by Lois Greiman
He was silent for a moment. His brows shadowed his dark cop eyes. “I’ve apologized before.”
If that was true, you couldn’t prove it by me. In the past I had thought it physiologically impossible for him to do so. Maybe my doubts showed in my expression, because he leaned his shoulder into the couch and watched me skeptically. “Have you eaten?”
I stroked Harlequin’s muzzle where the fur was as soft and short as velvet. “You said you’d bring Chinese,” I said, trying to sound neither accusatory nor idiotic.
Maybe I sounded childish instead, but maybe he liked it, because he smiled a little. “Listen, I need to talk to Williams for a minute. Will you be all right for a while?”
“Sure,” I said, and shrugged, but I wasn’t crazy about sitting there alone. Harlequin humped closer, draping a foreleg over my lap. Maybe he felt the same way.
Rivera nodded. “Try to rest. I’ll be back in a minute.”
It was actually longer than sixty seconds, but not by much. When he stepped back into view I saw that he was holding a bag from Chin Yung.
“I’m going to heat this up,” he said.
I fiddled with Harley’s ears. “You don’t need to go to the trouble. I’m not very hungry.” It was shockingly true. Short of the bubonic plague, not much ruins my appetite.
He scowled. “I just about got laughed out of the precinct for bringing takeout to a crime scene, McMullen. Had to tell them you were shocky and hun sui gai was the only thing that would bring you around.”
“You’re hilarious,” I said.
“Rest,” he ordered, and went into the kitchen.
I dropped my head back against the sofa cushion and tried not to think. Usually it’s not so hard, but usually—well sometimes—there’s not a dead body within shouting distance. Still, the sweet scent of chicken in dark sauce drifted into the living room, making my quest easier.
I found myself in the kitchen in a matter of minutes. Three pans were arranged in a triangular formation in the center of my table. None of them had matching covers. In my kitchen, food and foodlike substances rarely make it into a pot before they’re consumed, so it had always seemed like a waste of time and money to buy any spectacular cookware.
Rivera motioned toward a chair with a spatula. I sat down like a palsy victim. Harley plopped down beside me, head even with the tabletop. Opening the smallest pan, I fed him a clump of rice. He gobbled it down and grinned for more.
“You’re going to spoil him,” Rivera said, and picking up the pot, spooned a hefty portion of rice onto my plate.
“He’s an only child,” I said.
Replacing the first pan, he lifted the second. The lovely scent of Asian ambrosia filled my head. After inhaling Yum Yum’s finest, I had skipped lunch, and I felt a little weak at the sight of the golden chicken, but guilt had been implanted in my brain in utero and nailed down during twelve years at Holy Name Catholic School. “Shouldn’t we be…” I winced and nodded toward the outdoors, where dead bodies were probably strewn about like popcorn. “Talking to the police?”
He scooped out the hun sui gai. It was pretty enough to make me tear up again. Replacing the pan, he took a seat at the end of the table. “What would you tell them?” he asked.
“That I didn’t kill him,” I said.
He gave me his deadpan expression. It was still first-rate. “I found you seconds after the incident, green around the gills and about to fall flat on your face. It seems unlikely you were the cause of his death.”
“It was unlikely that I caused Bomstad’s death, too, but you still accused me.” It might have been a childish grudge, but I didn’t think so.
“You looking for another apology, McMullen?” he asked, staring at me.
I shook my head, dropped my gaze to my plate, and fiddled with a lovely hunk of chicken. “I’m afraid forcing another one on the heels of your first might do irreparable damage to your psyche.”
He watched me eat. “How did he get here?”
I didn’t have to ask what he was talking about. “He took a cab.”
“What company?”
“I didn’t see.”
“You didn’t see the name of the company or—”
“I don’t know anything!” I snapped, and stood abruptly. My chair bumped backward, rocking against my uncertain knees. “I don’t know why he was killed. I don’t know who killed him. I don’t know what you want.”
His eyes were one notch short of deadly. “I want to know if there’s someone who wants you dead,” he said.
3
There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who enjoy a nice salami and those who have no souls.
—Saul, the deli guy, perhaps speaking metaphorically
MY LITTLE WORLD GROUND to a halt. For some inane reason, I had never considered the idea that someone may have been trying to kill me. I inhaled carefully, stared at Rivera for a moment, then turned and wandered into my bedroom. The covers were tousled, the pillows askew, and a bevy of garments were scattered across the furniture, but I didn’t care. I crawled onto the mattress and pulled the wrinkly blankets up to my chin. Then I rolled onto my side and closed my eyes.
“Chrissy,” Rivera said, but I didn’t have time to ignore him before the doorbell rang. There was a momentary pause before he turned and trekked across carpet and linoleum to answer it. I could hear voices, but the words were mostly indistinct.
“Tomorrow,” Rivera said.
The other voice countered, rising in volume and agitation, and then the door closed. The world went silent. Rivera had stepped outside, but I didn’t care about that, either. I actively sought sleep. I know it seems ludicrous, but there are a limited number of talents at which I am truly gifted. Other than eating, sleeping is at the top of the list.
Harlequin clicked across the floor and heaved himself onto the bed. A kernel of rice was stuck to his nose. His breath smelled like Asian ambrosia. Weird. I closed my eyes again, but after several minutes I still wasn’t asleep. And my nose was dripping, so I wandered into the bathroom and dragged down a bottle of Nyquil. Some people have to get drunk to forget. Me, I just need a little bit of green magic. But I couldn’t find a measuring spoon, so I slopped half a cup into a glass and drank it down. Moments later I was staggering back to bed, stomach clenched and esophagus burning.
My dreams were an odd conglomeration of weird and weirder. Medication sometimes does that to me. For a while I was flying, gliding along. There were no wings or anything but I was floating over my parents’ house. I felt the age-old psychosis rise up at the sight of it, but I calmed myself. I was all grown up now, educated, independent, and…Naked!
Shit! I tried to cover myself before Mom saw me and grounded me for eternity, but suddenly I was falling, tumbling ass over ankle until I landed with a plop in my own bed.
All was well. I was safe. Besides, I’d looked pretty damned svelte as I’d fallen through the sky. My legs were freshly shaven and my hair looked great.
Something tinkled musically from the kitchen, and the heavenly scent of waffles drifted dreamily in the air. Someone was making breakfast. Maybe it was Julio Manderos. He’s Hispanic, ridiculously good-looking, and tends to frequent my dreams on regular occasions ever since I’d met him some months earlier. True, he was—or at least had been—a gigolo, and for a while I’d considered him a murder suspect, but in my dreamy meanderings, I didn’t hold that against him.
I stretched luxuriously. I could hear water splashing and I smiled. Maybe Julio was drawing me a bath, pouring in scented oils, lighting candles. On the other hand, maybe it was Harlequin. He’s pretty active in my dreams, too. Then there’s Cliff, the “dancer” I’d met at the Strip Please. He was dressed as a pirate…for a while.
I love pirates.
And suddenly I was on my feet. I felt willowy and weightless as I floated along in the gauzy morning light. There was a noise in the bathroom. I opened the door.
Lieutenant Jack Rivera stood inside. And he was naked.
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He was moving in what I call sexy motion—slow, evocative surreal-time. His hair shone blue-black and was slicked away from his sharp, high-boned features. His body glistened with dew drops, every finely tuned muscle visible and flexing. Below his washboard belly, his skin was a shade lighter, except for his dick…his “manhood,” as they call it in my favorite raunchy novels. That was the size and color of paprika salami, nestled in his dark curls and lying dormant against his bulging, off-center testicles.
I blinked and stared. I love dreams.
“Sorry,” he said. His voice was low and smoky as he reached for a towel with a broad, muscled arm. The room was steamy, but of course it would be. The room is always steamy in my erotic dreams.
“Thanks,” I said, my voice smooth as fine liqueur.
He eyed me through dark, heavy lashes as he lifted the towel. But he only patted his face dry, leaving his finer parts exposed—of course. “For what?”
“I only eat waffles in my dreams.” His manhood was starting to wake up, reach toward me. I should sleep more often. “Don’t have a waffle maker.”
He lowered the towel a little. It looked snowy white against the skin of his lean-muscled thighs and did nothing to hide his erection. Naturally.
“They’re pancakes,” he said. “Mama’s recipe.”
I nodded, not taking my eyes off his penis. “Rachel was right. You’re hung like a breeding stallion.” Rachel had been one of his exes. One of his many. But exes don’t matter in dreamland.
He took another step forward. Even his damned feet were attractive. But why wouldn’t they be? “You okay, McMullen?”
“Never better. You want me to get the syrup so we can get things started?”
His dick throbbed a little. Gotta like that.
But then he scowled and wrapped the towel around his waist.
My dreams screeched to a halt.
“Take that off,” I ordered, but my voice sounded kind of scratchy now and my head was spinning.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asked, and taking one more step, put his palm on my forehead.
His hand felt suspiciously real. I scowled, then, reaching up, poked him tentatively in the chest.
“Are you on drugs?” he asked, flicking up my eyelid with his thumb.
I blinked. And suddenly I felt sick to my stomach. It twisted hideously and then I knew the truth: The green magic had conspired against me. I wasn’t dreaming, I was awake! Lucid. Well…awake.
Stumbling backward, I bumped into the doorjamb and ricocheted sideways. I wanted to rush into my bedroom and shut out the world, but my guts were trying to climb up my esophagus.
So I reached out, snagged my fingers in Rivera’s towel, heaved him out of the bathroom, and slammed the door behind him. A second later I was yakking into the toilet.
By the time I settled back onto my heels my eyes were streaming but my stomach had been pacified. I turned on the tub tap, rinsed my mouth, and buried my face in the nearest towel as memories stormed in like flying monkeys—gunshots, dead eyes, Nyquil.
“McMullen.” Rivera knocked once. “You okay?”
I peeked over the towel, wondering if he’d believe me if I told him I was dead. Probably not. “Don’t come in,” I said, and then he came in, stepping into the bathroom with a good deal more reality, but no less sex appeal than he’d displayed a few minutes before.
“What the hell’s going on?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Sometimes humiliation can weld my tongue right to the roof of my mouth. Sometimes that’s the best place for it.
He was staring at me. I was staring back. Couldn’t help myself.
“Are you drunk?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Drugs?”
“Nyquil.”
“How the hell much did you take?”
I glanced toward the bottle on the sink and winced. “Might have been full when I started.”
He cursed, scowled, then sat down on the edge of the tub a few inches away. The towel still looked snowy white against his thighs. “Did you tell me I was hung like a breeding stallion?”
I pulled the towel up over my eyes and shook my head.
“Yes you did.”
I snatched the towel from my face. “You’re supposed to be a dream! Why the hell aren’t you a dream?”
His brows had risen into his hairline. “I guess it’s a good thing I told Mandy to cancel your appointments.”
I had a nagging suspicion that I should be angry at his high-handed behavior, but if I remembered correctly I had offered to fetch the syrup so we could—
“Did you offer to get the syrup so we could—”
“You’re hallucinating!” I snapped.
And then he laughed. “Jesus, McMullen, I can’t decide if I should be horny or horrified. Come on.” He stood up. “I cooked breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Now I am worried,” he said.
“Go away.”
“Don’t make me do something drastic.”
I snorted. I’d just propositioned him with syrup. How much worse could things get?
He stared at me for a moment, then shrugged and left.
I closed my eyes, resting my head against the wall behind me and reveling in my victory. Sometimes you have to take what you can get.
“Yes, is Connie McMullen there?”
I heard the words plain as day. My eyes popped open. I staggered to my feet and hurtled into the kitchen. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Rivera glanced up casually, covered the mouthpiece with one hand, and stared at me. “You going to come and eat?”
“Don’t you dare call my mother,” I hissed.
“Already did.”
“You’re lying.”
He uncovered the receiver.
“All right,” I snarled, and lumbered into the kitchen.
He hung up the phone and folded his arms across his chest. It was still bare…and dark…and sexy as hell. Damn him. He’d already pulled on his jeans and they looked ridiculously pristine. My own ensemble was crinkled up like an accordion. Double damn him. I plopped into a chair and glared. “There. You happy?” I asked.
“Ecstatic,” he replied, and taking the lid from the frying pan, flipped a pair of fat, golden pancakes onto my stoneware dinner plate. He placed three strawberries beside them, topped them with something that looked like honest-to-goodness real whipped cream, and sprinkled cinnamon over the top.
I glanced at it. Smelled it. Wondered why Harlequin hadn’t eaten it yet.
“I’m trying to convince you there’s reason to live,” Rivera said.
He set a steaming measuring cup of syrup in the center of the table where a half-dozen magazines and two romance novels had reclined the night before. They were nowhere to be seen. I wondered vaguely if Rivera was a neat freak or if he just had some weird-ass aversion to eating on top of reading material. But even that thought sent a little tendril of guilt spiraling through me. A man was dead, what did I care what kind of freak Rivera was?
He pushed the butter toward me. “Everything’ll be okay.”
I glanced up at him. “Easy for you to say, nobody’s trying to kill you.”
He didn’t respond, but took the chair next to me and poured syrup on my pancakes. I scowled. “Are they?”
“Not today. Do you want some cheese?”
I gave him the tilted-head look I’d learned from Harlequin.
He shrugged. “I like cheese,” he said, and settled back in his chair, watching me. “I went to a lot of trouble on those cakes.”
I scowled again, cut out a fluffy, golden triangle, and shoved it into my mouth. I realize that witnessing a murder should have made my taste buds go numb, but I won’t lie to you: The pancakes tasted like heaven. If heaven is buttery and a little crispy around the edges.
“How have things been going at work?” he asked.
I took another bite. He poured me a glass of milk
. “All right,” I said, mouth full. Turns out I was hungry. But that doesn’t make him smart or anything. I’ll probably be hungry postmortem.
“Any interesting cases?”
I took a slurp of milk, stared at him over the rim. “Lepinski decided on smoked turkey on rye.” Mr. Lepinski has been my client for over a year. His wife had recently cheated on him with the deli guy, and he was currently ignoring the situation by discussing luncheon options. It was a time-honored tradition with him.
Rivera nodded, not knowing what I was talking about and apparently not caring. “Anything else?”
I plucked a strawberry and twirled it in the white ambrosia. I’d been right, it was real whipped cream. Yummy. Sometimes reality actually was better than my dreams.
“What have the police found out?” I asked.
His brows lowered a fraction of an inch. “Anyone threatening you?” he returned.
And suddenly the fluffy ambrosia didn’t look so appetizing. I glanced at my lap and cleared my throat. “So someone is trying to kill me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
I pushed my plate aside. The cakes were nearly gone anyway. “Yes you did.”
“Answer the question, Chrissy,” he said. “Has anything unusual been going on at work?”
“I’m a therapist. Everything’s unusual.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You mean you think I’ve pissed someone off. He tried to kill me and shot Will instead.”
Rivera didn’t respond.
I tilted my head, feeling dizzy. The price I pay for green magic. “Am I right?”
“I want you to think back, Chrissy. This is important. What do you know about Will Swanson?”
“I told you—”
“He wanted to see your garage. Because he was a carpenter.”
“Because he had a garage fetish!” I snapped, then sighed. “Yes, because he was a—”
“With what company?”
“He worked freelance with his brother.”
“Whose name was…?”
I thought for a moment, remembering the way Will had smiled, sweet and kind of shy. “Hank,” I said.
“So you had an appointment with him?”
“Not exactly.”