Not One Clue (2 page)

I waited for his comeback but he was silent for a moment, then, “He’ll be good to her.”

For a moment I couldn’t say anything. Elaine had been my pillar through every major catastrophe in my life: my first period, zits, and the devastating realization that most guys
are
like my brothers. That truth can still bring me to tears. But the thought of her wedding looming over me like a gawking gargoyle was almost more than I could bear. The only positive thing to come out of the impending ceremony was the fact that this would be the first time my bridesmaid gown wouldn’t look like a pink train wreck.

“You know that, don’t you?” Rivera asked. “That he’ll be good to her?”

“Sure.” My voice sounded a little strange. I glanced up. The iron knob on the antique bed Laney had given me as a bridesmaid gift gleamed dully. She’d found it at a Hollywood estate sale. Upon examination, I had discovered the initials “A.A.L.” scratched in the metal. With my luck, it probably stood for the forerunner of Alcoholics Anonymous.

“Besides, you can always kick his ass if he isn’t,” Rivera said.

I refrained from sniffling. “It wasn’t his
ass
I was thinking of.”

He was silent for a moment, then, “Jesus, McMullen, if you’re considering
any
part of Solberg’s anatomy, it might be too late for me to save you.”

I scowled at the ceiling.

“But I’m willing to make the effort.”

Despite myself, I laughed. “You’re a giver.”

“Like a saint.”

“God, I hope not,” I said, and he chuckled.

“Last chance,” he said.

“Promise?”

There was a momentary pause, then, “Not on your life,” he said, and hung up.

I did the same, shuffled the receiver into its cradle, and smiled even though there was less than a month left until my best friend’s wedding. A month during which she was staying with me since she’d given up her apartment long ago and didn’t relish the idea of hotel life. I had hoped we would have some time to spend alone together, but her schedule was pretty hairy. Not only was there the wedding from Elm Street to contend with, there was also a considerable amount of hoopla involving the upcoming spin-off of her popular television series,
Amazon Queen. Jungle Heat
featured several of Laney’s coactors and would premiere soon. Wesley Donovan, a relative newcomer to female fantasies, played the male lead and was creating most of the hoped-for heat.

All this meant that the Geekster would not only be nearby, he could damned well be
in my house
. The idea made my skin crawl, but the phone rang again, pulling me from my morbid musings.

I grinned through the darkness at it. There’s nothing like a trash-talking stalker to make a girl feel special.

I picked up the receiver on the third ring. “Okay. But bring a condom,” I whispered, then squirmed a little and wondered how I was going to sneak Rivera past Laney. “Hell,” I corrected, “bring a box of ’em. Do they still come in boxes? It’s been—”

“He’s dead,” a voice hissed.

I jerked upright in bed, heart crammed tight in my throat. “What? Who is this?” I rasped.

But the dial tone was already buzzing in my ear.

2

I been a pretty good mama. Too bad I’ll have to wait for my funeral to hear it said out loud.

—
Shirley Templeton—mother
of seven, and a vocal
proponent of birth control

M
y muscles were frozen, my lungs petrified. I jerked my gaze toward the hall, sure someone was watching me, but the doorway was empty, so I yanked my imagination under control and jabbed Rivera’s number into the keypad.

His line was busy. I hung up and tried again. Same results. Settling the receiver into the cradle, I stepped off the bed, stiff as a pool cue, but just then the phone rang. I squawked as I swung toward it.

Atop the bed, Harlequin stared at me, sleepy-eyed, head half lifted from the mattress, one ear cocked up. Slowly I reached once again for the receiver.

“Who is this?” My voice quivered like a falsetto’s.

“I think I killed him,” the voice hissed again. It was juxtaposed eerily against a keening noise in the background.

“I’m calling the police.”

“They’re already coming.”

I moved to hang up, but in that instant a sliver of recognition pierced my foggy brain. Squinting, I tightened my grip on the phone. “Who—”

“I came to see the boy. Just wanted to see him. You know? Never had much family. Not really. Didn’t intend to … Didn’t think …”

“Micky?” The name came out on a rasp of surprise. Micky Goldenstone was one of my clients, but even I’m not stupid enough to hand out my home phone number like a suicidal real estate agent. “How did you get this—”

“Listen …” He drew a heavy breath as if searching for calm, and when he next spoke, his voice was steady, cool even, carefully enunciated. “I don’t have much time before the cops show up.”

“The cops …” I shook my head. Sometimes it’s the most intelligent thing I can think to do. “What—”

“I need you to drive over.”

“Over where?” Or whom? “What are you talking about?”

“Glendale. I don’t want the boy to spend the night here. Or with the county.”

“Jamel?” I was guessing wildly, mind spinning.

“Yeah.”

“I thought he was living in Lynwood with his aunt.”

“I guess Lavonn’s boyfriend’s loaded. Bought himself this big-ass house in Glendale. But that don’t …” His voice, calm just moments before, broke. “There’s a shitload of blood, Doc.”

My stomach pinched up tight, but sometimes in a crisis the professional me manages to squeeze past the real me and see the light of day. This was one of those auspicious moments. “I need you to take a deep breath, Micky, and start at the beginning.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

The keening in the background changed pitch, setting my teeth on edge and my nerves on stun.

“At the beginning,” I said again.

I heard him inhale. It sounded shaky, but when next he spoke, his tone had settled into default mode. “Like I says, I just wanted to see ’im.” Under duress, Micky’s lexicon tends to slip toward ghetto. Apparently, a “shitload of blood,” tended to cause duress.

“Yes. You told me.”

“But when I come to the door they was—”

“Whose?” I asked, voice firm and strong. “Whose door?”

“Lavonn’s. When I come to the door, her and Jackson was stoned out of their minds. Higher than—”

“We wasn’t stoned!” The voice in the background was pitched high with hysteria. “We wasn’t. We don’t do that no more. We was just relaxin’. That’s all. Jesus Christ! You didn’t have to shoot ’im,” she said and sobbed brokenly. In my mind I imagined her rocking back and forth, arms hugging her chest, head dropped.

“I don’t know what the fuck—” Micky began, but I interrupted.

“Did you shoot him?”

There was a pause, during which I could hear him swallow. “Bastard had a gun.”

“Jackson?”

Maybe he nodded. It was damned hard to tell. “He had a piece and he was high. I’ll swear to that.”

“Where’s the gun now?”

He drew a shuddering breath. “In my hand.”

I closed my eyes and swallowed bile. “You think the police are on the way?”

“I called ’em.”

I could imagine him doing that. “Okay. You have to put the gun down, Micky.”

There was a pause, long and wearing and filled with the residue of someone sobbing.

“I ain’t going to the pen,” he said finally. “They’re like caged animals there.”

And he would know. He’d been a guard at Folsom before becoming a third-grade schoolteacher. “So what’s your plan?”

I could imagine him glancing at the body. At Lavonn, crouching beside it. Maybe at the boy. “Could be, this is when I buy it.”

My mind went into a kind of slow spin, picking up a hundred crystal-sharp memories of my sessions with him. Micky had a past that would have doomed a lesser man. He had a history and he had a conscience. Sometimes that’s too much for anybody. “You think now’s the time to kill yourself?” I asked.

Another pause, long and painful. “Good a time as any.”

I kept my voice steady. “In front of your son.”

“I sent him to his room. Right after I called you the first time. Didn’t want him seein’ …” His voice broke again. “Didn’t want …” Words failed.

“I thought you said he was a smart kid.”

“Yeah.” He sniffled. “He ain’t got no one to help him with his studies, but he’s bright.” His voice had gone very quiet. “You can tell sometimes. You can just tell when they’re—”

“But you don’t think he’ll figure out that you killed yourself.” I cut off his blooming paternal pride. Cut off the meandering musings, and that changed the tone of his voice.

“I won’t be goin’ to the pen, Doc. I seen what it’s—”

“Yeah, he’s probably not worth your trouble. Just a skinny black kid with ears that stick out.” We’d discussed the boy’s ears at some length in our sessions. But Micky wasn’t talking now. The phone had gone quiet except for the sobbing in the background. “His mother was a druggie, wasn’t she?” I asked.

“I know what you’re doing,” he said. His tone had gone tight and edgy.

“That’s because you’re smart, too, Micky,” I said. “But it didn’t save
you
, did it?”

I could almost hear him wince. “You owe me,” he said.

I gripped the receiver tighter, because it was true. He’d done me a favor when my own life had been in danger, but I wasn’t about to pay up without gaining something. “Promise me you won’t use the gun and I’ll come get him.”

“I can’t—”

“So you’re going to screw him, too? Like you did his mother?”

“Fuck you,” he said, but his voice had gone scratchy and he didn’t hang up. A niggle of hope nudged me.

“Promise me and I’ll make sure he’s safe until you can take care of him yourself.”

“I can’t take care of no one.” His voice cracked.

“Not if you’re dead.”

He swore, then the line went quiet, almost silent, except for the humming keen in the background. “Promise,” I said.

“Okay.”

“Say it.”

“Damn you!” His breath hissed into the receiver for a moment, then he said, “I promise,” and after rattling off the address, hung up.

3

Maybe skinny’s okay for them runway models and little girls who ain’t yet got their monthlies. But
real
women oughtta have them some heft.

—
Ella Brady, Chrissy’s
favorite grandmother

M
y hands were shaking like castanets as I hung up the phone. Harlequin canted his head at me. “Micky Goldenstone,” I said.

He blinked. I turned in a haze, searching for something. What was it? Shoes. I would need shoes. A pair of sneakers caught my eye. At least I thought they were a pair, but it hardly mattered. Crime scene victims rarely put a lot of stock in couture. I slipped into the tennies and remembered a half-dozen other victims I had seen in the past few years. Gooseflesh skittered across my arms. Scooping a denim jacket from the chair beside my bed, I dragged it on and searched for my purse. There. My keys. Beside it.

Checking for my cell, I said good-bye to Harley and stepped into the night. It seemed unreasonably dark on Opus Street. Popping down the Saturn’s noisy locks, I started the engine, flipped open my phone, and dialed Rivera. Still busy.

I called 911 next and was promptly put on hold, but I had already punched the address into my GPS and was turning onto Foothill Boulevard. Too late to turn back now.

The song with those lyrics popped erratically into my head. I tried to pop it back out, but it had a foothold. I mouthed a few words, feeling sick to my stomach. Traffic was light. Murphy’s Law. The only time I didn’t really want to go anywhere …

“It’s too late …” My voice sounded hollow in the dark interior of the car. The lights from the dash made my knuckles look as sharp and fragile as bare bones.

“… to turn back now.”

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

“Yes!” My voice sounded spastic. I’d forgotten I had been put on hold. “I’d like to report a …” What? “Crime.”

“What’s your name?”

I gave it, then marched out all the information I could. It wasn’t much. “I think someone may have already reported it,” I said.

“Very well. Are you in a safe location?”

“Yes.” The song was still humming through my mind when I hung up and wheeled onto Greenbriar. Something streaked across the road in the darkness ahead of me. I gasped. My foot jerked over the brake, but whatever it was had already disappeared.

By the time I pulled up to Jackson’s curb my heart was pounding like Judge Judy’s gavel. Lights were blazing in the two-story house. It was Spanish Colonial in design, old-world elegant with a railed second-floor balcony and tall, narrow windows. No ambulance loomed in the broad street out front. There wasn’t a police car in sight.

“I believe, I believe, I believe …” I held my Mace in one wobbly hand and stepped from the dubious safety of the Saturn. My knees felt unsteady, but managed to carry me up the curving, red-tiled walkway. The world felt surreal and oddly skewed.