by Lois Greiman
Light splashed all around me. Reality seeped in a careful inch. We were in my bedroom. But at least Laney was here, too.
She squeezed my fingers in hers. Her eyes, as green as the hills of the old country, looked naked and troubled. Harlequin’s looked droopy and sad. Maybe he’s not great at waking up, either. Sometimes I think we have a disturbing number of characteristics in common. “Start at the beginning,” she said.
I drew a deep breath, thought back, let my tension ease a notch, and did just that. I remembered the hazy shock that had enveloped me, Graystone’s tight-lipped questions, my own monosyllabic answers, Officer Bjorklund’s silent presence as he drove me home. Somehow my little Saturn had followed us. Magic maybe. Maybe not.
Two hours and a pot of coffee later, I felt scrubbed clean of emotion. Drained, beaten, sandblasted. Laney and I were sitting in my living room. Solberg had left some time before. Harlequin had happily taken his place, sprawling across the end of the couch with his head on Laney’s lap and his tail curving toward the floor. Light seeped cautiously between the slats of my blinds, illuminating every sparkling dust mote in its path.
Elaine and I stared at each other.
“So what now?”
I wasn’t sure for a moment if it was her question or mine. But I didn’t think I had spoken, so I shrugged a response.
“You know…” I was sitting in my La-Z-Boy, balancing a mug atop my knees and wrapping my arms around my shins. The coffee had long since gone cold. “I think my taste in men is actually getting worse.”
She fondled Harlequin’s ears. He grinned drunkenly. Elaine always affects guys that way. “I think you’ve forgotten Ace.”
I glanced at her, unsure, but then the memory struck with sudden rudeness. Ace had been the man’s actual, given name. He had used my credit card to hire prostitutes for my surprise twenty-second birthday party. Three prostitutes.
“He only paid them,” I mused. “He didn’t murder them.”
“Mac—”
“Listen,” I said. Snapping the mug from my knees, I jerked to my feet. “I don’t think I ask too much. All I want is a normal guy. One who doesn’t murder anyone. Who doesn’t hire call girls for my entertainment. Who doesn’t steal my underwear. Who doesn’t—”
“Who stole your underwear?”
“Warren,” I said, facing her. “You remember Warren.”
She scrunched her face. She was only moderately more adorable than usual when she did so. If I had a grain of pride I’m pretty sure I would hate her for that and a thousand other irresistible attributes. “I don’t recall a Warren.”
“Please tell me that even in my list of loser beaus an underwear-stealing hypochondriac is unforgettable.”
There must have been something pathetic in my expression, because she said, in something of a monotone, “Oh, yes. Warren.”
I stared at her. “You are the worst liar I’ve ever known.”
“No, really, I re—Am not,” she said, changing course and looking offended.
I closed my eyes and sank down beside her, scrunched between her and the armrest. “What the hell’s wrong with me, Laney?”
“Nothing.” Her answer was quick and solid.
“Worst liar ever,” I said, and dropped my head back against the cushion. It smelled a little like dog. I hate dogs. I reached out and stroked Harlequin’s muzzle. He snored happily.
“Really, Mac,” Laney said, “there is nothing wrong with you, except…”
I lifted my head and blinked at her. We’ve been best friends since fifth grade, bonded by serious adolescent ugliness and boys who stink. And in all that time I couldn’t remember a single instance when’d she found fault with me.
Well, maybe once. No, twice. No…Well, she found a lot fewer faults than most people.
“What?” I said.
She glanced toward the window. Dawn was becoming more aggressive.
“What?” I repeated.
She shifted her gaze back to mine. “I think you’re intentionally looking for flaws.”
I stared at her.
“In the men you date,” she explained.
I kept staring. “Laney,” I said. “When a guy commits murder, it’s called a felony, not fault-finding.”
“You don’t know he killed her.”
Memories were rushing in again, revving up my heart rate. “I don’t know he didn’t kill her, either.”
“You could say that about—”
“Who?” I challenged. “Who? Solberg?”
She gave me a smirk.
“How many people has your little cabbage possibly killed, Laney?”
“That’s not the point.”
“That’s exactly the point. Solberg is normal compared to the guys I date. Solberg! That hurts me,” I said, clutching my mug to my chest. It said “I Hate Mondays” in red letters, with “Monday” crossed off and every other day of the week scratched in. It had been a gift from a guy I’d dated five years before. I’d gotten rid of him but kept the cup. One of my better deals. “It hurts me right here to say it,” I told her.
She grinned. “Careful, Mac, your jealousy’s showing.”
“Oh!” I flopped back onto the couch, free hand pressed to my chest. “Et tu, Brutus?”
“What are you going to do now?”
“‘Do’?” I rolled my head toward her. “What can I do? I’m going to cross the dark lieutenant off my list of possibilities and move on.”
“You have a list?”
“I didn’t say it was long.”
“How many?”
“Don’t be cruel.”
“Maybe he’s innocent.”
“Of what? Murder or lying?”
She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Okay, he maybe lied about his father calling.”
“Either that or he thinks his father’s a virgin.”
She ignored me. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t give him another chance.”
“You’re sticking up for him?”
“I just think you’re being hasty.”
“You’re sticking up for Rivera. You remember that he accused me of murder, don’t you?”
“That was…unfortunate.”
“He stole my blouse so he could test a cherry stain. A cherry stain, Laney.”
“I’m not saying he’s well adjusted. But then…he’s a cop. Maybe you can’t expect—”
“Threatened me.”
“They call you a ballbuster,” she blurted.
I stopped, mouth agape. “What?”
She cleared her throat and lowered her brows. They formed perfect twin arcs, like canopies, over her Emerald Isle eyes. “Jeen thinks men are afraid of you.”
I shook my head at her. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“You put them on the defensive.”
“So you’re saying Rivera lied to me about his dad calling, drove over to his father’s house, and killed Martinez because he was afraid of me?”
“I’m saying…” She pushed Harlequin’s head gently from her lap and rose to her feet with the grace of a dancer—which she is. Men make pilgrimages from as far away as Poughkeepsie to see her in tights. “You’re going to get up.” Reaching for my hand, she pulled me to my feet. “Get dressed.” She turned me around like a windup toy, then pushed me toward my bedroom. “And go talk to him.”
I stopped dead in my tracks and pivoted slowly back around. “What?”
“You’ve got to give him a chance. Ask him what happened. Get his side of the story.”
“I do not.”
She stared at me, her eyes wide and solemn, like the preacher’s daughter she would always be. “Someone Rivera once cared about is dead, Mac. He’s hurting, and whether he had anything to do with her death or not, he’s in trouble. The Chrissy McMullen that I know…that I love…is going to do something about that.”
She could instill guilt in a rock. But I’m harder than a rock. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
“I’ll drive you to the police station,” she said.
5
There is not a single gene pool entirely free of toxic waste.
—Dr. Candon, psychiatrist, professor, and brother of a cross-dressing kleptomaniac
I’D LIKE TO speak to Lieutenant Rivera,” I said.
The man behind the counter had teeth the size of small rodents and a comb-over. The thing some men tend to forget is that hair is required in order to achieve a successful comb-over. But regardless of the state of this guy’s coiffure, his fingers were quick on the keyboard in front of him.
“I’m sorry,” he said, not glancing up. “Lieutenant Rivera isn’t on duty today.”
“Not on duty,” I said, then paused, scowled, and held on to my patience. “I was told he would be held here overnight.”
Confusion zipped across his face, but he kept his gaze on the computer screen and tapped a few keys. I watched his eyes widen. Apparently, it was early in his shift and he hadn’t yet gleaned the precinct gossip. “Sorry,” he said finally, “but the lieutenant is not allowed visitors at this time.”
“I’m not a visitor. I’m a…” He was already shaking his head. “Psychologist.”
“Sorry. I can’t—”
“Excuse me.” Laney squeezed in beside me at the counter. My arm pressed against hers, which pressed against her left boob, which made Comb-over Guy’s eyes water.
Twenty seconds later we were ushered into the guts of the precinct while Comb-over put a call in to the powers that be. I sat hunched in a plastic chair like a palsy victim. My eyeballs felt like they’d been scrubbed with steel wool and my hair was greasy. I was wearing faded running pants and a white zip-up hoody over the fuck-me blouse I’d donned the night before. I was picking at a broken thumbnail when Laney elbowed me. I glanced toward her, but we never made eye contact because her gaze was welded elsewhere. I followed her line of attention toward a man conversing with a female clerk. His hair was silver, expensively shorn, and swept back from a regal, high-boned face. His skin was the color of a high-calorie cappuccino and spoke of blood that was ancient long before my own antecedents began filching sheep. His nose had a noble bow to it, his stance was relaxed yet perfectly straight, and he wore an Armani suit like most men do weekends. Casually, as if he had no one to impress. His dove gray shirt was accented by a burgundy tie, and not a wrinkle showed in the crisp fabric that stretched across his chest and beneath the broad shoulders of his dark, double-breasted suit coat.
A glass office opened a few yards to his right, and a towering man stepped out. It took my stuttering mind a minute to recognize him. Captain Kindred, still weary-eyed and guarded.
“Leighton,” said Armani, and leaving the flushing clerk to stare after him in shiny-eyed admiration, he stepped forward to take the captain’s hand in both of his own. “How’s Lilah?”
“She’s fine.” Kindred nodded once, tension tight across his massive shoulders as he crunched his hands to fists and zipped my memory back to the roiling emotions I’d felt from his men the previous night. Admiration, nervousness, fear. Captain Kindred was not a man to be trifled with.
“And the kids?” Armani continued. “Maria must be, what? Seventeen now?”
“This May.”
“Still playing the violin like a gifted angel? Some hot-blooded vaquero hasn’t swept her into matrimony, has he?”
“God forbid!” The captain relaxed a little, almost smiled. “She’s been accepted to Juilliard.”
“Ahh…” Armani shook his head, eyes growing misty, as though the revered daughter were his own. “That’s grand. Just grand. You must be very proud.”
“Yes.” Kindred nodded, shuffled oversized feet, fisted oversized hands. “Thank you for your help in that regard.”
“I was happy to do it,” said Armani, and everything about him suggested it was true. “It was nothing. Nothing at all. It was Maria who plied the horsehair. And your Lilah who carried out the threats. Si?” He nodded. “It is not a simple task to raise a successful child in these days. This I know.” A trifle of sadness shaded his stately features, firing his rich liqueur eyes, forcing his back a little straighter.
“Listen, Miguel,” said the captain. “I’m sorry about this damned circus. I wouldn’t have—”
“I know.” He interrupted easily, sweeping away the emotion with an elegant hand and two simple words. “I am certain you’re doing everything in your power to set things right.”
The captain’s gaze snapped to me, then away. “Come into my office. We’ll—”
“No.” Armani shook his head. “No. I’ve nothing to hide, Leighton, and the same, I am certain, can be said of my son.”
“I wouldn’t have locked him up, but he was scaring the shit out of my…” Kindred paused, deepened his scowl so his eyes were almost lost beneath the cliffs of his brows. “If the press catches a whiff of a cover-up, the mayor will fry my ass.”
“But he is well. He is safe?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“What happened?”
The big shoulders tensed again. “I’m sorry, Senator. I can’t tell you any more than I did on the phone.”
Senator! Reality zapped me like a Taser. Mr. Armani was Rivera’s father. Elaine and I turned toward each other like ventriloquist dummies. Seconds passed in wordless silence as my mind seized every scattered piece of rumor I’d ever heard about the former politician.
“…maybe tell you more than I can.”
I glanced to my right. Both men were staring at me. I squelched a weak-kneed desire to scrunch back in my chair like a cornered rat. Captain Kindred had turned toward his office. Miguel Rivera was already making his way across the floor toward me, his handsome features solemn, his eyes like eagle lasers.
That’s right…eagle lasers.
“Ms. McMullen.” He had a rich, graceful accent that made plain English sound pale and wobbly by comparison.
“Yes.” My voice squeaked like a poor soprano’s. “Yes.” I stood up. The chair teetered against the backs of my knees.
He reached for my hand. Our fingers met. His were slightly calloused, long, perfectly groomed. I wished to hell I’d made time for a manicure…and taken a shower, washed my hair, worn matching shoes.
“I am told you are my son’s psychologist.”
I opened my mouth, blinked, adjusted my thinking. “No. I’m his…” What the hell was I? “I’m not his therapist.”
“No?”
“I’m just a…just a friend,” I stammered.
The glimmer of a smile shone in his eyes. He leaned in a bit and tightened his grip slightly. “Ahh, not just a friend, I think. A Rivera could not be so foolish as that.”
“I…” I could actually feel myself blush. Holy crap. Paint me with acne, squeeze me into a tuba, and I was back in high school.
Laney shifted beside me, exuding a double dose of moral support and blatant curiosity.
“And this is?” The senator glanced to my left.
“Elaine Butterfield,” she said. Her voice didn’t warble one iota. But why would it? She was wearing real clothes. And she was Elaine Butterfield.
“It is very good to meet you,” he said. Releasing my hand, he reached for hers, but neither his fingers nor his gaze lingered. Didn’t rest on her cleavage. Didn’t slip to her legs. Like a miracle, he turned back to me.
“So you were there, at my house, this past night?” he asked.
The question seemed to squeeze the breath from my lungs.
“Yes, sir. I was,” I said. “For a short while.”
“And my son, he was there also.”
I remembered the snarling rage on Rivera’s face as they pinned him to the floor. “Yes.”
He drew a deep breath, fortifying himself. “And my Salina…” He paused, fought for strength. “She was already dead?”
A crappy day had just turned worse. “I
believe so. I’m sorry.”
He nodded, lifted his chin a small degree. “So tell me, Ms. McMullen, in your educated opinion, what do you believe happened last night?”
“You were there. You tell me.”
The words were a growl from my left. The three of us turned in stunned unison. Lieutenant Jack Rivera stood not five feet away, hair rumpled, eyes sparking.
“Gerald.” The senator straightened. His lips pursed. “They have released you as promised. I am glad.”
“So what went wrong?” Rivera took a step closer. His face was unshaven, his shirt untucked. “She threaten to leave you again?”
I saw tension in the senator’s body language for the first time. “I think it would be unwise for you to make a spectacle at your place of employment, Gerald.”
“Unwise?” The word was a snarl. Around us, every living soul stopped, breath held, listening in gleeful horror. “You sorry son of a bitch. What’d you do?”
“I thought perhaps you had learned to control your temper,” said the elder Rivera. “But I see now that you have not. Not last night, and not this morning.”
“Control?” Reaching past me, Rivera snatched up a chair and slammed it against the wall. Half the room jumped. Captain Kindred’s door sprang open.
“Lieutenant!” His voice cracked like a whip.
A muscle jumped in Rivera’s stubbled jaw. His gaze skipped to me, rested a heartbeat, then turned toward the captain.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Kindred’s voice was a low rumble, barely audible in the sweating silence of the room as he strode toward us.
Rivera shifted his gaze back to his father. His fists tightened on the chair, veins bulging beneath the folded cuffs of his sleeves.
“You wanna lose your badge? That what you want?” Kindred asked. His voice was a raspy threat.
The muscle jumped in Rivera’s jaw again.
“Look at me,” the captain snarled, thumping a hand against Rivera’s chest. “’Cuz I’m the man that can make it happen.”
Rivera gritted his teeth, eyes blazing. Their gazes clashed. Dark on dark, sparking with rage and frustration and regret.
“We been through some shit together, Lieutenant,” Kindred said, stepping up close, blocking the senator from Rivera’s sight. “But I’ll do what needs doing. You can damn sure bank on that.”