Unscrewed

by Lois Greiman

“What?”

  Her expression suggested she didn’t think I was the brightest star in the heavens. Pretty perceptive considering her alcohol level. “Salina,” she said, and nodded jerkily toward the casket. “She knew everyone. All the right people.” Her lips drooped a little at the corners, but she was still smiling, a strange mix of expressions and emotions. “All the wrong people.”

  “She had a lot of friends?”

  “Friends.” Her eyes looked runny. “Enemies.”

  I glanced about, feeling like a voyeur, but unable to stop the question. “Who were her enemies?”

  She stared at me a moment, then laughed out loud. The sound was low and throaty. Still, it echoed like a banshee’s howl in the cavernous room. Beside the register, a woman in a navy blue pantsuit turned to scowl at us, while near the east door, two gentlemen stopped their conversation to glance our way. I cleared my throat and stared at my shoes as if they were the most fascinating things in the universe.

  “You’re kidding, right?” she said.

  I glanced back at her. “I didn’t know her well.”

  “Then I guess you’re not on the list of people who hate…” She paused, scowled at the coffin. Her face contorted. “Hated her.”

  I was momentarily speechless. It doesn’t happen often. “Are…” I paused. Some people think I live dangerously, but I’m generally not foolish enough to speak poorly of the dead. At least not until the body’s cold. “Are you?” I said finally. “On the list?”

  Her lips twitched. For a moment she didn’t speak, then, “I started the damned thing.”

  I took an involuntary step back, but suddenly there was a hand wrapped around my biceps.

  I jerked, glanced up, froze.

  Lieutenant Rivera was standing not three inches away. His eyes were as dark as hell, his body stiff with what I could safely presume was anger. He only has a couple of emotions. Anger is the safest of the two.

  “Ms. McMullen.” His voice was low. A muscle danced unhappily in his jaw, and I realized a bit distractedly that this might be the first time I had ever seen him clean-shaven. His suit was black, well tailored, handsome. His shirt was gray, the exact same color as the slim tie that bisected the V made by his jacket. “What are you doing here?”

  A fair question. My mind tried to come up with an answer that wouldn’t get me killed. My mouth did the same. Neither was wildly successful.

  “Aren’t you even going to say hi?” Our stare-down was broken.

  He turned slowly away, hand still banded tightly around my arm. “Rachel,” he said, and I thought for a moment that his fingers twitched a bit. It was difficult to say for sure, though, since my arm was beginning to go numb.

  “I haven’t seen you in…” She narrowed her eyes. Her similarity to a hunting cat increased tenfold. “How long has it been, Jack?”

  The muscle jumped again in his fresh-shaven cheek. “I heard you were in D.C.”

  “I got back day before yesterday.”

  He nodded.

  “And you didn’t call.”

  “Listen,” I said, trying unobtrusively to tug out of his grip. “I can see you two have a lot to talk about, so I’ll just—”

  Rivera turned back toward me, eyes sparking fire, stopping me in my verbal tracks.

  “If you’ll excuse us, Rachel, I have something to discuss with Ms. McMullen.”

  “I bet you do,” she said, and I was turned away from the casket like a recalcitrant hound. I shuffled along beside him, not wanting to make a scene, but not crazy about our respective positions, either.

  “She seems nice,” I said.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” His words were a snarl through clenched teeth. I realized in that moment that his clean-shaven jaw was the only thing ready for prime time. The rest of him looked jungle crazy. Well, except for the clothes. The suit was kick-ass perfect.

  “I’m just paying my respects,” I said, and managed to pry my arm out of his grasp.

  “Respect?” He choked an almost silent laugh. “You’ve got no damned respect, McMullen.”

  Anger was working its way through the chinks in my fear. “I’ve got every right to be here, Rivera.”

  He gritted his teeth, glanced about the room, eyes hungry and dark before they grabbed me again. “Did you enjoy your little luncheon with the senator?”

  “That’s none of your…” I paused, catching my breath, feeling anger meld madly with the terror. “So you’ve stooped to spying on me, Rivera?”

  “Spying?” He laughed. The sound was ultra-low and made the hair on my arms stand at attention, but not a head turned toward us. “Why? Was it a secret meeting, Chrissy?” he asked, and moved a quarter inch closer.

  “Listen, Rivera, I don’t know what the hell you’re thinking, but I didn’t do anything wrong.” And yet I felt strangely guilty. “I didn’t contact your father behind your back or anything. He called me and—”

  He laughed again. I ground my teeth. “Is something funny?” I asked.

  “Of course he called you, McMullen.” He took a step closer, swallowing my personal space, breathing my personal air. Reaching out, he pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. Like we were lovers, like he had a right. Which he didn’t, and yet his touch was electrifying, a strange blend of danger and affection. “How could he resist?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My voice sounded funny, kind of breathy, like a porn star’s.

  He lifted his hand again. Maybe I should have backed away, but I was frozen in my tracks.

  “You’re female,” he said, and skimmed the back of his fingers down my cheek. His thigh felt ridiculously hard against mine.

  My stomach squeezed up tight into my chest, leaving plenty of room for my spleen to wrap itself in knots.

  “And you’re crazy about me,” he added.

  My mouth opened. I hope I was going to object, but he was standing awfully close, his lips inches from mine, his fingers warm against my skin.

  “Gerald,” someone said.

  He froze at the sound of his name. Our gazes locked for a fraction of a second before he drew a careful breath and turned slowly toward the speaker.

  The woman next to us was small and striking, with eyes as dark as my thoughts. Life sparked from her like fireworks. Her hair, an intense shade of black, was pulled demurely back at the nape of her neck. But it was her dress that caught my attention in a stranglehold. Canary yellow, it hugged her curves with the intimacy of a banana peel.

  “Mama,” Rivera said, deadpan.

  My mind popped. My eyes did the same, then skittered from her to him in a wild attempt to determine whether he was joking.

  “Gerald…” She pronounced the “G” with a rolling H sound. “You must introduce me to this friend of yours,” she said.

  I waited for him to say something rude. He didn’t. Which spurred the weird realization that she really was his mother. Holy shit.

  “Christina McMullen,” he said, “this is my mama, Rosita Rivera.”

  She watched me, perfect brows arched over tell-all Spanish eyes. “Christina. How did you meet my Gerald?”

  I opened my mouth.

  “Ms. McMullen’s a psychiatrist,” Rivera said.

  “Psychologist,” I corrected.

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. “She helped me with a couple cases a while back.”

  I would have liked to object just for the hell of it, but I could feel the tension radiating off him like a toxic cloud. Besides, his mother didn’t need me to tell her what to think. She was assessing body language like a speed-reader. Her carefully groomed brows rose a little. Her red lips curved up. This woman was nobody’s fool. “You were a friend of Salina’s?” she asked me.

  “No, ma’am,” I said, mind whirling like a top-of-the-line bidet. “I’m afraid I never got a chance to meet her.”

  Even in strappy, wedge heels, she had to tilt her head back to look into my eyes. “You are more lucky than some, then,” she s
aid.

  “Mama.” Rivera’s voice held dark warning, but it was careful, contained. “A little respect.”

  “Respect?” She snorted. “I do not respect that barato—”

  But in that moment we were interrupted.

  “Gerald,” said a deep voice. I lifted my focus, feeling dizzy.

  The newcomer was well into his seventies and stood just behind Rosita. At one time he had been tall. Now he was stooped and broadening across his middle, which was cinched by tooled leather and accented with a belt buckle the size of my head. It sparkled silver in the overhead lights. He removed his bone-colored cowboy hat with a hand that was narrow and blue-veined. The other held the ivory grip of a fine-grained cane.

  “Mr. Peachtree,” Rivera said grimly, but his mother was more effusive as she turned toward the newcomer.

  “Robert!”

  “Rosita,” he said. “I didn’t recognize you.” Taking her by the arm, he kissed her cheek. “Thought you were some teenage girl your boy here was wooin’. You age like a cactus flower, just keep getting prettier and prettier. But dang, it’s good to see you.” He had an accent strong enough to wrestle steers.

  She smiled. “This is Christina McMullen, a psychologist.” Her eyes were sparkling. “And Gerald’s special friend.”

  The muscle jumped in Rivera’s jaw again.

  “A psychologist, eh?” Peachtree gave me a quick once-over and a lopsided Texas grin. Age, I had to deduce, had not yet diluted his Lone Star personality.

  “She helps Gerald,” added Mrs. Rivera.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. If there’s one thing I didn’t need, it was to feel like Rivera’s damn lackey. “Actually, I have my own practice,” I said. I could feel the grumpy lieutenant’s impatience, prompting me to ramble on. Some people think I have an ornery streak. Some people are extremely astute. “Over in Eagle Rock.”

  Rivera’s scowl was burning a hole through my forehead.

  I smiled merrily. “Not so far from here. Forty-five-minute drive maybe. I’m the only therapist, but—”

  “I’m sure Mr. Peachtree has people to see,” rumbled Rivera, and took my arm again.

  “So you’re pretty and smart. You look like just the kind of filly that could lasso Miguel’s boy here, too,” Peachtree said. “You ever think of doing corporate work?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got me a little business. We’re thinking of hiring someone like you.”

  I was floored…and flattered. I’d never been offered a job that didn’t somehow involve cleaning up vomit.

  “I suspect this ain’t the place to discuss such things, but you think about it,” he said, and turned back toward Rivera’s mother. “So what about you, Rosita? You’ve been good, I hope.”

  “Sí. Yes. And you?” She leaned back, taking him in with her snapping eyes. “What are you doing in Los Angeles?”

  “Just here on business. Straightening out a few snarls.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “No, no.” He shook his head, negating her concern and glancing around the room. “Thought I might see Danny here, though.”

  “I believe he just now left.” She smiled. “It has been too long since I have seen you.”

  “Since Boston.”

  “Ohh.” She made a sound of exasperation. “The most tedious meetings I have ever yet attended.”

  “You want tequila that’ll peel the hair off yer head, you come to Dallas. You want somethin’ to put it back on, you point your bronc east, huh?” His grin was as wide as the prairie.

  She laughed. “I thought Dottie was no longer allowing you tequila.”

  “What she don’t know…” he said, and winked.

  “Is she here?”

  “Dottie? ’Course she is. You know I can’t go nowhere without my blushing bride. Come on. She’ll want to see you.” He jammed the hat on his balding pate and leaned in conspiratorially. “I tell you, it was hell tearing her away from the great-grandbabies. She’s knitted blankets from here to the moon. Baked enough cocoa cookies to feed the Dodgers. And the little buggers don’t even sit up yet. But with Danny out of the nest, she’s got to bake ’em for somebody else, I guess. ’Course, I’m the only one gettin’ rounder by the minute.”

  “So little Anna got married?”

  “No. No. Anna’s still in school. Might be until they put me in the ground, too. But Barbara come through. Gave us a pair of twins.”

  “How wonderful.”

  “Bald as cue balls and ugly as Beelzebub, but don’t go tellin’ Dottie I said so. She’d trade five of me for the two of ’em, but she’ll want to tell you herself.” He turned toward us, gave me a nod, then shook his head at Rivera, seeming unsure of the protocol appropriate for the death of an ex-fiancée/future stepmother. “It’s a shame. A damned shame. I only met Salina once, but she seemed like a real plum.”

  Rivera said nothing.

  We watched them walk away. The top of Rosita’s head barely reached the old man’s chin, despite his bend and her high heels.

  “What are you doing here?” Rivera’s tone was no more chatty than it had been before the interruption.

  I turned back toward him, cool as a cosmopolitan. “You didn’t tell me you were engaged to her,” I said.

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “Why were you talking to Rachel?”

  I gave him a smile. “You’ll have to be sure to give me a list of people to whom I’m disallowed to speak, Lieutenant.”

  “Swear to God, McMullen, if I find out you’ve been snooping around this case, I’ll personally—”

  He stopped and swore under his breath. I followed his line of vision. It took me a moment to recognize the man making his way toward us, but the worst memories are often the clearest. I wasn’t likely to forget Detective Graystone anytime soon. He was as solid and intimidating as he’d been when he’d interrogated me on the senator’s walkway.

  “Jack,” he said, eyes hard and gleaming. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Rivera said nothing, but I felt emotion shiver through him on the very air I breathed.

  “Thought you’d be too broke up about your girl’s death.” He paused. “Or was she your stepmama?” He shrugged his blocky shoulders. “Could be she was both, I suppose.”

  “Get the hell out of my face, Graystone.”

  “Or maybe you’re disobeying orders and investigating the case, huh? Could be you think the bastard that killed her is nearby. Right under my nose.” He was standing close, blond head tilted back, seeping accusations.

  “Don’t push your fucking—”

  “Ms. McMullen.” He turned toward me. “I’m sorry you were shortchanged on your date the other night. Heard you had reservations at Bill’s.” He nodded. “Good barbecue. Great beer. Funny thing, though, Jack here never made reservations.” He scowled, thoughtful. “Almost like he had other plans at the get-go.”

  Rivera stepped forward with a snarl. “You got something to say, Graystone, why not—”

  “What the hell’s going on here?”

  I swiveled my head to the right. Captain Kindred stood not two feet away. Tall, black, dressed in a charcoal suit and a maroon tie the width of his head, he looked as comfortable as a rhino in a flowerpot.

  “I asked a question,” he growled.

  “A young woman is dead,” Graystone said, voice casual, not turning from Rivera. “I thought it might be a good idea to find out how it happened.”

  “Stay the hell out of this,” Rivera snarled.

  Kindred swore under his breath.

  “That a threat, Jack?” Graystone asked.

  “You bet your ass it is.”

  “Know what, Lieutenant, I don’t give a goddamn if your daddy’s the fucking shah of Iran, I’m gonna prove—”

  “Shut the fuck up or I’ll take both your badges,” Kindred hissed.

  They fell sullenly silent, still glaring.

  “You think we need more press on this?” Kindred’s broad, bla
ck face was shiny with perspiration and emotion. “Is that what you think? That the LAPD is sitting so pretty with the damned media that we need some play?”

  Graystone smiled grimly. “I don’t care if the media—”

  “Well, you’d better goddamn care, Detective,” Kindred growled. “Or you’ll find your ass sitting in the property room from here to the second coming.” He gritted his teeth, sharpened his glare. “There were no signs of a struggle. No bruises. Until the tox reports come in, we’ve got nothing.” He pressed half an inch closer. “You hear me, Graystone? You’ve got nothing.”

  The world seemed hushed around us.

  Kindred eased his big hands open, shifted his wide stance. “Until you do, you keep your mouth shut. You understand me, Detective?”

  “Yes, sir.” The words were clipped, contemptuous.

  “Then get the hell out of here.”

  For a moment I thought Graystone would refuse, but finally he turned toward me. “A pleasure to see you again, Ms. McMullen,” he said, and left, sauntering through the crowd toward the door.

  “You got fifteen minutes,” snarled Kindred.

  I turned back, breath held.

  Rivera’s eyes were flat and hard.

  “Fifteen minutes,” repeated the captain. “After that, I throw your ass in jail just for the hell of it.”

  Rivera nodded.

  Kindred swore under his breath and made his way toward a boxy woman in an expensive silk suit.

  “I want you to leave.”

  It took me a moment to realize Rivera was talking to me again.

  “What?” When I turned back toward him it seemed as if we’d never been interrupted. Near the center of the room, a bevy of budding executives huddled together—a meeting of the young and the beautiful.

  “You’re out of your league, McMullen,” he said.

  I caught my breath. “I didn’t know I had a league.”

  “You think I’m joking.”

  “I don’t even think you know how, Rivera.” I watched the mob of young Republicans. Not a hair out of place. Not a pimple to be seen. “What’s with the beautiful bunch?”

  The tic jumped in his jaw. I wondered vaguely if it was always there or if I just brought it out to play.

  He glanced toward the clique. Even now the senator was making his way across the room toward them. The tic bulged in Rivera’s cheek, but whether the anger was aimed at his father or the meeting of the young and lovely, I couldn’t be sure.