One Hot Mess (6 page)

I kept myself from wincing. “Yes.”

“She was just a—” He jerked to his feet again. I let him go. “All elbows and knees and—” He stopped, turned abruptly toward the window. “Eyes.” He said the word so softly I could barely hear him.

“From what you've told me, her family life was not particularly stable. Her mother was a cocaine addict, isn't that correct?”

He didn't respond.

“And her brother—”

“Gone. Just fuckin” gone. Shi's dead. Terrence's in the
pen. In prison.” He said it almost wistfully. I pulled the conversation back, making a mental note to consider his tone later.

“Her father abandoned her. She had no grandparents and—”

“Yeah.” He turned on me with a snarl. “She had a shitty life. Did that give me the right to fuck her like she was some—”

“Sit down,” I said.

“Don't tell me—” he began, but if I had learned anything as a scantily clad cocktail waitress, it was when to ask and when to demand.

“Sit your ass down!” I ordered.

He did so.

“You raped a girl,” I said, leaning in.

He stared at me, face blank.

“A thirteen-year-old child.”

His cheek twitched, but nothing else showed in his expression.

“It was a heinous crime. Cruel. Unspeakable. She trusted you and you hurt her.”

He swallowed, but I didn't stop.

“Who's to blame for that, Micky?”

“God!” He squeezed his eyes closed, pressed his nails into his palms. “They should have fuckin” killed me.”

“Who's to blame?” I repeated.

He opened his eyes, pursed his lips. “I am.”

“Yes.” I waited an instant. “Did you make her use drugs?”

He didn't answer.

“Did you?”

“No.”

“Did you make her live with an abusive man?”

“I think the rape was enough.” He smiled a little, but the expression was gritty.

“Did
you?” I demanded.

“No.”

“Then why do you want to accept blame for more?”

He waited half a lifetime before he spoke. “Because she's got a kid.”

I felt my stomach drop toward the floor, but I'd learned to play poker with three brothers who cheated like Irishmen. Nothing showed. “Is it yours?”

He waited again, as did I.

“I don't know,” he said finally.

I exhaled carefully. “How old is the child?”

He shrugged. The movement was stiff.

“The boyfriend didn't know?”

“Said the kid didn't live with them. Only saw him once or twice.”

I nodded.

“Once or twice,” he repeated. “In two years.”

I kept my expression as impassive as his. “What are you going to do now?”

He stared out the window. “Put a gun in my mouth?”

I kept my hands relaxed in my lap. “That'll never work.”

He glanced at me, brows dropping.

“You're never going to suffer enough if you're dead.”

He snorted and sat up straight. “You wasn't raised by your grandma, was you?”

I stared.

“Grams was a big believer in hell.”

From what I had heard, his grandmother had also saved his life. “Are you going to hell, Micky?”

“I think I might be there already.”

“Then you might just as well continue to live.”

He pushed himself backward in his chair and stared at me. The tiniest smile tickled his lips. “Jesus, woman, does the board of shrinks know you dish out this crap?”

“You can always kill yourself, Micky,” I said. “You might as well wait.”

“Not if I'm a chicken shit.”

I shook my head. “You're not.”

Our gazes clashed. “Why would I wait?”

“That's what Esse would have wanted.”

He stared at me. “She tied me to the radiator once. Did I tell you that?”

I shook my head.

“I says I was goin' out with my dogs. She says I wasn't. I says no one owned me and she could go …” He paused, almost smiled. “Next thing I know I was flat on my face with my hands cranked up behind my back and her sitting on top of me. All ninety-two pounds of her. Spent the night listening to her read Scripture. The whole fuckin' night.” I could hear him inhale, feel him think. “What if the kid's mine?”

I had no idea, but I kind of loved Esse Goldenstone. “Then you'll have to make some decisions.”

“Can I off myself then?” Maybe it was a serious question, but there was a light in his eye again.

I tented my fingers and leaned back in my chair. “It'd look bad on my shrink record,” I said.

“Jesus.” He brushed one palm across his close-cut scalp. “More fuckin' guilt,” he said.

And I laughed for the first time all day.

EY
.”

I glanced up from where I was supposed to be updating records but was really just staring into space. My temporary secretary Shirley Templeton (don't laugh, I didn't name her), was glancing around the edge of the door, mug in hand.

“You okay, honey?” she asked.

“Yes.” I straightened with military professionalism. “Certainly,” I said, but I was lying. The day had been a killer. After Micky, there had been a kleptomaniac, a pathological liar, and a man. Not a normal egg in the clutch.

Shirley came in. She was on a one-day-flu loan from my regular secretary, the Magnificent Mandy In fact, she was
the Magnificent Mandy's aunt. I wondered a little hazily if that made her the Magnificent Shirley then decided it probably didn't since she was the antithesis of her niece. Where Mandy was small and thin and as scattered as confetti, Shirley was broad and round and solid. She was also as black as a brokers power suit. She waddled a little as she approached my desk, and I noticed she carried a small paper bag in her left hand.

“Thought you might need a little pick-me-up,” she said, and set the bag on my desk.

If my olfactory system didn't fail me, and it rarely did when considering copious amounts of calories, there was something filled with chocolaty goodness in the bag. But following my post-Thanksgiving binge I had finally screwed up my nerve and stepped onto the scale. Subsequently, I had sworn off goodness of all sorts.

“That's very kind of you,” I said, “but I should get these records taken care of.”

“You working on Mr. Goldenstone's?”

I glanced up. Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised that she was familiar with my client list, but Mandy of the magnificent caliber had never quite gotten a single name right. The last time, I believe, she had referred to Micky as Mr. Nugget.

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I am.”

She nodded, just a couple of superfluous chin wobbles. Shirley Templeton was not an attractive woman. But then, according to her niece, she had gestated a baker's half dozen kids, and that can't be gentle on anybody. “Poor fellow, carryin' around that load of guilt.”

“Shirley!” Granted, I didn't know her well, but she didn't seem like the type to eavesdrop. “I don't mean to be
rude, but you cannot listen in on my sessions with clients.”

“Listen in,” she said, then chuckled a little. “Now, why would I do that?”

“Well…” That was a good question. Still, her niece had done so until her ears grew into cauliflowers. “You seem to know more about Mr. Goldenstone than is easily explained. I just assumed you—”

“Oh.” She waved a dismissive hand. “That.” Shaking her head, she bent with some difficulty to retrieve a little geometric metal shape from the floor and stuck it back on its magnet sculpture atop my coffee table. “I've seen enough troubles, honey. Don't need to hear nobody else's.”

“Then what made you think Micky was guilty?”

“I didn't say he
was
guilty,” she explained. “Said he carried around a load of it is all.”

Maybe there was a difference there, I wasn't sure.

“How do you know he carries guilt?”

“I don't know.” She shrugged shoulders wide enough to make a linebacker wealthy and an ox useful. “Maybe I got a nose for it.”

“You can smell guilt?”

“Can't you?”

Maybe I gave her a look like she'd lost her marbles, 'cuz she chuckled again. “Not
smell
smell. But, you know, sense it.”

I wasn't sure I did, but I nodded. Maybe my nose was good for other things, because the chocolaty goodness emanating from the bag was becoming a little distracting.

Her eyes went serious. “It's a good thing what you're doing for him.”

I peeked into the bag. I'd been right. Little chips of
goodness all over the top of a dessert bar. Possibly goodness all the way through. “How do you mean?”

Going to my mini-fridge, she pulled out a carton of milk and set it beside the bag. I glanced up in surprise.

“You don't wanna mess with no osteoporosis. Mama— she's bent over like a candy cane. Thing is…” She narrowed her eyes, getting back on track. “Mr. Goldenstone needs help. You're helpin'.”

“You think so?” I was feeling insecure and a little gooshy so I took the goodness out of the bag and broke off a piece. “Sometimes I feel like I'm just…” I shrugged and tasted, sending my salivary glands into a hastily choreographed version of
Riverdance.

“Just takin' their money?” Shirley said. “Well, don't you be thinkin' that. You're helpin'. And not with the kind of sugar water some folks hose ya with. You're giving him the hard stuff, but he's drinkin' it down.”

I took another bite and heard a taste-bud chorale join the dancers. “Really?”

“Some folks take some hard knocks, but if they got the right person helpin' 'em, they can still get set right before it's too late.”

“I don't know.” I stifled a weak-ass sigh. “Some days it feels like I should just pass out cookies and go home.”

“Well…” She chuckled. “Cookies don't hurt, neither, but you keep doin' what you're doing and things'll get better.”

I studied her a moment. There was wisdom in her eyes and strength in the set of her jaw. Turns out she was kind of pretty.

“Thank you,” I said, and she nodded, all business suddenly.

“I tidied up my desk, confirmed tomorrows appointments, and rescheduled today's no-show. Anything else you want I should do before I head home to my brood?”

Marry me?
“No,” I said. “Thank you. That'll be fine. It's been really nice working with you.”

“Pleasure's been mine,” she countered.

After she left I sat there alone, ate my
Riverdance
bar, drank my milk, and wished, to my chagrin, that the Magnificent Mandy had never darkened her mother's womb. Aunt Shirley was so much better, and maybe she was right. Maybe I was doing some good. But maybe there was more good that could be done. Perhaps I should look into Kathleen Baltimore's death, regardless of the fact that Rivera was already spitting tacks. Maybe she was one of those people who just hadn't been given the right chances. Just because the senator had offered to pay me didn't mean it was the wrong thing to do. And just because his son insisted it was the wrong thing to do didn't mean it was. In fact, chances were good it meant the opposite. Rivera might not own the stupid market, but I'd say he had a pretty good share.

Turning to my computer screen, I Googled Kathleen Baltimore.

After fifteen minutes I had learned several things: She had died on Tuesday in Kern County, the hummingbird capital of California; she was survived by a single daughter; and the police had determined her death was an accident.

I shut down my system and headed home.

Harlequin met me at the door like an overwrought lover. Large, excited, and a little drooly.

We had dinner together on the couch while watching
Grey's Anatomy.
I don't see a lot of television—except for Laney Brainy as the Amazon Queen, of course—but Harley has a thing for McDreamy I went to bed with dreams of my own and found
myself
a little drooly.

But even thoughts of Patrick Dempsey couldn't steam the memory of Kathy Baltimore's photo out of my head. I wondered how the senator had gotten that photo and why he was so sure that she was the woman from his dream—especially if the police thought her death was accidental. In the morning my mind was still mulling.

I dressed in an apple-green shift with a strand of pearls and sexy cork wedge sandals. Classy as hell, but late. Grabbing a glass of milk and a granola bar, I jumped into my Saturn and lurched onto Foothill Boulevard. Five minutes later I had cut two people off on the 210 and was trading hand signals with the locals. At 8:57 I screeched into the parking lot, ready to throw open the L.A. Counseling doors before my first clients could arrive and be instantly offended by Mandy's magnificence. But, to my fantabulous surprise, Shirley was already manning the desk.

“My niece asked me to fill in one more day,” she explained.

I refrained from dancing. “Still not feeling well?”

“Terrible bug, I guess. Say…” She reached under her desk and brought out a white cardboard box. “I stopped at the Donut Hole on the way here and got a couple a caramel rolls. Ate one 'fore I got here, but Lord knows if I pack another ounce of fat into my arteries, they're going to have to come up for air. You take the last one.”