by Lois Greiman
“What’s this bullshit?”
When I removed my shades, I found that Limmerman had entered his office. I did the same. He seated himself behind a battered metal desk. Two battered metal chairs occupied the opposite side and one battered metal stool stood against the wall. Consistency. I liked that.
“I don’t want to make any trouble for you,” I said. “I just have—”
“Then get the hell off my field,” he snarled, and smacked his palm against the top of his desk. It echoed like thunder. So that was the advantage of all that metal. Intimidation. And it was working marvelously. My bladder felt like a nine-year-old’s water balloon.
“One of your players is dead,” I said and was quite relieved that my larynx still functioned. “I would think you would want to know why.”
“I know why,” he rasped, leaning onto his desk like a hyena over a fresh kill. “It’s ’cuz Bomstad couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.”
“So he didn’t have an impotency problem?” Maybe it’s strange that I kept returning to that question, but I had been counseling the man for months for impotency.
“Impotency!” Limmerman barked a laugh. “You must be one hell of a psychiatrist.”
“Psychologist,” I corrected. “Someone sent him a bottle of wine. Any idea who might have done that?”
He snorted through his nose. I wondered vaguely if it had once been broken or if he should just be considered congenitally unfortunate. “There were half a dozen bimbos spreadin’ their legs for him every time he left the field.” He glared at me as if my entire gender was to blame, but I didn’t feel like shouldering the burden. Even for a Catholic that seemed unjust.
“What were their names?” I asked instead.
“What?”
“Their names,” I repeated patiently, as if I were talking to a deranged psychopath. It wasn’t much of a stretch. “Even bimbos who spread their legs have names.”
“Get the hell out of my office.”
“Was he seeing anyone whose name began with a C?”
He leapt to his feet. I quivered to mine. He strode around the corner of his desk, but before I could dash for the door, it opened behind me.
“Mr. Limmerman.” A Hispanic man stood there. He was about my height, and stood very straight. He wore a full linen suit. The creases in his pants were as straight as little Marines. It’s amazing what you notice when your eyes are about to pop out of your head. “I was told we have a guest.”
Limmerman stopped about six inches from me, fists clenched and eyes disappearing into the folds in his face. I wasn’t sure but I thought there was a little bit of spittle escaping from his lips. My gaze sprinted from one to the other. The room went absolutely silent, then, “Get her outta my sight,” Limmerman said, and lumbered from the room.
I considered trying to stop him but I was too busy calming my giddy bladder.
The Hispanic guy inclined his head. “My apologies,” he said. His elocution was very formal, almost old-world, and hell and gone from Bob’s angry growl. “I fear Mr. Limmerman took Andrew’s death very hard.”
I stared at him, trying to determine whether or not he really planned to sell that line.
Apparently he did, because his expression never changed.
“I don’t want to cause trouble.” I’m not sure why that idiotic platitude seemed worth repeating.
“This is very comforting,” he said and raised his hand, palm up toward the door. “Please, accompany me to my office. We can speak there.”
His office matched his personality. It was neatly decorated in Southwest art and old artifacts. An asymmetrical pot of rusts and browns occupied the corner of his antique desk. He motioned toward a plush chair upholstered in earthy tones, then disappeared through an open doorway and returned with two SoBes. I’d always appreciated the lizard wisdom. “Please, sit,” he said and handed me a bottle. It felt wonderfully cold against my palm. I wondered if I looked as flushed as I felt. “Tell me what I can do for you.”
I blinked. I couldn’t quite remember the last time someone had said those exact words to me and it took me a moment to dredge up an appropriate response—God bless you, kind sir seeming a bit over the top.
“I am—was . . .” I corrected, “Mr. Bomstad’s therapist.”
“Ms. McMullen,” he said and took the chair not far from mine.
I must have given him my stupid look, because he laughed.
“I prefer to be well informed.”
“About what?”
“Anything that pertains to my team.”
“But he’d been off the team for some months, hadn’t he?”
He spread his hands and smiled fondly. “He was still part of the family.”
I couldn’t help remembering how Bomstad had looked as he’d sat on my couch, his pants open and his cock as big as a prize plum. What kind of family was this man raising here?
“Good,” I said, “then you’re just the guy I want to talk to.”
He inclined his head graciously, as though he couldn’t wait to be helpful, and though I tried to shift gears, it kind of threw me off my stride. I won’t say I missed butting heads, but at least in that game I knew the rules.
“Were you aware that Mr. Bomstad was seeing a therapist?” I asked.
“Indeed, yes,” he said. “While he was with the team, at least. I had, in fact, encouraged him to do so, as I do with all our players.”
No shit. “May I ask why?”
He shrugged, just a slight lift of well-proportioned shoulders. “Football is a very physical game, Ms. McMullen.” He sounded a little like the Fantasy Island guy when he said my name. Have I mentioned my obsession with the Fantasy Island guy? “It is demanding. Exhausting. Brutal even. And that is not considering the effects of the fans.”
“The fans?” I thought I knew what he meant, but I liked listening to him speak.
He gave me a smile. His eyeteeth were a little crooked and his molars were sharp. It gave him almost a Tom Cruise look. Tom Cruise with a tan and an accent. Yowsa.
“I’m sure you are aware of the difficulties associated with . . . How is it said? Stardom.” He waved a hand. “The fame, adoration, the money.”
I thought about my cracker-sized abode and failing septic system. “It sounds hellacious.”
He laughed. He had a nice laugh.
“Our players are not . . .” He paused, thinking. “Let me say only that they live by the strength of their arms, Ms. McMullen—” He made a fist. “And not by their mental prowess.”
“I’m not sure I see your point, Mr. . . .” I paused for him to fill me in.
“My apologies again,” He spread his fingers across his chest and inclined his head. “Where are my manners? I am Miguel Rodriguez. You may call me Rodney if you like.”
But I really liked the name Miguel. And he had great eyes. I gave myself a mental slap before I forgot why I was there. “And what exactly is your position with the Lions, Mr. Rodriguez?”
He smiled, maybe because I had refused to use his pet name. But I secretly hoped that it was because I was so damned adorable he couldn’t help himself. “I am the community relations director. My job is to make certain our players stay out of trouble. A task at which, sadly, I often fail.”
I remembered my panting terror as Bomstad chased me around the office, jeans undone and my success fully exposed.
“Indeed,” he continued, “I have been meaning to speak to you, Ms. McMullen.”
“In regard to . . .”
“To offer my apologies.”
Just how much did he know? “For what exactly?”
He looked troubled, as if he didn’t care to touch on such a delicate subject, but whether it was for my benefit or his own was impossible to guess. “I consider the players’ failures my own failures.”
I could remember the feel of Bomstad’s hand on my breast. “Ever have trouble sleeping at night?” I asked.
He smiled again, but his eyes were sad. “Indeed, quite often,” he said. �
��But there are not so many failures as one would think. The press . . . they publicize the bad and often forget the good. For while our players may be sometimes boisterous, they are, basically, good at the heart.”
“And what of Mr. Bomstad?” I asked, and remembered screaming as he dragged me backward by my hair. “Was he basically good at the heart?”
His soulful gaze held mine. “You are, perhaps, better equipped to answer that than I.”
“You know how he died,” I said.
He spread his hands. “Sadly, yes.”
“You know about the statutory rapes.”
For a moment I thought he might argue, say something stupid like “alleged” statutory rapes. But he didn’t.
“Again, yes.”
“Why didn’t you do something?”
“I sent him to seek help.”
Ahhh. And how to explain this. “I’m afraid Mr. Bomstad was not entirely honest about his troubles, Mr. Rodriguez.”
He sighed. “I feared as much. Indeed, I suggested . . .” He paused.
“What?” I asked, but he shook his head.
“My intentions matter little. I failed Andrew and I failed my employers.”
“I don’t think you can take your clients’ failures as your own, Mr. Rodriguez.”
“And you,” he said, watching me with his dark, soulful eyes. “Do you not do the same?” He had that Spanish pathos that tends to make American women go soft in the head. “But I digress. You have come here for a specific purpose.”
I firmed up my cerebellum and nodded primly. “Yes,” I said. “I had a number of questions to ask.”
“Then, by all means, ask away.”
Really? I thought, but caught myself before I spoke. “Do you know who, if anyone, Mr. Bomstad was currently seeing?”
He looked troubled again. “I fear Andrew’s relationships were rarely monogamous.”
I almost laughed. Knowing what I now knew about the Bomb, I would be surprised to find he limited himself to one species. “A list of names would be fine,” I said.
He watched me in silence for a moment. “May I take the liberty to ask why?”
I considered a host of answers and settled tentatively on the truth. “Since he died in my office, of rather . . . irregular causes, some suspicion has been laid at my door. I would like to absolve myself of that suspicion.”
“Yes, of course,” he said slowly, “but how would this information you request help you in your endeavor?”
“He came to his final session with a bottle of wine.” I exhaled carefully. In for a penny, in for a pound. “The wine had a card signed with my first initial.”
I hurried on, feeling an irresistible need to explain myself, though God knows I should have learned better by now. “I had nothing to do with Mr. Bomstad’s death, Mr. Rodriguez.”
He actually looked offended on my behalf. When the Lions hired a PR man, they went all out. “Of course you did not. The police, they are simply . . . overzealous at times.”
“Overzealous,” I agreed, remembering Rivera’s looming accusations.
“Again,” he said, taking my hand in his. His eyes were intense and full of old-world sorrow. “I apologize for any troubles Andrew caused you.”
But apologies, no matter how charmingly delivered, weren’t going to keep my ass out of jail, or get me back into the good graces of the Board of Psychology. “I need information, Mr. Rodriguez,” I said.
He studied me in silence for a moment, then nodded. “I will look into the matter and telephone you . . . unless you would rather call me.” He relinquished my hand with seeming regret and pulled a card from his coat pocket. “A lady like yourself, you must be cautious, yes?”
For a moment I didn’t understand his meaning, but when I gave it some consideration, I thought I remembered getting a compliment sometime in the distant past. This might be one of those, I thought.
“I, ummm . . .” If I blushed I was going to kill myself. “I’ll give you my office number,” I said, and bending over the cavern I liked to call my purse, I drew out a card. It was smeared with lipstick. At least I hoped it was lipstick. I shoved it back into my handbag, gave Ricardo Montalban a smile, and handed over an unstained copy.
“Christina,” he said. “A lovely name.”
He was flirting with me, I realized, and resisted the temptation to giggle like a ninny. “I’d appreciate any information you could give me,” I said.
He nodded. If he was disappointed by my ultramature professionalism he didn’t show it. “If there is anything else I can do for you, Ms. McMullen, you’ve but to ask.”
His eyes were earnest, dark, and entrancing. I swallowed. It’s not as if I have an older-guy fetish or anything, but . . . Well, hell, this guy owned a suit and hadn’t once accused me of murder.
“As a matter of fact, there is,” I said, my mind kicking in. “Do you happen to know if Mr. Bomstad kept a diary?”
“A diary?”
“Yes.”
“I very much doubt it, Ms. McMullen.” He spread his hands atop his desk and explained. “You see, our
Andrew . . . he could not read well.”
14
Chocolate may be cheaper than a psychologist, but the latter doesn’t generally adhere to your ass for the rest of your natural life.
—Christina McMullen, Ph.D.,
in defense of her chosen profession
SCREW THE DIET, I thought. I’d gone running. What more did the world want from me? I took another scoop of Raspberry Rhapsody straight out of the carton. It tasted like Sunday mornings, before Bomstad had ruined my life and I hadn’t been able to sleep in without wondering if I’d still be a free woman on Monday.
Where the hell was his damned diary? Okay, I realized I was fixating on that one thought, and maybe it was because I was desperate to believe I hadn’t been completely fooled by the Bomb. Maybe it was because my life was sliding down the tubes, and I needed some means of keeping it from flushing away. Something to hold on to. But damn it all, why would he lie about a diary he had seemed so sincere and enthused about?
A half dozen possible reasons came to mind: He wanted to impress me with his sensitivity; he was a pathological liar; he liked toying with me . . . But instinct told me that none of those answers quite jived. And if I couldn’t trust my instincts, what could I trust?
Ice cream.
I took another scoop, nodded at its succulent honesty, and sighed. One could always trust ice cream.
And one’s self. It was Thursday morning. I didn’t have any appointments until twelve forty-five and I was feeling philosophical. Never good.
Resolutely thumping the lid on the carton, I tossed the spoon in the sink, marched to the fridge, removed the lid, took one more scoop with my finger, and shoved the rest into the freezer. A waft of cold air swooped past the glacier growing inside and cooled my face, but it did my brain little good. Nothing made sense. I still believed, despite everything, that the Bomb had kept a diary. But where? If I could gain access to his house perhaps I could figure that out. But Rivera and I hadn’t exactly hit it off thus far. So I’d best pursue other avenues since breaking and entering seemed both difficult and idiotic. I thought hard for thirty seconds, got tired of that, and went to gaze in my cupboards for something that might pass as nutrients. A box of raisin bran and a bag of dried apricots were the only foodstuffs that wouldn’t require any sort of preparation. A moth flew out of the raisin bran. I put the box back, took out the apricots, dragged the yellow pages from under the sink, and sat down at the kitchen table.
Five apricots and two minutes later, I knew that one could rent a safe-deposit box at Sunwest Bank for twenty-five dollars a month if one had an account with them. I did. Unfortunately, I didn’t have anything worth putting into a safety-deposit box. But odds were good that Bomstad had.
I chewed on that and another apricot for a moment. It was entirely possible, of course, that the Bomb would have kept his diary safely hidden away as Rivera had su
ggested, but the idea of a super-sized ex-football jock sitting on the tile floor of Sunwest Bank as he scribbled in his diary was a little mind-numbing. So where would he keep it?
No great ideas came to mind. If I had ever gained any honest insight into Bomstad at all, maybe I could venture a guess, but it seems he had lied like a Protestant since the day I met him.
The apricots bag was half empty and I’d discovered two things: I hated apricots, and I needed some unbiased information about Bomstad. But how would I garner that info? It seemed likely that anyone who had met the Bomb had probably formed some pretty strong opinions of him.
I trundled back to the cupboard and scanned the contents again. Still nothing. So I removed my sneakers and limped off to the bathroom, my knees hurting from asphalt burn and unwanted exercise.
A warm shower generally helps me think. It didn’t. But as I was driving to the office, my brain started popping. What I needed were police records. I was a respected member of the medical community after all. Surely the LAPD would welcome my input.
N o.” Somewhere along the line, Rivera had given me his business card. And somehow I’d convinced myself to call him.
“Listen.” I was sitting behind my desk, in my power chair, wearing my power suit, and drinking PowerAde. Actually, I was drinking orange pop but that’s neither here nor there. “You asked for my professional opinion about the diary, and I’m willing to give it to you, but I can hardly ascertain where he may have kept such a personal item if I don’t have the facts about his—”
“Like I said, Ms. McMullen, I don’t think there is a diary.”
I curled my lip at the receiver. If I wanted to be interrupted, I’d call my mother. “And what has caused you to arrive at that conclusion?” I asked.
I could almost hear his feral grin through the telephone line. “I realize you were his psychiatrist, Ms. McMullen.” I didn’t correct him. If Reivers was infantile enough to try to annoy me with improper terms, I’d just let him enjoy himself. “And that you were, above all, professional, but I’m afraid Bomstad may have been less than one-hundred-percent forthcoming with you in this regard.”