“A year or so, I think.”
“And he hasn’t asked to sire your children yet?” She wrinkled her nose at me.
“How about poetry. Has he written any sonnets in your honor?”
“Not even a haiku.”
“I’m calling the police,” I said, and she banged my shoulder with her almost-hip. It was like being bumped by a fly.
“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” she said. “Jobs are hard to come by. Especially in this economy.”
“So who could I call to feel Vanak out?” I asked.
“Why would
you
do the calling?” she asked.
“Who else?”
“I can still speak, you know.”
“Don’t you hire someone to do that for you these days?”
“Here’s the thing,” she said, ignoring my cleverness, “I think Derrick would be most knowledgeable about the cast.”
“Derrick. The producer?” She nodded. “Yeah, but—”
“You’re afraid he’ll immediately fire everyone on the set if he thinks someone’s causing you trouble.”
“Not
everyone.”
“Everyone except you?”
“Could be.”
“Because he’s
not
aloof.”
“‘Aloof’ isn’t the term I’d use for him, no.”
“What
is
the term?”
She thought for a moment. “Jittery? Short? Friendly?”
“Uh-huh. How many times has
he
proposed?”
“I’m not that good at math,” she said, and I gaped.
“That
many?”
“He’s kind of a flirt.”
“A flirt who has a wife and four dozen kids.”
“Approximately.”
I nodded, thinking. “Anyone besides Vanak give you weird vibes?” I asked.
“Are we talking male
and
female?”
“We’re talking interspecies.”
“Agatha once said she’d kill to have my body.”
“Do you think she meant it literally?” I asked, scanning the paper until I found her name with my right index finger.
“Supposedly my death would not actually give her my body.”
“Is she bright enough to know that?”
“A Rhodes scholar.”
“So was President Clinton. He wasn’t smart enough to keep his pants zipped.”
“I’ve never seen Agatha in pants.”
“Ever?”
“Always wears dresses.”
“Hell, that alone makes her suspect.”
“I’m glad to see this is a scientific system.”
“You know it,” I said, and turned back toward the paper. “Who else do we have?”
She pointed out three others with whom she felt skittish. Out of more than two hundred people, that didn’t seem like a staggering number.
“What now?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I’ll find out what I can about them.”
“Promise you won’t do anything stupid.”
“I’m insulted.”
“I mean it, Mac, promise.”
“Of course I promise.”
“You won’t call any gangsters, will you?”
“If you’re referring to D, he prefers to be called a collection engineer.” Dagwood Dean Daly lived in a high-rise on the Gold Coast in Chicago and had some kind of odd crush on me. In fact, he had once challenged Rivera to a duel, winner take
me
.
I had left the two of them bloodied and stupid outside the Mandarin Hotel. Oddly enough, I hadn’t seen D since. I couldn’t say the same of Rivera, though he
had
looked a little chagrined when he’d finally showed up at my door, scabs healing.
“I don’t think any collection engineers will be necessary for this,” I said, and scowled. “I thought I’d just ask some questions.”
“Okay,” Laney said, obviously dubious, “but let’s not get anyone in trouble.”
I glanced once more at the letters spread across her perfectly made bed. “I think someone’s already troubled,” I said.
“C
hristina McMullen.” Officer Tavis answered on the third ring. He must have caller ID at the station in Edmond Park. He also had a very nice voice.
“Are you busy?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” he said. “We’ve had two jaywalkers and a prank call.”
“Just this morning.”
“This isn’t L.A,” he said. “I’m talking all week.”
“Well, I’d better let you get to interrogating them. Maybe you can call me back when you’re not so frazzled.”
“No hurry,” he said. “Our thumbscrews won’t be here until tomorrow. We share them with the next county.”
“And they’re being used right now?”
“They’ve had a problem with littering.”
I huffed a laugh, then, “I have a question for you,” I said.
“It’s—”
“I don’t care what color your underwear is,” I said, and he chuckled as he settled in.
“What can I do for you?”
“Last week you said something about a drug called Intensity.”
“It’s just a theory.”
“What are the effects?”
“That’s the thing, the kids who died didn’t seem to have any symptoms in common.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jerome, the boy, was happy and well adjusted. Didn’t seem to have a care in the world. At least according to friends and family.”
“Would friends and family tell the truth?”
“Hard to say. The girl’s behavior was entirely different. Aggressive and loud. What’s up?”
“I have a … acquaintance who’s been getting some funny mail.”
“Funny ha-ha or funny—”
“Funny disturbing. I’m wondering if they might be drug related, but there are no restricted substances allowed on … my friend’s workplace.”
“Drugs aren’t exactly welcomed into the public school system, either, Chrissy. But I can’t think of another excuse for the blue haze in the bathrooms.”
“I think my friend’s … manager … actually insists on blood tests,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“You think traces of Intensity wouldn’t show up in the reports?”
“Nothing’s been flagged so far. And we’re not the only county in California that’s losing kids.”
“Any idea where the drug came from?”
“Are you asking for my hypothesis?”
“Why not?”
“I think it’s an offshoot of meth. Cheap to make, but without the usual side effects.”
“Except for death, of course.”
“Except for that one.”
I asked a few more questions, but learned nothing concrete.
“Thank you,” I said, and prepared to hang up, but he stopped me.
“What’s it worth to you?”
“What’s that?”
“The information I gave you is rather sensitive.”
“Really?”
“No. But I think it’s worth something.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Seriously?”
“I’m not going to have sex with you.”
“How about some heavy petting?”
“Why haven’t you been fired yet?”
“Because I’m a nice guy.”
“To whom?”
He chuckled. “Necking?” he asked.
“No.”
“Can you talk dirty to—” he began, but I was already hanging up.
A few hours later, still alone in my office in Eagle Rock, I gazed morosely at the list of people employed on the
Queen
set. Generally, when I need to know something that can be found on the Internet, I call Solberg. And although Laney had finally told him about the letters, she was downplaying their significance and
I
wasn’t going to be the one to tell him the truth.
“Lieutenant Rivera.” He answered his phone like Robocop on steroids. It made me rather desperately want to mock him, but I resisted. Such is the way of maturity.
“Ph.D. McMullen,” I said. Okay, maybe I was mocking him a little.
“What?” he said, and I immediately felt stupid. Go figure.
“This is Christina,” I said.
I heard his chair squeak as he sat down.
“Being a smart-ass?” he asked.
“Let’s keep in mind that I’m very brave,” I said, and could almost hear him relax on the other end of the line.
“Has someone threatened your life yet today?” he asked.
I resisted glancing toward the door. “It’s still early.”
“Most crimes occur during daylight hours.”
Now I did glance. “Really?”
“Do you have your doors locked?”
“Wouldn’t that be bad for business?”
“You’re still at work?”
“I’m brave and
ambitious.”
“You should consider changing your hours.”
“Maybe I could counsel the neurotic and paranoid just until noon. In case it gets dark.”
“There’s a reason for paranoia.”
“Too much time talking to you?”
“I’m only …” he began, then sighed as if giving up. “Did you have a reason to call?” The “other than to irritate me” part was implied.
“I was wondering if you had learned anything about those letters yet.”
He paused. I realized I was holding my breath. “The analyst has a suicide letter, two ransom notes, and five bomb threats ahead of you.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Unfortunately, there’s no overt threat implied in those letters.”
“Unfortunately?”
“It would still put them behind the bomb threats and the ransom notes, but might boost them ahead of the suicide.”
“Any idea when things might be happening?”
“A week maybe. If no one else feels the need to blow up anything or talk about offing himself.”
“Laney’s right,” I said. “You’re overly sensitive.”
“Occupational hazard,” he said.
“I’ve got some info on the Overo case.” Someone was speaking from the background of the precinct.
“A minute,” he said, partly covering the mouthpiece, then to me: “I’ll try to hurry it up, but no guarantees.”
“Do you think Laney’s in danger?”
He exhaled softly. “I’m a cop.”
“Ergo everyone’s in danger?”
“Check your trunk,” he said.
I snorted and moved to hang up, but he spoke again.
“Who are you planning to call next?”
“What?”
“To ask ’bout the letters. Who else do you have on your list?”
“No one.”
“No one owes you any favors?”
“Besides you?”
“What do I owe you?”
“I saved your father’s life.”
“And I’m trying to forgive you for that,” he said, and hung up.
I sat there for a while, fidgety and fretful, reminding myself that, as Rivera had said, the letters weren’t overtly threatening. But sometimes danger isn’t obvious. I thought of a dozen such scenarios. Scenarios regarding people who thought they had been perfectly safe.
Rivera’s father, for instance. Rivera himself, paranoia personified, had thought the senator was safe. But that hadn’t been the case. In the end, I had found the senator held at gunpoint on his ranch in the Santa Monica foothills. And from there things had gone downhill. The gunman had gotten angry, the police had revved their sirens, and I had been shot.
On the upside, the senator had sworn his eternal gratitude.
The thoughts spun to a halt in my head.
Of course, Rivera and his father were barely on speaking terms. Hence, I shouldn’t get senior involved in junior’s affairs, namely police work. That would be wrong.
Then again, I wouldn’t feel all that great about letting my best friend get killed, either, I thought, and picked up the phone.
16
I believe in sex and death, two experiences that come only once in a lifetime.
—
Woody Allen
T
hat night I was lying in bed, surrounded by tasseled pillows and gorgeous, half-naked guys. One was massaging my lower back with a scented oil that smelled like man. Another was giving me a foot massage. My toes were nestled up against his warm, muscular chest when a bell rang.
The foot man sucked my baby toe into his mouth and I moaned. The bell rang again. Probably summoning the dessert-bearer. But perhaps I would forgo dessert this once. At least until the pedi-masseur was finished …
“Hello,” crooned a voice. I smiled and snuggled a little deeper into my pillows. “Yes,” he said, but the voice had morphed from the sexy rumble of a good man-slave to the high, jittery tone of a nerd.
Damnit! I had been dreaming. Or maybe I was dreaming now. If memory served, and history was repeating itself, I had gone to bed alone.
But the voice spoke again. I reached out, groggy, hair in my eyes. And sure enough, my hand met the body of another human being.
Unusual. I slipped my hand over what felt like a shirt.
“What? Oh.” There was relief in the voice, which, now that I was marginally coherent, sounded a full octave higher than that of any self-respecting sex slave. I scowled and slipped my hand down my visitor’s spine. It was conspicuously devoid of heaving muscle. And his ass …
“You’re going to want to wake up now, Mac,” Laney said.
I opened one immediately paranoid eye.
Solberg turned toward me, his Woody Allen face illuminated by the diffused light of the hallway.
I jerked upright. Harlequin lifted his head, offended that I had yanked my foot out of his tongue’s reach.
Laney was staring at me from beside the door. “The man-slave dream?” she asked.
I snapped my gaze from her to Solberg. “What’s going on?”
“Phone. I thought it might be important,” Elaine said. moving nearer.
Solberg nodded and handed over the receiver. “It’s for you.”
I scowled, still hoping I could chalk up this late night interruption to just another good dream gone bad. “Is it a mass murderer?”
“Don’t think so,” Solberg said. “But it’s probably not a sex slave, either.”
I shot a jaundiced glare toward Laney, reminding her that best friends keep secrets, but she just shrugged. “Would you rather have him believe you were coming on to him?”
I said something suitably nasty and took the receiver.
“Hello?” My voice sounded like a cross between a rusty hinge and a water buffalo.