Unscrewed

by Lois Greiman

  I straightened in my chair and crossed one leg over the other. I was wearing Givenchy panty hose. If I don’t splurge on ice cream I can afford them and still fit into something smaller than size jumbo. “Do you want to be a sex addict, Mr. Lincoln?” I asked.

  My tone was as soothing as hell, but in actuality, I was still reeling from Saturday night. When I’d gone to meet Rachel, I’d thought she wanted to vent her spleen. Turns out, she’d wanted to confess. Not to murder, unfortunately, but to sabotaging Rivera’s engagement to her best friend. Seems he’d dropped Rachel for Salina. So she’d started the rumor that Salina was sleeping with Rivera’s father, watched their relationship crumble, then cleverly managed to dam up her guilt for more than a decade. But guilt has a way of seeping through the tiniest cracks.

  I should have that little piece of wisdom framed and hung above my desk.

  “No.” Mr. Lincoln jerked to his feet. I jerked, too. I’m not a jumpy person by nature, but the last six months hadn’t exactly been smooth sailing. Lately, when someone stands up, I find a dead body. “No,” he said. “I don’t want to be a sex addict. I want to marry Tracy.”

  I nodded and tried to concentrate, but thoughts of Rivera and Salina kept disturbing my peace. How had he really felt about her? Last time I’d seen him, he’d looked haunted and haggard. Did that mean he still loved her? And what about Rachel? She’d implied that her relationship with him had been purely physical, but normal people don’t try to ruin someone’s life because of a casual affair. Of course, I’ve never met anyone normal.

  “This your husband?” Bruce Lincoln had picked up the photograph on my desk. The man in the portrait was in his forties, tan, fit, and almost as handsome as my client. I had named him Ryan.

  “No, it’s not,” I said, and forced myself to focus. “What is your definition of an addict, Mr. Lincoln?”

  He shrugged, frowned, set the photo back. If I didn’t love Ryan with my whole heart, I’d get rid of that thing. “This a quiz?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled. My salivary glands kicked up. Sorry, Ryan.

  “An addiction,” he said, “is a compulsive psychological need for something that is habit-forming.”

  “Do you need to have sex with the checkout girl at Starbucks?” We’d been discussing her for three weeks now. Apparently, she had “eyes like diamonds.” Please!

  “That depends where I am in the sequence of events,” he said, and sat back down, crossing his right ankle over his left knee.

  The movement reminded me of Rivera. And maybe there were other similarities. Maybe Rivera had the same problem Bruce Lincoln did. Maybe they were both sex addicts. It certainly sounded as if the lieutenant had had his fair share. More, if what Rachel implied was true.

  I’m not proud of the fact, but I had called Solberg after I’d gotten home from the Quarry. It had been two o’clock in the morning. Blessedly, he had been alone—groggy, but alone. I told him I needed to see the pics the cops had taken of the senator’s house.

  He’d spouted some gibberish about prison and life sentences and cell mates who are bigger than fishing boats. I had then reminded him of the first time we’d met at a bar called the Warthog. He had propositioned no less than twenty-three women that night and had finally left with a girl who could bench-press an ox. The words “Big Cheese” were tattooed on her left biceps. Maybe Laney would be interested in such charming anecdotes.

  I was expecting the pictures soon. Maybe they would help me tie up the loose ends. Or at least locate the ends. Rivera seemed to think the crime-scene photos would help him prove that Salina had been murdered—and that he was innocent. Or maybe he wanted to get ahold of them because he was afraid they would incriminate him. Hmm, something to think about.

  “What do you do?” Bruce Lincoln asked. Putting both feet on the floor, he leaned forward, elbows on knees.

  I sat in silence for a moment, partly to give him time to consider his own question, but mostly ’cuz I’d spaced out and had no idea what he was talking about.

  “Come on,” he said. “I had a fucked-up childhood. My old man split. Mom spent every night…” He paused, expression somber. He was an aspiring actor. “Truth is, I don’t have any idea how a good relationship’s supposed to work. I could use some pointers. How do you keep the beast at bay?”

  “I keep my pants zipped.” I realized almost immediately that I shouldn’t have said that. After all, I don’t get the big bucks for sharing practical good sense. I get paid to spout ten-dollar words with penny-apiece meaning, but I was a little distracted.

  Still, he grinned at me. “Oh, come on, you’re young, attractive. What do you do?” he asked again. “When you’re…” He nodded toward the picture on my desk. “When he’s not around and you’re…lonely.”

  Well, I thought, when my favorite picture wasn’t nearby, I usually go with a nice pastoral scene. Maybe framed in teak and angled just so. I had other methods for when I was horny. Methods that sex addicts like to talk about in lieu of the actual deed.

  I steepled my fingers and looked him in the eye.

  “How do you think Tracy would feel if she knew you were prying into my sex life for your own perverse reasons, Mr. Lincoln?” I asked.

  His face went ashen. His shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he looked sincere, but then, he was an actor…and a man.

  City and state, please.”

  I tangled my fingers in the telephone cord and closed my eyes.

  “What state, please.” Even the recording sounded peeved.

  “California,” I said. “Los Angeles.”

  “Just a minute, please.”

  Within thirty seconds I had a phone number scrawled on my electric bill. After that, I paced to the freezer, took out some frozen common sense, and ruminated on why I shouldn’t make the contemplated call.

  Two pounds later, I replaced the carton, took a deep breath, and dialed the phone again.

  “Hey!” someone yelled. Music was blasting like nuclear explosives in the background.

  “Yes, hi,” I said, “is Danny there?”

  “What?” The shouter on the other end of the line might have had an English accent. Then again, he might have been stoned out of his mind. Or both.

  “Daniel,” I said, raising the amps. “Is he there?”

  “This Cindy?”

  Uhhh…sure. “Yeah,” I said. “Do you know where he is? I haven’t seen him around for a while.”

  “Hey!” He screamed the word, supposedly to the world at large, but managed to siphon most of the volume into the receiver. I leaned back, trying to save my ears. “Anyone know where Danny is?” In a moment he was back on. “Don’t know for sure,” he said. “Could be at the library.”

  Library? What library? My mind was churning. “At U—here on campus?” I asked.

  “Yeah, studying again like a right wanker probably. Say…” His words were slurred, but then, it was Tuesday night at UCLA. “Give him a shag, will ya? Get his nose out of a book for a minute.”

  “Sure thing,” I said, and hung up before I felt the need to tell him to shut his dirty little mouth. Apparently, I wasn’t getting any younger.

  It took me an hour to talk myself into full stupid mode. Then I dug through my closet and came up with a pair of worn jeans. They had holes at the knees and looked like they’d had a run-in with a sandblaster. Perfect. I dragged them on, noted the condition of my legs through the holes, and peeled them back off. Then I shaved my knees, donned a push-up bra, two camis, and a flouncy top in concession with the current layering craze.

  My nerves were hopping by the time I reached the campus. Broad as a wheat field, its mood vacillated between modern sculptures and turreted architecture from another era. Gargoyles scowled down at me from lofty cornices and fountains ran backward. No kidding.

  I kept my eyes open for future stars. According to the brochures, Dean and Monroe had matriculated at this institution, but it was impossible to differentiate between megata
lent and Joe Schmo. Everyone was beautiful at UCLA.

  The interior of Powell Library was no less spectacular than the grounds. I passed checkerboard floors, towering pillars, and grand wooden staircases. It beat the hell out of Schaumburg Tech, which boasted one battered stop sign and a snowbank as its focal point.

  Daniel, aka Ken doll, was in the main reading room on the third floor. He glowed like a homing beacon, beach-blond hair glimmering above a chaotic smattering of handwritten notes.

  I had no idea what I was going to say. Good sense suggested that I turn around and march home, but sometimes good sense and I can go weeks on end without so much as a “What the hell” between us.

  I picked up a determined stride and paced past him, faltered, turned back, and stopped beside the table where he was studying. “Danny?” I said. “Is that you?”

  He glanced up. His expression was thoughtful, his mouth pursed. His lips were an odd meld of Oliver Twist and Casanova. He was already gathering up the papers. I tried to inconspicuously speed-read, but all I saw was some lopsided molecular diagrams and printing that would fit on a grain of sand. In less than a second, he’d shoveled the papers beneath a tattered pocket folder.

  “Christina McMullen,” I said, and thrust out my hand. He took it with some misgiving, but he was too polite to tell me to get lost and leave him to whatever was going on in his head.

  His handshake, however, was noncommittal. His young Republican act needed some work.

  I drew a deep breath and made my face sad. “I saw you at…at Sal’s visitation,” I said.

  He looked introspective for a moment, then, “Oh, sure. So you knew her?” His voice was cultured.

  “We were coconspirators.” I paused, gave a sad little laugh, and wondered wildly what we might have coconspired on. “Back in the day.” Maybe he wouldn’t ask.

  “Coconspirators?”

  Damn. “Can I…?” I indicated the chair across from him with a flip of my hand. Oh so casual. Like I wasn’t breaking all kinds of social and moral stipulations. “Can I sit down?”

  He nodded. His gaze was sharp. “Did you know her from the campaign?”

  “No.”

  He stared.

  “Harvard,” I said, grasping wildly at the few straws Rachel had cast my way. “We almost blew up the chem lab there.”

  His eyes narrowed. “A political science major doesn’t require chemistry.”

  “Don’t I know it.” No. “Old man Eddings about had a cow.” Had a cow? Did they still say that? “But Sal…” I chuckled, reminiscing, crazy as a loon. “Well…you know how she was.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I mean, I thought I did. But I never thought she’d go that far.”

  I gave him my concerned look. “What do you mean? How far?”

  He eyed me, shook his head, leaned back.

  I scrambled for mental footing. “Far enough to marry him,” I guessed.

  “The senator’s an okay guy, I guess,” he said. “Was a friend of my father’s. And Peach thinks he walks on water. But I mean…shit…he’s old enough to be…a friend of my father’s.”

  And he was just about young enough to be her son, but that little nugget of truth didn’t seem to offend his sensibilities. “Creepy as hell,” I said. “I told her that, too.”

  “Yeah?”

  “We shared a tube of lip gloss for two years. After that you can pretty much tell a person anything. But Sal…” I sighed, winced at my own performance. “She didn’t need any makeup. She was like—”

  “Dark sunshine,” he said.

  I turned my gaze back to him. There was something in his tone. “How long have you been in love with her?”

  “Me?” He laughed. Was the sound a little off? A little breathy? “We dated for a while, but…” He shook his head.

  “That must have been while I was in Seattle.”

  “Two years ago almost.”

  “Why’d you break up? It seems like you’d be perfect together.”

  “Salina and me?” He laughed. “No. Too different. She was politics down to her bone marrow and I was…well, I’ve been called a tree hugger, and worse. Even by old Peach.”

  My mind was scrambling. “Robert Peachtree?”

  “You know him?”

  “Just by reputation. He doesn’t share your concern for the environment, I take it.”

  “The forests are just a place to store lumber to him. But they’ve been good to me. Him and Dottie. And she can cook. Except for the cocoa cookies.” He shuddered. “Never wanted to make her feel bad, though. Never want to make anyone feel bad.” He lowered his brows. “Maybe that makes me a weenie. But the cops still questioned me about Salina’s death.”

  I gave him an incredulous expression. It’s kind of like my “No way” look but not so out there. “They don’t think you had anything to do with her death, do they?”

  He shrugged. The movement was stiff. “I told them to look closer to home. Then Rivera himself comes and talks to me.”

  “The senator?”

  “His son. The lieutenant. Came to my house. I told him I wanted to see a badge, but he said he just wanted to talk, off the record. You know what that means.”

  I shook my head. I felt a little cold.

  “He got his ass suspended.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Are you kidding? You know what kind of ego it takes to become a cop? They’d give their kidneys for an excuse to flip open their badges. And Rivera’s one of the worst. Cocky as hell. But she left him, you know…for his old man. He couldn’t take the embarrassment.”

  “You think he killed her?” My voice sounded hoarse.

  “He was there, you know, at his old man’s house, the night she died.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “The cops, they’re closing ranks, saying it was natural causes. Peach asked around for me. Cardiomyopathy’s their latest guess.” He snorted in disbelief. “Maybe if she had congenital heart problems or coronary arterial disease, but Salina was as healthy as the proverbial horse. Hasn’t had so much as the sniffles in years.”

  “Geez.” I felt sick to my stomach. “You sound like a doctor.”

  He frowned.

  “You’re not a doctor, are you?”

  He glanced to the left and slouched lower in his chair, the quintessential hipster. “I try not to spread it around here.”

  “You’re joking.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “You must be what…twenty?”

  “Accelerated courses,” he said, and sighed. “Peach and his cronies are dying to get their talons in me, but their projects…” He shook his head. “A cure for baldness? I mean, please. But if I keep them happy, they’ll donate to the cause and I’ll have time for some real work elsewhere.”

  “Such as?”

  “We’re losing a hundred thirty-seven species every single day. Not to mention one and a half acres of rain forest a second. That’s where the money should be going. Wilderness restoration, not hair restoration. Nature holds a million medicinal secrets we’ve barely even begun to think about.”

  I refrained from blinking stupidly.

  “And it’s not just America. It’s everywhere. The Amazon. It’d blow your mind if you knew. All the beauty. The potential. The loss. We’ve sent a team over. Lucky bastards.” He shook his head, eyes bright. “The data they bring back. The samples.” His mind seemed to be racing ahead of his words.

  I remained silent, trying to keep up.

  “Overpopulation.” He scowled at his own thoughts. “People don’t realize the immensity of the problem. We’re encroaching on the wild places. And the lower the education, the higher the birthrate. Eighty percent of third-world countries can’t afford decent contraceptives. They won’t use condoms.” He opened broad, capable hands in an expression of frustration.

  “You’re developing a birth control pill.”

  “Not a pill.” He leaned toward me, intense, young, ridiculously good-l
ooking. “A supplement. Like a vitamin. No side effects. It’s a wonder drug. Women can take it without their husbands even knowing they…” He paused, laughed at himself, settled back again. “Sorry. Do you believe I came down here to relax? Mom said you only live once, so you might as well do it while you’re young.”

  “So you met Salina here?” I asked, steering him carefully back on track.

  “I thought at first that she was too stuffy. But…” He tilted his head. Ken doll with a thousand-watt smile. “I was wrong. We had a lot of fun while it lasted.”

  “I miss her already,” I said, and let the guilt wash over me and away like low tide. It’s a gift, given to me by my Irish heritage and carefully honed through years of Catholic school. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  He shook his head, thinking. “At least a year. Probably more. But Rivera still acted like I was as guilty as sin.”

  “The senator or—”

  “The cop,” he said, narrowing his eyes at my ignorance. “The one they found unconscious on her floor. But she got in a few good shots. Salina wouldn’t go down without a fight.”

  “You do think he killed her.”

  He said nothing.

  “But I heard there were no wounds.”

  He gave me a “You may actually be dumber than shit” look. “You think a Neanderthal like Rivera needs a Glock to kill a hundred-pound woman who threw him over for his old man?”

  “I thought she didn’t start dating the senator until long after she and the lieutenant were—”

  He snorted. “Why do you think they broke up?”

  So even he had heard the rumor. Not only heard it, believed it. Then again, maybe it was true. Maybe Salina had slept with the senator more than a decade ago and never gotten over him. “So he found out she was sleeping with his dad.”

  He nodded.

  “But that was a long time ago.”