One Hot Mess

by Lois Greiman

He shrugged. “Sometimes folks would visit her from out of town.”

  “Any names that you can remember?”

  “Did I mention my IQ?”

  I made a face. “Names.”

  “There was a guy named Cal Bentley who came a couple times a year.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Believe it or not, I have a few other things to do than to catalog the comings and goings of Edmond Park’s citizenry.”

  “Yeah?” Our meals arrived. I refrained from inhaling mine like a hippo on an alligator and instead made a decisive yet ladylike incision into the meat. “Like what?”

  He tasted a bite of his saffron rice. “Sometimes Miss Mable’s cat gets caught in her cottonwood tree.”

  “I thought that was a job for the fire department.”

  “We draw straws.”

  Okay so he was good-looking, tall, and self-effacing, but I didn’t care about that sort of thing. I tasted the prime rib and felt my salivary glands light up like Roman candles. “Why’d you choose the police force?” I asked.

  He smiled. “Mom said women liked men in uniform. Why psychology?”

  I considered lying. “There are a lot of nut-jobs. I thought it would be a lucrative field.”

  He laughed. “Not enough crazies in Schaumburg?”

  I stopped eating long enough to really look at him. He had laughing eyes, but there was something solid and hard behind them. “You must be short of cats,” I said.

  He gave me a look.

  “You’ve got an awful lot of time to check up on innocent people.”

  “Like you?”

  “That is who I was referring to.”

  “I never considered that your previous place of residence might be a secret.”

  I let it go with some difficulty. “How did your mother influence you, besides the penchant for using antiquated words and flashing badges?”

  He shrugged. “I got her eyes.”

  “What’d you get from your dad?”

  “Not much,” he said, but something sparked in his aforementioned eyes. “How about you?”

  “How about me what?” I wanted to follow up about his dad but reminded myself I wasn’t there to learn about him.

  “You left your family two thousand miles behind. What’s that all about?”

  I tasted my salad. It needed more dressing, but I refrained from dumping the remainder of the little pitcher onto the lettuce. Go, me. “I couldn’t help them.”

  He stared at me a moment, then laughed. The sound was soothing somehow. “Too crazy?” he asked.

  “The prognosis was grim.”

  “Well…” He glanced toward the hostess. She was rather attractive, if you like the tall, blond, so-pretty-it-makes-your-eyes-water type, but he didn’t quite seem to notice. “It’s not uncommon.”

  “Anyone specific in your family?” I asked.

  He brought his gaze back to mine, smiled a little. “How do you feel about multiple partners?” he asked.

  I gave him a look that should have withered any possibility of future offspring. “I believe we had an agreement.”

  “Temporary insanity. How’s the beef?”

  I dabbed my mouth primly with the napkin. “Very nice.”

  He’d eaten all his salad but was neglecting his salmon. “Are you gay?” he asked.

  “What?”

  He watched me, but if he was mocking me I couldn’t feel it. In fact, it almost seemed that there was admiration in his eyes. “You’re either uninterested or damn unlucky.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You would have been married years ago if you wanted to be,” he said. “Not all men are assholes, Chrissy.”

  I blinked at him, considered disagreeing, and decided against it. “Anyone you know?”

  He glanced away for a second. Maybe there was a moment of tension on his face. “You’d probably do well to avoid police officers.”

  “Meaning you?”

  “Actually, I was talking about Lieutenant Rivera, but now that I say it, I see how you could have misunderstood my meaning.”

  The waitress had delivered the check in its little plastic notebook. He stuck a credit card in it and handed it back.

  “It was a reach,” I said.

  “I’m pretty straightforward,” he said. “I like sex—if I remember correctly I like it quite a bit. I mean… I like women in general, but… I’m not looking for a relationship.”

  “Why not?”

  He paused for a second before answering. “My ex liked sex, too. Only not so much with me as with others.”

  “Oh.” I watched him. Something flittered through his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  His lips twitched up. “Sorry enough to sleep with me?”

  I ignored the question. “How long were you married?”

  “Five years. I thought they were pretty good years. I mean, we weren’t dancing on rooftops or anything but…” He shrugged. “We weren’t crying in the cellar, either. At least not enough for her to cheat on me.”

  “With whom?”

  He thought about that for a second, face solemn. “I don’t think there were any goats involved.”

  “Always a relief.”

  He looked at me and laughed. “This Rivera—is he blind or just damn stupid?” he asked, and there was something in his voice that made me feel a little soupy.

  “Could be a little of both.” I stood up. He stood up beside me. I’m tall. He was taller. Despite everything I’ve learned about men and women and life in general, I can’t help but think that taller’s better.

  “There’s a lot of stupid going around,” he said, and looked down into my eyes.

  He was standing pretty close. Not touching, but close enough so I could feel the heat of his arm. We had enough celibacy between us to commit a felony.

  “I brought that affidavit if you’ve changed your mind,” he said.

  “Affidavit?” I sounded a little breathless, a little disoriented, a whole lot crazy.

  “The one that says you’d like to have sex with me.”

  I was staring at him. His arms were handsomely muscled and lightly tanned. His chest was broad and his chin dimpled. He was a Ken doll with audio.

  “Say you want to have sex with me,” he urged.

  “I—” I began, but then I felt something. A spark so fierce it jerked at something deep inside me. I turned like a broken puppet, only to find that Lieutenant Jack Rivera was standing not five feet away.

  19

  When blondes have more fun, do they know it?

  —Brainy Laney Butterfield,

  who happens to be blond

  ILENCE THRUMMED AROUND US, and suddenly it felt as if everyone else in the world had been sucked into oblivion. Rivera took a step toward me, and I, like a fly drawn to sticky paper, took a step toward him.

  Feelings bubbled like boiling tar through me. Memories buzzed along my tittering nerve endings. And each of them featured Rivera. In some of them he was wearing clothes. In all of them he was touching me, burning me with his hands, branding me with his eyes.

  “Jack,” someone said, but the voice seemed to come from a long way away. “Jack,” she said again, louder now and whinier. He halted on a teetering step.

  I stopped.

  “Jack honey.” We turned our heads in unison. The woman who tugged at his sleeve was blond, petite, and cute enough to be in a pet-store window.

  “Our tables ready.” She had a voice vaguely reminiscent of a certain cartoon mouse. “We have to go.”

  The world stood frozen, waiting, and then Officer Tavis spoke. “You must be Lieutenant Rivera.”

  We stared at my undate in unbreathing tandem.

  He was smiling tentatively and extending his broad hand. Rivera did neither. Instead, he turned back toward me, eyes as sharp as a cobras. But the searing passion was gone, replaced by a thousand watts of frustration and contempt and another dozen emotions I could neither read nor catalog. “Making up for lost time
, McMullen?” he rumbled.

  My heart was pounding like a runaway broomtail. “Rivera,” I breathed. My voice sounded funny, like something from a crackly old movie, too melodramatic to be taken seriously.

  Still, he almost moved toward me. I could sense it in the tightness of his jaw, in the snap of his eyes, but finally he fisted a hand and exhaled.

  “Feeding him first to keep up his strength?” he asked. His eyes were flat now, his tone the same.

  Minnie Mouse had linked her arm through his. She looked proprietary and cocky and bleached to the bone. Inexplicable anger coursed through me like lava in a lamp. “Rent A Blonde still open?” I asked.

  He scoured Tavis’s long form. “Least I didn’t have to pay by the inch.”

  “Officer Tavis happens to be a respected—”

  “Officer!” he snorted, and threw back his head and laughed.

  I’m not sure what happened next. One moment I was standing there like a relatively sane human being and then I was torpedoing forward without any kind of lucid plan in my head. But in that instant Tavis grabbed me around the waist and snagged me back to his side.

  I think I heard him swear.

  “Let me go.” My voice sounded a little rabid.

  Tavis’s sounded like he was speaking to something that slavered. “Not ‘til you calm down.” His lips were very close to my ear.

  Rivera stared at me for another heart-pounding second, then turned and walked away, Minnie on his arm.

  “Chrissy?”

  “I’m calm,” I rasped.

  “And I’m the king of Albania. Come on,” Tavis ordered, and prodded me toward the door. For a couple of seconds I’m afraid I might have actually tried to break away—kind of like a pit bull on a short leash. But eventually we were outside. Past the ogling diners. Past the stunned hostess. The air felt cool against my hot cheeks. Tavis tucked me into his car, touching the top of my head like they do on Cops when the perp is safely handcuffed and subsequently packed into the backseat for safekeeping. At least I was up front like one of the big kids who can be trusted with a radio and sharp objects.

  We sat in silence for a long time. I could feel him staring at me. In fact, I was pretty sure I could hear him thinking, What the hell…

  “What the hell?” he said finally, tone amazed and, maybe, if he had a sick-ass sense of humor, a little amused.

  I closed my eyes and tried to block out the hideously fresh memories. They were like a broken reel, running circles in my head. “Tell me, Officer Tavis,” I said, voice blessedly calm, “do you happen to own a handgun?”

  “I am a cop,” he said.

  I nodded, seeing the logic. “Would you mind shooting me?”

  He chuckled, sat for a while longer, and finally started up the car.

  We pulled smoothly out of the parking lot onto the cross street. Traffic buzzed past. I watched the cars, maybe fascinated by their progress, maybe too embarrassed to face another human being for as long as I lived.

  “Sorry about touching you,” he said.

  I didn’t respond.

  “But I was afraid you were going to kill him.” He paused, reflecting on that. “Or… something.”

  I wished a little dimly that I had a gun, although, if the truth be told, I wasn’t really sure what I would do with it. I have a pretty strong sense of self-preservation. If I owned a handgun I was more likely to shoot Rivera than myself, and, if I remember correctly, there’s a fairly stiff penalty for killing an officer of the law.

  “Want to tell me about it?” he asked, and glanced across the plush seat covering toward me.

  “I’d rather shove a hot fork up my—” I took a careful breath, found a little bit of sanity. “I’d rather not. Thank you.”

  I could sense him grinning but didn’t feel quite prepared to look at him. Anger and I don’t get on well, and I was pretty sure that my rage could, fairly easily, be transferred from one cop to another.

  “Shall I assume it’s not over between you two?” he asked.

  “Oh…” I felt extremely tired suddenly. “It’s over.”

  “So you don’t care about him anymore?”

  I think I shook my head.

  “I see. Do you always make that sound when you see someone you don’t care about?”

  I still didn’t bother to look at him. “I didn’t make a sound.”

  “Uh-huh… It was kind of like a wild animal in pain.” He thought for a minute. “Or maybe a dog in—”

  I snapped my gaze to his.

  He cleared his throat and faced forward. “Well, you’re not a dull date, Christina McMullen. I’ll give you that.”

  I let my eyes fall closed and took a fortifying breath. “I’m sorry,” I said, and he laughed.

  “It’s all right. Things were getting a little slow at the station.”

  I sighed. “Glad to lend you grist for the gossip mill.”

  He pulled up to my curb, turned the car off, and faced me. “I don’t not kiss and tell, Chrissy.”

  I stared at him. He was really good-looking, and he seemed like a nice guy. Though, truth to tell, I generally don’t have the capacity to differentiate a nice guy from a serial killer. It’s something of a character flaw in a licensed psychologist. And in a woman who hopes for continued survival.

  “So what’s going on with you two?” he asked.

  I tried to stay silent, but he had the kind of eyes you talk to. “We just…We’re like hairspray and a pack of Camels. Everything’s going along fine. You’re feeling good, made-up, coiffed, having yourself a smoke, then suddenly—poof, your beehives gone up in flame.”

  “You ever…” He paused, perhaps searching for terms that wouldn’t make me rip out his throat. “Have you been intimate with him?”

  “Intimate!” I think I guffawed. I might have chortled. And I may have hacked up a hairball. “No one’s intimate with Rivera.”

  He nodded. “Okay. You screw him?”

  I took a deep breath. Glanced out my window and shook my head. “Never quite got around to that, either.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  I snapped my attention back to his. He shrugged.

  “Get it out of your system,” he said.

  I shook my head slowly.

  “Or…” he suggested. “For the right incentive I might be willing to sacrifice myself and play replacement. You know, for the well-being of your obviously deranged psyche.”

  This didn’t seem like a likely time to laugh, and yet I did. The tension went out of my body. My shoulders slumped. I dropped my head back on the rest behind me. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

  “Well…” He let out a breath, sounding as if he’d been holding it for a while. “I’ve got two guesses. Want to hear them?”

  I didn’t look at him. “No.”

  “You’re either horny…”

  I rolled my face toward him, eyes deadly flat.

  He grinned. “Or you’re in love.”

  I blinked. “I was planning to be insulted by the horny comment, but now I’m torn.”

  “You still saying you have no feelings for him?”

  “Would you believe it if I really threw myself into selling it?”

  “Well…” He glanced forward, tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel. “You two looked kind of Animal Planet. The lion and the wildebeest.”

  “Am I the lion or the wildebeest?”

  “Could go either way.”

  I closed my eyes. “Have I apologized yet?”

  “Yeah, but if you’re really sorry, you could make it up to me by—”

  “I’m not going to sleep with you.”

  He chuckled, then sighed. “Is that why you’re doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Scratching at the Baltimore case. Is it to impress him?”

  I thought about that for a second. “Actually, that’s why he’s not speaking to me.”

  He thought for a moment, then nodded. “He wants you to stay out of it
. Police business and all that.”

  “We have history.”

  “Any of it good?”

  “Not much.”

  “But he’s under your skin.”

  “Did you guess that intuitively?”

  He laughed, tapped the steering wheel again, then went sober. “I got a call from the governor.”

  I turned toward him, mind shifting gears. “About Baltimore?”

  He held my gaze. “About meth houses.”

  I shook my head.

  “He said we’ve got to concentrate all our efforts on cracking down on the meth labs. That he made a promise to his constituents.”

  My mind was churning. “Do you think he wants to make sure you don’t look into Baltimore’s death?”

  He didn’t respond, but his expression said that I’d guessed right for once. “Meth’s a big problem in the rural areas.”

  “You don’t think her death was an accident.”

  “Two kids died just last summer.” He looked through the windshield. “We shut down the operation. But they keep springing up. Ammonia’s easy to come by on the farm. They’re just kids. Bored. Confused. Things happen. Even if it’s not in L.A.”

  So he’d been warned off the case and he was going to comply. “Was it her husband? Do you think he was involved?”

  He sighed, shook his head. “Truth is, I don’t think he has the balls for it.”

  “Someone else, then.”

  “There was no forced entry. No sign of a struggle.”

  “So it was someone she knew. You said she had a lot of friends in Edmond Park.”

  “Look elsewhere.”

  I watched him. “Because you don’t want a black mark on your little piece of paradise?”

  “I’m good at my job, Christina.”

  “And you don’t want to lose it.”

  “I can do some good here. If you get the kids early enough, you can sometimes save them.”

  “And Kathy Baltimore doesn’t matter.”

  For a moment I thought he’d defend himself, but he didn’t. “Set up a timeline,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Lay out the facts. Give yourself lots of space. Use everything you know. How, when, where. Look for a pattern.”

  “You’re not going to try to stop me?”

  He chuckled. “Shit, if Rivera can’t stop you, I don’t have a chance in hell.”

  “You could try.”