One Hot Mess (30 page)

He drew a deep breath, settled back against the cushions. “Kaneasha's sister. Her mama.”

“You told them about the rape.”

He smiled a little, but the expression was grim. “I was too much of a chicken shit for that.” He glanced out the window. “I told them we was…” A muscle jerked in his jaw. “Together.”

I let that sit for a moment.

“Turns out Lavonn…” He looked back at me. “Lavonn's got some financial problems. It's been hard… you know… taking care of all three kids.”

“So—”

“They agreed to a paternity test.”

My office went quiet.

“Merry Christmas to me,” he said, and flickered a small smile filled with terror and guilt and the shy beginnings of hope.

laine returned that evening. She'd asked me to pick her up at the airport. Apparently Solberg had been called out of town at the last minute on business and wouldn't return until late that night. I didn't allow myself the luxury of considering the possibility that their ungodly union was cooling—or that he'd died in his sleep.

The hubbub at LAX surpassed insane. But when Laney appeared, slipping through the crowd in blue jeans and a sweatshirt, the world seemed to quiet. After she'd signed three autographs and turned aside a couple of marriage proposals as gently as possible, she ducked into my little Saturn and sighed.

We talked nonstop on the way to my house. She'd decided
to stay with me for the night, but when we passed Roscoe Boulevard, a little chapel caught our attention. It was filled with light and music, and when we turned into the parking lot, “Silent Night” pulled us into the sanctuary.

In the end we were only there for half the service, but there were hymns and candlelight and not a single priest to glare at me with all-knowing eyes.

We returned home happy. The fact that the SuperSeptic guys had delivered a Porta-Potty made me ecstatic. Laney made lentil soup with all-natural ingredients she'd smuggled in her carry-on. I made popcorn balls with all things unnatural. We laughed and exchanged gifts and laughed some more as Harlequin systematically destroyed his new squeaky toys.

Christmas dawned, warm and smoggy, pretty much like every other day of the year. Because Laney hadn't had much time to prepare, Solberg sprang for the Christmas meal. To my surprise, we didn't end up at a fourteen-star restaurant in Beverly Hills. Instead, he'd ordered a catered meal consisting of every conceivable delicacy, and his house—expensive as hell but weirdly futuristic—seemed almost cozy when filled with the holiday smells of high-calorie goodies.

I ate myself into a near-catatonic state, but Harlequin was gazing at me like a sex-drunk lover, head level with the top of the chrome dining-room table. I slipped him a piece of honey-glazed ham. He slurped it down and gazed some more.

“Time for gifts,” Solberg said, and the exchange commenced.

I gave him a rug. A literal rug, explaining it was meant
to pick up the slack when he ran out of body hair to transplant onto his head. He gave me a blow-up boyfriend. I was still reading the instructions when he cleared his throat.

“I got something for Angel, too,” he said.

I didn't like the sound of his voice. When I looked up he was already on one knee facing Laney I froze, mesmerized, horrified. The ring he pulled from his shirt pocket had a stone the approximate size of the moon.

“Elaine …” His tone was choked, his face as pale as the rock he held in his shaky right hand. He cleared his throat. “Elaine …” he began again, but he couldn't go on.

“Yes,” she said, and I started to cry.

T WAS SOMETHING of a relief to go back to work, proof positive that I wasn't the only one who was crazy. I saw two clients before noon. Officer Tavis called me at two.

“How you doing?” he asked.

I glanced out my window and thought about Brainy Laney Butterfield, a virtual goddess, about to marry a man who harvested his hair from south of his beltline. What did that mean for mortal women?

“I'm doing well.”

“Yeah? Who's the lucky man? The good lieutenant?”

I scowled, trying not to remember my behavior on the night I'd seen Rivera with the blonde. “I'm sorry, Officer,” I said. “I'm a little too busy to be sexually
harassed right now. If you'll—” I began, but he was already laughing.

“Don't hang up. Listen…” His voice sobered smoothly. “Kathleen Baltimore got an offer to work in politics again.”

“What?” I sat up straight, mind pumping.

“Queenie said Kathy got a call a month or so ago from somebody who wanted her to help out with a campaign.”

“Who? What campaign?”

“I don't know. But she was considering it. Said it was a generous offer, but she couldn't discuss the details yet.”

“What else do you know?”

“We closed down another meth operation.”

“About Kathy.”

“Nothing,” he said. “Sorry.”

What did it mean? Had the senator called her? Had he gone there himself? She would have trusted him, and he certainly had the funds, but I couldn't imagine him as a killer. Maybe a lady killer, but not an
actual…

“Hey,” Tavis said, “don't get yourself killed, okay? I'm still hoping to see you naked.”

I rolled my eyes and hung up. Five minutes later I called Rivera.

He answered on the third ring. “What are you wearing now?” he asked.

“Holy crap, what is wrong with you guys?”

There was a dark pause. “What guys is that, McMullen?”

I couldn't help myself; I liked the harsh rasp of jealousy in his tone. Liked the way his voice lapped rough and titillating against my senses. But I stifled my girly foolishness and ignored the question.

“Have you spoken to your father yet?”

“About what?”

I resisted grinding my teeth. “About the fact that his life is in danger.”

I heard him sigh as he settled into a chair. “I'll give you an A for imagination.”

“Imagination starts with an I.”

“Amateur starts with an A.”

“Don't be a—”

“If I promise to dig into it a little, will you drop it?”

I hesitated. I shouldn't have hesitated.

He swore. “I know
CSI
makes crime look sexy as hell, but real life doesn't work that way. Murderers aren't rocket scientists, McMullen. They don't take a damn millennium to plan out intricate accidental deaths. They're just pricks who've had too much to drink and were turned down by girls in—”

“You think he's a scientist?” I asked.

“I think he doesn't exist!” he rasped. “The deaths are coincidental. Accidental. Unconnect—”

“You're right!” I said. “I should have seen this before.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Whoever he is, he must be highly intelligent.”

“Christ! Are you listening at all? I want you to drop this. Leave it alone. Do—”

“I have to go,” I said, and hung up.

I called the senator immediately, but he wasn't in and I was forced to leave a message. The rest of the afternoon flew by, blowing me along with it. By the time I got home I felt like I'd been flagellated by a half dozen overzealous monks. I dropped my purse on the counter and got the Skippy out of the cupboard. I had left my blow-up boyfriend in the kitchen where Frangois couldn't see him
and stared at the box while I ate peanut butter out of the jar. Chunky. I'm not a barbarian.

The phone rang while my mouth was gummed up, but when I saw it was a call from the senator I swallowed as best I could and picked up the receiver.

“'Ello?”

“Christina?”

“'Es.”

“Christina, are you well?”

I swallowed, took a swig of milk from the carton, and wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. I'm not sure, but I thought I could feel Blow-up Boy cringe even from inside his box.

“I need to talk to you,” I said.

“Is something wrong?”

“Yes. I—”

“Shall I send the police? Are you in danger?”

“No,” I said. “You are.”

There was a moment of silence, then, “Chrissy please—”

“Who's the smartest person you know?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The brightest person in your acquaintance. Who do you think it is?”

He thought for a moment. “Bill was a Rhodes scholar.”

“Bill…”

“I prefer the present administration, of course, but Bill had an appreciation for the finer things in life.”

My mind felt a little murky. I was eating peanut butter out of the jar while conversing with a man who talked about presidents on a first-name basis. “Do you think he might have killed Kathy?” I asked.

There was a pause. “Have you been drinking, Christina?”

I shook my head and tried to clear my mind. “When was the last time you spoke to Kathleen Baltimore?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Someone called her recently Offered her a job in a campaign.”

“Who was it?” His voice had lost some of its smooth self-assurance. In fact, for the first time, he almost sounded shaken.

“I think it was the same person who killed her.”

“I believe it was an accident, Christina. The police agree. She fell into her saw.”

“Steve Bunting is dead. Did you know that?”

There was a short, soft pause. “I hadn't heard. How did it happen?”

“He died while scuba diving.”

He said nothing.

“Off Kauai.”

“Ahh, well…” I could all but hear him shrug. As if that explained everything. “It is a man's way to die at least and has nothing to do with—”

“He died on a Thursday.”

“I don't know—”

“Manny drowned on a Wednesday. Kathy bled to death on a Tuesday, and your cousin's house burned to the ground on a Monday.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I'm suggesting you lock your doors and hire a bodyguard,” I said, and hung up.

WAS AS JITTERY as a virgin in a sorority house all day Thursday. By Friday I was certifiable.

My phone rang at 5:34 in the afternoon. I had twenty-six minutes before my next client. It was Solberg.

“Rebecca Harris died this morning in Fresno.” Despite the news, his tone was ungodly happy. I didn't want to know why.

I tightened my grip on the receiver and tried to breathe normally. “How was she involved with the senator?”

“His secretary when he was a mayor in some flyspeck in Texas.”

“What else do you know?” Solberg may have been a
myopic little dweeb, not good enough to wipe my best friends nose, but he was a first-rate snoop.

“Cause of death was a fall.”

“A fall?”

“From a cliff. She was kinda an exercise fanatic. Some of them medical types are.”

“Medical—”

“She went to the Denver School of Nursing. Married a carpenter type in ′87. Moved to California in ′91 and propagated five years later.”

“They waited all that time to have kids?”