Unscrewed

by Lois Greiman

  “Were you there alone?”

  “Some of the time.” I already found that I wanted to expound, but I kept my answers concise. I’ve seen Law & Order.

  “You had company?”

  “Lieutenant Rivera visited.”

  “For how long?”

  “A short while.”

  “What were your plans?”

  I raised a brow. As long as playing nice was advantageous, I was all for it. But I had to stop short of the full truth here. Because the plans I’d had for the dark lieutenant on that particular night may not have put me in a very positive, or moralistic, light.

  “My plans?” I repeated.

  “For the evening,” he said.

  “We had hoped to dine out.”

  “Anywhere specific?”

  “A barbecue establishment in Rosemead,” I said.

  “What was the name of the place?”

  I didn’t want to say Big Bill’s Big BBQ for fear it might make me sound less than classy, but going anywhere else for ribs would simply make me look naïve, so I admitted the truth.

  Bjorklund scribbled madly. “Did you have reservations?”

  “I believe we did.”

  They glanced at each other. It seemed like simple enough information, which made me wonder why they didn’t already know it. Certainly Rivera would have told them this much. “Did you call in the reservation, Ms. McMullen, or did the lieutenant?”

  “Lieutenant Rivera said he would take care of those details.”

  “But you never made it to…” Bjorklund glanced at his notes. “Big Bill’s Big BBQ?”

  I played along, still wondering. “Lieutenant Rivera received a phone call before we left my house.” But not before I’d found myself plastered up against the bathroom wall like human linguini.

  “Do you know who called him, Ms. McMullen?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  Seemed pretty obvious. “I’m afraid he didn’t.”

  “But you must have had an idea.”

  I tilted my chin down, gave them a long-suffering glance through my lashes, and crossed my right leg carefully over my left. Laney had done a good job revving up their guy hormones. I could tell because they watched my movement like tick hounds tracking a beef bone. “All he said was that there was trouble with his father. I didn’t know at the time that the senator was on his way to Seattle.”

  “Boston,” Bjorklund corrected distractedly.

  White looked mildly peeved, like he was just coming out of a trance. I’d seen it happen a thousand times before. In high school we’d called it “Laney Land.”

  “Yes, of course,” I demurred, and hid my wily smile as I packed away the info.

  “How long have you known Lieutenant Rivera, Ms. McMullen?”

  “Since August twenty-fourth,” I said.

  They scowled in unison. I could feel their mental wheels spinning. I refused to help them turn.

  “Was that your first date?”

  “No.” I knitted my fingers in my lap and watched them. Cool as pastrami, hardly remembering the dead body that had lain between us the first time I’d met Rivera.

  “But you are dating him.”

  “I wouldn’t refer to it in those terms.”

  “How would you refer to it?”

  Stupid. “We’re…acquaintances.”

  “Did you know he was once engaged to Ms. Martinez?”

  I kept my mouth firmly closed, so the scream I heard must have come from inside my head.

  The bastard had been engaged to her? Engaged to his father’s fiancée, and he’d never said a word about it?

  “No, I wasn’t aware of that,” I said.

  White checked his notes. “Almost thirteen years ago.”

  “It’s good of you to tell me,” I said, and wondered rather wildly why he had. “But Lieutenant Rivera and I only know each other casually.”

  White glanced toward my door. Bjorklund nodded. “At approximately what time did he leave your house on Saturday night?”

  “Eight-nineteen.”

  “Exactly?”

  “I think my kitchen clock is two minutes fast.”

  “You’re very precise, Ms. McMullen.”

  “One has to be in my line of work.” What a bunch of monkey doo-doo. I was a psychologist. It made cocktail waitressing look like a cross between brain surgery and deep-sea diving.

  Officer White looked as if he was about to ask another question, but at that moment Elaine popped her head into my office and the interview came to a jolting halt. She was wearing the dead thing again, which meant that she’d bared her midriff. But she’d added a longbow to her ensemble. The string sliced across the melon of her left breast and underscored her right.

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  No comment. Bjorklund looked like he’d just been struck by writer’s block in the middle of his sonnet. White’s eyes were the size of ripe tomatoes and his mouth was agape.

  “Your mother eats raw sewage,” I intoned. Neither of them even glanced my way.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Ms. McMullen,” Laney said, ignoring my statement. “But it’s three-ten, and traffic is going to be considerable.”

  “Yes, of course. My root canal.”

  “Dental appointment,” she corrected.

  “Right,” I said, but it wouldn’t have made a difference if I’d told them I was going for bullfighting lessons which I took every Monday and Wednesday without fail from an aging matador in Madrid. “And you obviously have to morph into a warrior princess.”

  “Amazon queen,” she said.

  “Holy God,” someone mumbled. I think it was Bjorklund. His lips had gone white.

  “Well…” I stood up. “I’m sorry to rush off, Officers, but my bicuspid has been killing me.”

  “Uh-huh. You’re an actress?” They never turned toward me. I was vacillating between reminding them to breathe and kicking them in the gonads, which might, actually, have had the same effect.

  “Aspiring,” she said, and smiled.

  I thought White was going to wet his pants.

  “You going to an audition now?” Bjorklund asked.

  “I got a callback.”

  “Which studio?”

  “NBC.”

  “The one-oh-one’s going to be a parking lot.”

  “And I can’t be late.” She gave them another smile. Bjorklund looked like he couldn’t take much more. “This is my first callback in months.”

  “What’s the title?”

  “Amazon Queen.”

  “You playing the lead?”

  She crossed her fingers. I’m not sure why even that was sexy. “Hoping.”

  “Would you…” White cleared his throat. “Would you be wearing that?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she admitted. “The producer said something about a thong.”

  Bjorklund grabbed the couch’s armrest for support. I stared at Laney and made a shoveling motion with both hands. It was getting deep enough to swim. But her eyes were laughing like a mad monkey’s.

  “Tell you what,” White said. I think he might have been holding his breath. “We’re going back that way. We could give you a ride. Don’t you think, Ted?”

  “Ride.” Poor Officer Bjorklund was down to monosyllables. I wasn’t impressed. I’d once seen Laney strike a district attorney absolutely mute, and she’d been fully dressed at the time. What if she’d lost a shoe or something?

  “Thank you,” Laney said, “but if I hurry I can—”

  “We don’t want to hear you’ve been speeding,” White said.

  “Speeding,” Bjorklund echoed.

  “Might have to get out the handcuffs.”

  “Handcuffs.” Bjorklund was a goner. Holy crap. He looked like he was going to keel over on my carpet. I gave Laney the throat-cutting sign, and she laughed out loud.

  “Thanks again,” she said, “but I’ll be fine.”

  They wouldn’t leav
e. So I stood up, trying to shoo them along like lost lambs. They rose shakily to their feet.

  “Well, if you have any more questions for me, be sure to shove them up your nose,” I said.

  “It wouldn’t be any trouble,” White was saying as they toddled into the hallway after Elaine. She grabbed her purse from the desk, gave me a smile, and opened the door. They trundled after her, still talking.

  I considered locking up and getting into my car to continue the ruse, but it hardly seemed worth the effort, since they were already leaving the parking lot, sirens screaming, as Laney pulled sedately into the siphoning traffic behind them.

  12

  There is no feature so attractive as a well-exercised intellect.

  —Professor Wight, six months before proposing to a cheerleader with a double-digit IQ

  BIG BILL’S.”

  “Yes.” I had agonized over how to find out whether or not Rivera had ever made dinner reservations. After thirty-five minutes it had occurred to me that I could simply ask. “Can you tell me whether Jack Rivera reserved a table for March third?”

  “The third?”

  “Yes.”

  “Last Saturday?”

  I was too nervous to answer.

  `”No, ma’am,” she said finally. “I have no one by that name.”

  “How about Gerald Rivera?”

  She checked and sounded a little peeved when she finally told me, “No.”

  I chanced her wrath and tried every other name I could think of. Still nothing.

  By eleven o’clock I felt sick to my stomach, raw and fidgety and desperate to know the truth. Bolstered by the success of my last call, I picked up the receiver again.

  “Infinity Air.” The voice on the other end of the line was male, probably middle-aged, and bored.

  “Good day,” I said. Back in ’88 I had taken two semesters of French. When I graduated I could say “Where’s the bathroom?” and “Yes, the woman is wearing a pink hat.” Now I can only say “Yes.” But I had developed a kick-ass accent, which I was currently implementing. “My name is Antoinette Desbonette.” The original Antoinette had been a countess in one of those paranormal romance novels. She’d been elegant and witty. Of course, her lover tended to morph into a wolf at unexpected junctions. But he’d been sexy as hell. Wish I could find me a nice werewolf. “May I speak to the person in charge?”

  There was a slight pause, then, “One moment, please.” Elevator music played in the background. I waited. It wasn’t as if I was getting involved in Rivera’s problems. But I couldn’t help being curious. Why the hell had his father asked me to lunch? I had been about as informative as a slug, and it was fairly obvious he had un-slug-related means of gathering information.

  So why had he spent a small fortune to inform me his son was innocent? Yes, Rivera Junior was an unmitigated pain in the ass, but that didn’t mean the senator should automatically assume I would think he was guilty.

  “Can I help you?”

  I found my sexy center, introduced myself again, and launched into my spiel. “Yes. I most fervently hope so. I am calling from the Boston Convention Center. We are hosting a seminar at which Senator Miguel Rivera is scheduled to speak. We sent a car for him, but he has failed to appear. Can you tell me if, perhaps, he missed his flight?”

  There was a pause, then, “I’m sorry. I’m afraid we’re not allowed to give out that information.”

  Damn it! “Non?”

  “No. Company policy.”

  “But I cannot reach him by telephone. And we are quite concerned. Perhaps this once you could make an exception?” I put a little purr at the end of the sentence, but I might as well have saved my feline imitation.

  “Like I said, I’m sorry. We can only give out that information to authorized individuals.”

  “Such as?” I put my utmost into sounding blonde.

  “Police officers and the like.”

  An idea clicked into my head. I forced a little laugh. “So if I had introduced myself as Detective Desbonette, I would now have the information I so eagerly seek?”

  He was neither amused nor charmed. “That and a badge number.”

  “Ahh, well…” My mind was racing. “I shall speak to the authorities, then. Perhaps they will call you in my stead.”

  A moment later I plopped the receiver back and cursed a blue streak.

  Where was I going to get a badge number? I mean, sure, I could call Infinity back and give them a phony name and a bunch of digits, but I didn’t even know how many digits they needed. I could imagine the conversation. “Yes, this is Officer Petty, badge number…ahhh, four?”

  I glared at the phone, tapped irritably on my kitchen counter, and paced five times across my living room, mind boiling.

  Twenty minutes later I was whipping west on the 210 at eighty-five miles per hour. An old lady in a silver Lincoln passed me like I was standing still. I refrained from flipping her off and leaned on the accelerator.

  By the time a trooper stopped me, my little Saturn was rattling like a can of loose pebbles. I crunched onto the shoulder, heart pounding, gearing up for my performance.

  The officer who sauntered toward me was tall and lean. He wore the regulation uniform and reflector sunglasses with a macho arrogance that made my feminist hackles rise. This might not be as difficult as I had anticipated.

  I said a prayer for fools and psychotics and powered down my window.

  “Damn it!” I said. “What the hell’s wrong with you cops? Can’t you see I’m in a hurry?”

  For one bladder-quivering moment I thought I had overplayed my hand. I imagined him reaching through the window and fishing me from behind the steering wheel by the nostrils. But apparently that’s a no-no—even in L.A.

  Fifteen minutes later, after a performance that would have earned me an Oscar on the big screen, I had Officer Caron’s full name and badge number. I also had a two-hundred-dollar ticket and an ulcer. But it was worth it.

  I repeated that seventeen times as I crept shakily into the parking lot of the nearest Marriott. My legs felt a little bit gelatinous when I trekked into the lobby. It was nearly empty. A mulatto supermodel with a five-million-dollar smile manned a desk the length of my living room. But I was still too shaken to feel inferior. I asked for a pay phone and was directed to an area near the Nevada Ballroom.

  Once there, I picked up the receiver, deposited a handful of quarters, and punched in the numbers I’d scribbled on a discarded envelope. By the time I was connected to the proper person at Infinity Airlines, I felt like I was going to pass out from sheer nerves. What if they knew Officer Caron personally? What if they had a photo of him? What if they realized he was a baritone instead of a quivery-voiced alto?

  As it turned out, they neither knew him nor, apparently, cared to know him. A badge number was enough. Their asses were covered.

  I remained lucid long enough to get my information.

  The senator had indeed been on flight 237 from L.A. to Boston on the evening Salina Martinez was murdered. First class. Seat 1A.

  13

  Old age sucks, but the alternative doesn’t look that great, either.

  —Ella McMullen, Christina’s paternal grandmother and the only living creature Chrissy’s mother has ever feared

  I SPENT THE REST of the afternoon trying to talk myself out of being stupid. No luck. No surprise.

  Salina’s memorial service was held at Ventura Mortuary at seven o’clock in the evening. I paced around my office like a gerbil in a maze while reviewing the myriad reasons it would be idiotic for me to attend.

  There were eighteen of them. The first and most poignant was that Rivera might decide to kill me. The last and most practical was that my favorite panty hose had a run in them.

  At 7:27 I parked in the lot behind the funeral home and walked the half block to the front door. I had dressed conservatively in black—black skirt and black blouse. Even my hose were black, partly because it was a funeral, but mostly in concession to
the demise of my nude pair. I stopped short of wearing a black hat. Some people look classy in hats. I look like a bobble head.

  The music was the first thing to strike my senses. Muted and low, it had a vampirish tone to it and immediately lifted the hair at the back of my neck. Some distance from the front door, a young couple stood apart from the muffled crowd, signing the leather-bound register. When they headed for the exit, blond heads tilted in quiet conversation, they looked like nothing so much as Ken and Barbie come to life, both tall, slim, and so beautiful it made my self-confidence sting.

  The polished teak coffin stood near the south wall, surrounded by a forest of neon-bright flowers and polished greenery. I approached with some misgivings. After all, I wasn’t really Salina’s friend. Hell, I wasn’t even an acquaintance. But morbid interest drew me like a red ant to a picnic. Truth is, I’m not all that comfortable with the living. The dead make my throat close up.

  Once there, however, I couldn’t seem to look away. Salina Martinez was stunning even in death. Her hair shone sapphire black in the fluorescent lights and her face, high-boned and tight-skinned, looked serene and youthful.

  “Christ, she’s even gorgeous postmortem.”

  I turned slowly, hoping to hell I hadn’t said the words out loud. The woman next to me didn’t glance up. “Never had a bad hair day in her entire goddamn life,” she added.

  “I…” I glanced around, wondering rather numbly if she might be talking to someone else. No one was within hearing. It occurred to me that that might be a good thing. “I beg your pardon?” I said.

  She gave me an assessing glance and thrust out her hand. “Rachel Banks.” Several years my junior, she was blond, lean as a boxer, and pretty in a hungry tigress sort of way.

  “Christina McMullen.” Our hands met. Her fingers felt strong and sharp-boned. I could smell liquor on her breath. Bourbon. Noah’s Mill maybe.

  “You work for the senator?” she asked.

  “No. I’m just…a…a friend.”

  She gave me a glance from beneath her lashes. Perhaps it was supposed to be knowing. It looked a little like she was going to nod into oblivion at any given second. Alcohol was not good to her. “She had a shitload of them.”