07 Uncorked - Chrissy McMullen Mystery (8 page)

“But you’re not in love with him.”

“No.” I sighed, then snapped my eyes open and rolled my head sideways. Our faces were less than twenty-four inches apart. “I’m not in love with Rivera either. Not anymore at least.”

She raised her brows at me. Our gazes met. “Need I remind you of the ice cream, Mac?”

I scowled up at her. Gilded curls framed her angelic face. It’s not easy scowling at a celestial being. It takes some practice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The Rocky Road.” Her voice was soothing and patient. “You didn’t finish it off for a good twenty minutes. For a while I thought I was going to lose you.”

“I’ve turned down ice cream before.”

“Yes.” She squinted into the near distance and brushed a lock of misplaced hair behind my ear. “I believe you were eleven years old and you had the stomach flu.” I tried to remain sober, but the grin peeked out. “I’ve never been so sick in my life.”

“So you threw up in Peter’s face.”

I giggled and rolled onto my back. “Ahhh, good times.” The room went quiet. “What are you going to do, Mac?”

“About what?”

“About Rivera,” she said, and yanked the hair she had just brushed behind my ear.

“Ow!”

“Somehow they’ve kept the media out of this. But the press is going to have a field day when it gets wind of this. That alone is going to be a pain for his department.” It was also going to be a pain for her if they discovered she was back in the country, but she didn’t mention that.

“What are you going to do about Rivera?” she asked again. Her tone was a little tougher.

Mine was whiny. “Nothing.”

She yanked again.

“Quit that. What can I do?”

“You can forget about it,” she said. “Just let it go.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it, Mac. You can leave this up to the authorities to handle. This isn’t your battle.”

“I know.”

“He’s gotten out of worse jams without your help.”

“Of course he has.”

“He’ll be fine.”

I shifted my eyes away.

“Mac!” She tapped my forehead with one sensible fingernail. “Don’t mess with this.”

“But—”

“No buts!” she said, and rising abruptly, dumped my head onto the lumpy sofa cushion. “No buts. He’s a big boy.”

“How do you know?” I asked and narrowed my eyes at her.

She gave me a how-nuts-are-you glance but managed to ignore the worst of the insanity. “He’s a big cop.”

“But he—”

She swung toward me, hands on perfectly proportioned hips. “What? What? He needs help from a civilian? Needs help from you? Mac, his dad’s a senator.”

“An ex-senator.”

“A wealthy ex-senator with a tremendous amount of clout.”

“An ex-senator who will hardly even talk to him.”

“And whose fault is that, Mac? It’s not as if Rivera is Mr. Cotton Candy. I mean, for all we know he might have shot Andrews.”

“He did not!” I said, and suddenly I was on my feet. “You take that back!” She stared at me, both eyebrows lost in her hairline.

I faced her for an instant longer, then collapsed back onto the couch, deflated, head in my hands, eyes closed.

“So it’s official,” I said, and nodded dismally at the obvious truth. “I’m certifiable.”
Chapter 8

A fool and his money are soon elected.

—Senator Rivera’s political opponent, who actually stole the quote from someone older
and wiser…and consequently not in politics

“Christina.” Senator Rivera drew me into his arms with warmth, caring and a good deal of drama. I could feel heads turn toward us as every eye in the room was brought to bear. Maybe it was the fact that he had been California’s senator for umpteen years.

Maybe it was because he had once been a presidential hopeful, but perhaps it was simply his phenotype that made men growl and women purr.

Miguel Rivera was an extremely attractive man. He was tall, dark and exotic, with a honey-edged Spanish accent and the politically advantageous ability to make an individual feel as if she were the center of the universe.

He pushed me to arms’ length and stared into my eyes, making me grateful that I had taken special care with my makeup that morning. Usually it’s a dab of this and a smidgen of that, but today it was more like a boatload of this and a couple tons of that. Plus my hair, usually as lank as an anemic mule’s tail, had been curled and tortured and lacquered into submission.

“Christina.” He said my name again, crooning it like a Latin lover. The sound made me miss Francois something fierce. “How are you faring, my dear?”

“I’m…” I cleared my throat and managed to refrain from glancing at the onlookers.

Their attention made me fidgety. It’s possible that the senator no longer noticed when he was the epicenter of attention, but I rather suspected he was not entirely oblivious. “I’m well,” I said, using my best diction. It always came out when my hair was curled. “How are you?”

He shook his head, looking somber and wise and paternal. It was an impressive performance, considering his history involving young women and old scotch. “Let us not speak of me. It is you with whom I am concerned.” That’s how he spoke. Not like an everyday, on-the-street kind of guy, but with an old-world charm that left the great unwashed masses, of which I was just one mass, hanging onto every word. Sometimes I wondered if he had to spend extra time slumped in his easy chair at home, wearing nothing but his whitey-tighties and cursing the TV just to offset his public demeanor. “I know this is not easy for you.”

“Senator.” The maitre d’ appeared with shining obsequiousness. “Might you wish for your usual seat?”

“Ahh, Antoine. Si, gracias.” And touching a hand to my back, the senator ushered me toward the inner sanctum of one of L.A.’s snootiest restaurants. If I were paying for the meal we would have been throwing down French fries at Micky D’s by then, but the senator had picked the spot and therefore, I assumed, also planned on making the payments.

The maitre d’ pulled out my chair. I eased into it, remembering, before I sat down, to tuck my skirt against my thighs like an honest-to-goodness lady. The ensemble I wore was one of my favorites. The skirt was a cute little silky number, popsicle green with a ruffle around the hem just for fun. My blouse was just as adorable. It was strappy and form fitting and topped off with a funky beaded necklace that my sister-in-law had made while pregnant. She and my brother’s ensuing offspring was proof positive that it doesn’t take a shitload of brain cells to create motile sperm.

“Antoine,” the senator said, “we shall have a bottle of your ‘95 Chateau Margaux, please, and a few minutes alone.” The maitre d’ left with a slight bow. The senator turned toward me. “Christina…” he said, and reaching across the table, took my right hand in his. His fingernails were prettier than mine. “You look more lovely than ever.” I refrained from clearing my throat but couldn’t quite resist fiddling with the silverware with my free hand. Each piece weighed half a ton and if hocked, could probably pay my second mortgage. “Thank you.”

His expression sobered even further, which was quite a miraculous feat. “I cannot tell you how it pained me to hear that you and my son had gone your separate ways. I have, for so long, thought of you as my daughter,” he said, and stroked my knuckles. A little shiver of something less than familial raced up my spine. It was difficult to identify. In fact, maybe it was best not to try. After all, it wasn’t that long ago that the senator had become engaged to one of his son’s ex-girlfriends. Even more recently, said girlfriend had been found toes up on the senator’s well-polished hardwood floor.

The Rivera family closets come fully stocked…skeletons being liberally scattered amongst the Armani suits.

“Thank you,” I said again, and coyly dropped my gaze to the tablecloth. “But that’s not what I wished to speak to you about.”

“Of course not.” He drew a deep breath, making his nostrils flare dramatically. “Of course it is not, Christina, for you are a wonderful, caring woman.” I stared at him. I’ve been called a bunch of things. Wonderful, caring…not so often.

He shrugged, eyes sparking a little at my obvious uncertainty. “Even though you and my son are no longer lovers, you still care for his well-being, si?” I wasn’t sure how to answer that one. I mean, I had no intention of saying that I retained any sort of feelings for Rivera. He was an ass, remember? Then again, it seemed kind of wrong to tell the senator that his only son was a cheating piece of dog poop and I didn’t care if he burned in hell for all eternity. I hedged carefully. “Do you know where he’s being held?”

He stared at me for a second, saying nothing, then, “Christina…” His paternal voice was one of his best, but my knuckles hadn’t forgotten the stroking. “I know you only wish to help, but this wound…” He shook his head gently. “…it is not yours to heal.”

“I know, but Rivera…” I paused and adjusted my phraseology to fit the audience.

“Gerald and I were…” What were we exactly? “We were friends, and it only seems right that I help him.” I leaned forward, hands fisted on the table, emotions circling like angry buzzards inside me. “I need answers, Senator. Why was he arrested? What kind of evidence do they have that he was involved? Where is he?”

“Ahhh…” He shook his head and stroked my hand again. “Such is your kindness even though he broke your heart.”

“He didn’t break my heart,” I said, even though he had kind of broken my heart. “We simply decided it would be best if we went our separate ways. I mean, we’re too different. But that’s not the point. The point is, he’s been unjustly accused.” He smiled with kindly understanding. “You are a generous woman,” he said. “And I am certain you are right. I am certain that the other woman meant nothing to him.” Who was talking about the other woman? I certainly hadn't. I hadn’t even been thinking of the other woman…mostly. Still, I felt my face heat up, felt my anger flare like an acetylene torch. “You know about her?”

His smile lifted a little more. “I have been planted in the City of Angels for a long while, Christina. My roots go deep. There is little I do not know, especially if it concerns those for whom I care.”

“I care for him, too,” I said, but if Rivera had been standing right in front of me at that precise moment, I would have been hard pressed not to smack him in the eye with the just-arrived bottle of whatever the hell it was. “Not in a romantic way,” I hurried to add. “But more like a…” I was going to say brother, but I detest my own brothers.

Besides, the idea of doing the things with a brother that I had done with Rivera made me want to heave up my ovaries. “Senator…,” I said, changing tack. Leaning back slightly, I carefully withdrew my hand from his grasp. “Do you know where your son is being held?”

He stared at me with doleful earnestness. “I am afraid I do not.” Like most politicians, Senator Rivera was an exemplary liar. I mean, I’m good, but I may never have the opportunity to hone my skills to the razor-sharp edge he has achieved. Practice, you know, is everything.

“As you said, your roots go deep,” I reminded him. “Therefore, I find it somewhat difficult to believe—” He held up a perfectly manicured hand.

“Perhaps I should have said that I do not wish to know where he is."

“Senator, please,” I began, ready to plead in earnest, but in that instant I realized what he had just said and canted my head in his direction. “You don’t want to know?” He shrugged, a ridiculously graceful lift of his ridiculously expensive shoulder pads.

“I am certain that seems harsh, Christina, but the truth is this…” Another deep sigh of paternal patience. “I believe now that I was wrong to fight my son’s battles for so long. I did him no favors, I think, by disallowing him to pay his debt to society.” It was said that Rivera Junior had spent some time in juvie…but only until Rivera Senior could pull the necessary strings to get him out. How he had, later, been accepted into cop class with no questions asked was not much of a mystery. “I fear it is time for Gerald to pay his own debts.”

“His own debts?” Something bubbled in my innards, but I calmed the digestive juices. “You’re not saying you think he’s guilty.”

“Ahh, Christina…” He stared at me with tender understanding. “How it warms the cockles of my heart to realize your loyalty even after all he has done.” I scowled at him. I didn’t really care what it did to his cockles. The man’s son was in trouble. And a father was supposed to care about that sort of thing. Wasn’t he?

“This isn’t about what he’s done to me,” I said. “This has to do with the fact that he’s innocent.”

He leaned toward me, and though he didn’t glance right or left, I got the impression that he was sensing those around him, making sure none were listening…or perhaps making sure they were. “And are you so certain he is innocent, Christina? Are you really?”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. “He’s not a murderer.” The senator watched me in silence for a moment, then shook his head. “I do not wish to degrade your faith in him, Christina, but perhaps you do not know him as well as you think. My son, though I care a great deal for him, can be a very difficult man.” I stared at him, keeping my expression bland and managing to refrain from reminding him that his son had been the bane of my existence for more than five years.

He’d accused me of murdering my would-be rapist, for God’s sake. “All right,” I said carefully. “I’ll grant that he can be difficult. But being a police officer is extremely important to him. He would never sabotage his career.”

“Christina, my dear…” He sighed heavily and shook his head once.

I gritted my teeth. Patience is not my first virtue. I can name a couple dozen other qualities that aren’t right up there at the top of the list as well. I considered telling the good senator, before things got out of hand, that self control was amongst them. But he blissfully continued in his increasingly irritating patient tone.

“I know it may seem, at times, that Gerald does not care for you as you deserve, but I believe, in my heart”—he curled his long fingers against the left side of his chest–“that he does.”

I shook my head, unsure what that had to do with the price of tortillas. But he went on to explain.