by Lois Greiman
Floorboards creaked restlessly. A couple of still-flittering brain cells suggested that he was pacing again. “White’ll do,” he said.
I gave his words sage consideration for a fraction of a second. In fact, I would have considered longer, would have taken hours, days to come up with a scathing response, but my lips spoke up without permission.
“All right,” they said.
“What’s that?” Nothing squeaked or moaned or moved. In fact, the world seemed absolutely incapable of doing anything but waiting in breathless anticipation.
I gripped the receiver tighter. “I said all right.”
There was a pause for five and a half seconds, then: “I’ll be there in half an hour.”
I didn’t bother to remind him that in L.A. it takes longer than that to cross the street, but, as it turned out, it was lucky I didn’t waste the time, because he arrived in just over twenty minutes.
I had spent the first five telling myself he was just yanking my chain and wasn’t really coming at all. The next… oh, twenty-seven seconds I was busy blathering on about how it didn’t matter what I wore; this was just my ingenious ploy to get him to listen to me. The next quarter of an hour I hustled around like a panting virgin with the pre-honeymoon hives.
By the time I opened the door I was wearing a silk nightgown with matching robe.
He stood on my stoop, looking like a world-weary warrior, hair tousled, eyes burning, muscles tight with tension and man juice. He stepped inside without an invitation.
I swallowed any good sense that might still be hanging around and shut the door. Harlequin did a wiggly-worm dance around his legs.
“Can I get you something?” I asked. Smooth. Dark-jazz smooth.
He stared at me, thunderstorm eyes blazing. “You back on the menu, McMullen?”
I lifted my chin and refrained from jumping him like a hound on a rump roast. I didn’t need him. I had Officer What’s-His-Name and the guy with the curly hair. And Frangois! I mustn’t forget Frangois. But, good God, his eyes burned me like a blowtorch. He circled me a little, as if I were prey.
“My old man worth whoring for?” he asked.
A couple dozen nasty zingers whizzed through my mind like flaming arrows, but I kept them firmly locked between my teeth and turned away, sauntering hip-crazy to my office. I stood there, not looking back, waiting. It took a moment, but finally he came up behind me. I could feel him gazing over my shoulder, staring at the board.
I didn’t say anything, just stood waiting, tense and breathless.
“All you need is a deerstalker and a pipe and you’re ready for supersleuthing,” he said finally.
I turned from the tagboard. I was dead on my feet and bubbling with frustration, but I had my temper in a stranglehold. “The first murder took place on a Monday,” I said.
He scowled, as if thinking against his will, and nodded at the names on the board as if familiar with them. “Ortez?”
“Yes.”
“How was she killed?”
I fudged a little. “Arson.”
He nailed me with his eyes. “Proven?”
I hurried to the wall, robe flaring behind me. I was pretty sure I looked like Wonder Woman, cape flying, hair flowing in the mysterious breeze possibly caused by her wonder plane. “Kathy died on a Tuesday. Manny on a Wednesday. And …” I tapped the tagboard and turned.
He lifted his hot gaze from me and nailed it to the board. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
“Bunting on a Thursday,” he said.
I felt taut, breathless. “Yes.”
He stared at the carefully garnered information for a dozen heartbeats, then shifted his attention back to me with slow deliberation. “Just one problem.”
I waited.
“Baltimore’s death was determined an accident.”
“So were the others.” It was meant as a challenge but sounded more like a weak-assed apology.
He focused on me fully, narrowing the world down to my face. “You could have just told me you were horny, McMullen.” The air was motionless between us. “No need for excuses. I could have probably made it here three minutes faster.”
Our gazes fused. I wanted to tell him to go screw himself, but if anyone was going to do the job I kind of desperately wanted it to be me. “How about you think with your head instead of your dick,” I said instead.
We glared at each other, tension brewing like a toxic potion, but finally he chuckled and turned away. Drawing a deep breath, he shoved his hands into the front pockets of his frayed jeans. “Okay. I’ll play along. Why do you suppose these people were killed?”
“Because they worked for your father.” I was suddenly excited. The fact that he was even considering my theory felt hopelessly exhilarating. The fact that he hadn’t shot me yet was kind of a bonus. “That much is certain. But the rest is unclear. Is it because they were imperfect? Or maybe they slighted the killer. But look—every one of them was closely connected to your dad at one point, and none of them fits the Moral Majority’s conservative ideal.”
He looked unconvinced. And ornery as hell. I hurried on.
I tapped the board again. “Wiccan, lesbian, alcoholic—”
“What about Bunting?”
I opened my mouth and shut it. “I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”
He glanced at me.
“I just learned about his death.”
“Any living relatives?”
“Not that I’ve found. He never married. His parents died a year and a half ago.”
He was reading the information as I spoke it, but his brows were low. “At the same time?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but I didn’t have the answer and I couldn’t afford to look weak. “The point is,” I said, “people are dying. And more quickly now. Carmella was killed two months ago. Steve, in November. Five weeks apart. Then just three weeks between him and Kay, and only a day between her and Manny.”
“Only problem is…” He turned toward me. “The deaths were accidental.”
“Oh, don’t be naive!” I snapped.
He stared at me, surprised. I stared back, angry.
“I’ve been called a liar, an ass, and a murderer,” he said, and, snorting, ran splayed fingers through his hair. “Been a while since anyone accused me of being naive.”
“How about stupid?”
The shadow of a grin flirted across his devil-may-kiss lips. “More recent.”
I drew a hard breath. “Listen.” I was hoping for cool. Struggling for sane. “I know it sounds far-fetched, but you know as well as anyone that the senator has enemies.”
He didn’t agree, but he certainly didn’t argue. “Why now?”
“I don’t know. Maybe to keep him from becoming the leader of the free world.”
For a moment I thought he’d scoff, swear, and possibly self-implode, but he surprised me again. “That doesn’t give us much to go on. Half the country would rather take a poker up the ass than see the senator in the Oval Office.”
“But the other half would cheer.”
“Probably because the left half has been pokered.”
I shook my head, trying to clear it of the image. “How many people know he’s considering throwing his hat in the ring?”
“Maybe a better question is who would think it worth risking life inside to have him dead.”
“I don’t believe the killer thinks he’s at risk,” I said.
“What?”
“Think about it.” I was excited again. “No one’s looking into the deaths. Everyone believes they’re accidents. Even you,” I added.
“Well…” He raised a practical hand. “I’m naive.”
“Don’t be an ass, Rivera.”
His lips twitched. “So it’s finally come down to sweet talk.”
“Listen,” I said, “your father wants me to believe his campaigns were one big happy family, but I know there were problems.”
“You think?”
I ignored him
. “Ortez was Wiccan. Manny drank like a fish. Kathy was gay. I’m not sure what Bunting’s deal was, but I’m certain there was something. All flawed, but all allowed into the senator’s inner circle. What if they knew something they shouldn’t… the sins of another…”
“Who?”
The senator himself? The idea flashed through my mind. But that would make him culpable, and I wasn’t ready to believe that. “What about Salina?” I asked.
“What about her?” His voice was rumbly his body tense.
“What if someone thinks the senator was responsible for Salinas death? What if someone wants him to pay? Wants him to worry? Wants him to see the circle narrowing down to him?”
“Someone besides me?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it slowly. We stared at each other.
“If you’re accusing me of murder, you can come out and say it,” he said.
“What?”
“You’re usually more straightforward than this.” He stood very still, predator eyes steady.
“I never even considered—”
“Was this his idea?” he asked. “Or did you come up with this brainstorm all by yourself?”
“I didn’t—”
“‘Cuz it’s not as if I don’t want him dead. I just—”
“Oh, for God’s sake! Shut the hell up!” I rasped. “You’re not half clever enough to think of something this complex.”
He raised his brows at me. Seconds ticked tensely away. “Let me get this straight. You think I’m too stupid to commit murder?”
“And too damn impatient. Can I explain now?”
He motioned expansively with one hand.
“What if someone thinks your dad killed Salina? Someone who cared about her.” My mind was spinning like a cyclone. “Someone who’s known him for a long while.”
He didn’t interrupt.
“They know he sees himself as the leader of the Moral Majority. His political team was his band of archangels.”
Rivera snorted, but I gave him an impatient palms-out gesture and hurried on.
“They see the hypocrisy and want to make them suffer. All of them.” I indicated the board. “But mostly him.”
“The senator.”
“Yes.”
He studied the board. “You really think someone plans to kill him.”
The entire idea suddenly seemed ridiculous, but I could hardly back down now. It would seem as if I’d just wanted to lure him over so he’d see me in my Wonder Woman ensemble. “I think it’s a distinct possibility.”
“Tomorrow.”
I chewed on my lip, and he turned back to the board.
“Why is the time span narrowing?” he asked.
“Because of his bid for the presidency?”
“He hasn’t announced his intent,” he said. “At least not to the general public.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Or me.”
I ignored his tone and skimmed the board. He didn’t seem surprised by the news and I didn’t particularly care if he was injured by his father taking me into his confidence. “Who?” I mused.
He stared at me. “Are you asking who else my father has killed?”
“No. Before—” I began.
“I was being sarcastic, McMullen.”
I turned toward him with a scowl.
“This is asinine,” he said.
“Because he couldn’t have been somehow involved in a murder?”
“Because if he had I would have known.”
I gave that a moment of thought and decided I believed him. “And?”
He shook his head.
“Then who’s going to die on Friday?”
“On a Friday,” he corrected.
I gave a conceding shrug but held my ground. We stared at each other for a minute, but finally he blew out a breath and half-turned away.
“Ever heard of coincidence?”
“Yeah, I heard there’s no such thing.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“From you.”
“I’ve said a lot of other shit, too.”
“Are you seriously telling me you think this is all just a strange twist of fate?”
He paused, stared at me, focusing intently, whittling the world down to me. “I wouldn’t have thought white would be your color.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“You’re the one in the nightie.”
I cleared my throat, feeling hot and vulnerable. “It’s a gown.”
“Yeah? I can’t tell with the robe.”
I lifted my chin a notch. “Your loss.”
“Take it off.”
“You’re crazy” I said, but I suddenly felt itchy and … well, kind of horny.
He took a step toward me. “Why’d you call?” he asked. “Really?”
“Isn’t your dad’s life reason enough?”
His grin was twisted, dark, and cocky as hell. “Whatever it takes to get you in the mood.”
“Drop the act,” I said, but he was close now, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body blast me.
“What act is that, McMullen?”
“I know you care about him.”
He laughed, but his gaze never left mine. “You being a shrink again, McMullen?”
It was hard to breathe, harder to think. Despite everything that had happened between us, he did things to me that no one else did—heightened my senses, jangled my nerves. “No one needs a shrink more than you.”
He reached out, touched my cheek. Feelings sparked through me like a live electrical wire. “That what you think I need?”
I swallowed and tried to be smart. “Listen, Rivera …” I kept my tone cool. Kept my hands to myself. “I won’t deny that I’ve been attracted to you in the past, but—” He skimmed his fingers along my jaw. My eyes flittered closed.
“But what?” he asked, voice tickling deep inside me. “Officer Milquetoast drove everyone else from your mind?”
It took me a moment to curl my fingers into my fists, lest they do something stupid, longer still to realize who he was referring to, but when I did I forced a nod. It was jerky and unsatisfying, but at least I hadn’t yet mounted him like a jockey on the track favorite. “He’s a nice guy,” I said.
Rivera grinned. The expression did nasty things to my equilibrium. “If I remember correctly, the last nice guy you met turned out to be a hit man.”
“This one’s a cop.”
His mouth twisted up even further. Dropping his hand slowly, he tugged the tie of my robe loose. It fell away, simply slipped to the floor as if on command. He put his hand on my waist.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d inhaled.
Warm, slow, and strong, his hand glided up my belly, over my ribs. He leaned in. His breath felt heavy against my face. His hand cupped my breast with light posses-siveness. And then he kissed me, lips slanting across mine, drinking me in, inhaling me.
My innards felt cold, my brain overheated. His thumb tripped over my marble-hard nipple. A shriek jerked at my lips but never escaped. It might have been a protest. It might have been a plea.
He drew back half an inch, eyes burning into mine. “Never trust a cop,” he said, and left.
27
Marriage: Just say no.
—Shirley Templeton
HRISSY?”
“Yes.” The phone had jarred me out of that lovely space between coherency and full-drool sleep. It was late Friday night. As far as I knew no one else had died. I had no idea what that meant.
“This is Donny.”
My mind was spinning, but I wasn’t gaining much ground.
“Donny Archer.”
I shuffled upright, remembering he had promised to check out the senator. Shoving my pillow against the headboard, I glanced at Harlequin. He gave me a one-eyed squint, then twitched back to dreamland.
“Are you okay?”
“Me?” I realized suddenly that I was crumpling the bed-sheets in nervous fingers. I loosened my grip
and smoothed the faux linens. “I’m fine.” A second ticked by. My fingers squeezed again, frozen. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No reason. I just…I’ve been thinking about you. I had a really good time the other—”
“Did you learn something?” My voice sounded croaky but I couldn’t wait any longer.
It took him a moment to catch up. “Not much. I’m sorry.”
“So the senator didn’t kill anyone?”
He drew a breath. “Sounds like it might be the opposite.”
“What?” I froze. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. I mean—”
“Did something happen to him?”
“No. No. Sorry. I just meant… well, like I said, Dad’s a big fan of the senator, so he didn’t want to besmirch his name, and—”
“What did he say?”
“You were right. The senator’s kind of a womanizer.”
I exhaled carefully. That was like saying dirt was dirty. “Anyone specific?”
“No, he just said …well, he said that despite the senator’s …appetites, he knew how to keep his money for himself.”
“What does that mean?”
He cleared his throat. “Dad pays the approximate equivalent of the national debt in alimony.”
I remained quiet, thinking.
“Apparently the senator doesn’t marry the women he… admires.” There was a pause. “Or pay child support.”
The world was silent.
“There’s a child?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know. Dad just said Rivera knew how to stay clear of… costly entanglements.”
“Costly—Do you think there are children he’s not claiming?”
“I can’t say. I—”
“Why?” I sounded a little manic even to my own ears.
“What?”
“Why can’t you say?”
“Because I don’t know.”
“Oh.” I tried to breathe normally. But it was difficult. Harley on the other hand, didn’t seem to be having any trouble. He was beginning to snore.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
I can’t tell you how many people ask me that after they get to know me a little. I closed my eyes. “I might be losing my mind.”
“Yeah?” He paused for a second. “You crazy enough to go out with me again?”