Jack take the fall.”

“There’s bad blood between them,” I reminded her.

She raised a brow at me as if I were too stupid to breathe. “How would it look if the good senator’s son murdered their mutual fiancée?”

She had a point. “Not good?” I guessed.

“I knew you were smart.”

“You make him sound a little cold-blooded.”

She breathed a laugh and drank. “Boa constrictors are cold-blooded, honey.”

She almost said it with admiration, making me wonder if she was in the habit of lying down with snakes. “Who do you think was at the head of the queue?”

“It was usually the one she just screwed over who wanted to kill her most.”

“But she’s been with the senator for over a year, hasn’t she?”

She made a face. “Are you from the Midwest or something?”

“I don’t know what that has to do with—”

“You think she was faithful to him?” she asked, dumb-founded, as if the idea were ludicrous.

“Holy crap.” I felt a little breathless.

She laughed.

“Who was she sleeping with?”

She put her glass down. “Like I said, I’ve been in D.C. Didn’t keep track of her affairs anymore.” She studied her drink, lips tight. “And Miguel didn’t say.”

“You kept in touch with the senator?”

She ignored the question and narrowed her eyes a little. “But Danny Hohl is awful pretty. Just the kind of boy toy Sal would enjoy.”

“Hohl? The Ken doll?”

She laughed. “So you noticed him, too.”

My mind was grunting beneath the weight of the conversation. I shook my head, trying to clear it. It was patently unsuccessful. “Did the senator know she was unfaithful?”

Her fingers tightened on her glass. “It’s possible.”

I was missing something. “But love is blind?” I probed.

“While lust is merely deaf and stupid.”

“Who was Salina’s latest beau?”

“Beau?” She gave me a squishy smile.

“I have a Ph.D.,” I said.

She laughed. “I have a master’s from Harvard. Sal and I went there together.”

“Harvard.” Damn. I hated being impressed. “Where’d she get the money?”

“She got a full ride. God, she was smart. Could have done anything if she hadn’t…” Her voice broke.

My ears perked up. My voice dropped a few decibels. “Hadn’t what, Rachel?”

“She should have stayed away from the men. They just used her.”

I watched her face. I’d seen that expression a thousand times in the quiet confines of my office. It was remorse, haunting and cold. “Why’d you start the rumor?” I asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The rumor about her and the senator,” I said, and she started to cry, low and muffled and filled with a decade of regret.

18

I
DON’T LIKE to use labels,” I said.

“That means yes.” Bruce Lincoln was, without question, the best-looking client I had ever had. In fact, he might be the best-looking fantasy I’d ever had. Of course, his physical looks didn’t matter an iota. I’m a professional. Still, when he smiled, my salivary glands always felt a close kinship to Pavlov and his drooling canines. But then, they do the same thing for hot fudge. So maybe my response training was skewed. “You think I’m a sex addict.”

I straightened in my chair and crossed one leg over the other. I was wearing Givenchy panty hose. If I don’t splurge on ice cream I can afford them and still fit into something smaller than size jumbo. “Do you want to be a sex addict, Mr. Lincoln?” I asked.

My tone was as soothing as hell, but in actuality, I was still reeling from Saturday night. When I’d gone to meet Rachel, I’d thought she wanted to vent her spleen. Turns out, she’d wanted to confess. Not to murder, unfortunately, but to sabotaging Rivera’s engagement to her best friend. Seems he’d dropped Rachel for Salina. So she’d started the rumor that Salina was sleeping with Rivera’s father, watched their relationship crumble, then cleverly managed to dam up her guilt for more than a decade. But guilt has a way of seeping through the tiniest cracks.

I should have that little piece of wisdom framed and hung above my desk.

“No.” Mr. Lincoln jerked to his feet. I jerked, too. I’m not a jumpy person by nature, but the last six months hadn’t exactly been smooth sailing. Lately, when someone stands up, I find a dead body. “No,” he said. “I don’t want to be a sex addict. I want to marry Tracy.”

I nodded and tried to concentrate, but thoughts of Rivera and Salina kept disturbing my peace. How had he really felt about her? Last time I’d seen him, he’d looked haunted and haggard. Did that mean he still loved her? And what about Rachel? She’d implied that her relationship with him had been purely physical, but normal people don’t try to ruin someone’s life because of a casual affair. Of course, I’ve never met anyone normal.

“This your husband?” Bruce Lincoln had picked up the photograph on my desk. The man in the portrait was in his forties, tan, fit, and almost as handsome as my client. I had named him Ryan.

“No, it’s not,” I said, and forced myself to focus. “What is your definition of an addict, Mr. Lincoln?”

He shrugged, frowned, set the photo back. If I didn’t love Ryan with my whole heart, I’d get rid of that thing. “This a quiz?”

“Yes.”

He smiled. My salivary glands kicked up. Sorry, Ryan.

“An addiction,” he said, “is a compulsive psychological need for something that is habit-forming.”

“Do you need to have sex with the checkout girl at Starbucks?” We’d been discussing her for three weeks now. Apparently, she had “eyes like diamonds.” Please!

“That depends where I am in the sequence of events,” he said, and sat back down, crossing his right ankle over his left knee.

The movement reminded me of Rivera. And maybe there were other similarities. Maybe Rivera had the same problem Bruce Lincoln did. Maybe they were both sex addicts. It certainly sounded as if the lieutenant had had his fair share. More, if what Rachel implied was true.

I’m not proud of the fact, but I had called Solberg after I’d gotten home from the Quarry. It had been two o’clock in the morning. Blessedly, he had been alone—groggy, but alone. I told him I needed to see the pics the cops had taken of the senator’s house.

He’d spouted some gibberish about prison and life sentences and cell mates who are bigger than fishing boats. I had then reminded him of the first time we’d met at a bar called the Warthog. He had propositioned no less than twenty-three women that night and had finally left with a girl who could bench-press an ox. The words “Big Cheese” were tattooed on her left biceps. Maybe Laney would be interested in such charming anecdotes.

I was expecting the pictures soon. Maybe they would help me tie up the loose ends. Or at least locate the ends. Rivera seemed to think the crime-scene photos would help him prove that Salina had been murdered—and that he was innocent. Or maybe he wanted to get ahold of them because he was afraid they would incriminate him. Hmm, something to think about.

“What do you do?” Bruce Lincoln asked. Putting both feet on the floor, he leaned forward, elbows on knees.

I sat in silence for a moment, partly to give him time to consider his own question, but mostly ’cuz I’d spaced out and had no idea what he was talking about.

“Come on,” he said. “I had a fucked-up childhood. My old man split. Mom spent every night…” He paused, expression somber. He was an aspiring actor. “Truth is, I don’t have any idea how a good relationship’s supposed to work. I could use some pointers. How do you keep the beast at bay?”

“I keep my pants zipped.” I realized almost immediately that I shouldn’t have said that. After all, I don’t get the big bucks for sharing practical good sense. I get paid to spout ten-dollar words with penny-apiece meaning, but I was a little distracted.

Still, he grinned at me. “Oh, come on, you’re young, attractive. What do you do?” he asked again. “When you’re…” He nodded toward the picture on my desk. “When he’s not around and you’re…lonely.”

Well,
I thought,
when my favorite picture wasn’t nearby, I usually go with a nice pastoral scene. Maybe framed in teak and angled just so.
I had other methods for when I was horny. Methods that sex addicts like to talk about in lieu of the actual deed.

I steepled my fingers and looked him in the eye.

“How do you think Tracy would feel if she knew you were prying into my sex life for your own perverse reasons, Mr. Lincoln?” I asked.

His face went ashen. His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he looked sincere, but then, he was an actor…and a man.

C
ity and state, please.”

I tangled my fingers in the telephone cord and closed my eyes.

“What state, please.” Even the recording sounded peeved.

“California,” I said. “Los Angeles.”

“Just a minute, please.”

Within thirty seconds I had a phone number scrawled on my electric bill. After that, I paced to the freezer, took out some frozen common sense, and ruminated on why I shouldn’t make the contemplated call.

Two pounds later, I replaced the carton, took a deep breath, and dialed the phone again.

“Hey!” someone yelled. Music was blasting like nuclear explosives in the background.

“Yes, hi,” I said, “is Danny there?”

“What?” The shouter on the other end of the line might have had an English accent. Then again, he might have been stoned out of his mind. Or both.

“Daniel,” I said, raising the amps. “Is he there?”

“This Cindy?”

Uhhh…sure. “Yeah,” I said. “Do you know where he is? I haven’t seen him around for a while.”

“Hey!” He screamed the word, supposedly to the world at large, but managed to siphon most of the volume into the receiver. I leaned back, trying to save my ears. “Anyone know where Danny is?” In a moment he was back on. “Don’t know for sure,” he said. “Could be at the library.”

Library? What library? My mind was churning. “At U—here on campus?” I asked.

“Yeah, studying again like a right wanker probably. Say…” His words were slurred, but then, it was Tuesday night at UCLA. “Give him a shag, will ya? Get his nose out of a book for a minute.”

“Sure thing,” I said, and hung up before I felt the need to tell him to shut his dirty little mouth. Apparently, I wasn’t getting any younger.

It took me an hour to talk myself into full stupid mode. Then I dug through my closet and came up with a pair of worn jeans. They had holes at the knees and looked like they’d had a run-in with a sandblaster. Perfect. I dragged them on, noted the condition of my legs through the holes, and peeled them back off. Then I shaved my knees, donned a push-up bra, two camis, and a flouncy top in concession with the current layering craze.

My nerves were hopping by the time I reached the campus. Broad as a wheat field, its mood vacillated between modern sculptures and turreted architecture from another era. Gargoyles scowled down at me from lofty cornices and fountains ran backward. No kidding.

I kept my eyes open for future stars. According to the brochures, Dean and Monroe had matriculated at this institution, but it was impossible to differentiate between megatalent and Joe Schmo. Everyone was beautiful at UCLA.

The interior of Powell Library was no less spectacular than the grounds. I passed checkerboard floors, towering pillars, and grand wooden staircases. It beat the hell out of Schaumburg Tech, which boasted one battered stop sign and a snowbank as its focal point.

Daniel, aka Ken doll, was in the main reading room on the third floor. He glowed like a homing beacon, beach-blond hair glimmering above a chaotic smattering of handwritten notes.

I had no idea what I was going to say. Good sense suggested that I turn around and march home, but sometimes good sense and I can go weeks on end without so much as a “What the hell” between us.

I picked up a determined stride and paced past him, faltered, turned back, and stopped beside the table where he was studying. “Danny?” I said. “Is that you?”

He glanced up. His expression was thoughtful, his mouth pursed. His lips were an odd meld of Oliver Twist and Casanova. He was already gathering up the papers. I tried to inconspicuously speed-read, but all I saw was some lopsided molecular diagrams and printing that would fit on a grain of sand. In less than a second, he’d shoveled the papers beneath a tattered pocket folder.

“Christina McMullen,” I said, and thrust out my hand. He took it with some misgiving, but he was too polite to tell me to get lost and leave him to whatever was going on in his head.

His handshake, however, was noncommittal. His young Republican act needed some work.

I drew a deep breath and made my face sad. “I saw you at…at Sal’s visitation,” I said.

He looked introspective for a moment, then, “Oh, sure. So you knew her?” His voice was cultured.

“We were coconspirators.” I paused, gave a sad little laugh, and wondered wildly what we might have coconspired on. “Back in the day.” Maybe he wouldn’t ask.

“Coconspirators?”

Damn. “Can I…?” I indicated the chair across from him with a flip of my hand. Oh so casual. Like I wasn’t breaking all kinds of social and moral stipulations. “Can I sit down?”

He nodded. His gaze was sharp. “Did you know her from the campaign?”

“No.”

He stared.

“Harvard,” I said, grasping wildly at the few straws Rachel had cast my way. “We almost blew up the chem lab there.”

His eyes narrowed. “A political science major doesn’t require chemistry.”

“Don’t I know it.” No. “Old man Eddings about had a cow.” Had a cow? Did they still say that? “But Sal…” I chuckled, reminiscing, crazy as a loon. “Well…you know how she was.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I mean, I thought I did. But I never thought she’d go that far.”

I gave him my concerned look. “What do you mean? How far?”

He eyed me, shook his head, leaned back.

I scrambled for mental footing. “Far enough to marry him,” I guessed.

“The senator’s an okay guy, I guess,” he said. “Was a friend of my father’s. And Peach thinks he walks on water. But I mean…shit…he’s old enough to be…a friend of my father’s.”

And he was just about young enough to be her son, but that little nugget of truth didn’t seem to offend his sensibilities. “Creepy as hell,” I said. “I told her that, too.”

“Yeah?”

“We shared a tube of lip gloss for two years. After that you can pretty much tell a person anything. But Sal…” I sighed, winced at my own performance. “She didn’t need any makeup. She was like—”

“Dark sunshine,” he said.

I turned my gaze back to him. There was something in his tone. “How long have you been in love with her?”

“Me?” He laughed. Was the sound a little off? A little breathy? “We dated for a while, but…” He shook his head.

“That must have been while I was in Seattle.”

“Two years ago almost.”

“Why’d you break up? It seems like you’d be perfect together.”

“Salina and me?” He laughed. “No. Too different. She was politics down to her bone marrow and I was…well, I’ve been called a tree hugger, and worse. Even by old Peach.”

My mind was scrambling. “Robert Peachtree?”

“You know him?”

“Just by reputation. He doesn’t share your concern for the environment, I take it.”

“The forests are just a place to store lumber to him. But they’ve been good to me. Him and Dottie. And she can cook. Except for the cocoa cookies.” He shuddered. “Never wanted to make her feel bad, though. Never want to make anyone feel bad.” He lowered his brows. “Maybe that makes me a weenie. But the cops still questioned me about Salina’s death.”

I gave him an incredulous expression. It’s kind of like my “No way” look but not so out there. “They don’t think you had anything to do with her death, do they?”

He shrugged. The movement was stiff. “I told them to look closer to home. Then Rivera himself comes and talks to me.”

“The senator?”

“His son. The lieutenant. Came to my house. I told him I wanted to see a badge, but he said he just wanted to talk, off the record. You know what that means.”

I shook my head. I felt a little cold.

“He got his ass suspended.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Are you kidding? You know what kind of ego it takes to become a cop? They’d give their kidneys for an excuse to flip open their badges. And Rivera’s one of the worst. Cocky as hell. But she left him, you know…for his old man. He couldn’t take the embarrassment.”

“You think he killed her?” My voice sounded hoarse.

“He was there, you know, at his old man’s house, the night she died.”