One Hot Mess

by Lois Greiman

  “Well, there are only so many geeksters to reform,” I said.

  She smiled. “You can’t be sure about the abortion,” she said.

  “No.”

  “How about the others? Are you sure about their”—she made air quotes—“sins?”

  I shifted my gaze over the wall for the thousandth time. “All except Bunting.”

  She was silent for a moment. “If you’re right, they’ve broken just about every commandment in the book.”

  “Didn’t there used to be more?”

  “They’ve been revised. More sinner-friendly now,” she said. “How about you?”

  “How about me what?”

  “You broken any lately?”

  I refrained from fidgeting and went for clever. “I’ve wanted to, but I’ve been kind of busy. With the murders and whatnot.”

  “How about New Year’s Eve?”

  I put down my marker and returned to the living room. “Asleep by nine.”

  “Yeah? Who woke you up?”

  I turned on her, a little peeved. If she had to be gorgeous, it was her God-given duty to be dumb. “Tell me the truth, do you have spies?”

  She laughed.

  “Bugs? Little cameras hidden in my teeth?”

  “Did Rivera come over or what?”

  I shook my head.

  “Donald Archer?”

  “No.”

  “The cop?”

  I sighed.

  “Who, then?”

  “Do you remember D?”

  She narrowed her eyes and thought back. “The gangster?”

  “Apparently that term isn’t very politically correct.”

  She raised her brows and stared at me. “Did you sleep with him?”

  “No. Absolutely not. That would have been stupid. I’m not stupid.”

  She stared at me some more. I was beginning to itch.

  “I mean… I haven’t had sex for…” I thought back but couldn’t remember how many months it had been. Or maybe they haven’t invented a number that large yet. “If I did … I’d know. Right?”

  olberg took Laney back to LAX. I didn’t accompany them, because I don’t like to see grown men cry. Well… sometimes I do, but that’s another story.

  Friday dawned, almost cool. Harley and I went for a run before the weather took a turn and tried to kill us again.

  I called the senator sometime around noon and asked with my usual tact if he’d had an affair with Rebecca Harris. He flatly denied it. Which meant that she probably didn’t have an abortion and was, in fact, the saint everyone proclaimed her to be. Which meant that my entire theory was probably nothing more than fantasy.

  By the time I returned home, I felt out of sorts. Tomorrow would be Saturday, which, according to my theory, should be the next day for a murder. I wandered into my office to glare at the wall—and my faulty theory. I mean, yes, all the deaths did take place on different days of the week, but not all were consecutive.

  Steve Bunting had died on a Thursday instead of on a Tuesday as he should have. Did that mean that Steves death was unplanned? If that was the case, that left Thursday open for another tragedy. But maybe it was all just my overactive imagination playing tricks on me.

  I glared some more, but no new and astounding revelations came to mind, so I had a bowl of ice cream and went to bed early.

  I woke up sweating. The house was absolutely quiet, but I could still hear Kathy Baltimore’s voice in my ear. Singing. Hymns. I shivered and climbed out of bed. The office called to me. I wandered in that direction. The tagboard was there, scribbled with a thousand seemingly unconnected notes.

  Laney said they had broken every commandment, but it wasn’t true, of course. As far as I knew, no one had been bearing false witness or creating idols in their basements or…

  My mind screeched to a halt as my eyes zipped back to Carma. Maybe she didn’t exactly have idols, but she was Wiccan, which meant she had other gods. Didn’t it? I hurried to the wall and scribbled first and second under Carmella’s name.

  Manny had taken God’s name in vain. Number three.

  Kathy had labored to make sure they campaigned on the Sabbath. Number four.

  Steve? Steve! If my theory was correct, he had euthanized his own parents. Which meant he was a murderer. Which put him out of order again. But wait. Killing them wasn’t honoring them. “Fifth commandment!” I was muttering frantically to myself.

  “Rebecca. Rebecca.” She should have murdered. Should have … But maybe she had gotten an abortion, and some considered that murder. Sixth commandment! Which put all the deaths in order.

  Not in days of the week, but by commandments. Of course! Why hadn’t I seen it before?

  Which led me to …

  I stopped. The marker fell from my fingers and clattered against my desk.

  “Adultery,” I muttered, and then I was scrambling for the phone, jabbing at the numbers, but all I got was the senator’s voice mail. I checked the time—2:42.

  I slammed down the receiver and tried another number.

  “Christ, McMullen.” Rivera sounded tired and angry. “I’ve had about all the foreplay I can handle. Let’s just do—”

  “The killer’s punishing sinners,” I hissed.

  There was a pause. “Are you high?”

  “Each victim broke at least one commandment.”

  I heard his mattress creak. “Don’t tell me. Harris was coveting the senator’s ass.”

  “Some people consider abortion murder.” I felt breathless but strangely vindicated.

  There was a moment’s pause. “Explain or let me go to sleep.”

  “First and second commandments, thou shalt have no other gods, before me, and thou shalt not make false idols. Carma was a practicing Wiccan. Third, don’t take God’s name in vain. Emanuel. Fourth commandment, remember the Sabbath day. It was Baltimore’s idea to campaign on Sunday. Fifth—”

  His mattress squeaked abruptly. “Where’s the one about adultery?”

  I paused, barely breathing. “Seventh.”

  “And there have been six commandments broken.”

  “Yes.”

  There was a long pause during which I could hear myself sweat.

  “I’ll call the old man,” he said.

  “He didn’t answer.”

  “You try his home phone?”

  “Twice.”

  “Stay where you are. I’ll check it out and call you back.”

  I stayed for about five seconds, after which I snatched my keys from the counter, said good-bye to a droopy-eyed Harlequin, and raced out the door. Pacific Palisades was a forty-five-minute drive. The roads were curvy and crazy. The night was reminiscent of the first time I’d gone to the senator’s house. Fog had hung over the roads then, too, a harbinger of horrors to come. Of dead, staring eyes and—

  My cell rang, yanking me back to the present with a gasp. I fished it out of my purse and snapped it open.

  “Where the hell are you?” Rivera asked. I could hear a motor charging to life in the background.

  “Me?” I careened onto the 405, headed west.

  “Are you in your car?”

  I changed lanes, storming past a compact pickup truck. “Who knew about your father’s indiscretions?”

  “You get your ass back home.”

  I was driving with my left hand, swerving rapidly around curves and up hills. “It must be someone from the past. Has to be.”

  “I kid you not, McMullen. If I see you at the senators, I’m handcuffing you to your steering wheel.”

  “Where do you think he is?”

  “I’m warning you—”

  “Have there been any threats to his life?”

  “You’re not a goddamn cop!”

  “I realize that,” I snapped. “I’m a shrink. You’re a cop. Your father’s in a shitload of trouble. He’s going to need all the help he can get to get him out.”

  He was silent for an instant. I could hear him shift gears. I slipped int
o the breach. “The senator must have suspected all along that his life was in danger.”

  “You think?”

  I didn’t bother to remind him that sarcasm is sophomoric and uncalled for.

  “So why did he send the note?”

  There was a moment of silence. “What note?”

  I scowled a little, taking a curve too fast and gripping the wheel tighter. “He sent a note and a check, saying I shouldn’t concern myself with the death. Apologized for getting me involved.”

  Another silence, then: “How much was the check for?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.” A sliver of guilt accompanied the admission. “I know I shouldn’t have cashed it, but my septic system—”

  “Conniving bastard!” Rivera growled.

  A convertible zipped toward me around a hairpin turn, missing me by a prayer. I refrained from peeing in my pants and tried to keep my voice out of the upper octaves. “What’s that?”

  “If he had an ounce of integrity, he would have just put a gun to your head.”

  I thought about that for a moment while I tried to keep from careening into oblivion. “You think he knew I would take the money and feel obliged to keep investigating?”

  Rivera snorted. “The old man’s a scheming pile of shit, but he knows how to pull peoples strings. I gotta give him that.”

  I took a deep breath and jumped into the truth with both feet. “He said he didn’t want you to get involved because he worried about your safety.”

  “He didn’t involve me because he knew I’d tell him to go to hell.”

  And yet Rivera was currently speeding to his father’s rescue. I scowled at the vagaries of life. “He said he’d had nightmares about seeing you dead on the sidewalk beside Kathy Baltimore.”

  “And you believed him?” His voice was incredulous.

  Despite my Ph.D., I felt a need to explain myself. “Well, to be honest, I had a similar dream, and I thought maybe—”

  “About me?” he asked. His tone had changed a bit, still coarse but roughly gentle now.

  I felt my throat tighten up. “You’re sort of an ass, but I kinda don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “Go home, Chrissy” he said. His tone was gruff, but there was pleading in it, and worry, and a dozen emotions I had no time to analyze.

  “Where do you think he might be?” I asked.

  For a moment I thought I felt worry from the other end of the line, but then he laughed. “How the hell would I know? He’s probably out whoring.”

  “If you believe that, why are you breaking the speed limit at two fifty-three in the morning?”

  “Go home,” he said, and hung up.

  I beat him to his father’s house by about three minutes. I was cupping my hands against the senators window and peering into the darkened house when he screeched into the drive beside my cowering little Saturn.

  “McMullen.” Maybe his voice wasn’t loud enough to wake the dead, but it sure as hell would piss them off.

  I scurried through the underbrush toward him. “What’d you find out?”

  For a second I thought he actually might handcuff me to something, but he just glared at the house instead. “Did you knock?”

  “No answer.”

  “Any windows open?”

  “Not that I found.”

  He nodded, rang the doorbell, and dialed his phone simultaneously. After the third ring, I heard the senators bass recording pick up. Rivera snapped off his phone and glanced back at his Jeep.

  “Could he be with your mother?”

  He looked at me. “What are you on?”

  “Then where is he?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  “You’re his son.”

  “Only by accident.” Bending, he picked up a potted fern and slammed it through the window. I jumped as glass shattered in every direction, but Rivera was already tossing the plant aside and reaching between the broken shards.

  “Stay behind me,” he ordered, and pulled a gun from some unknown orifice.

  I followed him, spooked and breathless.

  He flipped on the foyer light. “LAPD,” he yelled. No one yelled back.

  “What about a house alarm?” I rasped.

  He glanced toward the little box beside the door. Not a single light was blinking. I could only assume that meant his dad had neglected to set it.

  “Maybe he knew he was in danger and left in a hurry” I said.

  “Or maybe he’s got a hot little piece waiting for him,” Rivera said, but his expression was hard as he took a left into the living room.

  “Senator?” I called, and, glancing about, took a shaky detour into the great room. The Los Angeles Times lay open on the coffee table. One glance revealed it was Fridays edition. He had been there recently. I headed for the curving stairs. But the upper floor was much the same, deserted and immaculate. The master bedchamber showed signs of recent life, and that only by the disturbed bedclothes.

  If there were clues I didn’t find them. The air seemed breathless as I rushed downstairs. I nearly collided with Rivera at the bottom.

  “Christ, the dog takes orders better,” he said.

  I ignored him. “Is his car gone?”

  “One of them.”

  The house felt still and empty. I skirted him, heading for the kitchen.

  The counter was bare. Three half-melted ice cubes languished in the sink. “He hasn’t been gone more than a couple hours,” I said.

  “What are you now, supersleuth?”

  “Cocktail waitress,” I said, and nodded toward the sink. “It takes three ice cubes six hours to melt at room temperature.”

  He turned, looking at me as though I’d lost my last marble. “Are you shitting me?”

  I opened the dishwasher. “Yes.” There were three plates and five glasses. I had no idea what that meant. I moved on to the refrigerator. It was well stocked and neatly organized, hardly resembling a fridge at all.

  “Shit.” Frustration jerked in Riveras jaw.

  “But he was obviously here tonight. He was reading the paper.”

  “Jesus,” he said.

  “Watch your mouth. People have been killed for less.”

  He swore again, worse this time, then crossed to the phone and checked caller ID.

  I watched. “Anything?”

  “He got a call at twelve-fifteen a.m.”

  “From?”

  “Unavailable.”

  We stared at each other.

  “Probably a booty call,” he said, but his eyes looked as hard as cut amber.

  “Whose booty?”

  He shook his head and headed into the bathroom.

  “Where does he keep his schedule?” I asked.

  “You think we’re damn pen pals?”

  “I don’t even think you’re human,” I said.

  He snorted and strode down the hall. I followed him into a room on the right. A sleek state-of-the-art computer system purred at me from a broad walnut desk.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Nothing but the best.” I couldn’t tell what his tone implied, but it didn’t sound joyous. He sat down and touched a key. It came to life, flashing the presidential seal as wallpaper. I helped him find a calendar. Two notations had been made for Friday. One said 1:00—Aaron. The other said 4:00—Lee Ann.

  “You know either of them?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “According to your stellar sleuthing it doesn’t matter. He was home afterward, anyway.”

  “And alone,” I said.

  He glanced at me.

  “Only three ice cubes.”

  I was pretty sure he wanted to roll his eyes, but he was too busy rifling through the contents of the senators drawers.

  “Who does he talk to when things are going poorly?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “You have met this man before, right?” I said, and reached past him for the keyboard.

  But suddenly I stopped. A picture of Sa
lina and Rivera Junior was frozen on the screen. Beautiful, young, and exotically dark, they actually left me momentarily breathless. Seconds ticked away unnoticed.

  “Fuck it,” Rivera said, breaking the moment, but the picture had already changed to one of high, lonely plains.

  “She was amazing,” I said. My tone sounded rusty. Awed. And then the picture changed again.

  Riveras jaw looked set in stone. He dropped his gaze to search another drawer, but my wide-eyed expression must have stopped him. My mouth opened. I blinked.

  “What?” he said.

  I motioned toward the screen.

  “What!” he said again, but the photograph was already gone, replaced by an image of the senator holding a child and smiling.

  Entranced, I reached slowly out and touched the left arrow.

  The former picture flashed back up. Thea Altove was shown in profile next to her father. In the questionable light of Caring Hands, her hair looked a shade darker than its natural gold. Her expression, usually gleefully happy, was also a shade dimmer, and there was something in her eyes…

  I stared, blinked, then, breathless and reverent, touched the back arrow several times until the picture of Jack and Salina reappeared.

  “McMullen,” he said, low and irritable.

  I turned to him in stunned silence.

  “You don’t see it?”

  “See what?” Past irritable. Into threatening.

  I reached past him, touched the key again. “They’re the same eyes.”

  He stared, snorted. “What the hell are you talking about? They don’t look anything alike.”

  “Not Thea and Salina,” I breathed. “Thea and you.”

  He snapped his gaze back to the screen, stared for one atom-splitting second, then jerked to his feet. His chair spun wildly backward.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Don’t—” I began breathlessly, but he didn’t notice.

  “Jesus H. Christ!”

  I only nodded, still staring.

  “That fucking bastard!”

  “We don’t know for sure.”

  “That fucking, horny bastard!”

  I winced.

  “She’s my sister,” he hissed.

  32

  It’d hardly be worth having a brother at all, if you couldn’t smack him in the head every once in a while.

  —Michael McMullen,

  the eldest of the troglodytes