by Lois Greiman
No. Tell me. I might have been drooling a little. “Adolescence can be difficult.”
“Tell me about it.”
She was probably still an adolescent herself.
“Anyway, the senator got him off the hook, but he never let him forget it. Held it over his head like an ax. Probably still does. He was this giant believer in discipline.” She made little quotation marks in the air with her fingers.
“So . . .” I tried to sound casual. “Is that why Gerald went into law enforcement. To discipline like he’d been disciplined?”
“Oh, no.” She looked shocked. Horrified. “He truly wanted to make a difference, to make L.A. a better place to live. Maybe even to keep us safe from what he’d once been. But . . .” She sighed. “God have mercy on anyone who steps out of line, especially if they hurt someone he cares about.”
15
Beauty is only skin deep, but who gives a shit what’s under their skin anyways?
—Michael McMullen
THE NEXT FEW DAYS seeped by like stagnant molasses. I took appointments, chugged up Chestnut Hill, and fought with my yard. But I didn’t sleep much. Visions of Rivera slow-cooking me in a giant pot with the rest of L.A.’s criminal element haunted my dreams. But the reasons seemed to shift oddly. One moment he was charging me with invading the privacy of his family life, or ex-family life, and the next he was convinced I was responsible for Bomstad’s engorged death. Either way, being boiled with vegetables was a bad way to go.
I woke up tired and strangely hungry for stew.
But since the scale was stubbornly insistent that I was not yet of Twiggy proportions, I packed up my lunch, boysenberry yogurt and plums, and headed off to work.
Three weeks had passed since Bomstad’s death. They had been the strangest weeks of a relatively strange life. It was a slow Thursday, so I updated files, bought a pack of Virginia Slims, and spent the day thinking of reasons I should smoke it.
By evening I’d opened the package four times and finally thrown the thing in the toilet.
I was just blowing it dry when Mr. Lepinski arrived. I shoved the hair dryer and the smokes in my bottom drawer and ventured into the lobby to meet him.
He looked as wrinkled and timid as ever when he entered my office, but L.A. Counseling had hardly been the stress-free zone I’d intended to make it. Two of his sessions had ended with visits from Bomstad and Rivera. He probably wondered who would drop in tonight.
“Good evening,” I said, giving him my professional smile, all warmth and intellect.
He didn’t smile back. Instead, he twitched his whiskers and sidled into the room.
I waved graciously toward the sofa, hoping to soothe him with my melodious professionalism. He perched on the edge of the couch like a fidgety sparrow and looked like he was ready to fly out the window. Sometimes I’m better at melodious professionalism than others.
“I’ve been thinking about the Bomber,” he said.
I heaved a heavy mental sigh. “What have you been thinking?”
“How he died. Right here.” He shifted his gaze to the floor and back. “It’s just . . . confusing.”
No shit. “How so?”
“He’s gone. And I’m still . . .” His myopic gaze skittered over to me. “Well, I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
I stared at him and carefully pent up my fractious sense of humor. Some find my sarcasm amusing, but I have reason to believe there are others who would be willing to strangle me with a shoelace. Best to keep my cleverness to myself while in session, I decided, especially since it almost seemed as though we were moving past our usual conversations about sandwiches.
“I mean, I was . . . When I was a kid I was asthmatic.” He bobbed a nod in my general direction, though he could no longer meet my eyes. “Did I ever tell you that?”
“No. I don’t believe you did.”
“Father . . .” He paused, seemingly not quite ready for the father speech, and began again. “Mother and I were alone. I was . . .” He glanced at his knees. They were as knobby as newel posts. “Small. Of course. Frail. We didn’t have much. But it was my birthday. Mother got me a jacket. Lions jacket. I was a fan. Football players—they’re so . . .” He tightened his hands into fists and gritted his teeth like a fierce bunny. “Rugged. I loved that jacket.” He blinked behind his glasses. “So did the other boys. I was on my way home after school.” He was starting to breathe hard as he remembered. “And they—”
“Mr. Lepinski.” I interrupted him as quietly as I could. “How old are you?”
He blinked. “I turned fifty-two last May.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“I’m an accountant.” He scowled at me as if I’d lost my mind. The idea had some credence. “You know that.”
“An accountant,” I repeated, speaking slowly, giving him time to calm himself. “It’s a good job, wouldn’t you say? An adult job. You’re educated, intelligent. Responsible.”
He still looked confused, but he seemed to have caught his breath and pushed out his chest a little. “I’m doing Daniel Dalton’s books this year.”
I didn’t know Daniel Dalton, but I’d heard the name associated with money. “You have a house in Covina. You don’t beat your wife and you pay your taxes on time.”
He straightened his narrow shoulders. “Estimated and paid quarterly,” he said. “It’s the only way to do it.”
So this was it—the number-one reason I’d given up Dairy Queen for months at a time to pay my education bills: the opportunity to see a withered little man pull back his shoulders and remember what was right about himself. Of course, I’d seen the same kind of results while wearing cut off overalls and a gingham blouse at the Warthog, but now my clients weren’t hearing my advice through an alcohol-induced haze.
I gave him a smile. Mr. Lepinski wasn’t always an easy man to like. But just then I liked him quite a lot. “You’re a good person, Mr. Lepinski. The very definition of a solid citizen. Dependable, intelligent, decent.”
He knew what I was getting at. I could see it in his eyes, but he refused to admit it. Fear is like that sometimes. Evasive, enduring, destructive.
“But the Bomber was a warrior,” he said. “An animal.”
“Yes,” I agreed, and perhaps a bit more honesty crept into my tone than necessary, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“So what chance do I have?” His shoulders were beginning to slump again.
“Well . . .” I shrugged, trying to act casual, but the image of a scrawny boy in a Lions jacket was strangely haunting. “Do you make a habit of ramming heads with giant men who want to pulverize you?”
He scowled at me. “That’s absurd.”
“How about your diet? Are you taking steroids, eating massive amounts of meat, drinking to excess?” How about screwing your large friends’ wives? I added mentally.
“Sometimes I’ll have a glass of red wine in the evening.”
I smiled at him. “The answer would be no, Mr. Lepinski,” I said. “You don’t do any of those things.”
“Pastrami’s high in saturated fats and—”
“My point is this,” I interrupted before things got out of hand. “One often makes one’s own luck. Don’t you agree?”
He stared at me. For a moment I thought he hadn’t heard, but finally he spoke. “Was the Bomber on steroids?”
His voice was very small, and I found it indescribably strange that a scrawny little boy who’d doubtless been tormented for his shortcomings would still idolize the very type of personality that had plagued him.
“I believe he was,” I said. “Not to mention a good many other dangerous substances.”
“But he was so . . . forceful.”
“Yes.” I remembered the suffocating feel of his hand against my breast and felt my own shortness of breath. “He was also cruel.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have said that out loud. Maybe I should have kept my thoughts to myself. But I said it again. “He was cruel, he was se
lf-absorbed, and he made poor choices.”
Lepinski stared at me, then blinked, not quite able to give up his illusions. “But he was a warrior.”
I didn’t sleep any better that night than I had on the previous two. In fact, I did a lot of staring at the ceiling and some fantasizing about those Virginia Slims I’d left at the office. My mind was as busy as a two-dollar prostitute.
But he was a warrior. Lepinski’s words kept rolling through my head like a foggy mantra. Bomstad had been a warrior, and one who had chosen to die in my office. Okay, maybe chosen wasn’t quite the right word, but he’d died, damn him, and my world had been loopy as hell ever since. Actually, it had been loopy for several minutes before that, I thought and spooned a little more brain power out of a frosty Häagen-Dazs carton.
He’d died and left one idiotic lieutenant believing I had something to do with his demise.
Which was ridiculous, of course. Why would I kill a warrior? A warrior with soulful eyes and clean fingernails. With a self-effacing laugh and Italian loafers. A warrior with a diary that had yet to be located and perhaps had never actually—
My mind clattered to a halt as one sterling truth came marching into my chilled brain. A warrior wouldn’t hide his diary away in some safe-deposit box or a relative’s musty basement. A warrior would be proud of his conquests, pleased with his antics.
A warrior would guard his diary with his own body. Probably in his bedchamber, where he took his many conquests. His many conquests he would later lie about to his poor, underpaid therapist. The very therapist who . . .
Ahh, to hell with it. The point was, the diary was in his house. All I had to do was find it.
16
Just remember this, Missy, escargot ain’t nothin’ but snails with their noses stuck in the air.
—Connie McMullen,
upon learning of her daughter’s desire for higher education
THE PRECINCT STATION was large and loud. I had thought of a half dozen ways to break into Bomstad’s house, but they all involved a cat suit and skeleton keys. I didn’t have a cat suit and I didn’t know what skeleton keys actually were, so I settled on a somewhat more sedate method. I would offer Rivera my professional services. If that didn’t work, I could resort to blackmail. After all, it seemed unlikely that his juvenile transgressions were something he wanted bandied about.
I gave some consideration to dropping in at his house. But the precinct offered a modicum of security. Even if Rivera had learned I had invaded his ex-wife’s privacy, I would be safe from his wrath if surrounded by other police officers. Wouldn’t I?
“Is Lieutenant Rivera here?” I asked. I was using what Elaine called my nose voice.
The woman behind the desk gave me the once-over. “You want to see the lieutenant?” She had curly brown hair, a square face, and boxy conformation. I was all for women in law enforcement, but if someone ever had to hotfoot it to my rescue, I hoped it wasn’t her, as she didn’t look extremely fleet. But who was I to judge physical prowess? An undersized legal secretary had once come into the Warthog to accuse me of flirting with her man. Her man happened to weigh in at 327 pounds and walk like a platypus. Not being overly diplomatic in my younger years, I had informed her that I had not been flirting, and if I were about to, I would do so with someone with whom I shared the same number of chromosomes.
She’d hit me like a Mack truck. And she was pretty fair at kicking, too. It had taken two bouncers and a bevy of creative threats to drag her off me.
I gave the boxy policewoman a smile and wondered mildly if I could take her in arm wrestling. It’s not like I’m competitive or anything, but every once in a while, I like to check if my juices are still flowing. “Yes,” I said with all due politeness, “if he’s in.”
She looked me over again, gave kind of a tilted “This should be interesting” glance, and turned away.
I studied the room at large while trying to look nonchalant and maybe a little bit superior. I think I managed sane.
“You wanted to see me?”
I glanced up. Rivera stood there in all his officious glory. He was wearing a lightweight gray sweater tucked into black trousers. His belly, if one could call it that, looked as hard as rock candy. His expression was somewhat less appealing.
“Yes.” I tried a smile, but true to form, it failed to bring him to his knees. He only looked peeved. Maybe a little suspicious. “If you have a minute.”
He glanced at his watch. “Half a minute,” he said, and turned away.
I stared. He turned back. “You coming?”
I reminded myself not to scurry after him. I was wearing Prada. No one should scurry in Prada. It cost more than I made in a month—at least for its original owner, and though I wasn’t that auspicious individual, I forced my steps to remain cadenced and casual.
His expression, I noticed, had darkened further by the time I sauntered through his office door.
I glanced around. I’m not sure what I had expected. Prisoners, parched and pleading, handcuffed to his desk, maybe. But his space was notably absent of torture implements. There was a framed print above his file cabinet and a photo of his ex-wife hugging his ex-dog.
I felt immediately guilty and absolutely desperate to cover it. Casual, casual, casual.
“Is that your wife?” I asked and did my best to sound congenial.
His scowl deepened. “No.”
Huh? “Your ex?”
He stared at me. “What makes you think I’m divorced?”
My mind froze. A thousand placating reasons sprang to mind, but I remembered our past encounters, and, not wanting to stoke his naturally suspicious nature, gave him my most jaded expression. “Please,” I said. “I believe we’ve met before.”
He stared at me for half a breathless lifetime, then snorted and sat down. “Came to charm the pants off me?” he asked.
My knees felt weak. Maybe it was because of my duplicity regarding his ex. But it might have had something to do with the thought of him sans pants. Yikes.
“Lieutenant.” I launched immediately into the safety of my practiced spiel before my mind could delve too deeply into that well. “I’ve come to apologize.”
He remained absolutely silent, but one brow had risen a single millimeter. I waited for him to speak. He didn’t. Bastard. He could keep his pants on till he dropped dead for all I cared.
I cleared my throat. “Aren’t you curious what I’m apologizing for?”
He shrugged. “I assume you’re sorry you killed the Bomb.”
“I did not kill the Bomb.”
There was another long pause. “Okay. I give up. What are you apologizing for?”
“I feel I’ve been less respectful of your authority than I should have. I’m sure your job is very difficult. I am also certain that I seemed a likely suspect considering the circumstances of Mr. Bomstad’s death. And though I can categorically assure you I had nothing whatsoever to do with his demise, I still—”
“What the hell do you want?” he asked, and leaned aggressively across his desk.
I refrained from leaning back. I also refrained from leaping over the furniture and throttling him. I hate to be interrupted. In a house with three hyper, driven boys, I had reached the sagacious age of seventeen before I’d been able to finish a single coherent thought. Still, I didn’t spit at my antagonist as I had been wont to do in former years, but mustered up my best smile.
Somehow he managed to resist my charming congeniality once again. Maybe it was the fact that my teeth were gritted. “I want to offer my services, Mr. Rak—” I stopped myself. “Lieutenant.”
His eyes suddenly gleamed, as if he wanted to laugh. I braced myself and held my wrath. I’d been laughed at by better men than he.
“And just exactly what services are you offering?” His gaze never dropped from my face, but it might as well have. The insult, and the compliment, were right there.
“My professional services,” I said.
His lips actually
curled up this time. “And what profession might that be?”
“Listen, Mr.—Lieutenant, I realize you harbor very little respect for mental health. I mean . . .” I smiled again and tried not to blink at him like Jessica Rabbit. “For mental health services, but I happen to be an intelligent, well-educated individual.”
He stood up, looking restless. “I don’t doubt it at all.”
I watched him roam around the front of his desk and did my best to hide my surprise. “Then let me assist you with your investigation.”
He settled his left cheek on the corner of his desk and crossed his arms against his chest. “What investigation would that be?”
I snapped my gaze to his face and remembered not to kill him. “Bomstad’s case.”
“Ahhh.” He nodded, then, “No,” he said and turned toward the door behind me. He had his hand on the knob before I realized I was being excused. He opened the door. I stared in disbelief. Lest you forget, I was wearing Prada. I rose to my feet with a snap.
“Just like that?” I said. My voice might have sounded a little raspy.
He canted his head as if thinking, then, “Yeah,” he said, “just like that.”
“What is it, Rivera?” I asked. “You scared?”
He stared at me, his eyes deadly flat. Whoops. He closed the door. We were standing close together, and the room felt strangely devoid of oxygen.
“Scared?” he asked and took a step toward me. “What would I be scared of, Ms. McMullen?”
I think I may have licked my lips. I think he may have watched the process. His eyes were gleaming like an alpha wolf’s as he settled his gaze on mine. I couldn’t think of a damned thing to say. Or maybe I couldn’t speak.
He took another step toward me, though there wasn’t more than a pair of inches between us. “You threatening me,” he asked, “or seducing me?”
“Seducing! Ha!” I actually laughed. “Jesus, Rivera, you don’t need a psychologist, you need a dream analyst.”