by Lois Greiman
Bite me, I thought, but kept my tone level. “Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the idea that there is generally a grain of truth in every lie, Mr. Repper.”
“You’re not acquainted with a lot of known felons, are you, Ms. McMullen?”
“Regardless of what you might think, the theory is correct. And I believe that if I were allowed access to Bomstad’s records, I could better evaluate his personality.”
“Or maybe, if you were allowed access to his records,” Rivera began, “you’d find a way to screw up my investigation.”
“I’m innocent,” I snarled. “I’m not going to screw anything.”
“My loss, then,” he said. “Why so eager to help, Ms.
McMullen?”
I forgot to breathe for a moment, concentrating on the “loss” statement, but I found my train of thought and jumbled an answer. “Some of us truly are law-abiding citizens, Mr. Reebler, despite your jaded opinion.”
“Then this has nothing to do with saving your own ass?”
“Absolutely not.” And that was just a stupid thing to say. I doubted if even Rivera was dumb enough to believe it. His laughter pretty much proved me right.
“Thanks for the offer, Ms. McMullen, but I think the LAPD will just have to muddle along without you.”
I wanted to swear at him, but I didn’t. I was mature, even-tempered, and professional.
I hung up and made another call immediately. “Solberg,” I said, “Christina here. Give me all the dirt you have on Rivera.”
T he process was fairly simple from then on. A few more phone messages, a couple favors called in, and voilà, I found myself in the dog park on the following Saturday—the very dog park Rivera’s ex frequented during the weekends.
True, the greyhound I accompanied was not mine; I had gotten lost twice and driven forty-five minutes to arrive at a green belt filled with dog poop; and I felt, somehow, like I was trading secrets to Al Qaeda, but still, I was there.
Sophie, the greyhound in question, glanced at me, her eyes shining as I pulled to a halt in the gravelly parking lot. There were already a fair number of animals loping about and she gave a little cock of her head, maybe telling me she wanted to be amongst them. I don’t speak dog. My mother had once owned a cocker spaniel that was in serious need of exorcism, but that was as far as my canine knowledge went. During my girlhood, the dog had mostly peed on my carpet and tried to remove my fingers when I suggested he do anything contrary to his wishes, such as abstain from peeing on my carpet.
Sophie seemed more amenable. And Eddie, her owner, had raved about her on more than one occasion. But I wasn’t sure one could trust the opinion of a man who called his dog Princess and bought her tasseled pillows proclaiming her name and title. Eddie was like that. We’d dated briefly, and truth be told, he was one of the good guys, but he’d come out of the closet some months later and it didn’t look like he was going back in any time soon. Wouldn’t you just know it.
“You ready to go?” I asked, turning toward the dog. Sophie tipped her head at me and gave me a cool smile. You gotta like a dog that smiles. Especially one that does so coolly. Snapping on her leash, I opened my door and wondered what the hell I was doing. But thoughts of sharing a communal shower every day for twenty-to-life urged me to get out of the car.
Sophie stepped regally out behind me. A couple was sitting on a bench to my right, talking baby talk to a hairy mongrel I couldn’t identify. I looked at the greyhound, wondering if I should do the same. She glanced back. I swear I could see one eyebrow shoot up, a subtle suggestion that I keep my baby talk to myself. All right.
Solberg had said Rivera’s ex-wife usually arrived at the park sometime before ten and stayed nearly an hour. It was now nine forty-five. The sun was out. The air was clear. It was the kind of glowing morning only California can dish up. I wished to hell I was still in bed. I wished more that I had never met a psychopath named Andrew Bomstad. But since I had, and he had shown the bad manners to die in my office, I felt a need to learn all I could about the LAPD’s irritating lieutenant who wanted to put me away for the rest of my natural life.
In the end it was quite simple meeting Tricia Vandercourt. I’d seen a photo of her standing next to Rivera as he accepted a commendation. She looks younger in person, I thought, as I watched her cross the park, but she’d subsequently left Rivera and that was bound to put a spring in any girl’s step. The golden retriever Solberg had told me about, on the other hand, looked exactly as I’d pictured him. Golden and retrieverish. Set free of his leash, he loped after a tennis ball she tossed out. He snatched it up on the run and returned it to his mistress, who took it with a smile and tossed it back out. She was wearing blue shorts. Her legs were tan and lean, her blond hair pulled back in a bobbing ponytail. If she’d hit the thirty-year mark she hid it detestably well.
I took a deep breath, gazed across the park at the other patrons, and wondered what the hell to do next. Intellect suggested that I get my ass back in the Saturn and take Sophie out for ice cream. Paranoia, or whatever force was driving me, reminded me that Rivera was the type of guy who had tested a fruit stain on my blouse.
I walked around a while longer, trying to look casual. Here I am. Just me and my borrowed dog . . . enjoying a Saturday morning when I could still be in bed. Sophie seemed content enough to glide along beside me like a runway model with her ’droid, though I was pretty sure she too was wondering what the hell we were doing. Eddie had assured me I could turn her loose within the fenced confines of the park, but I had no way of knowing if the little princess would return when called, and I was pretty sure that telling Eddie I’d lost his royal hound would be worse than admitting I was indeed Bomstad’s murderer.
Glancing surreptiously about, my eyes cleverly concealed behind dark glasses, I saw that Tricia had taken a seat on a park bench nearby. Seeing an opening, I made one more circuit of the park, then sat down on an adjacent bench. Sophie gave me a look that suggested I might be the laziest slut to ever walk the face of the earth, so I decided to turn her loose. I tried to think of some doggy kind of thing to say to her before the emancipation, but in the end I just said “bye” and unclipped the leash.
It was then that the retriever returned. The two dogs did a little butt-sniffing, which the regal Sophie seemed to find surprisingly inoffensive, then galloped off together. Huh.
I gave my throat a mental clearing, turned toward Vandercourt, and threw out my opening gambit. “Is he yours?”
Tricia Vandercourt turned to me, her lips curved up in a half smile. What cradle had Rivera robbed to find her? “What was that?”
“The retriever,” I said, sure she could use her cop-wife vision to see straight through to my quivering viscera. “Is he yours?”
“She. Yes, she is.”
“Oh, sorry. She’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. Yours, too.”
This was going great.
“Did you rescue her?” she asked, and my mind screeched to a sudden halt.
“Sorry?” I said, stalling.
“She’s a greyhound, right?”
“Ahh, yes.”
“Was she raced?”
“Oh, ummmm . . .” Lie, you idiot. Lie your ass off. “Yes.”
“How long have you had her?”
“Just, ummm, four years.” Holy crap! Why hadn’t I prepackaged a few likely answers?
“So how old is she?”
What was she, the dog police? “Six. Just coming up on six.”
“Really?” The pair was loping toward us in tandem. “She doesn’t look more than two.”
“She takes good care of herself,” I said. Crap! I was so screwed. I glanced about, half expecting Rivera to come roaring out of the bushes, handcuffs at the ready, but he didn’t seem to realize as of yet that I was digging into his past like a daft terrier.
I desperately tried to think of something intelligent to say, but Tricia was laughing, as if I were clever. As if I’d made some kind of joke. I gave her
a half-assed grin. She was scratching the retriever behind the ears and spared a hand for Sophie. My mind balked at the idea, but I had to think she might be a genuinely nice person. No wonder Rivera had married her. It had to be nearly impossible for a Neanderthal like him to convince a decent human being to even talk to him. And hell . . . I couldn’t help noticing that her thighs were completely bereft of cellulite. I’d marry her myself given half a chance. But no, wait, I was here to lie to her and try to pry out information about her ex-husband.
“I’m Tricia,” she said and thrust her hand toward me. “Tricia Vandercourt. I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
I almost reared back, almost glanced into the bushes again. This was too easy. Life wasn’t supposed to be easy. Hadn’t she ever heard of Catholicism? But I struggled through the simplicity. “Hi.” For a moment I couldn’t quite decide if I should pet Sophie or reach for her hand. I opted for her hand. “I’m—” And then I realized the ugly, glaring truth. I’d spent the drive over debating whether to give her my real name or an alias, and I’d never come to a firm decision. Maybe I hadn’t actually expected her to show up. Maybe I’d thought I wouldn’t get an opportunity to talk to her. Maybe I thought I would be smarter than to just sit there and stare at her like a concussed dumpling. But my mind was spinning hopelessly, screaming suggestions. Don’t lie. Make something up. Keep it simple. Lie, you moron! But it wasn’t as if she’d have heard of me. Unless she and Rivera spoke on a regular basis. Unless he liked to trot out all the psychologists he accused of murdering tight ends with Viagra. Unless—Oh, crap. Our hands were already parting. She blinked at me. Her smile was starting to fade at the corners.
“I’m Carla,” I said. “Carla . . . Going.” I have no idea where that name came from.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, and roughed up the retriever’s ears again. “What’s your dog’s name?”
“Sissy.” It didn’t occur to me for several seconds that the dog probably wouldn’t need an alias, but I was on a roll. Quick reactions. That’s what I needed, although intelligence would have come in damned handy. “Sissy Walker.” I don’t know what was wrong with me. Now that I’d gotten a good start, I couldn’t seem to stop.
“She must be registered.”
“Yes.” Why the hell not? “With the greyhound . . . club.” For a moment I actually hoped Rivera would appear and shoot me dead. But wouldn’t you know it; the loser didn’t show up.
“They’re so elegant. Greyhounds,” Tricia explained. “And so loving. It’s a shame how they’re treated.”
Why was I there? Why the hell was I there?
“I thought about adopting one, but my husband wanted to get a rottweiler.”
Husband! That’s why I was there. To learn everything I could about Rivera. To get my ass out of the sling.
“Or something equally terrifying.” She made big eyes at me.
I tried to look seminormal. “Why would he want something terrifying?”
“He’s a cop. Was a cop. Well . . .” She shrugged. The retriever laid its head on her lap and gave her adoring eyes. “He’s still on the force, but we’re not married anymore.”
“Oh.” I felt like a voyeur, but my plan was working. I couldn’t have been more surprised if I’d fallen off the edge of the earth. “I’m sorry.” I wanted to run screaming, but I was there for a purpose, if I could just focus on what it was. “But . . .” I actually forced a sigh as I glanced away. “I know how it is.”
“Are you divorced?”
“Yes.” And I was going to hell. “Three years now.”
“It’s so hard on everyone.”
Everyone? For one wild moment I imagined the worst; Rivera had spawned offspring. “You have kids?”
“No. I’m sorry. I meant the dogs.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” I gave an intelligent nod. Sophie lay down, crossed one elegant ankle across the other, and looked at me as though I was the village idiot. The dog was smart. Damn smart.
“Was she really attached to your ex?”
I must have given her a sappy expression, because she laughed. “Sissy,” she explained.
Was she calling me names? Was she . . . Oh . . . the greyhound! “No. She didn’t know him long.” Holy crap, I couldn’t remember when I said I’d gotten her. “Not long at all.” I had to quit lying. Absolutely no more lying.
“I know he wanted to take Rockette with him. But he let me keep her.”
“Rockette?” I was floundering hopelessly, like a bloated cow at high tide.
“He wanted a macho dog with a macho name. Butch or Killer or Rocky. I wanted something sweet. We settled on something big.” She smiled. If I didn’t know better I’d think little Tricia wasn’t quite over Rivera. But stranger things had happened. “So he called her Rockette. Because she’s a girl.” Her smile could kill. “It was kind of a joke.”
A joke, from Rivera. Hmmm. It sounded suspicious to me.
“How long have you been divorced?” I asked, trying to give my mind a chance to start functioning.
“Just a couple years.” She gazed at the dog. “We were separated before that. It was really hard. I mean, he’s a great guy and everything.”
It was that statement that made the truth dawn on me; I had the wrong Tricia Vandercourt.
“But he’s so . . .” She made a fist and gritted her teeth. “Irritating.”
Okay, maybe I was on track after all.
“Intense.” She shook her head. “He worried all the time.”
“Worried?”
She shrugged. “About current cases. About work. Not that that’s a bad thing. I mean, he’s a cop and everything. And it wasn’t like he didn’t have time to worry about me.” She rolled her eyes. “I could barely get out of the driveway without him running me down to make sure I had . . .” Her hands fluttered. “An assault weapon and a gallon of Mace.”
I couldn’t help but think of the pepper spray in my purse.
“Something like this.” She motioned from herself to me. “Us. Just sitting here talking. This would have driven him crazy. He thought I was too naïve. He didn’t trust anybody. He thought everyone I met was out to get something from me.”
She sighed. I squirmed and tried to refrain from being zapped straight into hell.
“Maybe he was jealous,” I said, because I was jealous. If I had legs like hers, I might even keep them shaved. If she were my client I’d call her ingenuous. In real life she was just damned cute.
“Jealous?” She thought about that for a moment. “No,” she decided, and shook her head. “He was just so . . . suspicious. And I’m . . .” She widened her eyes again. “Well, I’m like this.” She made talking motions with her right hand. “He always said I could make friends with a cactus. At first I thought that was a good thing, but he said a cactus can kill you.” She looked sad and momentarily distant.
Wow. I searched for something to say and came up with, “I suppose being a cop could make him that way.”
“Yeah,” she agreed, sounding dubious. “But I blame it on his dad.”
Father issues. Now we were getting somewhere. The therapist in me perked up. Or maybe it was the cocktail waitress. Both thrive on gossip and emotions, and sometimes I can’t tell them apart. “What was wrong with his dad?”
“He was a bastard. Excuse my French. Still is, probably.”
I nodded, thinking of a half dozen clients. “Fathers are often damaging influences on their sons.”
Her lips parted slightly as if puzzled. “Are you a . . . social worker or something?”
Shit. “A psychologist.” There was no way that could hurt me, and I wasn’t nearly imaginative enough to think up more lies.
“Oh, man.” She brushed back her bangs, looking ridiculously young. “And here I am talking your ear off. I’m sorry.”
“No. No, that’s fine. That’s why I do what I do. I like to listen.”
“Then we could be great pals. ’Cuz I like to talk.” She laughed.
“It’s therapeutic.”
“Gerald didn’t think so. But then, I left him just a few months after starting therapy. Maybe he associates the two. But the problems were already there, of course. I just needed . . . validation, I guess. In fact . . .” She continued, but I failed to hear her for a moment.
“Gerald?” Holy crap, I thought, panicked. I really did have the wrong woman.
She laughed. “He hates it when I call him that. Everyone else calls him Jack. I thought Gerald was a perfectly good name, but it was his father’s and God knows he didn’t want anything to do with that.”
I relaxed marginally. At least I had the right ex-wife, I thought, and maybe, in the back of my mind, I was quite sure no one named Gerald could be all that dangerous. “Did he resent his dad?”
“I don’t know.” She sighed. “His father was in politics. A big advocate for tougher laws and the death penalty and trying kids as adults. Responsibility for all ages or some such rot, but when Gerald got in trouble . . .” She shook her head.
My heart was racing. Our Gerald—in trouble. God forbid. I searched for a means of urging her to go on. “Parents often see other people’s kids and their own kids in an entirely different light.”
“I suppose it’s hard. Me . . .” She laughed. “I’m even protective of my dog.” She gave the retriever another scratch, but her gaze was distant. “His dad managed to keep him out of jail, but sometimes I wonder if he wouldn’t have been better off . . .” She shambled to a halt, but my eyes were probably bugging out of my head by then.
Jail! Rivera!
“He just never let Gerald forget it. You know? Nothing he ever did was good enough.”
My mind wouldn’t adjust.
“What had he done?” My mouth spoke without my mind following along.
“Nothing . . . terrible,” she said and gave a charming little shrug. “But he was young.” She was starting to balk. The therapist in me insisted that I let the session wind down, the cocktail waitress suggested that I call her a cab, and the murder suspect told me to shut the hell up unless I wanted to spend the next twenty years sharing a toilet with a woman named Lancer. “And he got into the wrong crowd. You know how it goes.”