Unmanned (12 page)

15

Sometimes we succeed because of our upbringing, sometimes we do so in spite of it.

—Dagwood Dean Daly, aka D, who never forgave his parents for his name

“M
R
.
LEPINSKI
,”
I SAID
by way of greeting.

I had taken the red-eye home. My flight was unspectacular. But then, what isn’t when you’ve just turned over twenty thousand dollars to a liver-stealing cowboy. Pete had looked a little pale when he’d picked me up at the airport, but he had recouped enough to tell me I looked like hell. I’d slept through Saturday and most of Sunday. Now it was Monday morning and I was back at work, wearing a sleeveless linen dress with Battenberg lace. It was a little girlier than I usually wear, but then, I’m a girl. “How are you this morning?”

“I think I have Legionnaire’s disease,” he said. Mr. Lepinski had been one of my very first clients. He’s a scrawny little man with glasses, yellow socks, and a twitch.

“Legionnaire’s disease.” I gave him an intelligent look as I settled into my chair. It was good to be back. Okay, it wasn’t as if I’d survived a tour in Beirut or anything, but I
had
survived Chicago. In fact, I felt, oddly, that I had beaten it. Returned to the land of my forebearers and proven my mettle. Plus, I’d gotten Pete, the fucktard, off the hook. And honestly, the trip was probably worth the trouble just to learn that new and really quite lovely insult. “What makes you think so?”

Lepinski gave me a list of symptoms as long as my desk. I stared at him for a moment, still going for intelligent. “Have you gone to a doctor?”

“No.” He looked a little sullen about it, though I wouldn’t have thought it was my fault.

“Can I ask why?”

“Because…” He glanced out the window. “I’ve probably fictionalized maladies in an attempt to help me forget about Sheila.”

I had suggested that to him a few months back when he’d been sure he had West Nile virus. He had remembered. I’ve never felt more powerful.

“And what about Sheila?” I asked. “Have you seen her lately?”

“Saturday.”

“Really?” This was news. Usually after a meeting with his estranged wife, he looked as wrung dry as a dishrag. “So tell me about that.”

He remained silent for a while, glanced out the window again. His knees were pressed primly together and his lips were pursed, but there was something a little different about him today. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. “She was…” He scowled. “She said she was sorry. Started to cry.”

I refrained from gasping. Gasping is considered unprofessional in the shrink business, even though, according to Mr. Lepinski, Sheila never cried. Apparently she lacks tear ducts or something. Most reptiles do. Maybe you’ve guessed that I’m not crazy about Sheila. I mean, Mr. Lepinski isn’t exactly Prince Charming with a vacuum in one hand and a doctorate in the other, but Sheila wasn’t even the vacuum.

“She still wants to get back together,” he said.

I refrained from screaming, despite the fact that I knew the story of their estrangement and thought he’d be dumber than a box of walnuts to reunite. “And?” Melodic. My tone was nothing if not melodic.

“Mom thinks I should take her back.”

I crossed one leg over the other. But they both looked good, a little pale, maybe, but stylish and kind of flirty in their ankle-tie espadrilles. “Your mother.”

“Yes.”

I processed this for a moment. My gut instinct is generally to assume mothers are wrong, but maybe that’s short-sighted. I’m told some moms have no discernible desire to eat their young.

“Is she aware that Sheila cheated on you…with the meat guy?”

He nodded primly.

“In your pajamas?” Somehow that made it worse. Not sure why, and I’m a professional.

“I may not have told her about the pajamas,” he said.

Good to know. “Did she say why she thought you should reunite?”

He shrugged, glanced away again, increasingly tense. “Marriage, you know. It’s a holy sacrament. What God has joined together, and all that.”

“And what do you think?”

“It would make Mom happy.” He paused. “And Sheila.”

“Would it?”

“What?”

The two women in his life were perpetual whiners. Like undersized dogs and squeaky ceiling fans. “I mean to say, were they tittering ecstatically when you two were together?”

“Well…” He thought about that for a minute. “No.”

“Maybe it’s time to consider the fact that you can’t make them happy.” He was scowling. I let him lean into it, then, “Maybe…just this once…you should focus on trying to make
you
happy.”

He turned his myopic scowl on me. “Isn’t that kind of…selfish?”

“Yes,” I said. “I think it may be. But while some people succeed because of their upbringing, others have to do so despite it.”

When we called it quits a few minutes later, I felt pretty good. I mean, we hadn’t exactly found the cure for male-pattern baldness or anything, but I thought we were making progress. And even if I had borrowed a few lines from a mobster who scorned most of the alphabet, what I did seemed to have purpose.

The rest of the day went pretty well, too. I saw four more clients. None of them tried to kill me.

Laney called. I told her she’d probably saved Pete’s life, but I’d try to forgive her. I hung up with a smile.

Micky Goldenstone left a message saying that, per my request, he had gotten me an audience with David Hawkins in Lancaster on Tuesday morning. I considered contacting him to let him know I would no longer need that particularly painful favor, but life kept me hopping.

The phone rang at 7:17. I picked it up, secure in the fact that Mandy wouldn’t bother to do so. It had been a good day, why ruin it with unrealistic expectations.

“L.A. Counseling,” I said.

There was a moment of silence and then dead air. I stared at the phone a second, then settled the receiver back into its cradle, reminding myself that everything was okay. Things were straightened out. But when the phone rang again, I jumped a little.

“L.A. Counseling,” I repeated.

“Hey.” Rivera’s voice sounded deep and strangely homey. It was a little embarrassing how happy I was to hear it. Apparently I had forgiven him for neglecting to tell me about Swanson being connected to David Hawkins. All that was behind me now.

“Hey yourself,” I said, easing back in my chair.

“How was Chicago?”

I straightened a little, trying to divine how a normal person might answer that. Something about Mom’s new wallpaper or how Dad had cried he was so happy to see me. But for all Rivera’s faults, he’s not stupid.

“Dad called me Round Steak and Mom told me to stand up straight,” I said.

He laughed and I felt myself relax. Things were going to be okay after all.

“How’s the bridesmaid’s dress?”

“Not as bad as the last three.”

There was a pause. “You sound pretty laid-back.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Some folks tend to get jumpy when they get shot at in their backyards.”

For a moment I was stunned that he knew, but then I realized he was referring to the first time.

“Oh.” I refrained from adding “that.” I mean, I didn’t want to seem too relaxed, thereby making him suspicious that I had borrowed twenty thousand from my best friend, hopped the first flight to Chicago, and met a guy named D who could talk about breaking people’s knees and trying to fulfill futile familial expectations without a proper segue. “Well, that was almost a week ago. Ancient history.”

He paused again. “What’s going on, McMullen?”

I tensed, scowled a little. Did he know something? I mean, it wasn’t as if I were talking to Laney. This was Rivera. He may be no idiot, but he’s about as sensitive as a sledgehammer. “What do you mean?”

“You seem happy.”

I relaxed a smidgen. “I’m happy a lot.”

He snorted. It sounded wood-smoke masculine and almost friendly.

I smiled. “I was happy just last month.”

“Were you drinking with my mother at the time?” he asked.

I put my feet up on my trash can and admired my shoes. “Very funny, Lieutenant,” I said, tone chock-f of conviviality.

But he’s not called Bloodhound Rivera for nothing. Okay, he’s not called Bloodhound Rivera at all.

“So why the good mood?” he asked.

I shrugged. “There are no current high-risk pollution advisories, Harlequin has stayed off the counter for three whole days.” Well, two. “And no one has tried to kill me in more than twenty-four consecutive hours.”

“I’ll put out a bulletin. Have you learned something about Swanson?” he asked.

His tone was blasé. But I was careful. “I don’t think it had anything to do with me. I mean, the man was a convicted felon. Besides, isn’t there some kind of governmental department paid to do that investigative stuff?”

“About that…” he said. “I think you might be right: Swanson’s death may not have had anything to do with you.”

“What? Why?”

“I have reason to believe there was a hit out on Swanson. Guy named Hank was pretty pissed at him.”

“Hank.” I felt a little breathless. “That was his brother’s name.”

“He was an only child. Hank was his partner. They ran some small-time cons down South. Then one day they went for the gusto. Got away with almost fifty grand. That’s when Swanson disappeared.”

“With the money?”

“That’s what I hear.”

“From whom?”

“I’m paid to do that investigative stuff, remember?”

“So you think Hank killed him.”

“I’ve still got some leads to check out.”

So none of my troubles had anything to do with me. Will’s murderer had not been trying to off me. Pete’s attackers bore me no ill will. I was simply an innocent bystander…in the wrong place at the wrong time. At another time that may have made me mad. But just then I felt nothing but relief. “So I’m safe,” I said.

“Just keep your doors locked.”

“Yes sir, Officer,” I said, but I felt a little giddy.

He snorted. “Want to know something funny?”

“What?”

“I kind of miss you. You free tomorrow night?”

“Free from what?”

“Christ, McMullen, are you on drugs?”

“It’s not as if you’ve been Mr. Congeniality in the past, Rivera.”

“This is the new me, remember? Starting over. Wooing.”

“There’s going to be wooing?”

“You bet your sweet ass, sugar cakes.”

“Wow. Sweet talk, too. I feel flushed already.”

He chuckled. “I’ll leave my cell phone at home.”

“Is that allowed?”

“I’ve hired a sitter.”

“Shall I expect roses and chocolate, too?”

“Nothing that mundane.”

“You shut your dirty little mouth,” I said, putting my feet on the floor and sitting up straight. “Chocolate is never mundane.”

“My apologies to the Hershey Company.”

“I should think so.”

“In fact, I have a recipe for a kick-ass fondue.”

Rivera is a spectacular cook. It’s one of the things about life that makes me think maybe God is up there laughing his head off about the world at large. Rivera looks about as much like your typical chef as I look like lobster bisque. And I hardly ever do.

“Messy,” he said, “but what you can’t lick off will usually come clean in the shower.”

I blinked. I actually
was
feeling flushed now. “Good Lord,” I said, and he chuckled, low and quiet.

“See you tomorrow night.”

“Umm, Pete came to visit for a few days.”

“Your brother?” His voice had already roughened toward suspicious. He knew my familial history pretty well. “Why?”

I ran a few possible scenarios through my head about overly protective brothers and discarded them out of hand. “He’s probably planning a few days of L.A. debauchery before the big day. But I’ll try to get rid of him by tomorrow.”

He thought about that for a second, then: “Don’t worry about it. You can come to my place. My shower’s bigger anyway,” he said, and hung up.

G
rouchy-looking clouds were boiling over the San Gabriels when I headed home. I made a stop at Yum Yum for Tuesday’s breakfast, ate a small donut hole, then remembered no one was currently threatening my life and added a fritter to the celebratory menu. Darkness was just settling in by the time I reached home, but I was still happy. The Corvette was nowhere in sight. I skipped up my crumbling walkway and inserted my key.

I didn’t hear a thing until an instant before I was grabbed from behind and yanked backward.

I tried to scream, but a hand crushed my mouth. Terror shot through me like an electrical current.

The man behind me snarled something, but I couldn’t understand, couldn’t think. I tried to shake my head.

“Unlock it!” he gritted, and crowded close against me. He was big, hard. Terror choked me as much as his hand, but my mind was clattering along nonstop. What if I let him inside? Whatever he was going to do would be that much more likely to get me killed. I tried to shake my head again, but he was cutting off my air.

“Open up,” he snarled, and shoved me forward. I felt something solid nudge my spine. “It’s hard as hell getting blood out of linen.”

My hand shook on the key, but I tried to turn it, tried to save myself.

“Hey,” called a voice from the street. “Is everything all right there?”

“Fuck it!” he said, and dropped his arm around my shoulder. “Get rid of her,” he ordered, and twisted toward the street, turning me with him.

An elderly woman stood on the sidewalk. She was wearing a dented straw hat, long blue shorts, and a red sleeveless shirt. “You okay?” she asked.

He squeezed my arm hard.

“Everything’s fine.” My voice cracked. I tried to swallow, tried to think. “Mrs…. Mrs. Fischer, isn’t it?”

“What? No. I’m Doris. Doris Blanchard. From down the street.” She cocked her head to the left. “House with the blue shutters.”

“Oh. Sure. Hello.” I lifted my hand in a stiff-fingered wave. He squeezed my arm. “I’m Christina and this is…” I paused, desperate, terrified. I didn’t want to die. There was chocolate fondue. And showers.

“Don’t try anything stupid,” he growled, but I’m terrible at taking orders.