Unscrewed (9 page)

“Ahh, here we are,” he said as the car pulled to the curb. The driver exited, opened our door. Miguel got out, reached for my hand, drew me into the sunlight.

Now, the truth is, I’ve been known to exit a vehicle without assistance, but I didn’t exactly despise the attention. Senator Rivera was tall and sophisticated, and smelled like…well, kind of a meld between smooth charm and old money.

Once inside the restaurant, the maître d’ greeted us like we were demigods, nodding solemnly and motioning us toward the hushed interior.

The lighting was dim, the upholstery plush, the menus as heavy as lead.

We discussed luncheon options for a moment. The lasagna was good, the rigatoni mediocre, he said.

The prices made free-range chicken look like a bargain. I’d have to sell my shoe collection to pay for a bread basket. But even designer footwear is overrated in the face of really first-rate focaccia.

As it turned out, Rosata’s was good enough to convince me to go barefoot for the rest of my natural life. The wine was mouthwatering, the salad tossed tableside. I don’t even like salad. But one taste assured me I would have gladly given an ovary for it.

I glanced up. Miguel Rivera was watching me. I stopped the wild masticating. He smiled.

“It is refreshing to see a woman enjoying her food so.”

Oh, shit. That meant I was eating like a starved porker. I stopped myself just short of apologizing.

Instead, I cleared my throat, leaned back, dabbed at the corner of my mouth with a starched napkin, and refused to remark on the fact that it was real linen and I had missed breakfast.

“I did not mean to make you self-conscious,” he said.

And I didn’t mean to eat the tablecloth.

“It’s quite good,” I admitted.

“Yes. One of Salina’s favorites. She had excellent taste.”

And probably didn’t drool on the menu.

Our entrées arrived. If my waistband wasn’t already feeling tight I would have thought I had died and gone to heaven.

My first incision into the cannelloni was careful, lest I swoon. I followed up with a little light conversation.

“What do you think happened to Salina?” I asked. Okay, maybe not too light.

The senator swirled his wine and gazed into the glass. “That I do not know.”

“What are the police saying?”

“Very little at this time. At least to me.”

“Did she have enemies?”

The whisper of a smile lightened his conquistador face. He’d barely touched his manicotti. Was that the sign of a murderer or simple derangement? “What beautiful woman does not?”

“Who were they?”

“Discounting my wife?”

I stopped eating, glanced up.

“Forgive me,” he said, and gave me a grim smile. “That was but a poor joke.”

“Your wife knew Salina?”

He sipped his wine, fingers long and tanned against the pale, sparkling beverage. “From the time she was a child,” he said, and shook his head. “In retrospect, I see that Rosita’s resentment is somewhat understandable.”

No shit, Sherlock. “Resentment?”

“Ms. McMullen,” he said, and lifted his hand the slightest degree. A waiter appeared like a pop-up in a children’s book. A motion of the fingers, and the senator’s plate was removed and we were alone once again. He leaned forward. “I have a confession to make.”

Wouldn’t that be convenient?

“I knew a good deal about you even before we met.”

“I don’t always eat this fast,” I said. “I skipped breakfast.”

He smiled.

I didn’t say anything. In my world this kind of observation is usually followed by a farewell speech involving phrases like “see other people” and “someone younger.”

“You are a unique woman,” he said, “interesting, amusing…and, if I may say, quite beautiful.”

Hmmmm?

“But those are the reasons my son is fascinated by you. I am interested for an entirely different purpose.”

Beautiful?

“You have wisdom.”

Quite
beautiful?

“I know of your…encounter with Andrew Bomstad,” he said.

My mind snapped back to business. “Oh?”

“It was you who deduced the identity of his killer.”

“I—”

He raised a hand. No waiter popped up. I wondered how they discerned the difference between animated conversation and gastric demands.

“My son is a fine police officer. But even with all the men and equipment at his disposal, he could not determine the culprit was actually your colleague.”

I felt the blood leave my cheeks at the reminder. I liked to think I’d put the pieces of my past behind me. But some pieces were farther behind than others. “David showed up in my kitchen with a grudge and a butcher knife,” I said. “It made detection simpler.”

“You are modest.”

What I was was lucky to be was alive, and I damned well knew it. In fact, this little conversation was serving as a reminder that I’d rather like to stay that way.

“I also know of the threat to your secretary’s life,” he added.

I felt a little sick to my stomach. I was pretty sure it wasn’t the entrée. I’d defend Rosata’s cannelloni to the death. “It’s been an interesting year.”

“It was you who saved her and foiled the plot to steal her boyfriend’s invention.”

Foiled? “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Senator.”

“You are an intelligent woman, Ms. McMullen. Intelligent and well educated. But there is more to you than that. You have strength. In your head and in your heart.” I watched him. He watched me back. “You were a waitress once, were you not?”

I shuffled in my seat. It would have been nice to deny my former occupation, since any connection with an establishment called the Warthog was unlikely to do my rarified reputation much good. But I figured he already knew the truth. “A cocktail waitress, actually.”

He nodded. “So you have education and you have the smarts.”

“I—”

“They are entirely different, you know.”

“Senator Rivera, I’m afraid—”

“Police departments are not unlike marriages.”

Huh? “I beg your pardon?”

“They are filled with emotion. Trust and love, yes. But also disappointment, bitterness.” He made a fist and gritted his teeth. “Jealousy.”

I stared at him.

“Believe me, I know this to be true.”

“I’ve never been married.”

“My son is innocent,” he said. “Of this I have no doubt, but I am not certain how diligently his colleagues will attempt to clear his name.”

“Why is that?”

He paused, thinking, then, “Some years ago, Gerald had a young informant who was instrumental to an ongoing investigation. The young man was found dead in the San Gabriel River. Gerald was understandably upset and blamed his partner.”

“His—”

“Nathaniel Graystone.”

I remembered the blocky, sharp-eyed detective who had questioned me outside of the senator’s house, but kept my cursing to myself. “Rivera thinks Graystone killed his informant?”

“Not with a gun or a blade, but with words. Gerald believed the detective had leaked information about the boy. And as you know, my son is not one to keep his ideas to himself, no matter how far they might be fetched.”

My mind was making little loops in my cranium.

He leaned back in his chair, watching me, fingers still wrapped around the elegant stemware. “So you see, Ms. McMullen, there is reason to believe his contemporaries, some of them at least, may not wish to prove his innocence.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“I believe you have a deep understanding of people. Thus, I wish for you to tell me all you can.”

“About what?”

“My son.”

“I don’t—”

He smiled and held up his hand. “As you know, there is a rift between us. I hope to mend that rift, for he will be in need of a friend.”

The meaning of his words sunk in slowly. “You think he’ll be found guilty?”

He said nothing for a moment, then, “Tell me of my boy.”

I felt breathless. “Listen, Senator, I appreciate the fact that you hope to reacquaint yourself with your son, but I assure you, I am hardly his confidan—”

“I am certain you know more than you realize.”

I had to think there wasn’t much evidence to substantiate that. “Such as?”

“His dreams.” He shrugged. “His friends, his enemies.”

The truth dawned on me with ferocious suddenness, or belated lethargy. “You think someone set him up.”

“I do not know.” His eyes were hard, his gaze steady. “But I will learn what I can, and you will help me.”

“I’m afraid—”

“That is not what I have heard.”

“What?”

“I do not think you are easily frightened, Ms. McMullen.”

He was wrong. I was about ready to pee in my pants and we hadn’t even ordered dessert. “Maybe you’ve gotten the wrong impression, Senator. I don’t believe I know your son nearly as well as you think. In fact, we only met—”

“When he accused you of murdering the man who intended to disgrace you.”

Disgrace? An old-world euphemism for a crime committed by cowards and perverts.

“My son is not always tactful,” he said. “This I am certain you already know.”

I didn’t agree. But I sure as hell didn’t disagree, either.

“Who else has he insulted, I wonder?” he mused.

Nearly everyone, I assumed. He was Rivera. “I have no way of knowing,” I said.

“This Dr. Hawkins. He was a powerful man, was he not?”

“David?” I still got a lump in my throat when I said his name. I had considered him one of my closest friends before he tried to kill me. Since then, there’s been some tension between us. “He’s in prison,” I said.

“Because of, or partly because of, my son.”

I let that information soak into my brain.

“Perhaps he holds a grudge,” the senator said. “Perhaps he wants nothing more than to see Gerald incarcerated with him.”

“If you’re looking at old cases, don’t you think there could be hundreds of possibilities?”

“No,” he said, “I do not. If someone killed my Salina—”

“If?”

He shrugged. “There was no weapon found. No forced entry.”

“I thought the police hadn’t told you anything.”

He smiled. “Information is power, Christina. May I call you Christina?”

I nodded numbly.

“Hence,
if
someone killed her, he was extremely clever. He was able to breech my security, to get inside, to make it look as though my son was the culprit. I do not believe I know anyone so clever…or so devious.”

Maybe that was because his son
was
the culprit. Or maybe the senator was lying through his teeth. I felt sick to my stomach. “Who knew your security code?”

He smiled grimly. “We had not lived there long. I could barely remember it myself.”

“So no friends knew?”

“No.”

“How about family?”

He said nothing. I waited a beat and continued. “Did your ex-wife know the code?”

“I am not so foolish as that, Christina.” He poured me more wine. “Indeed—”

“What about your son?”

The bottle clicked against my glass. His gaze met mine.

“Did Rivera know the code?” I asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” he said, and motioned to the waiter, who appeared in a heartbeat with the dessert tray.

“My guest would like one of your wonderful treats, I think,” he said.

“I really shouldn’t,” I argued, but I would have been more convincing if I told them my head was made of cheese.

He smiled. “You must try the tiramisu. It was Salina’s favorite.”

“Are you having some?”

“I have never been fond of sweets,” he said, “but please, be my guest.”

Not fond of sweets? Did that make him a murderer, or just damned weird?

I ordered the tiramisu and watched him as the waiter hurried away.

“Did Salina have any health problems?” I asked.

“Not that I am aware of.”

“And yet you believe she may have died of natural causes?” It seemed ludicrous.

“As I said, I do not know what to believe, except that my son is innocent.”

Yeah, I thought, he’d mentioned that, but I wasn’t about to tell him that methought he was protesting too much. At least not until I’d had my dessert.

10

I
’M A NEW WOMAN. Too smart to get involved,” I said, and panted up Wildwood Hill. I was out for a bit of a jog with Elaine. Which is like saying
“I’m doing a little biking with Lance.”

“Are you sure you’re not already involved?” she asked. As far as I could tell she hadn’t started breathing yet that morning.

“Absolutely.” I was wishing I hadn’t left Harlequin at home, ’cuz sometimes he sniffs things out and yanks me to a halt. There were only so many times I could stop to tie my shoes without Laney getting suspicious. “If Rivera had wanted me involved in his life he would have told me he was dating Salma Hayek. He would have said his father was currently sleeping with Salma Hayek and confessed that he was still infatuated with Salma Hayek.”

“Are you trying to tell me Salina looked like Salma Hayek?”

“Salma Hayek with brains, according to Rivera.”

“Which is assuming two things. One, the real Salma doesn’t have brains…which, when I met her, didn’t seem to be true. And two, the lieutenant’s still infatuated with her, which certainly didn’t seem to be true.”

“Well…” My respiratory system was threatening revolt and my stomach was starting to chime in. My lungs can collapse at the slightest provocation, but my gastronomic system has been given a five-star rating by the Belly Association. I can run five miles before my gut starts to act up. I wish like hell I hadn’t found it necessary to prove that. “I saw her,” I said.

“And she looked like Salma Hayek?”

“How’d you guess?” I was beginning to pant like a retriever.

“I’m psychic. So Senator Rivera thinks his son is innocent?”

“That’s what he said.”

Laney was quiet for a while. Still no breathing. Pretty soon I was going to tackle her and check for a pulse.

“But you don’t believe him.”

We rounded a corner. Two guys on skateboards stopped to watch us jog past. Their jaws were somewhere around their waistbands…which, in a bow to the fashion lords, was just about knee level.

Laney was wearing a sports bra and shorts. I was wearing the same. I could have been wearing a Dutch oven and dancing the cancan. I doubt if they would have noticed.

“Of course I do,” I said. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You don’t believe him,” she said, arms swinging rhythmically. Mine had lost the tempo about five million steps back.

I stumbled to a halt at a stop sign. Thank God for traffic. I didn’t have an appointment until eleven o’clock. If people weren’t impeding our progress by rushing off to work, I’d have to feign a broken ankle…again.

“I didn’t say that,” I huffed, squinting gratefully at the passing cars.

Elaine loped onto the street. Seems like the traffic had suddenly stopped in both directions. Like Moses at the Red Sea. Only it was Brainy Laney at Riverton and Stagg.

“You don’t believe him,” she repeated.

I lurched back into a shambling limp and panted up beside her. My feet hurt and my bladder was starting to whine. “He admitted that
Gerald
was still infatuated with her.”

“Gerald?”

I shrugged at the nomenclature. Rivera looked more like a gerbil than a Gerald.

“He actually said that his son was in love with his own fiancée?”

“Not in so many words.”

“So you’re psychic, too?”

“Yes.” Monosyllables were my friends. “And he doesn’t believe she called him.”

“How do you know?”

“He hedged when I asked.”

“Ahhh.”

I took a few moments to huff up a mogul-size mountain. “I think Rivera had their security code.”

“And went in uninvited?”

I scowled.

“Is that what his father thinks?”

“Yes.”

“Did he say as much?”

“His eyes did.”

She gave me a look. “What did his mouth say exactly?”

“That Gerald knew that he and Salina were incompatible.”

“And by that you determined…”

“Who did Salina look like?” I panted.

“Salma Hayek?”

I managed a nod. “Have you ever known a man who’d consider himself incompatible with Salma Hayek?”

“Besides Jeen, you mean?”

I stopped beside a row of oleander and bent double. “I think I’m going to ralph.”

She laughed. Elaine has a nasty side. Sometimes I forget that, until I’m stupid enough to exercise with her again. “So you think he believes his own son killed his fiancée?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I gritted my teeth and straightened, scrunching up my face and holding my guts in with my hand. “There was a crapload of mixed messages.”

“Is he interested in you?”

“What?”

She shrugged, did a few stretches. Twenty feet away, tires squealed. Someone honked, long and angry. It must have been a woman. Men don’t get angry when Laney’s stretching. “I think it’s been established that he’s not above stealing his son’s love interests.”

I forgot about the pain in my side. “That’s crazy.”

“Hmm?” she said, all innocence.

But I knew what she was doing. I’m a trained professional. “He is not trying to make me believe Rivera is guilty so I’ll transfer my supposed interest to him.”

She shrugged and jogged in place. I thought the old guy walking by with his Lhasa apso might swallow his teeth.

“He’s not.” I started off at a slow jog, hoping all my viscera would stay inside where they belong.

“And what has led you to this conclusion?”

“First of all, I’m not Rivera’s love interest.”

“What are you?”

“Wish I knew. Secondly, Miguel had Salma Hayek.”

“Maybe he thinks he can upgrade to Christina McMullen.”

There’s a reason I put up with Elaine’s perfection. It’s because she’s perfect.

“Ph.D.,” she added.

I scowled. Mostly ’cuz it was the only expression I was still capable of performing that far into the run. “Discounting the mixed messages, the senator seemed like a decent enough guy.”

“He probably is, then.”

“He wouldn’t intentionally cast suspicions on his own son.”

We trooped along. She didn’t comment.

“On the other hand.” My mind was working about as efficiently as my body. If I was lucky I’d survive long enough to die on Laney’s walkway. “He is a politician. In which case, it’s lucky he didn’t
eat
his own son. But…”

“But what?”

“But it doesn’t matter to me, does it?”

“Because you’re not getting involved.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Mac.”

I turned toward her. Her voice sounded funny.

“You make a lousy hero,” she said.

“Do not,” I countered, but she was right. Last time I’d tried it was when her boyfriend had gotten himself in big-ass trouble and had inadvertently pulled her in after him. It had taken a full SWAT team to save the lot of us.

“Do, too,” she said. “Besides, you don’t even like him.”

“That’s true.” We trotted along side by side. Some people say they get their second wind after a mile or so. I was still waiting for my first one. “And God knows he doesn’t need my help.”

“He’s a police lieutenant,” she said, apparently by way of agreement, but it got me thinking.

“The senator thought that might be the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“He thinks Rivera has made enemies.”

“I believe I remember
you
threatening to kill him.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t have anything against Salina. Not until I realized she looked like—”

“Salma Hayek,” she said.

I tried a “There you go” shrug. Only one shoulder still functioned. “And she was already dead when I first saw her.”

“So you’re pretty sure you didn’t do it?”

“Almost positive.”

“How about the senator?”

“I’m less sure about him.”

“Where was he supposed to be when it happened?”

“On a plane.”

“To where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because you’re not involved?”

“And because he didn’t tell me. How’d your audition go?” Life is too short for proper segues.

“Which one?”

“For the warrior princess.”

“Amazon queen,” she corrected. “I don’t know.” Both of her shoulders seemed to be functional. “Okay, I guess. But I haven’t heard from them. I think they wanted someone…” She searched for the word. I watched her face. When I run I sweat like something in the porcine family. She glows. Honest to God. If she ever gets pregnant her husband won’t need a night-light.

“With only one breast?” I guessed.

“Sexier.”

“Are you kidding?”

“The woman after me wore a string bikini and stiletto heels.”

“I didn’t even know Amazon queens had stiletto heels.”

“And she could sing.”

“Wow.”

“And the girl after her must have been six-one in her bare feet.”

“Can she find the square root of six-digit numbers in her head?”

“I forgot to ask.”

“Missed opportunity,” I said.

“I’ll remember next time.”

We turned onto Keswick and headed downhill. It was only half a mile before I could die in peace by Laney’s front door.

“Do you think I should throw in the towel?” she asked.

“What?” I turned toward her in mild surprise. I was pretty sure I had heard her wrong, but I’d been fantasizing about Magnificent Mint Julep ice cream, so it was difficult to be certain.

“Should I quit acting?”

“Seriously?”

She sighed. Apparently, both lungs still functioned, too. Bitch. “I’m tired of rejection.”

“What are you talking about? Didn’t the producer give you his phone number last time?”

“Yeah, but—”

“And his cell, e-mail, and firstborn?”

“Look at you,” she said. “You accomplished what you set out to do.”

“What are you talking about? Do you see ice cream in my hand?”

“I’m thirty-three years old and still hopping from audition to audition, begging for menial parts.”

“That’s because men are idiots.”

“Some of them are women.”

“They’re jealous idiots.”

“That’s what Jeen says.”

“Oh, crap.”

“Yep,” she said, and grinned. “You’re thinking like the Geekster.”

We jogged along as I ruminated on that sour news.

Three blocks from our beloved destination, we dropped down to a walk. I was chanting
“Thank you, Jesus”
in my brain.

“So you haven’t heard from the dark lieutenant lately?” she asked, hands on hips as she swayed toward home.

“Not since he stopped in to terrorize me.”

“Then you don’t know if he’s on active duty or not.”

“Could have been voted king, for all I know.”

“You haven’t called him?”

“No.”

“Because the new Chrissy’s too smart to get involved?”

I gave her a stiff head bob. “Because the new Chrissy’s too smart to get involved.”