Not One Clue: A Mystery

by Lois Greiman

  “Well, for that,” he said, “and to ask you to have sex with me.”

  I shook my head and put my foot inside the Saturn.

  “Chrissy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, you’ll have sex with me?”

  I snorted and lowered myself toward the seat. I had almost quit shaking.

  “Don’t you even check your backseat?” he asked.

  Sometimes I truly hate men. “Thing is,” I said, “I find that the real crazies are in the parking lots.”

  “Hey,” he said, and stepping forward, crouched in my open doorway. “I have a question for you.”

  “No sex in the backseat!” I snapped.

  A woman walked past holding a little girl’s hand. She scowled through the windshield at me. We watched them go by in silent tandem.

  “Wow,” Tavis said as they disappeared from sight. “That was embarrassing. Anyway, I was wondering if you’ve heard anything about something called Intensity.”

  I scowled, licked off my cone, and watched him. “Is this some sort of lead-in to more sex talk?”

  “Do you want it to be?”

  I put my key in the ignition, but he put a hand on my arm, and even that little touch did something odd to me. Fear sometimes heightens my libido. I know it’s weird. But so are emu.

  “I’m serious as a heartache, here, Chrissy. Intensity … you heard anything about it?”

  I lowered my hand and stared at him. He did, in fact, look serious. And ridiculously handsome. “What is it? A new form of Russian roulette or something?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  I shook my head and he sighed.

  “Meth’s a problem in Kern County, but I think there’s some new shit hitting the fan.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “We had two kids die in the past month.”

  “Teenagers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “From overdose?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing showed up in the tox reports.”

  “And there were no other signs of trauma.”

  “Coroner says they died of asphyxiation.”

  “Some weird sex thing?”

  “There was no sign of anything sexual.”

  “So you thought of me?”

  He laughed. “I was wondering, you being a psychiatrist—”

  “Psychologist.”

  He grinned. “Thought maybe you’d heard something.”

  “Why do you think there are drugs involved?” He shrugged, heavy shoulders lifting and falling. “There was some erratic behavior reported concerning the girl.”

  “Erratic?”

  “Friends say she was doing great for weeks. Happy. Good grades. Then one day she became aggressive. Thought everyone was out to get her. The next morning she was dead.”

  “Did she have a history of drug abuse?”

  “Not that anyone knew of.”

  “Lots of kids are good at hiding their addictions.”

  He nodded and backed away so I could close the door. “Well, call me if you hear anything, will you?”

  I agreed.

  “Or if you change your mind about that backseat,” he said, and I drove away, squirming a little.

  *

  By the time I got home, I was dreading seeing Solberg, but the house was notably sans irritation.

  Laney smiled as she took a casserole from the oven. Domesticity in blue jeans. “How was your day?”

  “Weird,” I said. “Where’s Solberg?”

  “I didn’t think you’d feel too neglected if he ran a few errands while we ate.”

  “I’ll try to survive.”

  She had the table neatly set. The pile of reading material I usually keep atop the place mats was M.I.A. Every woman should have a wife.

  We were eating in a matter of minutes. The casserole was something involving broccoli. Which normally would be a bad thing, but there was cheese and crunchy onions and some kind of noodles.

  “Solberg made this?” I asked.

  “Full of surprises, isn’t he?” she asked.

  “I hope not,” I said, and finished off my plate. “I’ve been thinking about those letters.”

  She scowled. “You shouldn’t have to worry about that.”

  “I wish we had copies.”

  “And you assume we don’t?”

  I gave her the eye. “You’ve kept copies?”

  “Mac, seriously, did you think I wouldn’t know an obsessive-compulsive like you would need to pore over them?”

  “You think I’m obsessive?”

  “And compulsive.”

  “Oh,” I said, and helped myself to a second serving. But just a little one since I was on a low-broccoli diet.

  *

  “So the length of each letter hardly varies at all,” I said.

  “Two or three are a few sentences longer.” Elaine was standing upright, gazing at the letters laid out in chronological order across her mattress. Hers had been a better option than mine, as it didn’t look as if a humpbacked monster were lurking beneath the scattered covers.

  “And each begins with Dearest Ms. Ruocco. Your stage name.” I scowled. “Very formal.”

  “So maybe he’s an older man,” Laney said.

  “But not so old that he’s shaky. The words are extremely well formed.”

  “His speech is quite proper, so I would guess he’s educated.”

  “And it’s written with …” I leaned down, putting my face close to the papers. “A fountain pen?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Does that mean he’s … Catholic?”

  Even though Elaine is decidedly un-Catholic, we had attended Holy Name Catholic School together for more years than I care to remember. The nuns there thought ballpoint pens were instruments of the devil. “Or he just really likes fountain pens.”

  “He must have some resources,” she said.

  I nodded. “Either he followed you here to L.A. or he lived here in the first place and traveled to Idaho.”

  “Every loop is approximately the same size as the last. And the spacing between the words is uniform. He’s very careful.”

  “So he wants to impress you,” I said, and scowled. Laney had never met a man who didn’t hope to make an impact in one way or another. I wasn’t surprised one would finally stoop to penmanship. More than a few had tried poetry. Several had sung ballads. Three love-struck fellows had tattooed her name on some part of their anatomy and one particularly inventive chap had christened his prize-winning bull after her. Butterfield wasn’t really that bad a name for a dairy animal.

  “His letters are narrow and vertical,” she said. “Suggesting a need to control.”

  I looked at her.

  She looked back. “I was paying attention during Murder, She Wrote.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Are you saying I’m wrong?”

  “It’s bound to happen once.” I scowled. “But I think the fact that you believe Solberg to be Homo sapiens has covered that eventuality.” I was chewing my lip. We were both staring at the letters, considering our findings.

  “So, in review … he’s probably past middle age,” she said. “Judging from the phraseology.”

  “But not yet old.”

  “He’s relatively wealthy.”

  “And educated.”

  “Possibly Catholic.”

  “Repressed.”

  “Definitely Catholic,” we said in unison.

  “Formal,” I said. “Yet with each letter he seems to become increasingly familiar.”

  “As if he knows me,” she said.

  “Or feels that he knows you.”

  She nodded. The paparazzi had been pretty busy lately. As far as we knew, none of them had yet realized she was slumming in Sunland with her dearest friend. So Letter-Writer must have gotten his information elsewhere. I wondered if it made him feel important to have obtained knowledge that others would have paid money for. “He’s controlled,” Laney said.r />
  “Neat.”

  “Polite.”

  “Obsessed.”

  We scanned the letters. Each one was almost identical to the next. “Methodical,” Laney said. The salutation was the same, the body of the letter was short, direct, and adoring.

  “And infatuated,” I said. “Which probably brings the possibilities down into the millions.”

  15

  Apparently a large number of people are extremely bored.

  —Patricia Ruocco, aka Elaine

  Butterfield, after hearing of

  Amazon Queen’s

  phenomenal viewership

  The next week was a whirlwind of activity. I saw a zillion clients, shopped for shoes, and finally perused Laney’s list of cast members, aka potential whack jobs. The sheer numbers were daunting. Who knew it could take that many people to make a cheesy, international hit?

  It was Monday night. I glanced up from the kitchen table at Laney, who stood beside me, reviewing the same list. “Yikes,” I said.

  “I know.”

  “Anybody you have any bad vibes about?”

  “I’m not feeling great about judging people on a passing whim,” she said.

  “How do you feel about me getting shot in my sleep?”

  “Iffy,” she said.

  “Good to know. Anyone?” I asked again.

  She skimmed the list, scowling a little, then pointed to a name. “He’s kind of …” She shrugged a shoulder. “Different.”

  I read the name. Benjamin Vanak. “What kind of different?”

  “I don’t know. He’s …” She shook her head, thinking. “Aloof maybe.”

  I raised my brows and looked over my shoulder at her. “Are you saying he’s not smitten?”

  “Shocking, isn’t it?”

  “And refreshing. How long has he been with the Amazon Queen team?”

  “A year or so, I think.”

  “And he hasn’t asked to sire your children yet?” She wrinkled her nose at me.

  “How about poetry. Has he written any sonnets in your honor?”

  “Not even a haiku.”

  “I’m calling the police,” I said, and she banged my shoulder with her almost-hip. It was like being bumped by a fly.

  “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” she said. “Jobs are hard to come by. Especially in this economy.”

  “So who could I call to feel Vanak out?” I asked.

  “Why would you do the calling?” she asked.

  “Who else?”

  “I can still speak, you know.”

  “Don’t you hire someone to do that for you these days?”

  “Here’s the thing,” she said, ignoring my cleverness, “I think Derrick would be most knowledgeable about the cast.”

  “Derrick. The producer?” She nodded. “Yeah, but—”

  “You’re afraid he’ll immediately fire everyone on the set if he thinks someone’s causing you trouble.”

  “Not everyone.”

  “Everyone except you?”

  “Could be.”

  “Because he’s not aloof.”

  “‘Aloof’ isn’t the term I’d use for him, no.”

  “What is the term?”

  She thought for a moment. “Jittery? Short? Friendly?”

  “Uh-huh. How many times has he proposed?”

  “I’m not that good at math,” she said, and I gaped.

  “That many?”

  “He’s kind of a flirt.”

  “A flirt who has a wife and four dozen kids.”

  “Approximately.”

  I nodded, thinking. “Anyone besides Vanak give you weird vibes?” I asked.

  “Are we talking male and female?”

  “We’re talking interspecies.”

  “Agatha once said she’d kill to have my body.”

  “Do you think she meant it literally?” I asked, scanning the paper until I found her name with my right index finger.

  “Supposedly my death would not actually give her my body.”

  “Is she bright enough to know that?”

  “A Rhodes scholar.”

  “So was President Clinton. He wasn’t smart enough to keep his pants zipped.”

  “I’ve never seen Agatha in pants.”

  “Ever?”

  “Always wears dresses.”

  “Hell, that alone makes her suspect.”

  “I’m glad to see this is a scientific system.”

  “You know it,” I said, and turned back toward the paper. “Who else do we have?”

  She pointed out three others with whom she felt skittish. Out of more than two hundred people, that didn’t seem like a staggering number.

  “What now?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “I’ll find out what I can about them.”

  “Promise you won’t do anything stupid.”

  “I’m insulted.”

  “I mean it, Mac, promise.”

  “Of course I promise.”

  “You won’t call any gangsters, will you?”

  “If you’re referring to D, he prefers to be called a collection engineer.” Dagwood Dean Daly lived in a high-rise on the Gold Coast in Chicago and had some kind of odd crush on me. In fact, he had once challenged Rivera to a duel, winner take me.

  I had left the two of them bloodied and stupid outside the Mandarin Hotel. Oddly enough, I hadn’t seen D since. I couldn’t say the same of Rivera, though he had looked a little chagrined when he’d finally showed up at my door, scabs healing.

  “I don’t think any collection engineers will be necessary for this,” I said, and scowled. “I thought I’d just ask some questions.”

  “Okay,” Laney said, obviously dubious, “but let’s not get anyone in trouble.”

  I glanced once more at the letters spread across her perfectly made bed. “I think someone’s already troubled,” I said.

  “Christina McMullen.” Officer Tavis answered on the third ring. He must have caller ID at the station in Edmond Park. He also had a very nice voice.

  “Are you busy?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “We’ve had two jaywalkers and a prank call.”

  “Just this morning.”

  “This isn’t L.A,” he said. “I’m talking all week.”

  “Well, I’d better let you get to interrogating them. Maybe you can call me back when you’re not so frazzled.”

  “No hurry,” he said. “Our thumbscrews won’t be here until tomorrow. We share them with the next county.”

  “And they’re being used right now?”

  “They’ve had a problem with littering.”

  I huffed a laugh, then, “I have a question for you,” I said.

  “It’s—”

  “I don’t care what color your underwear is,” I said, and he chuckled as he settled in.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Last week you said something about a drug called Intensity.”

  “It’s just a theory.”

  “What are the effects?”

  “That’s the thing, the kids who died didn’t seem to have any symptoms in common.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Jerome, the boy, was happy and well adjusted. Didn’t seem to have a care in the world. At least according to friends and family.”

  “Would friends and family tell the truth?”

  “Hard to say. The girl’s behavior was entirely different. Aggressive and loud. What’s up?”

  “I have a … acquaintance who’s been getting some funny mail.”

  “Funny ha-ha or funny—”

  “Funny disturbing. I’m wondering if they might be drug related, but there are no restricted substances allowed on … my friend’s workplace.”

  “Drugs aren’t exactly welcomed into the public school system, either, Chrissy. But I can’t think of another excuse for the blue haze in the bathrooms.”

  “I think my friend’s … manager … actually insists on blood tests,” I said.
/>   “Uh-huh.”

  “You think traces of Intensity wouldn’t show up in the reports?”

  “Nothing’s been flagged so far. And we’re not the only county in California that’s losing kids.”

  “Any idea where the drug came from?”

  “Are you asking for my hypothesis?”

  “Why not?”

  “I think it’s an offshoot of meth. Cheap to make, but without the usual side effects.”

  “Except for death, of course.”

  “Except for that one.”

  I asked a few more questions, but learned nothing concrete.

  “Thank you,” I said, and prepared to hang up, but he stopped me.

  “What’s it worth to you?”

  “What’s that?”

  “The information I gave you is rather sensitive.”

  “Really?”

  “No. But I think it’s worth something.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’m not going to have sex with you.”

  “How about some heavy petting?”

  “Why haven’t you been fired yet?”

  “Because I’m a nice guy.”

  “To whom?”

  He chuckled. “Necking?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Can you talk dirty to—” he began, but I was already hanging up.

  A few hours later, still alone in my office in Eagle Rock, I gazed morosely at the list of people employed on the Queen set. Generally, when I need to know something that can be found on the Internet, I call Solberg. And although Laney had finally told him about the letters, she was downplaying their significance and I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him the truth.

  “Lieutenant Rivera.” He answered his phone like Robocop on steroids. It made me rather desperately want to mock him, but I resisted. Such is the way of maturity.

  “Ph.D. McMullen,” I said. Okay, maybe I was mocking him a little.

  “What?” he said, and I immediately felt stupid. Go figure.

  “This is Christina,” I said.

  I heard his chair squeak as he sat down.

  “Being a smart-ass?” he asked.

  “Let’s keep in mind that I’m very brave,” I said, and could almost hear him relax on the other end of the line.

  “Has someone threatened your life yet today?” he asked.

  I resisted glancing toward the door. “It’s still early.”

  “Most crimes occur during daylight hours.”