“The letters …” I picked up the first one, skimmed it rapidly. “‘Natural,’” I said and retrieved the next. “‘God given.’” The next. “‘Earthy. True.’”
“He’s not religious,” she said, glancing down at the nearest missive. “He’s a naturalist.”
“And now your Green Goo recipe has disappeared.”
She was frowning.
“Who knew about it?”
“No one,” she said. “Foxy swore me to secrecy when she gave it to me years ago.”
“So only your hairdresser knows.”
“Not Nadine,” she said. “She’s producing her own products. Hopes to start a natural—” Her words stumbled to a halt.
After my meeting with Morab the sex slave, and Senator Rivera the sex
addict
, I had almost forgotten that I’d met Nadine. “Has she asked for your recipe?”
“Not outright.”
“But you think she’d like to?”
Laney looked unhappy. “She’s a good person. Started the condors program.”
“Which you’ve donated to,” I guessed.
She shrugged, noncommittal. “But I still get the idea she thinks I should …” Her words trailed off again. “I mean, I thought we were friends.”
The room went silent.
“Is it her?” I asked into the quiet.
She said nothing for several seconds, then glanced away. “Maybe.”
I took a deep breath, feeling down to my soul that we’d found our culprit. “This isn’t something you should feel guilty about,” I said.
“I know,” she said.
“But you do.”
“It’s just that I’ve …” She paused and shrugged.
“Been so lucky.”
“Blessed, really.”
“It’s not your fault that Nadine didn’t make it big.”
She stared at nothing, seeming to search for some way to believe she was wrong. But finally she closed her eyes and gave up. “What do we do now?”
“I suppose we should ask the police to question her,” I said. “Or I could—”
She jerked toward me. “You’re going to stay out of this, Mac.”
“I know. I was just wondering who to call. I don’t know whose jurisdiction it would be. It might turn into a pissing contest.”
“Pissing contest or not, this is their job. Not yours.”
“I know.”
She stared at me a moment, then nodded. “Maybe we call Rivera and let him figure it out.”
“At four in the morning?”
“Probably not.”
“First thing when I wake up.”
“You promise?”
“Of course I promise.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“What do you think? That I
want
to get involved with another crazed lunatic?”
She paused. “Sometimes I wonder.”
“Are you kidding? In the past few years I’ve been attacked by a tight end, a psychiatrist, an investor, my brother’s
friend
, an octogenarian, and a cuckolded father. You think I want more of that?”
She was still staring at me. “Exciting, isn’t it?”
“Listen, Brainy Laney Butterfield, my life may not be as wildly stimulating as yours but that doesn’t mean I feel a burning need to stick my nose into situations that are likely to get me …” I paused, thinking. “Holy shit,” I said, realizing the truth. “I feel a burning need to stick my nose into situations that are likely to get me killed.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “You’re the shrink.”
“Maybe we can blame it on potty training.”
“Okay.”
“Maybe it’s … It’s probably my mother. Did you know she—”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I know everything about her. But I don’t care what it is.”
I looked at her, alarmed by the tone of her voice. And sure enough, she had tears in her eyes again.
“I just want to make it stop,” she said. “Put it in the hands of the police.”
Something in me resisted the idea. But I fought it down. “Okay,” I said, shaken by the realization of my own neuroses. I was pretty damned sure licensed psychologists were not supposed to be neurotic.
She stared at me, then nodded. “I love you, Mac.”
“I know. It’s one of the great wonders of the world.”
“It’s a wonder you put up with me.”
“You’re joking, right?” Through the years Laney had saved my ass in more situations than I can count. I owed her everything, including my ass.
“Not so much,” she said.
“You need sleep more than I do,” I said, and reached for her hand. She gave it. I hoisted all twelve pounds of her to her feet. “Go to bed,” I said, and she wobbled off to brush her teeth.
M
y brain was as fuzzy as a Georgia peach when I called Rivera first thing in the morning. He contacted the necessary people, and despite the fact that I stayed out of the way entirely (or perhaps
because of
) things happened quickly after that.
I was in a session with a narcissistic who had no apparent reason for his condition when the phone rang. Shirley answered it and subsequently informed me that I should call Rivera. The lieutenant informed me that the cops had gone to Nadine Gruber’s house. When they had informed
her
of their suspicions about the letters, she had immediately broken into lovely, self-controlled tears and admitted her crimes. After some probing, she had even confessed to breaking into my house to obtain the lauded Green Goo recipe. There might be a sound bite on Channel 9. Apparently attractive but crazy hairstylists made good press.
Later that night I spoke to him again.
“So that’s it, then,” I said.
“Disappointed?” he asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“Anticlimactic,” he said. “Boring.”
“I like boring.”
“No you don’t.”
“Dull is an aphrodisiac.”
“I’d be insulted if I believed you.”
“Believe me. If you were any more boring I’d be sleeping right now.”
He chuckled, drew a deep breath. “How are you doing?”
“Hush, I’m sleeping.”
The line went quiet for a moment, then, “You did good work on this.”
I blinked, glanced at the receiver, then scowled. “I must be more tired than I realized. I thought you said—”
“We had a half a dozen people on this case. No one else caught the hair connection.”
“Maybe
you’re
more tired than I realized.”
“Why can’t you just take a compliment?”
I smiled. “Lack of experience.”
“What are you doing tomorrow night?” His voice was all rumbly again. I considered telling him that I hoped I’d be screwing him, but that seemed to lack a certain amount of panache. “Buying groceries,” I said instead.
“Didn’t you do that just last month?”
“You are a funny man, aren’t you?”
“That’s probably why you love me.”
“I suppose,” I said.
I think it took us both a minute to realize what I’d just said. Another minute to assimilate the words. But I didn’t try to retract them. Perhaps that makes me masochistic as well as neurotic. But there it was.
“Get some sleep,” he said, and there was extra warmth in his voice now. Something that made me tingly and warm and hopeful. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
I
slept like the dead that night … until two a.m., when something disturbed me. I awoke, heart pounding, utterly alert. Not like me at all. I glanced sideways, breath tight in my throat, but the doorway was blessedly empty. One stifled glance around the room assured me that all was well. But something had awakened me.
Stiff with fear, I pulled the blankets back and reached over Harlequin for my Mace. It felt cool and solid in my hand. I rose to my feet. Flipping on the light was harder than hell, because truth to tell, I didn’t want to see what was inside my house. But the glare of the overhead bulb showed nothing out of the ordinary. Still, something was wrong. I felt it in the arch of my left foot.
It wasn’t until that moment that I remembered Laney. Even though she had told Solberg that the letter-writer had been apprehended, he’d refused to return to his house in La Canada. Instead, he had bedded down on the carpet upstairs, just outside Elaine’s bedroom door.
I found him there, undisturbed, but he awoke when I approached.
“Laney?” he croaked.
I glanced through the open doorway and saw her lying there, eyes closed, face serene in the diffused moonlight.
“She’s fine,” I said, and doing a rudimentary check of the other rooms on that level, ventured downstairs.
I had just reached the bottom when something lunged at me.
I squawked and stumbled backward, struggling with the Mace. But in that instant, my attacker turned tail and ran. Literally. It took me several heart-racing seconds to realize I’d just scared Harlequin out of his wits. And myself out of mine.
“Harley,” I called. He turned, looking sheepish and tired, muzzle still wet from its sojourn in the toilet. “I’m sorry. Come here, handsome.” He ambled over, head bowed. I scratched his ears and realized my mistake; he’d been fast asleep beside me when I’d awakened, which meant there was no intruder. Harley had been as jumpy as a crack addict since the break-in, and he had ears like parasails. He wasn’t about to miss an opportunity to worry about some nocturnal noise.
Kissing his snout, I straightened and headed toward the bathroom. It was then that I saw a light flicker in the Al-Sadrs’ yard.
30
The Irish don’t really like anything they can’t punch or drink.
—
Pete McMullen, Irishman
F
or a second I was sure I was imagining things, but then I saw two bodies moving around the corner of the house. Their clothes were dark except for the man’s white turban.
Ahmad had come back for Aalia!
Anger fumed through me. I was out the door without a second’s thought and yelled something inarticulate. The bodies jerked. I heard a muffled grunt, and then Aalia fell. I saw her hit the ground. Saw Ahmad straighten and glance toward me, and in that instant a thousand emotions exploded inside me. But the first and foremost was rage. He turned and jogged toward the alley, and it was then that I entirely lost my mind, because in a fraction of a second I deduced that I could beat him to his car. I was sprinting before my brain sent an impulse to my good sense, and now he was running, too. But I was fueled by rage and insanity.
My legs were pumping like sparking pistons. All I could think of were the scores of men in my past. The ones who had lied and bullied and belittled me.
I hit Ahmad five feet before he reached his car. Bowled over, he rolled toward his back tire, then scrambled to his feet. But I wasn’t about to let him get away. Not this time. From my knees, I raised my right hand and sprayed him directly in the face, but he kept coming. I shrieked and skittered away, but there was nowhere to go. Somehow I had gotten turned around. His car was behind me. I jerked upright as he lunged toward me. With a squeal of terror, I reached behind me, yanked his car door open, and tumbled inside.
He made a grab for the handle. It was nothing short of a miracle that his vehicle was unoccupied and I was able to hit the
LOCK
button.
From the interior I saw him stagger to a halt. He stumbled, then fell to his knees. He’d just started retching when I hit the horn. It blared in the dark silence like an air raid alarm.
Taabish Al-Sadr was the first to pop out of his door. He stared in my direction. From where I was sitting I couldn’t see Aalia’s prone form and wondered desperately if she was all right. I tried to open the window to tell her brother-in-law to save her, but the window wouldn’t budge without a key. With one more terrified glance at the hacking Yemeni, I scrambled over the parking brake and pushed open the passenger door.
“Call 911!” I shrieked.
Al-Sadr stared at me, frozen in place.
I could no longer see Ahmad and prayed he was still coughing up his liver instead of scrambling around the bumper to yank me out of his car by my hair.
“Aalia’s hurt!” I screamed. “She may be dy—” I began, but in that instant I saw two women huddled in the light of the doorway behind Taabish. Adrenaline was flowing at a pretty good clip and blood was pounding in my ears like a tidal wave gone mad, but I was lucid enough to recognize that one of the women was Aalia.
“Ms. McMullen?” Taabish called, advancing toward me across the lawn.
I slammed the door shut, hit the locks, then shimmied back across the brake to stare through the driver’s window. Ahmad was still on all fours. Still retching. But his head didn’t really look as if it was covered with a turban anymore. It almost looked like he was blond.
I glanced at what I had thought was Aalia’s body. It didn’t appear as human as it had earlier. In fact, it looked a little like a felled tree, heavy on the top and skinny in the middle with one big lump of something at the end nearest me.
“Christina, what happens here?” Aalia called from the door. She took a few steps toward me.
“Go inside,” Taabish warned, waving her back. “The police will soon arrive.”
So he’d called 911. Good, I thought, but just then Ahmad lifted his head above his shoulders and for the first time I noticed that his face was as pale as mine.
Gathering his strength, he stumbled to his feet, raised his hands shoulder height, and wobbled sideways a little, still coughing. “I’m sorry.” His words were as slurred as a sailor’s on shore leave. “I just …” He took a moment to shake his head and lean against his bumper. “I was worried about Aalia.”
Taabish took a step closer. “Who is this man?”
“Skip …” He paused, steadied himself, bent double and coughed some more. “Stephen,” he corrected. “Stephen Vance, sir.” His trachea rattled on an inhalation. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I met Aalia at Starbucks last weekend.”