Not One Clue: A Mystery

by Lois Greiman

  It was then that Aalia appeared again.

  The two women stared at each other for one abbreviated instant, then rushed into each other’s arms. A stream of dialogue I couldn’t decipher followed. There wasn’t much point in interrupting.

  “Thank you,” Ramla said finally. She was clasping Aalia’s hand. “Christina.” She nodded solemnly at me, then at Rivera. “Lieutenant, you have my gratitude everlasting.”

  He was back to his full-body scowl. “I’ll have more questions for her later,” he warned.

  “She will not leave the house. I will make certain of it,” Ramla said, and ushered her sister toward the door.

  Rivera accompanied them to the Al-Sadrs’ house. In his absence, I tried to think. It didn’t go particularly well. I needed a couple months to reflect on things. It was less than a minute before he returned.

  “You shouldn’t have gone outside,” he said, approaching rapidly and resuming the conversation where we’d left it.

  “Does that mean I’m not your girlfriend?”

  He closed his eyes and rolled his head as if his neck hurt. “It means you’re a loose cannon, McMullen. Shit! A two-year-old would have known enough to stay inside.”

  “So I’m not a two-year-old.”

  “No.” His eyes seared me like I was a fine filet. “You’re a full-grown woman who constantly insists on getting shot.”

  “That’s just it!” I said, adrenaline rushing through me, jumbling my thoughts. I hadn’t been anybody’s girlfriend for a long time. “I didn’t get shot. I thought I had but—”

  My own stupidity stopped my words in their proverbial tracks.

  The room had gone deadly silent.

  “But what?” he asked. He was standing close enough to scatter my brain waves.

  “I …” I shrugged. “I was wrong.”

  “He shot at you?” Anger danced a tight jig in his lean-muscled cheek.

  “Is it too late to get back to the part about my being your girlfriend?”

  “The bastard shot at you?” He gritted his teeth as he shifted positions and glared at the back door.

  “No. No,” I said, shaking my head tentatively. “I just thought … Maybe it was someone’s car backfiring or something.”

  “Maybe you should move to a different neighborhood.”

  “Not just this minute,” I said, and taking the one step that separated us, distracted him with a kiss.

  24

  Guys don’t make passes at girls with big asses.

  —Peter McMullen, shortly

  before Chrissy knocked him

  unconscious

  Rivera pulled away from the kiss, dark eyes smoking.

  “Jesus, McMullen, you sure you went to that party alone?” Perhaps he had somehow sensed my sexual frustration.

  “As a matter of fact,” I said, “I tried calling you. Left you a voice mail.” I didn’t mention the fact that I was just calling to make sure he was busy and couldn’t attend the premiere. “You didn’t bother returning my call.”

  Maybe there was a smidgen of guilt in his expression. I pressed my advantage. “I admit I didn’t really feel like going alone, but you’d be surprised what I’ve learned to do solo.”

  I didn’t really plan for the statement to sound suggestive, but the words were out there, along with the vibes. I watched his eyes go sultry. His nostrils flared.

  “Lucky for me you made it home without some jackass sniffing at your tail.”

  “Fortunate,” I said, and raised my chin a little as estrogen sluiced through me. Hold on to the gunwale, girls, it’s high tide.

  “Holy Jesus,” he said, and glancing down at the gown’s iridescent fabric, cupped my left breast. It made me reconsider selling it. “Is this dress painted on?”

  “Yeah.” I hoped to sound sassy, but would have been grateful for coherent. “It washes right off.”

  He drew a deep breath and skimmed his hand over my ribs to my waist. “You must have had your Mace handy at the party, too.”

  “I kept it around my neck,” I said. “Right between my boobs.”

  He dropped his gaze from my eyes to my body and stopped. “I take it your cell phone was occupied elsewhere at the time?”

  I glanced down. I’d totally forgotten I’d shoved it in there. Reaching up, I snagged it from its cozy spot. My breasts sprang back into place like warm bread dough.

  By the time I glanced up, his eyes were shooting sparks like fireworks. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “When did we first meet, McMullen?” he asked, and moving a little closer, slipped his palm around my waist and over the slinky fabric barely covering my ass.

  I shrugged, trying to look casual, but shit, I could hardly breathe. He expected me to employ my memory?

  “August twenty-fourth, 2005,” he said.

  “Yeah?” I was a little giddy at the fact that he knew the exact date. Or maybe there were other reasons.

  “Yeah,” he said, and shifted a hard-muscled thigh between my own. “And you still haven’t fucked me.” His quads contracted against me, but swooning was no longer an option. Taking him down like a oversexed grizzly, however …

  “The timing’s been iffy,” I said. “Too many phone calls.”

  “You know what they say about timing,” he said, and kissed the corner of my mouth.

  “I don’t believe I do.” The tone of my voice suggested I didn’t know much.

  “There’s no time like the present.”

  “That is a time-honored sentiment.”

  “And you’re wearing that do-me dress.”

  Maybe I should have argued with that, but it hardly seemed worth the effort. Besides, when he slid his hand up my derriere I couldn’t have argued with anything. His fingers trailed from the slippery fabric onto my bare skin.

  Some say near-death experiences heighten the senses. It might be true, because my senses were honed in on him like a bird dog on a chicken wing. I felt his fingers tickle against my back even as the knuckles of his left hand whispered featherlike over my chest, across the swell of my boobs, and onto my neck. His breath smelled of ecstasy in waiting as he kissed the corner of my mouth.

  “Do-me earrings,” he said as he slipped his fingers beneath my glittery hoops and cupped my neck with his palm.

  His lips against my collarbone made my knees go weak. I’ll never know exactly how we ended up on the couch, but we did. I was leaning up against the armrest like a drunken sailor and he was sitting beneath my knees.

  He ran his hands up the arch of my left foot to my ankle.

  I’m afraid I didn’t quite manage to stifle my moan. He grinned, then propped the pad of my foot against his hip and moved his hands upward, slipping the gown away as he went.

  “Do-me legs,” he said.

  I had never been happier in my life that I had actually shaved. The gown was just past my knees now. I sighed as he massaged my calf. My muscles went lax. My foot slipped forward. It pressed up against his erection.

  Our gazes met, fire on lighter fluid. And then he was leaning across the couch, between my legs, eyes dark and intense and—

  He stopped, gaze shifting just the slightest degree, body freezing instantly. I felt the drop in temperature immediately.

  My mind was scrambling. I turned toward the rear of the house, and then I realized what he was looking at; Vincent had dropped his tie near the back door.

  “Who did you say your escort was?” he asked.

  I have nothing against lying. In fact, it’s generally my first instinct, but it had been a coon’s age since I’d seen a guy naked. I wanted to something awful, but history suggested that Rivera wasn’t the kind who really appreciated creative fabrications.

  I held my breath for an instant, fighting honesty, then, “I can’t tell you.”

  He was frozen above me, one arm braced against the back of the couch, one on the armrest. His biceps stood out in taut relief beneath his dark, touchable skin, and his eyes were screaming lewd suggestions that I dearly wanted
to take him up on. “Can’t or won’t?” His voice was low, gruff, warning me to give the right answer. But Vincent had helped me out long ago when I had needed a friend, and I had no intention of betraying his trust.

  “He did me a favor.”

  His eyes were dark and deadly, but somehow my hormones didn’t give a shit that I couldn’t tell if he planned to kiss me or kill me.

  “Lots of guys would, McMullen,” he said. “If given a chance.”

  I felt anger course through me, but I held it in check. “How sweet of you to say.”

  He stared at me. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

  I swallowed. “It doesn’t matter who I was with,” I said, and found that with his hard-muscled body pressed against me, I had very little pride. A butt-load of libido, but very little pride. “I didn’t do anything with him.”

  “Except nearly get yourself killed.”

  “That’s not his fault.”

  “Then why not tell me who he is?”

  I scowled. “He’s semifamous and doesn’t want anyone to know—” I stopped, realizing the flaw in my reasoning. If he didn’t want anyone to know we were together he certainly wouldn’t have attended a public event with me, but Rivera had already jumped past that point.

  “Know what?” he asked. “That he had a gun?”

  “What? No. I—”

  “He was the one who fired the shot, wasn’t he?”

  I winced.

  “A gun that is probably not registered.”

  “Listen, Rivera, I didn’t know—”

  Anger chased frustration across his face. “What?” His voice had risen. His teeth were gritted. He stalked to my easy chair and turned. “That you could have been shot? That you could have been raped and tortured and murdered?”

  “Don’t get—”

  “Dramatic?” he asked, and laughed as he jerked into a seated position. The warmth of his body abandoned me, and in that instant I felt my eyes fill with tears.

  He glanced at me, looking angry as hell. “No!” he said. “You are not going to cry.”

  I sniffled a little, feeling like a ninny.

  He levered himself to his feet and pointed dramatically toward the back of the house. “You were just accosted by some madman, woman! That’s when you should have cried … or screamed or swooned or some goddamned thing. But did you? No. You ran out there in a mermaid suit, waving an aerosol can. So don’t pretend you’re getting all teary-eyed because I raised my voice.”

  I shook my head, searching for the temper that usually saves me from that particular brand of humiliation. “It’s not that. I just …” I pressed my knuckles to my nose to stop the flow of snot. “Does this mean you’re not going to sleep with me?”

  It may have been the dumbest thing I’d ever said, but the words were out there, searing me with their soppy honesty.

  For a second every muscle in his body tensed. Then he swore and stormed across the floor. Bending, he scooped me into his arms. His chest felt hard against my boobs, his lips fire-hot against mine as he kissed me.

  “You’re driving me fucking crazy.” He kind of panted the words. My arms had wound themselves around his neck.

  “What kind of crazy?” My words came out as a kitten-soft whisper.

  He stared at me for a full twenty seconds, then gritting his teeth, he swore out loud, and turned toward the bedroom.

  “Mac! Mac!” Laney’s voice stormed through the house even before I heard the front door open. Footsteps galloped across the floor and in a moment she was standing there, staring at us with her eyes wide, her face pale.

  Rivera stood half-turned toward her, frozen, cradling me in his arms.

  She took in the situation like a speed-reader, searching for wounds or blood or dead bodies. “What happened?” she asked.

  “I’m okay,” I said, but in that moment Solberg gal-lumped in after her.

  “Why’s Rivera’s car …” His voice petered to a stumble. “… parked on the sidewalk?” he asked, eyes skittering from Rivera’s face to my own. “And why is he carrying a mermaid?”

  “Are you hurt?” Laney asked.

  I was starting to blush. It’s not something I do often. But when I do it’s a full-body thing, and I was just now beginning to realize that this looked as if Rivera had made an emergency booty call. Had careened through L.A., jumped the curb, and come charging into the house to service me.

  I wiggled uncomfortably in his arms and he released my legs, letting me slither my slippery tail to the floor. I cleared my throat.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Everything’s fine. There was just a little bit of trouble with Aalia.”

  “Her husband?” As usual, Laney had switched tracks with the alacrity of a train engineer.

  The excitement of the past hour coursed through me again, firing up cold remnants of adrenaline. “He was pulling her behind the neighbor’s garage when I let Harlequin out to pee.”

  “You stopped him?”

  I glanced toward Rivera. “I, ummm, had my Mace.”

  “Jesus,” Solberg said. He looked as white as talcum powder.

  “But you called the lieutenant,” Laney said.

  “First thing.”

  She turned and gazed at Rivera with that expression that had made lesser men wet their pants. “Thanks for rushing over.”

  He nodded.

  “I know she drives you nuts.” I’ll never be sure how she managed to sound so sincere. “But she’s worth it.”

  “She’s going to get herself killed,” Rivera said.

  “Don’t let that happen.”

  “Then she’d better quit—”

  “I’m right here!” I said. “I can hear you, you know.”

  “Then quit acting like a harebrained whack job,” Rivera said.

  “Harebrained … Is that what you call saving lives?”

  “It is when you’re not trained. When you’re armed with a damned spray can. When you—”

  “Angel,” Solberg said, eyes wide in his chimpanzee face. “That dress!” I was holding my breath. “Wasn’t your friend—”

  “Jeen,” Laney said, and turned toward him, expression as placid as summer as she hugged him. “Thank you for getting me home so quickly.”

  “But … at the party … that girl …”

  “Needs to relax now. Could you run out to the car and get my planner. I have a few details Mac and I need to discuss.”

  “But …”

  “I love you,” she said, and kissed him on the lips.

  True, I was in dire danger of being exposed as the French mermaid at the party—the one who flirted with Rivera’s father and subsequently invited a might-be criminal into her house—but I would have rather done thirty days in San Quentin than see my best friend kiss the Geekster on the mouth.

  25

  And which do you think seems like a better plan?

  —Chrissy McMullen, Ph.D.,

  after Emily Christianson

  said she had weighed her

  options: She could either

  spend her evenings trading

  microbes with a boy who

  had half her IQ, or she

  could become a world—

  famous surgeon

  “So everything’s going well?” I asked.

  It was Monday afternoon and I was back at the office. I had discussed my party conversations with Laney a few days before. Together we’d decided that Morab genuinely liked her and therefore was unlikely to send her threatening mail. Not to mention the fact that he was just too gorgeous to be guilty. There was also the fact that if anything happened to her, everyone associated with Queen would suffer.

  I had slept on that thought. In fact, I slept through most of the weekend, but I still felt tired. Nevertheless, I had managed to shove myself into a summer suit and strap on a pair of huarache sandals before dashing off to work.

  Emily Christianson sat across the coffee table from me. She looked as thin and taut as a guitar string. She was wearing a
black pencil skirt and a white button-down blouse. It was very similar to the ensemble she’d worn every time she’d visited my office. Did that mean she just really liked business attire, or did it speak of a deep-seated need to control her environment with an iron fist.

  “I aced my calc exam,” she said.

  “Good for you.”

  “Well …” She sighed. “I thought I aced it, but Dad said I could have done better.”

  “What was your score?”

  “Ninety-eight percentile.”

  I raised my brows in concession to her brainpower. “Did your father say why he was disappointed?”

  “There were extra-credit points offered,” she said. “I didn’t do them. I would have,” she said, already defensive, “but I ran out of time.”

  In retrospect, I thought I’d rather have been called Pork Chop and spent my days fighting off my brother’s dead vermin than have to live with such ridiculous expectations. “Parents often set extremely high standards for their children, but it’s usually because they want the best for them.” On the other hand, it was sometimes because they were assholes. I was dying to know which it was in this case.

  “I know I should be grateful that he cares,” she said. “I mean, I have friends whose parents are barely present, much less intimately involved in every facet of their lives.”

  I examined her for a moment. There was something a little funny about the statement. Something a little off, but I couldn’t quite determine what it was. The word “intimately” suggested egregious transgressions, of course, but I didn’t get the sense there was anything sexual involved here. “Tell me about your friends,” I said. “We haven’t spoken about them much.”

  “My friends?” She shrugged. “They’re just, you know … kids.”

  “Who’s your best friend?”

  She almost looked as if she’d like to squirm, but she held herself perfectly still, pinned there by careful control and endless experience.

  “I guess it would have to be Colleen. Colleen Anderson.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “She’s the president of the debate team. And a member of the math league.”

  “So you go to the same school?”

  For a moment I thought emotion flared in her eyes, but then she laced her fingers in her lap and crossed her legs at the ankle.