Not One Clue: A Mystery

by Lois Greiman

  “Well, she’s going to MIT now.”

  “But you keep in touch?”

  “As much as we can, but we’re both extremely busy with school.”

  “How about extracurricular activities?”

  “What?”

  “Sports, school dances, that sort of thing. Do you make time for those?”

  She pursed her lips. “I’m preparing for college,” she said. “I’ve never felt it was particularly important to learn how to belly dance or French-kiss some guy with an IQ of a cashew.”

  The conversation went on like that for some time. She told me about her study schedule and her papers due and her appointments with professors from various colleges. By the time her fifty minutes were up I was exhausted. By the time she left my office I wanted to buy her a Popsicle and let her run through the sprinkler like every little girl should. Instead, I once again told her that I’d like to meet with her parents, reminded myself to contact her school about her progress, and accompanied her to the reception area, from which she efficiently escaped into the heat of the day.

  To my surprise there was a little woman waiting in one of the chairs. She was small and quiet and as wizened as a raisin. I had seen her face once before. “You’re Micky’s grandmother, aren’t you?”

  She nodded. “I’d like to have a word with you, Ms. McMullen.” Her voice seemed to scratch against my eardrums.

  Dread filled my head. “Is something wrong?”

  “Could we talk in private?” Her hands were dark and wrinkled, but looked firm and strong on the ivory curve of her cane. “I can wait if you have other obligations.”

  “No. This is fine,” I said, and ushered her into my office while giving Shirley the “What the hell?” eye over my shoulder. She shrugged in return, but I noticed that she looked a little skittish. There aren’t many things short of a full-scale air raid that can make a woman of Shirley’s caliber skittish.

  So I closed my office door gently behind me and followed the dwarfed little figure into the room. She stood in the exact center, turned, and faced me. “Why haven’t you told my grandson to get custody of his boy?”

  I managed not to stumble back a pace.

  “Won’t you have a seat?” I asked.

  She thumped her cane on the floor. My carpet, though berber and overpriced, did little to muffle the noise. It dawned on me that there probably was very little that would muffle this woman.

  “Did you hear me?” she asked.

  I thought it was safe to assume that a turnip would have heard her, but I didn’t voice that opinion. Back in Schaumburg I had eaten soap for less.

  “Please,” I said. “Sit so we can discuss it.”

  “There isn’t a thing to discuss. I want you to tell Michael to do right by his son. It’s as simple as that.”

  “Well …” I took a seat myself, hoping I would make it look so appealing that she would feel it necessary to follow suit. No go. Instead, I felt as tense as a fiddle string and she had the advantage of height. Not a simple task when you stand five foot naught in your Easy Spirits and weigh in at eighty-two pounds soaked in olive oil. “I’m afraid that’s not quite how I do business,” I said.

  “Business!” She was scowling at me. I had always been of the opinion that Rivera had the corner on the scowling market but this little lady made him look as chipper as a beribboned flower girl. “Is that what you call this?”

  “I’m a licensed psychologist, Mrs. Goldenstone. Here to listen to your grandson’s problems. To help him work through any—”

  “He raped that girl. He tell you that?”

  I felt like I had been blindsided. According to Micky, no one knew about the heinous actions of his youth. No one besides himself and his victim.

  “My sessions with Micky are confidential.”

  She stared at me a second, then nodded stiffly. “He tell you about that gal on the subway, too?”

  I felt every fiber tighten. “Listen, Mrs. Goldenstone, I’d be happy to schedule an appointment for you and Micky to come in together so that we can have adequate time to discuss—”

  “I didn’t think so,” she said, and jabbed her cane at me. It was the first time since an octogenarian had tried to kill me that I realized what an effective weapon a cane could make. “They were on the midnight train. There was a gal riding alone when three young men come up to her. They were members of the Crips. Michael knew that. He’s not naïve. Not with his upbringing. But he protected the girl. She wasn’t hurt.”

  We stared at each other.

  “He didn’t tell me that,” I said.

  “He didn’t tell anyone. Just told the doctors in the emergency room that he’d gotten in a fight with an old friend. I talked to the girl herself.”

  “He ended up in the ER?”

  “That’s what happens when you get shot twice through the rib cage.”

  I felt myself pale. “When was this?”

  “Two months ago.”

  So I had been seeing him. And I hadn’t had a clue.

  “I’m sorry he was wounded, but I don’t see what this has to do with—”

  She raised her chin, scrawny neck stretched. “You know why he did it?”

  I struggled with a couple dozen emotions. First of all, I hate to be interrupted and so far I hadn’t completed a single sentence since Grams had entered my office. Second, I felt oddly betrayed that Micky hadn’t shared the truth with me. Which was not only unprofessional, but just dumb-ass stupid. Micky was a client, not a boyfriend.

  “I would guess it was partly to assuage the guilt he’s been carrying around ever since Kaneasha,” I said.

  She stared at me for a prolonged moment, then, “What else?”

  “He didn’t want anyone else to suffer as she had?”

  “What else?”

  “Knowing Micky as I do I would guess he felt some empathy for the young men and didn’t want them to have to carry the shame of such a hideous crime.”

  Her eyes were shining. I didn’t know what that meant. But I found, oddly enough, that I hoped it was approval. “And?” she asked, pursing her lips.

  “And sometimes he doesn’t care if he dies; he believes the world would be a better place without him.”

  Our gazes held steady and then she nodded slowly.

  “There isn’t anyone who will care for that boy better than my grandson,” she said.

  “Micky has some issues to work out.”

  Her brows lowered. “You know someone who doesn’t?”

  Good point. Sound reasoning. “Perhaps not,” I said. “But now there’s the Jackson issue to exacerbate the already existing problems.”

  “The boy needs a daddy,” she said.

  “I daresay he does—” I began, but she spoke again.

  “But not so much as Michael needs the boy.”

  Despite my Ph.D., I had never thought of it quite like that. “I’m not sure what you want me to do.”

  “I want you to quit tiptoeing around the issue and tell him to take the child in.”

  “It’s not that simple. There are laws and—”

  “Don’t you worry about that. If my Michael believes it’s the right thing, he’ll do what it takes to make it happen. He’s just not convinced he should move forward.”

  “With cases such as this there is often an overwhelming amount of guilt that makes it difficult for the client—”

  She stomped her cane again. “You tell him to quit feeling guilty. You tell him he’s got no more time to be selfish.”

  “Selfish? I don’t think it’s—”

  “What do you call it when you think about yourself more than others?”

  “Well …”

  “He admires you,” she said, and narrowed her bird-bright eyes at me. “He likes you.”

  “Well, I—”

  “You tell him to take the boy,” she said, and strode toward the door. In a moment she was gone.

  I followed her slowly from my office. Shirley was standing behind her
desk, eyes rimed with white by the time I got there.

  “You okay?” she asked, turning toward me like a large automaton.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I think so.”

  “She didn’t wrestle you to the floor or nothing?”

  “We kept it to verbal combat.”

  She nodded. “Good thing you can talk. She was Mr. Goldenstone’s grams, huh?”

  I completely forgot to deny. I didn’t even hedge. “Yes.”

  “She reminds me of my ex’s mother.”

  “Was she made of steel wool, too?”

  “Razor wire. She said if I left Harry I’d be haunted till the day I die.”

  “Are you?”

  “Not sure, I ain’t dead yet. What you gonna do?”

  I stared after Mrs. Goldenstone, blinked once, and tried to bring myself back to normal. “What have you got in that drawer?”

  “What you think I got?”

  I closed my eyes for a moment and sharpened my olfactory nerves. “Two chocolate chip cookies and some Rice Krispie bars.”

  “I think you’re losing your edge. It’s shortbread and brownies,” she said.

  “I love you more than life,” I said.

  “Get the milk,” she said. “We’ve got ten minutes till your next appointment and I can see you need fortifying.”

  By the time I left the office I felt as if I’d been filleted and deep-fried. I had seen seven clients in eleven hours. In between I had taken care of paperwork and made some phone calls. I’d asked Shirley to contact Emily’s parents to ask them to come to the office for a meeting, but as it turned out, the phone number was disconnected. So I dashed off another email to Emily’s school therapist, telling of my progress and asking for the proper phone number. Then I had sat alone and spent a few minutes reevaluating Laney’s letters.

  Nothing mind-bending jumped into my head.

  It was dark when I reached home. But at least my security light was on, making me feel somewhat … secure.

  Solberg’s Porsche was conspicuously absent. For a moment I was giddy with the thought that I might have Laney to myself, but then I remembered they were spending the night visiting wineries with his parents. She wouldn’t be home until the following day, but when I stepped into the foyer the house felt funny. Occupied.

  A noise rustled from the back of the house. It almost sounded like a door closing.

  “Harley?” I called.

  He didn’t come wiggling out to greet me.

  “Hello?”

  No one answered me. The hair was standing up on the nape of my neck. I backed toward the door, and then I heard Harlequin whimper.

  26

  Cats, you can’t train ’em and you can’t eat ’em.

  —Harlequin

  Every sensible instinct in me told me to run for my car, to duck and cover, to escape, but the Mace was dangling from my key ring, and damnit, I love that stupid-ass drooly dog.

  “Who’s there?” My voice warbled a little on the high notes. “I’ve called the police,” I said, and stepped into the living room. It was entirely trashed. All of my worldly possessions were strewn about the space. My hands were shaking in earnest now. I was trying to punch in 911 as I spoke, but it’s difficult when you’re trembling like a maraca. My index finger skittered off the nine and then something crashed. The phone dropped from my hand as I screamed and jerked toward the right. My Mace was, miraculously, at the ready. But Harley was already scooting back behind the couch, scared by the lamp he’d just broken and my best slasher-film shriek.

  I stood frozen for several seconds, felt the emptiness of the house throb around me like a living pulse, and hurried to the couch. One end had been pulled away from the wall, cushions scattered. Harlequin, it seemed, had had the good sense to wedge his big body behind it.

  Mace still in hand, I dropped to my knees and crooned his name. He remained as he was, in a full-body shake, and refused to come out. So finally I rose on my own shaky legs and went to the other end of the couch. Pulling it away from the wall, I called to him. He looked up at me with droopy eyes, then crawled forward, belly on the floor, nails spread as he dragged himself forward.

  I held my breath as I skimmed him for blood, but there was none that I could see. Creeping forward, he plopped his trembling head onto my knees and closed his eyes with a sigh. I ran my hand along his bony head and down his back. There was a swelling over his ribs. He whimpered when I touched it.

  Something banged. I jerked around, and dropped the Mace just as Rivera lurched into the room, Glock ready.

  “Get out!” he ordered.

  “Harlequin’s—”

  “Take him with you.”

  Anger was beginning to overtake the terror in my system, and I considered arguing, but if truth be told, I kind of wanted to get the hell out of Dodge.

  Retrieving my Mace, I rose to my feet and called Harley as I headed toward the door. He glanced longingly back at the space between the couch and the wall but slunk dutifully after me.

  We were in the Saturn in a matter of seconds, doors locked. Harley turned around in the passenger seat, then draped himself across the emergency brake to lay his head in my lap. I stroked his ears and stared at the front door of my house as if it might implode at any given second. A few minutes had passed when an unmarked cop car pulled up to the curb. Two men got out carrying bags that looked like souped-up attaché cases.

  I remained where I was, waiting for the tremors to stop. After a couple of lifetimes, the plainclothes guys exited, leaving Rivera alone in the doorway. He looked pissed as hell.

  I swallowed my fear, gave Harley a kiss on the snout, and eased out from under him. He gazed after me for a moment, then dropped his head back down and closed his eyes.

  Rivera watched me approach as if I were the enemy. “You okay?” he asked.

  Although I dreaded seeing the mess left behind, I was strangely compelled to do so and stepped past Rivera to view the chaos.

  It was as bad as I remembered.

  “It was a burglary, right?” he asked.

  I gazed up at him. There may have been a bit of “Are you kidding?” in my eyes.

  “How messy do you think I am?” I asked.

  “I just wanted to make sure I didn’t make them dust for prints for no reason. Did you notice anything missing?” he asked.

  “I didn’t …” I turned in a circle, feeling disoriented. “I haven’t … I don’t …” And suddenly the world seemed to be spinning around me.

  “Sit down,” he said, and lifting a cushion from the floor, pushed me onto the couch. He sat down, too, but didn’t touch me. “Breathe.”

  I nodded. The movement didn’t do my equilibrium any good, but in a few seconds I was feeling a little steadier.

  “How’s Harley?” he asked.

  I felt my mouth twitch. “There’s a bruise over his ribs, like he’s been kicked.” I could barely get the words out. I think I heard him swear, but it was hard to be certain. I was already crying.

  He pulled me roughly into his arms. “Jesus, woman, you scared the hell out of me.” He stroked my hair. “I was on your walkway when I heard you scream, and I thought …” He paused, muscles tight against mine.

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” He pushed me out to arm’s length and searched my face.

  I sniffled pitifully, but managed a nod.

  He pushed the hair away from my face and stared into my eyes. I stared back. He stroked a tear away with his thumb, smearing it across my cheek. “They were gone when you got here?”

  I nodded. “I think so,” I said. My voice sounded iffy.

  A muscle twitched in his jaw, as if he was fighting a couple dozen conflicting emotions.

  “What about your alarm system?”

  Guilt swarmed through me immediately. Sometimes I’m a little less cognizant of things than I should be. “What about it?” I asked.

  That muscle twitched again. “Did you have it on?”


  “I don’t …” I began, then realized something wonderful. “I wasn’t the last one out of the house.”

  “Solberg?”

  I had no way of knowing, of course, but he was so easy to blame. “Probably,” I said, and realized suddenly that if circumstances were different Laney could have been here alone. “Oh God,” I said. “What if Elaine—”

  “Shh,” he said, and wiped away another tear. It felt hot against my skin. He kissed its trail. “Everything’s fine.”

  And it did feel fine. I blinked wet lashes at the hot rush of feelings. “Poor Harlequin,” I said, and felt another tear swell and flood the breach.

  He smeared that one away, too, and followed it with another kiss. “He’s tough.”

  I shook my head. “He just acts tough cuz he doesn’t want anyone to know the truth,” I said, and felt my mouth tremble. “He’s really very sensitive. People just don’t understand …”

  He kissed the corner of my mouth. Feelings raced through me like agitated chipmunks.

  “I’m just glad you weren’t here,” he said.

  “But he was all alone. Sometimes he feels like there’s no one in the whole world for …” I hiccuped once.

  He tugged my legs over his, pulling me against his chest. Our faces were inches apart now.

  “There’s someone,” he said, and stared into my eyes.

  I stared back, breathless. “Who?”

  “Me,” he said, and kissed my lips with feathery lightness.

  “You care about …” I blinked. My lashes felt heavy. My mind soggy. “Harlequin?”

  “More than you know,” he said, and kissed the point of my chin.

  “Yeah?”

  “More than I should,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “You should rest,” he said. “Do you mind if I take this off?” he asked, touching my jacket.

  I shook my head. “Why shouldn’t you like him so well?” I asked.

  His fingers made quick work of the buttons. “It’s distracting,” he said, and lifted his eyes slowly to my face. They looked kind of smoky.

  “How so?”

  His fingers played up the front of my sleeveless silk blouse. “I’m constantly worrying about him.” The tips of his fingers brushed the skin exposed in the V of my shirt.