Unplugged

by Lois Greiman

  My knees buckled. I forced them upright.

  “Yes,” I said.

  A minute later, he was gone. My wet dreams went with him.

  Rivera watched him leave, then turned toward me.

  “So close,” he said.

  17

  You don’t need to be smarter. You just need dumber friends.

  —Michael McMullen,

  when his sister compared her grades to Brainy Laney’s

  W E FACED OFF in my vestibule, estrogen and dread swimming around like intoxicated fish in my overtaxed system.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me in?” Rivera said.

  “No.” I didn’t mention the fact that he was already in. It seemed obvious to those of us whose brains hadn’t been dehydrated and stored in our testicles. “What do you want?”

  He glanced around, then walked into the living room. There were two wineglasses on the coffee table. Both were empty.

  “Taking a break from your tireless search for your geek friend?” he asked.

  “They let you off the leash for the whole night, Rivera, or should I expect the dogcatcher soon?”

  He tilted his head at me. He was dressed in blue jeans and a black sweater. The corner of his mouth jerked up half a millimeter.

  “You always get snappy when you’re deprived? Oh, but wait,” he said, “you’ve been bad-tempered since the first time I saw you, looking flushed and disheveled over Bomstad’s dead body.”

  I thought of a half-dozen really nasty and fairly creative retorts, but I lifted my chin and made my way to the couch. It was still warm where Ross had sat. Sigh.

  “What can I do for you, Rivera?”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “You look a little flushed now, too.”

  I gave him a smile, the one I reserve for the mentally handicapped and hopelessly perverted. “I’m fantasizing about dropping an anvil on your head.”

  He stared at me, then chuckled as he settled into my recliner. “Sorry to break up the party,” he said.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Really.” His eyes snapped amber fire. “Believe me, McMullen, there’s no one I’d rather see get laid.”

  I tried to come up with a saucy rejoinder, but I didn’t know if there was a double meaning there, and if there was, I didn’t know what it meant, and even if I could decipher . . .

  Oh, hell. I dragged my attention from his and stared at my hands. They were locked in a death grip on my knees.

  “Did you learn something about Solberg?” I asked.

  There was a pause. It might have been pregnant, but it was for damned sure late. “You haven’t heard from him, then?”

  I shook my head, and was fairly impressed to see that my body still functioned on a rudimentary level. He leaned back and crossed his right ankle over his left knee, watching me the whole time.

  “How well do you know him?” he asked.

  “Who? Solberg?”

  He scowled. “How much have you had to drink this time, McMullen?”

  I glared at him.

  “Of course Solberg,” he said.

  I would have liked to have lied to him, to tell him Solberg and I had been slavering lovers, but my lips wouldn’t touch anything that distasteful.

  “Not well,” I said instead.

  “You sleep with him?”

  I popped to my feet. It didn’t matter that I had just contemplated telling him that very lie. Hearing him suggest it irked the hell out of me. “Do you have a purpose for barging into my home?”

  He rose, the long line of his body all muscular angles and hard planes. “You’re up to your ass in trouble, McMullen. I’m just trying to get you out.”

  I glanced toward the door and back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about the guys at the Four Oaks. Kind of ugly bastards. One of ’em’s dead. Ring any bells?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice had gone weak.

  “You already said that.”

  “Well . . .” At that moment I wished quite fervently that I had not had that second glass of wine. “Well . . . I mean it.”

  “Lopez was wanted for manslaughter.”

  I felt the blood drain out of my brain and into my feet. I knew immediately who he meant, but I shook my head, either to clear it or to deny his words or both. “Who?”

  He grinned. The expression showed not a glimmer of humor. “The guy you shot in the back of the head.”

  I felt faint. “I didn’t shoot anyone in the back of the head,” I whispered.

  “Closer to a forty-degree angle,” he agreed.

  “I don’t know—”

  He gritted his teeth. “I suppose you don’t know anything about the money, either.”

  I blinked, trying to keep up. But here’s the deal: I have hormones and I have brains. They don’t function at the same time. And if you throw in a couple murder accusations, I’m lucky if my bladder remains in working order.

  He was glaring at me. “Chrissy?”

  “What money?”

  “We got an anonymous call. Turns out NeoTech’s missing a buttload of cash.”

  “NeoTech?”

  “You remember. Your boyfriend’s company.”

  I couldn’t even come up with a denial.

  “ ’Bout half a million dollars.”

  “Half—” I began, then stopped in mid-sentence in an attempt to draw a breath. “That’s—” It hadn’t worked. I still couldn’t breathe worth shit.

  “What, Chrissy?” he asked, as if genuinely interested. “What is it exactly?”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Because Solberg’s too honest?”

  “Because he’s too . . .” I searched hopelessly for a lick of sense. Nothing. “Whipped.”

  He leaned back a scant couple inches. “You got him wound that tight, do you?”

  I laughed. It sounded breathy and idiotic. “Don’t be stupid.” I couldn’t help but remember the photos in Solberg’s office. The way he had looked at Elaine. The way he had spoken of Elaine. I shook my head. He couldn’t have faked that. “He worships Laney. Adores her.” Or at least he did until about four weeks ago. Who knew what the hell had happened since then? “He hasn’t had time for embezzlement.”

  Rivera narrowed his eyes at me. “How’d you know it was embezzlement?”

  I felt my stomach pitch, but I forced out a laugh. “What was I supposed to think, Rivera? That he held up Emery Black at gunpoint?”

  He didn’t argue.

  I shook my head again and paced into the kitchen. My mind was starting to function. My stomach was bound to be next. “He’s a nerdy little frog, but he wouldn’t do that to Elaine.”

  “Do what?”

  I opened my freezer. A dead rat lay smack-dab on top of the ice cream carton. In the freezer. Genius. I closed the door.

  Rivera gave me a look, marched over, and mimicked my motions.

  “McMullen . . .” He didn’t even glance at me. “Why is there a dead rat in your freezer?”

  “Warning to the other rats,” I said, then, “Solberg wouldn’t chance losing Laney.”

  He closed the freezer.

  “Maybe it was her idea.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “And maybe you’re an ass.”

  “Much as I like having you fantasize about my body parts, McMullen, maybe we should stick to the subject. Could be she’s into something you don’t know anything about,” he said.

  “She’s into tofu, gluten-free baking flour, and size five jeans.”

  “Size six,” he said.

  I stared at him. He stared back.

  My mind ran willy-nilly in a thousand directions, like a kite in a gale-force wind.

  “You knew all along that he was dating her,” I surmised.

  “I was pretty sure when I saw the five thousand photos in his home office.”

  But Black had thought Solberg was gay. And Ross hadn’t even heard of Elaine. Unless he was lying.
Unless they were both lying.

  “You knew about Solberg and Laney,” I said, “but you still accused me of being with him.”

  “Two-timing’s not a federal offense, McMullen. I thought he might have been seeing you on the side.”

  “We’re talking about Elaine.”

  His eyes were midnight bold. “And you.”

  What the hell did that mean? I tried desperately to think of some snazzy comeback, but my snazzy was pretty much all sapped out. “She didn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “Tell me about Jed, Chrissy.”

  “I . . .” I was drowning in his damn eyes. What did he mean, “and you”? “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “I believe you went for a little evening ride with him and his friend.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Try to focus, McMullen. You were at the Safari, dining with the charming Mr. Bennet. You got a phone call.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, narrowed my eyes, and stopped. “How do you know that?”

  The shark smile again. “I’m a detective, Chrissy. In fact, I’m detecting right now.”

  We were about two millimeters apart. His arm brushed mine. I shivered. “What are you detecting?”

  The corner of his mouth lifted. He touched my cheek with the back of his fingers. “Solberg called you, didn’t he?”

  “Why would he do that?” My throat felt dry.

  He shrugged and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe he didn’t want to risk his relationship with Elaine. Maybe he wanted to give the money back. Maybe he wanted you to help him.”

  I felt breathless. It could have been for any number of reasons. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “But he’s in a little deep.”

  “I—”

  “Your hair’s mussed again,” he said, and drew his fingers down my neck. “Looks good.”

  I planned to back away. Unfortunately, my legs didn’t even make an attempt. I was frozen to the floor. “I don’t know anything about any missing money. I swear to God I don’t.”

  “But you know about Solberg. Where is he?”

  I shook my head. He stepped closer. “I’m on your side, McMullen. I just want to help him. I think he got in over his head. Schwartz is a small-time thug, but he’s mean and he’s desperate.”

  He scraped my collarbone with his thumb.

  My knees felt weak. I was pretty sure it was the memory of my abductors that did it.

  “Could you see their faces?” he asked.

  I blinked. “What?”

  “Did they wear masks?”

  I shook my head. Maybe to deny any knowledge.

  “Then they planned to kill you.”

  I tried to voice a denial, but . . .

  “They couldn’t afford to let you identify them,” he said. “Tell me what you know.”

  “I didn’t shoot anybody.” My voice was no more than a croak.

  “I know. I think Jed shot his buddy. Maybe by accident.” He stroked the hollow at the base of my throat. I shivered down to my bone marrow. “But you were in their car.”

  I stared at him, mind racing. Maybe I should tell him. Maybe I should confess all. Jail might be relaxing.

  But I remembered the raspy plea in Solberg’s voice.

  I licked my lips and pulled away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He slammed his palm against my countertop. I jumped as if shot.

  “Why the fuck won’t you let me help you?”

  “Help me?” I rasped. “Half the time you’re accusing me of murder. The other half—” I thought he’d just been toying with me, firing up my hormones, confusing me. But his eyes were bright with some emotion I couldn’t quite identify, his body tight as a fiddle string.

  “What about the other half?” he said, grabbing my arm and nudging me up against the refrigerator. His body felt as hard as the appliance behind me.

  I kept myself absolutely stiff, lest I start humping his thigh. “I try not to get involved with men who accuse me of manslaughter on more than one occasion.”

  He ran his hand down my arm. The air crackled like fireworks around us. “I think we’re already involved, McMullen.”

  I was melting from the inside out. But I braced myself. “Leave me alone, Rivera,” I said. “I’m not drunk enough for this.”

  He smiled, the edge of that wolfish smirk, and then he kissed me.

  I felt the starch go out of my knees. I felt my mind go limp.

  He drew back. I caught the edge of the counter with the heel of my hand and propped myself upright.

  “If I hear you’re withholding information, McMullen, I’ll throw your pretty ass in jail.”

  I blinked.

  “Lock the door behind me,” he said, “and get rid of that damned rat.”

  18

  There is wrong. There is dead wrong. And then there’s Miss McMullen.

  —Father Pat,

  who never quite forgave Christina for her various, but imaginative, indiscretions

  I WAS SOUND ASLEEP when my phone rang on Saturday morning, but my mind kicked into gear with unusual speed. The past few days had been hard on my nerves, but pretty good for my mental clarity.

  “Chrissy.” It was my mother. As far as I know she never sleeps. Three o’clock in the morning, eleven-thirty at night—it didn’t matter when I had been sneaking into . . . or out of . . . the house. She always knew. “You sound funny. You okay?”

  “It’s . . .” I turned the alarm clock toward me on my bed stand and resisted swearing. Mom wasn’t above traveling two thousand miles to wash my mouth out with soap. “Early,” I said.

  “It’s after eight.”

  “In Chicago,” I corrected, and hoped she would remember a little thing called time zones.

  “Oh, that’s right. Well . . .” Her tone was breezy. “I wanted to tell you Peter John got home safe and sound.”

  “Great.” My tone might have lacked a little enthusiasm. But I really was glad. If he was in Chicago, he wasn’t in L.A.

  “Well, it would be great, except Holly won’t let him in the house.”

  I sat up in bed, immediately impressed. I didn’t remember Holly as being particularly bright or confrontational. “What?”

  “She says she’s having second thoughts.”

  “Holly?” I was never sure she’d had a first thought.

  “Yes, Holly.” There was a momentary pause. “I want you to call her.”

  “What?”

  “You’re a psychologist. I want you to call her and tell her to take him back.”

  I think I breathed a weird sort of laugh. “Mom, this is none of my business. I can’t just—”

  “Never mind, then.” I could imagine her drawing herself up. Like a martyr ready for the flames. “I guess you don’t have time to help out your family.”

  And there it was—the guilt. Right there below the surface, ready to erupt like a festering boil at the least provocation.

  “Well . . . I’ll let you get back to sleep,” she said.

  I gritted my teeth, but the words came out anyway. “Okay. I’ll call her.”

  “No. Don’t bother. I’ll—”

  “I’ll call her,” I repeated.

  We hung up not twenty seconds later. I went to the bathroom, drank a glass of water, and tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t. Cursing a blue streak, I pattered barefoot across my kitchen floor, dragged my address book out of my top drawer, and called Pete’s latest phone number.

  Holly answered on the third ring. Needless to say, she was surprised to hear from me. I don’t exactly have my brothers on speed dial as I’m rarely in a huge rush to have someone force-feed me sheep droppings.

  “Chrissy.” Her voice was as little-girl sweet as I remembered.

  “Yes, hi.” I cleared my throat, having no idea whatsoever where to go from there. “Ummm . . . how are you?”


  “I’m fine. How are you?”

  “Good. I’m good. Say, I just wanted to make sure Pete got home okay.”

  “Yes.” There was a pause. “He’s back.”

  “Good.” I nodded. “Excellent. He seemed upset, you know, and I wanted—”

  “Did your mother tell you to call?”

  “Well, actually . . .” I was hoping she’d interrupt before I completed the sentence, but she didn’t. “She was worried . . . about you . . . and Peter.”

  “He’s not a child, you know,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  She drew a heavy breath. “Listen, Chrissy, it’s nice of you to call and all, but . . . Peter’s not as perfect as you think.”

  “Perfect . . .”

  “He’s . . . Sometimes I think he’s just in it for the sex.”

  Jesus! “I—”

  “Not that the sex is bad. I mean, really, it’s amazing. He can make me—”

  “Holly!” I think I might have shouted her name, but if there was one thing I didn’t want to hear about at 6:33 in the morning, it was my brother’s phenomenal sex life. “I don’t think Pete is perfect.”

  “You don’t?”

  For God’s sake, had the world gone mad? “No. I think . . . I think he might have a few flaws.”

  She sighed. “He’s just . . . Sometimes he’s kind of immature.”

  Kind of? I had a dead rat that suggested she was being rather generous here.

  “But, I mean . . .” She paused. “I still love him.”

  And wasn’t that just the kicker. The man had the mind of a possessed two-year-old. But she loved him. I leaned back in my slatted wooden chair and let those words sink into my fuzzy brain. “Have you two considered counseling?”

  “Counseling?”

  “Therapy.”

  There was a long pause. “I don’t think he’d go for that.”

  Neither did I, but an errant thought struck me. “Where’s he staying now?”

  “I think he’s in his old room.”

  “At Mom and Dad’s?” I think I grinned a little at the thought. If I remembered correctly, Pete liked to have a few beers in the morning and sleep in. Mom had a habit of waking everyone at six-thirty sharp. Like revelry.