Unscrewed (5 page)

5

I
’D LIKE TO speak to Lieutenant Rivera,” I said.

The man behind the counter had teeth the size of small rodents and a comb-over. The thing some men tend to forget is that hair is required in order to achieve a successful comb-over. But regardless of the state of this guy’s coiffure, his fingers were quick on the keyboard in front of him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not glancing up. “Lieutenant Rivera isn’t on duty today.”

“Not on duty,” I said, then paused, scowled, and held on to my patience. “I was told he would be held here overnight.”

Confusion zipped across his face, but he kept his gaze on the computer screen and tapped a few keys. I watched his eyes widen. Apparently, it was early in his shift and he hadn’t yet gleaned the precinct gossip. “Sorry,” he said finally, “but the lieutenant is not allowed visitors at this time.”

“I’m not a visitor. I’m a…” He was already shaking his head. “Psychologist.”

“Sorry. I can’t—”

“Excuse me.” Laney squeezed in beside me at the counter. My arm pressed against hers, which pressed against her left boob, which made Comb-over Guy’s eyes water.

Twenty seconds later we were ushered into the guts of the precinct while Comb-over put a call in to the powers that be. I sat hunched in a plastic chair like a palsy victim. My eyeballs felt like they’d been scrubbed with steel wool and my hair was greasy. I was wearing faded running pants and a white zip-up hoody over the fuck-me blouse I’d donned the night before. I was picking at a broken thumbnail when Laney elbowed me. I glanced toward her, but we never made eye contact because her gaze was welded elsewhere. I followed her line of attention toward a man conversing with a female clerk. His hair was silver, expensively shorn, and swept back from a regal, high-boned face. His skin was the color of a high-calorie cappuccino and spoke of blood that was ancient long before my own antecedents began filching sheep. His nose had a noble bow to it, his stance was relaxed yet perfectly straight, and he wore an Armani suit like most men do weekends. Casually, as if he had no one to impress. His dove gray shirt was accented by a burgundy tie, and not a wrinkle showed in the crisp fabric that stretched across his chest and beneath the broad shoulders of his dark, double-breasted suit coat.

A glass office opened a few yards to his right, and a towering man stepped out. It took my stuttering mind a minute to recognize him. Captain Kindred, still weary-eyed and guarded.

“Leighton,” said Armani, and leaving the flushing clerk to stare after him in shiny-eyed admiration, he stepped forward to take the captain’s hand in both of his own. “How’s Lilah?”

“She’s fine.” Kindred nodded once, tension tight across his massive shoulders as he crunched his hands to fists and zipped my memory back to the roiling emotions I’d felt from his men the previous night. Admiration, nervousness, fear. Captain Kindred was not a man to be trifled with.

“And the kids?” Armani continued. “Maria must be, what? Seventeen now?”

“This May.”

“Still playing the violin like a gifted angel? Some hot-blooded vaquero hasn’t swept her into matrimony, has he?”

“God forbid!” The captain relaxed a little, almost smiled. “She’s been accepted to Juilliard.”

“Ahh…” Armani shook his head, eyes growing misty, as though the revered daughter were his own. “That’s grand. Just grand. You must be very proud.”

“Yes.” Kindred nodded, shuffled oversized feet, fisted oversized hands. “Thank you for your help in that regard.”

“I was happy to do it,” said Armani, and everything about him suggested it was true. “It was nothing. Nothing at all. It was Maria who plied the horsehair. And your Lilah who carried out the threats.
Si?
” He nodded. “It is not a simple task to raise a successful child in these days. This I know.” A trifle of sadness shaded his stately features, firing his rich liqueur eyes, forcing his back a little straighter.

“Listen, Miguel,” said the captain. “I’m sorry about this damned circus. I wouldn’t have—”

“I know.” He interrupted easily, sweeping away the emotion with an elegant hand and two simple words. “I am certain you’re doing everything in your power to set things right.”

The captain’s gaze snapped to me, then away. “Come into my office. We’ll—”

“No.” Armani shook his head. “No. I’ve nothing to hide, Leighton, and the same, I am certain, can be said of my son.”

“I wouldn’t have locked him up, but he was scaring the shit out of my…” Kindred paused, deepened his scowl so his eyes were almost lost beneath the cliffs of his brows. “If the press catches a whiff of a cover-up, the mayor will fry my ass.”

“But he is well. He is safe?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“What happened?”

The big shoulders tensed again. “I’m sorry, Senator. I can’t tell you any more than I did on the phone.”

Senator! Reality zapped me like a Taser. Mr. Armani was Rivera’s father. Elaine and I turned toward each other like ventriloquist dummies. Seconds passed in wordless silence as my mind seized every scattered piece of rumor I’d ever heard about the former politician.

“…maybe tell you more than I can.”

I glanced to my right. Both men were staring at me. I squelched a weak-kneed desire to scrunch back in my chair like a cornered rat. Captain Kindred had turned toward his office. Miguel Rivera was already making his way across the floor toward me, his handsome features solemn, his eyes like eagle lasers.

That’s right…eagle lasers.

“Ms. McMullen.” He had a rich, graceful accent that made plain English sound pale and wobbly by comparison.

“Yes.” My voice squeaked like a poor soprano’s. “Yes.” I stood up. The chair teetered against the backs of my knees.

He reached for my hand. Our fingers met. His were slightly calloused, long, perfectly groomed. I wished to hell I’d made time for a manicure…and taken a shower, washed my hair, worn matching shoes.

“I am told you are my son’s psychologist.”

I opened my mouth, blinked, adjusted my thinking. “No. I’m his…” What the hell was I? “I’m not his therapist.”

“No?”

“I’m just a…just a friend,” I stammered.

The glimmer of a smile shone in his eyes. He leaned in a bit and tightened his grip slightly. “Ahh, not
just
a friend, I think. A Rivera could not be so foolish as that.”

“I…” I could actually feel myself blush. Holy crap. Paint me with acne, squeeze me into a tuba, and I was back in high school.

Laney shifted beside me, exuding a double dose of moral support and blatant curiosity.

“And this is?” The senator glanced to my left.

“Elaine Butterfield,” she said. Her voice didn’t warble one iota. But why would it? She was wearing real clothes. And she was Elaine Butterfield.

“It is very good to meet you,” he said. Releasing my hand, he reached for hers, but neither his fingers nor his gaze lingered. Didn’t rest on her cleavage. Didn’t slip to her legs. Like a miracle, he turned back to me.

“So you were there, at my house, this past night?” he asked.

The question seemed to squeeze the breath from my lungs.

“Yes, sir. I was,” I said. “For a short while.”

“And my son, he was there also.”

I remembered the snarling rage on Rivera’s face as they pinned him to the floor. “Yes.”

He drew a deep breath, fortifying himself. “And my Salina…” He paused, fought for strength. “She was already dead?”

A crappy day had just turned worse. “I believe so. I’m sorry.”

He nodded, lifted his chin a small degree. “So tell me, Ms. McMullen, in your educated opinion, what do you believe happened last night?”

“You were there. You tell me.”

The words were a growl from my left. The three of us turned in stunned unison. Lieutenant Jack Rivera stood not five feet away, hair rumpled, eyes sparking.

“Gerald.” The senator straightened. His lips pursed. “They have released you as promised. I am glad.”

“So what went wrong?” Rivera took a step closer. His face was unshaven, his shirt untucked. “She threaten to leave you again?”

I saw tension in the senator’s body language for the first time. “I think it would be unwise for you to make a spectacle at your place of employment, Gerald.”

“Unwise?” The word was a snarl. Around us, every living soul stopped, breath held, listening in gleeful horror. “You sorry son of a bitch. What’d you do?”

“I thought perhaps you had learned to control your temper,” said the elder Rivera. “But I see now that you have not. Not last night, and not this morning.”

“Control?” Reaching past me, Rivera snatched up a chair and slammed it against the wall. Half the room jumped. Captain Kindred’s door sprang open.

“Lieutenant!” His voice cracked like a whip.

A muscle jumped in Rivera’s stubbled jaw. His gaze skipped to me, rested a heartbeat, then turned toward the captain.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Kindred’s voice was a low rumble, barely audible in the sweating silence of the room as he strode toward us.

Rivera shifted his gaze back to his father. His fists tightened on the chair, veins bulging beneath the folded cuffs of his sleeves.

“You wanna lose your badge? That what you want?” Kindred asked. His voice was a raspy threat.

The muscle jumped in Rivera’s jaw again.

“Look at me,” the captain snarled, thumping a hand against Rivera’s chest. “’Cuz I’m the man that can make it happen.”

Rivera gritted his teeth, eyes blazing. Their gazes clashed. Dark on dark, sparking with rage and frustration and regret.

“We been through some shit together, Lieutenant,” Kindred said, stepping up close, blocking the senator from Rivera’s sight. “But I’ll do what needs doing. You can damn sure bank on that.”

The chair trembled in Rivera’s hand. He set it aside, straightened, then shifted his gaze to me, smoldering hot with tight-coiled frustration.

I opened my mouth, but if I had any fabulous verbal plans, I have no idea what they were. He was Rivera, as volatile as meth, as unpredictable as a schizophrenic. Maybe he was innocent. But maybe he was guilty as hell.

Our gazes fused for one elongated moment as he probed my soul, and then he nodded grimly, turned, and walked out the door.

The captain closed his eyes and eased his big hands open. Around me, people began chattering like startled chipmunks.

The senator spoke first. “I am sorry.” Kindred turned toward him. “I very much hoped he had matured.”

“He’ll be all right,” said Kindred. “Just needs to blow off some steam. He’ll come around.”

But the older man shook his head. “I fear our past stands between us. His mother and I…” he began, then smiled sadly. “But these are not your troubles, are they? Thank you for your efforts, Leighton. I shall not forget them.”

The captain turned with a scowl toward his office.

The senator focused on me, gave a slight bow. “Ms. McMullen.” He reached for my hand with both of his, drawing me close, holding me with his gaze. “He needs a friend now. Someone who believes in him.”

I tried to step back. If there was one thing I knew for sure, it was that Rivera had read every rabid doubt in my head, every raging fear in my weak-bladdered soul. “I don’t think I’m—”

“If not you, then who?” he asked, smiling gently. “Go to him. Give him the comfort only a beautiful woman can give a man,” he said, and patting my hand, he turned to leave.

Beautiful?
I stood like a dumbfounded monkey, staring after him in bewilderment and wondering if he’d noticed my mismatched shoes.

6

I
T WAS A long night, during which I did a lot of tossing. I would have turned, too, but Harlequin took up most of the available turning space. By Monday morning I felt like my brain had been rolled in sawdust and deep-fried in pig fat.

The clock said 8:42. My first session was at ten. Time to rise and shine. Well, no time to shine, just to rise.

I remained where I was.

The memory of Rivera’s dead-set eyes seared me to the bone. He’d looked at me as if I were somehow culpable. As if he could blame me for doubting him, when the truth was, I didn’t know him. Had never been given a chance to know him. All I was sure of was that he was as unstable as nitro…and a liar. He was lying nitroglycerin. Well, at least he was a neglecter of the truth. He’d never mentioned Salina. Not one word. Not one damned syllable. What was I supposed to think? That his presence during her death was simply coincidental? That he was as innocent as a kiwi? That he’d walked into his father’s living room, found her dead, and decided to take a nap on the hardwood?

Well, none of it mattered. It wasn’t my concern. If Rivera had wanted a real relationship, he would have made some sort of effort toward that end. Would have told me about his past. Or at least about his present. Holy crap! His father had been engaged to his ex, who happened to look a lot like a slinky version of Salma Hayek.

I slapped my hand over my eyes and moaned. How did I keep making the same mistakes? Well, okay, not
exactly
the same mistakes. My boyfriends weren’t generally accused of manslaughter. So I had to get points for originality. I mean, it wasn’t easy constantly coming up with all-time lows in my history of less-than-romantic entanglements.

But this time I knew one thing for certain.

I dropped my hand from my eyes and sat up like a toy soldier. My days of living stupid were over. I didn’t need a man anyway. I had a good job. Well, I had a job. And a nice house. Well, I had a house. I had a good life. Well…anyway, from now on I was going to concentrate on nothing more grandiose than keeping all three.

And if I dated—
if
I dated—it would only be with pedigreed men. Men with taste, men with substance, men who neither accused me of murder nor were accused of murder themselves.

I rolled out of bed. Eeyore’s tail wiggled on the back of my pajama top. My silk nightie had gone AWOL again.

I wandered into the bathroom, used the toilet, then eyed the scale near the sink. It stared back, cocky as a Frenchman. But this was a new me. A confident me. The scale was not the enemy. Striding up to the plate, I stepped boldly onto the smooth white surface, and winced.

Ten minutes later I was laced into my running shoes and stepping out the front door. Harlequin looked dashing in his red nylon leash. Controlling him was kind of like trying to box up the wind, but after the turmoil of the past six months, there was something comforting about having a rhino-size carnivore on a string. And there was the added bonus of his tendency to pull me up the hills.

The jacarandas were capped in purple blossoms and blooming early on Opus Street. Had I not been sure my lungs were about to explode I would have stared in awe. Dr. Seuss couldn’t have conjured up anything more outrageous, but I turned my back to them and chugged up Oro Vista. True to form, Harley did his part to tow me along. Downhill was like trying to water-ski behind a Zamboni. By the time I reached my own slanted stoop, my right arm was two inches longer than my left and I wasn’t sure which of us was panting harder.

Sloshing water into Harlequin’s dish, I set it on the floor near the kitchen counter. He slopped it up while I retreated to the bathroom. No water for me. Instead, I stripped off every thread of clothing, gritted my teeth, stepped back onto the scale, and glared. Maybe it wasn’t the enemy, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to invite it over for pizza and beer. Stepping off, I slipped off my watch and removed my hair binder. Then, picking up the scale, I placed it on a cushy portion of the carpet in my pencilsized hallway and gave it another chance.

One hundred and thirty-two pounds.

Not bad. If I didn’t eat for a week and shaved my head, my weight would be perfect.

I was inspired to eat light. Breakfast consisted of seven raisins and a glass of water. Not because I wanted to look good for men. The new Christina McMullen didn’t care about such outdated considerations.

Jack Rivera might have bone-melting eyes and an ass like a hot cross bun, but that only mattered to the old Chrissy. The new Chrissy was playing it smart. Living right. Keeping her nose to the grindstone.

Where the hell did one find a grindstone?

I pondered that on my drive to work and studiously did not think about buns of any kind. When a guy in a Chevy truck with license plates that said
BOSSMAN
cut me off, I ground my teeth, bided my time, and returned the favor at the first possible opportunity. Huh. The new Chrissy seemed to be almost as vindictive as the old one.

Eleven minutes later I was sitting across from my first client. Jacob Gerry was thirty-one, attractive, and successful. Luckily, he was also as gay as a bluebird. Ergo, no temptation to fraternize. Fraternizing with clients is a big no-no and tends to jeopardize one’s career. After the debacle with Andrew Bomstad, mine didn’t exactly need jeopardizing. Not that the new Chrissy would have been tempted even if Gerry fought fires in his underwear while simultaneously curing cancer. The new Chrissy was grinding her nose.

“Do you believe everyone really has a soul mate?” Jacob’s voice was quiet and earnest, his eyes solemn. He worked in advertising, dressed like a Macy’s mannequin, and probably made enough in an hour to pay my mortgage. But he was short one mate for his soul.

“What exactly do you mean by a ‘soul mate’?” I asked.

He smiled, showing teeth just a little shy of perfect. Somehow it only made him more appealing. “Is this a clever ploy to induce me to discuss the meaning of life?”

Actually, no. I just honestly had no idea what a soul mate was. But I was pretty sure it wasn’t a guy who ate the center out of my birthday cake or used my e-mail address to converse with girls who had names like Satin and Honey.

The new Chrissy shrugged enigmatically. “Perhaps,” she said.

Jacob glanced out the window, smile fading. The view was less than awe-inspiring. Unless you were inspired by the sight of the Sunrise Coffee House. Which, by the by, had darn good scones. The old Chrissy had sometimes been inspired.

“I used to think I needed someone…” He paused, thinking. “Right.”

“‘Right’?” I repeated, clever as a fox.

“You know. The right image. The right apartment. The right friends.”

I steepled my fingers. “And now?”

“Now…” He looked wistful and tired when he turned back toward me. “Now I think I might be an ass.”

By the time Jacob left, the new Chrissy was a little confused. Weren’t we supposed to be fussy? Weren’t we supposed to aim high? By lunch she was only hungry. Turns out raisins don’t stick to your ribs like, say,…food.

So I trekked to the coffee shop early, obsessing over a Bacon Brava sandwich on a croissant with extra mozzarella and potato chips. I ordered a turkey on rye and returned to the office feeling smug and a little resentful. Damn freakin’ poultry.

I saw four clients back to back without even coming up for air.

At 5:51 I heard Howard Lepinski talking to Elaine in the reception area. I finished updating Peggy Shin’s records and dutifully set the rest aside. The old Chrissy wasn’t real concerned about punctuality. Five minutes late was spot on time as far as she was concerned. But I was different now. I opened the door at six o’clock on the dot.

Lepinski settled onto my couch like a little old lady protecting her pocketbook, knees pressed primly together, back straight as a pin.

I said hello. He managed the same. A few seconds ticked away in silence before I decided to give the proverbial ball a shove.

“So how was your—”

“I’m thinking of going back to my wife.” The words sped from his lips like 220 sprinters.

I sat dumbfounded. If I had been Lepinski’s mistress this might have been bad news. Or maybe if I had been his wife. As things stood, I wasn’t sure what to think.

Mr. Lepinski was a little man with a twitch, a mustache, and eyeglasses thick enough to render them bulletproof. I’d been counseling him for almost a year.

“Are you certain that’s what you want to do?” I asked.

Lepinski shrugged and blinked twice. He was extremely fond of blinking…and shrugging. Sometimes it was a little disturbing, like watching a palsied zebra finch. Maybe that’s why Mrs. Lepinski had, some months earlier, decided to do the Mattress Marengo with the guy who sold her pork ribs on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But there may have been other reasons.

“She’s not seeing
him
anymore.”

I assumed when he said “seeing,” he actually meant screwing, but neither Chrissy was too excited about asking. I nodded and refocused. Lepinski had problems, but compared to some men, most of whom I’ve dated, he’s got his pencils all in one box. “Did she tell you that?”

“Yes.” He glanced up, twitched. “She says it’s over.”

I couldn’t help wondering if the missus had called it quits with the pork-rib guy because she desperately longed to return to the connubial bliss she’d once shared with her beloved spouse, or because Porker had belatedly come to his senses. I’d met Mrs. Lepinski. She was marginally better-looking than a rump roast, but not quite as charming.

“So you miss her,” I said. It was not quite a question, but left the door open for a response. Sometimes I surprised even myself with my spectacular cunning. Go, new Chrissy!

Lepinski’s myopic gaze flitted toward the door and back. “She’s my wife.”

I sat in intelligent silence. Sometimes I sat in idiotic silence, but I tried to avoid it at the office.

“I mean, of course I miss her.” He was looking defensive and fidgety, darting his attention from my framed Ansel Adams to my nearly empty desktop. It boasted one photograph, a magnet thingie with geometric metal pieces stuck to it, and two files aligned just so.

“You’re living alone since the separation, aren’t you, Mr. Lepinski?”

“Yes.”

“In an apartment?”

He twitched. Maybe he saw where I was heading and didn’t like the direction. “So?”

“I was just wondering how you like your new space.”

“Space?” He snorted. “It’s the size of a thumbtack. Don’t even have a toaster.”

“I couldn’t live without English muffins,” I said.

He shot his gaze back to mine. “What?”

I smiled and leaned forward to rest my elbows on my knees. They were stylishly garbed in dove gray Chanel trousers. Secondhand, but still classy as hell. “Tell me what you miss most about Sheila.”

“Well…” He scowled, looking angry—or constipated. “She, uh…I don’t understand the question.”

I shrugged. “Does she make you laugh? Do you like the way she smells? Is she a master chef?”

Definitely angry, but maybe constipated, too, and more than a tad defensive. “She doesn’t like the kitchen.”

“Oh.” I leaned back and
uh-huh
ed. “How does she feel about the bedroom?”

He froze. His mustache twitched and he darted his gaze away as if he hoped to do the same. “What?”

“We haven’t spoken much about your relationship with your wife, Mr. Lepinski. I’m wondering what makes it special. Is it…say…sparkling dialogue, a mutual love for buffalo nickels, or something more intimate?”

“Intimate?”
He said the word as though it were being dragged out of his throat with a garden trowel.

“You were intimate, weren’t you?” I asked, and smiled to break the tension. No go.

“Of course. Of course we were…intimate.”

The room went silent. I waited. Nodded. Waited some more. He didn’t expound, leaving me to wonder, what kind of person doesn’t like to talk about sex?

History and personal experience immediately suggested that it’s the kind that’s not getting any. Just about then,
I
could think of forty-seven subjects I’d rather discuss. Forty-eight if you count asphalt. I do.

“How often?” I asked finally.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “That’s between Sheila and me.”

“Is it?”

“What?”

“Listen, Mr. Lepinski, I’m not a voyeur.” And if I were, I sincerely hoped I could find a better subject than a little man who favored rainbow-colored socks and considered collecting coins as exhilarating as skydiving. “I’m just wondering if, perhaps, you’ve misplaced your affections.”

“Huh?”

“Might it be possible that you don’t miss your wife so much as you miss…warm toast?”

“I don’t eat white flour anymore.”

I refrained from grinding my teeth. “Then perhaps it’s something else associated with Sheila that you long for. That is to say, your own home…comfort.” I paused, daring myself to terrify him again. “Sex.”

For a moment I thought he might actually launch himself out my window and thwap into the coffeehouse next door. But he remained where he was, clawed hands holding his knees in place lest they skitter across the room like south-of-the-border fleas.

“Have you been seeing anyone?” I ventured, cautious now, for fear he’d do himself bodily harm in his haste to escape.

“Seeing…?”

“Dating,” I explained.

His eyes went round with panic. I’d like to say I found his reaction ridiculous and melodramatic. But the new Chrissy’s no idiot.

“No!” he said. “No. I mean…I’m married. I can’t. I wouldn’t know…how….” His voice trailed off.

“It’s just a thought, Mr. Lepinski,” I said. “You don’t have to run right out to a singles bar or anything.”

“Singles bar?” For a moment I thought he might burst into tears, which, from my perspective, was the most normal reaction I’d ever seen him exhibit. Anyone who doesn’t want to cry at the thought of a singles bar is either a hopeless masochist or just…hopeless.