One Hot Mess (24 page)

“You're beautiful,” he countered, blinking.

I refrained from saying anything stupid. What are the chances? “I can't date clients.”

“Then I won't pay you. Let me buy you dinner.”

I shook my head.

“Lunch?”

“I don't think this is a good idea.” Translation: I didn't want to be killed by a crazy guy with kinky hair even if he was capable of blushing.

“How do you feel about condominiums?”

I glanced at him askance, like someone might look at an unknown variety of spider. “Living in them or—”

“I thought I could buy you one.”

“Perhaps you should leave.”

“No, listen, really.” He fidgeted. If he had had a hat, I'm pretty sure it would have been in his hand. “Ms. McMullen, I'm not crazy, I swear. It's just… my last relationship was a doozy.”

I felt deflated. That was usually
my
line. “Dating sucks,” I admitted.

“It was three years ago.”

“Listen, I'm sorry, but I haven't been incredibly lucky myself.”

“I'm a nice guy,” he said. “Really. Ask anyone. Ask my mom.”

I stared at him. “What's her phone number?”

He didn't laugh, didn't smile. Just rattled off the number.

I stared at him like a blank-faced mannequin for a second, then searched my desk and scribbled down the digits.

“Are you really going to call her?”

“Would she lie for you?”

“I hope so,” he said. “But I kind of doubt it.”

“Listen, Mr.—”

“Mac,” he said.

“Mr. Mac. You seem like a nice guy, but I—”

“I am.”

“Okay, but—”

“And did I mention how rich I am?” He said it like a hopeful urchin, and I couldn't quite help but laugh.

“I think you made mention.”

He smiled. “And pathetic,” he added.

“I'm kind of working that out for myself,” I said. “But, listen, the truth is, it's been kind of a hard year for me.”

“I promise not to try to kill you.”

My brows shot into my hairline.

He cleared his throat. “I… umm … I kind of checked into you.”

“Checked into—”

“Okay.” He glanced away, swallowed. “I hired a private investigator.”

“What?”

He looked worried, wounded. “Did I tell you my last girlfriend was crazy?”

“Literally, or…”

“She said the baby was mine.”

I stumbled through the land mines of unspoken possibilities for a minute. “But it wasn't?”

“It wasn't even
hers.”

I shook my head, confused but admittedly fascinated. Someone crazier than my dates. How disgustingly refreshing.

“She had ‘borrowed’ it.” He made air quotation marks with his fingers. “From a friend.”

I thought about that for a second. “I once dated a guy who thought he was Jesse James.”

“The outlaw or the car aficionado?”

“The outlaw.”

“That's weird.”

“Otherwise it wouldn't be?”

“Sandra Bullock's hot.” And supposedly that explained things. “I once dated a girl who kept ducks.”

“Farming is a venerable occupation.”

“In her bedroom. Twelve of them. It smelled like the penguin exhibit at the zoo.”

“Someone tried to kill me there once.”

He blinked. “I think I overpaid the investigator.”

I raised a brow.

“That seems like a pretty significant fact to leave out.”

I sighed. “Don't bother getting your money back. I lied. He didn't really try to kill me
there.
He was just thinking about it at the time. I know, because he admitted it later. While he was trying to kill me. With a poker.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I fell in love with a girl who swore she used to be a llama.”

I made an impressed expression, but came back with a zinger. “I once dated a guy who had a crush on my hot-water bottle.”

He opened his mouth, then shook his head, defeat written all over his face. “Go out with me,” he said.

“I don't think—”

“I'll be a gentleman. I'll pay. I'll even double-date.”

I was prepared to refuse again, but then I shrugged.

“Less likelihood of getting murdered in crowds,” I said, and he laughed.

RIDAYS CAN BE UNPREDICTABLE. Sometimes clients feel the need to store up extra therapy for the oncoming weekend, but this close to the holidays they seemed to be heading straight for a likely alternative—eggnog.

My last client left at 4:55 in the afternoon. I would be celebrating Christmas at Laney's apartment, so there was hardly a reason to clean, but I still hadn't finished shopping, so I closed the office early to brave the holiday crowds. Wheeling through Target, I found frilly pink pajamas with pom-pom footsies and a matching lace headband for Christianna. At six months of age, my niece was still as bald as a cabbage, and I was pretty sure her feminine ego might be flagging. But after setting the ensemble
lovingly in the cart, I was overcome by a possibly irrational fear that I was trivializing her intellect and bought her a singing alphabet toy to balance her psyche.

By the time I reached home, there were two messages on my answering machine. One was from Mom, reminding me that
good
daughters call their mothers with the same regularity that they change their underwear. The other was from Senator Riveras secretary, who asked that I stop by Caring Hands on the following day at noon. There was little to no explanation. I tried to call the senator to ask what this was regarding, but I only got his voice mail, which was neither informative nor particularly conversational.

After sharing a lightly burned dinner of sautéed chicken and brown rice with Harley I called directory assistance for Austin, Texas, and asked for Cynthia Larson. Not surprisingly, no such person was listed, but there was a Cindy Larson. I got the number and called her. She was ninety-three years old and told me in no uncertain terms that she was as fit as a fiddle and attributed her well-being to the fact that she didn't eat cinnamon. I congratulated her on both her health and her wise gastronomic decisions, then asked if she knew, or had known, any other Cynthia Larsons, but that's where the communications broke down. She was only interested in opining about spices.

After that, I Googled the Larsons in Austin and found a host of options on a handy little site I'd never heard of before. It even listed relatives, but none of them matched the senator's short-lived flame. Still, I printed up the list and vowed to start calling them immediately. Immediately being right after a dose of flirty fudge ice cream.

Ten minutes and three pounds later, I began at the top of the list, perfecting my pitch as I worked my way down. The first three didn't know any Cynthias. The next one hung up before I had explained how I owed money to an old friend who had helped me out in a pinch, and the fifth swore at me in fairly colorful terms.

As interesting as the experience was, I needed a break, so I tried directory assistance again, this time for Baton Rouge, and asked for a Priscilla Ortez. I knew that Kathy Baltimore had been a lesbian and, according to Donald Archer, Emanuel had been a lush, but I didn't really know if my Wiccan theory would hold water.

There was only one Priscilla Ortez in the Baton Rouge area. She answered on the third ring.

“Hola.”
The woman's tone was upbeat and energetic.

“Yes, hi… is Carmella there?”

“Carmella?”

“Yes. I'm calling from Our Lady of Guadalupe.”

“The church?”

My hands were sweaty. Lying might be second nature to me, but it's still hard work. “I'm the treasurer here, and the task has fallen on me to call any members who might be able to boost our coffers. I'm afraid our monthly donations aren't quite up to par, and the Lord's work must go on.”

“Mama wasn't a member of your parish.”

I sniffed. “It's true that she hasn't attended services for some time, but Catholicism has changed. Even though she's been absent, we still consider her one of the flock.”

“That's very open-minded of you, but—”

“Ergo, she can still make a charitable donation before the end of the tax year. A thousand dollars would go a long way toward new vestments for Father Pat.”

“A thousand dollars?” Her voice was becoming a little shrill.

I wiped my right palm on the leg of my ugly pants. “Donations can't absolve sins, of course, but sometimes they can help the sinner feel—”

“My mother was a practicing witch.”

Bingo! “Oh, well… perhaps
you
—” I began, but she had already hung up.

raffic was atypically well mannered on the 2 that Saturday morning. I had slept in, then gone running. Because I had gotten mostly nowhere regarding immigration and couldn't bear to face Ramla's basset-hound eyes, I showered at a truck stop. Unfortunately, I hadn't had enough time to find a Laundromat and was dressed marginally worse than I had been on the previous day. My sweatpants were frayed, and my T-shirt, while in decent shape, had suffered some kind of mystery breakfast stain en route. But maybe the folks at Caring Hands weren't the kind to pass judgment, many of them being homeless and all.

I arrived there shortly after noon. The parking lot was cracked like a desert floor and nearly empty, but inside, the multicolored crowd was milling. I skimmed the faces, searching for the senator, and stopped, frozen.

Lieutenant Jack Rivera was standing not thirty feet away. My heart hiccuped in my chest. He looked good. Tired and worn, but still darkly alluring. He wore blue jeans, faded at the knee and riding a little low on his leaner-than-a-bush-warrior's hips. A ribbed T-shirt showcased
the ropy muscles of his arms and just brushed the ends of his too-long, midnight hair.

And he was laughing.

For a moment I actually thought I was mistaken. The dark lieutenant, laughing? But then I recognized his companion. I'm not sure how I had managed to temporarily ignore a woman like Thea Altove, but such is the power of insanity.

They were facing each other, conversing like old friends—or worse. But suddenly there was a breathless stillness to the place. I wasn't sure what it was, couldn't identify it immediately, but then I turned and saw Senator Rivera. He, too, had spotted his son and was striding purposefully through the crowd toward him.

The lieutenant turned slowly toward his father, dark eyes shifting, hard body flexing. As for me, I skittered behind a refrigerator-sized Jamaican man, but I needn't have worried about being noticed. The Riveras only had eyes for each other. In fact, if I wasn't mistaken, flames were momentarily shooting from those eyes, even though the conversation seemed to be relatively congenial, at least on the senator's part.

As for the younger Rivera, his body language was shouting some words not acceptable in polite society. The senator raised a hand, indicating the back of the building, and, finally, after an abbreviated delay, they excused themselves from the supermodel with the hair and moved together through the crowd toward the senator's office.

I darted my gaze there and back. There and back. The senator obviously had his hands full. Therefore I should leave, but that went against everything I stood for as a snoop and a lunatic. So I shifted carefully away from my
human shield and through the crowd. Barely breathing, I stepped into the corridor where they had disappeared. The senators door was just closing. Glancing down the hall, surreptitious as a wild ferret, I tiptoed to the portal and laid my ear against the grainy oak.

“You wanted to talk to me?” Riveras voice was a low, angry growl.

“What are you doing here, Gerald?” the senator asked.

“You tell—” began the other, but suddenly I heard footsteps coming my way.

Panicked, I jerked to the right as if heading toward the back of the building. But I would rather have cut off my ear than miss the conversation, so my hand—completely disconnected from my conscious self and common sense—reached out and turned the knob of the next door. It opened silently beneath my fingers. My heart stuttered in my chest. I was ready to spout apologies and as-yet-undetermined explanations, but the room was empty. Pushing the door closed behind me, I shut my eyes and told myself not to be stupid. Too late.