Unscrewed (14 page)

She rose to her bare feet. Her sun-fire toenails were decorated with tiny daisies. She retrieved my bottle of champagne and approached me. I shook my head, but she was already pouring. I drank. I don’t like to be rude.

“As you may know, things have never been easy between my husband and my son.”

I couldn’t help but notice that she failed to refer to her ex as her ex.

She shook her head. “I prayed to Saint Nicholas of Myra that they would bury the ax, but the blood of our ancestors, it is hot. And the two of them, they were jealous.”

“Of?”

“In the beginning?” She shrugged. “Of me. Of my time. Miguel did not care to be placed second even for the care of his own child. And Gerald and I were very close.”

“Mother’s complex,” I said.

“What is this?”

“It’s when there is a strong bond between mother and son.” I was coherent enough to refrain from mentioning the sexual overtures often associated with the relationship. Go me.

“Yes.” She nodded. “My Gerald opened his heart to me. While Miguel…” She made a face. “He thrives on secrets. And…” She shrugged. “He always had the eye for other women. Many women. Salina, she worked on his campaign. My husband, he thought her sweet. But I knew.” She snorted. “I knew even before my Gerald began seeing her. I warned him. But men…even the good ones, they are sometimes the fools, are they not?”

I drank. “No shit. So you think she was interested in him just because of the senator.”

“She knew of Miguel’s vanity. Understood it in the place where her heart should have been. What a conquest it would be for the old man to take a woman from the young,
sí?
”

“But she planned to marry the senator. Didn’t that mean—”

“Huh!” Fire sparked in her eyes.

That usually didn’t happen to eyes. Maybe I should quit drinking, I thought, and took another swig. “She wasn’t going to marry him?”

“Why do you think she is dead?”

“I’ve been sort of wondering that.”

“Because she was the liar and the whore.”

“But—”

“Listen to me, Christina, for this I have learned.” She leaned toward me conspiratorially. “A man will accept a liar. And he will accept a whore. But only if she is his whore.”

“You think she was boinking…” The shrink and the cocktail waitress seemed to be duking it out in my churning brain. “You think she was unfaithful?”

“It was her nature.” She leaned into the cushy back of the chair. “People cannot fight their natures. Salina, she would have cheated on the Christ himself if given the chance.”

“And the senator found out.”

She drank. “He is a man. But he is not entirely stupid. And he is not forgiving.”

“You think he killed her.” My words were little more than a whisper. The room went silent. We watched each other, eyeball to eyeball, unspeaking for several seconds, then, “But he was on a plane.” My voice was raspy.

She raised her brows. “Was he? Are you so very certain of that?”

“I checked.” And may go to jail if the truth got out.

She looked surprised, then laughed. “
Sí,
you would do just that, would you not, Christina? But things are not always as they appear. Take my Gerald, for instance. He appears strong,
sí?
Sure of himself. Of his own worth.”

I didn’t answer. My mind felt spongy.

“But inside…” She sighed and put her hand to her chest. “Inside, he is the small boy. Miguel’s harsh words crushed his self-respect. Nothing was good enough.”

“Yeah.” I nodded, head wobbling. “That’s common. Men want to live victerous…victrous…vicar…They want to live through their sons,” I said. “Can’t allow them to fu—” I caught myself. “To fail, to be less than perfect.”

“Sí,”
she said, then watched me. “Tell me, Christina, how is that you met my Gerald?”

She’d interrupted a sip. “What?”

“I told you the story of Miguel and me. Perhaps more than you wished to know.
Sí?
”

I laughed. It ended on a snort.

“Tell me,” she said.

In some dank corner of my mind, a woman with a stick up her butt, or perhaps someone with a Ph.D., suggested I employ a bit of diplomacy. The cocktail chick mocked her. “Bomstad attacked me.”

“Bomstad?”

“A client.”

“Ahhh.” She nodded. “And my son, he came to your rescue,
sí?
”

“Kind of.” I stopped the glass halfway to my lips. A little sloshed over the side. “How did you know?”

She shrugged. “It is the gift.” She drank, scowled. “Tougher laws. It is what we need here in this city, yes?” I nodded noncommittally, not unlike my years at the Hog. “Where I come from, the father of the girl would have the privilege to cut off his
pelotas
and feed them to her hounds.”

“I was houndless at the time,” I said.

She nodded, smiled a little, eyes gleaming. “You are good for my Gerald. Now, tell me, how did he save you from this bastard?”

Maybe, thought the cocktail girl, a bit of diplomacy wouldn’t be completely unmerited. After all, I wasn’t entirely certain she didn’t plan to kill me with a corkscrew and roll my saturated body into the street. But, in point of fact, her Gerald had shown up like a bad dream and accused me of killing the man who tried to rape me. He’d then escorted me home, taken my shirt, and tested a stain to see if it was the perpetrator’s blood. I had been certain her Gerald was a nutcase. Currently I thought he might be a nutcase with a really great ass.

“He is a good officer of the law,
sí?
”

I gave it some judicious consideration, ’cuz despite the fact that he drove me crazy, he’d kept me alive. And on more than one occasion, actually. What should this tell me about my lifestyle?
“Sí,”
I agreed. And that morning I hadn’t even known I was trilingual. I drank some more. Couple more glasses and I’d be fluent.

“And a jalapeño in the bed, yes?”

Some kind of noise escaped my mouth. I can’t really say what it was.
Argwew
maybe.

“After all, he is Latino.” She shrugged, laughed. “And he is my son.”

“Mrs. Rivera—” Even the cocktail chick was uncomfortable. And she had once fended off six biker dudes and an amorous pig simultaneously.

“Please.” She sounded utterly offended. “Do not call me by Miguel’s mother’s name. I am Rosita.”

“Rosita, I don’t think we should be discussing—”

She made a
pfft
ing noise and waved her hand. “Christina, I have but one son.” She drank. I did the same. I try to be a good guest. “Surely you see that I want nothing but happiness for him.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And a man…” She made a fist and narrowed her eyes. “A true man…cannot be happy without a woman at his side.”

I gave that some sagacious thought while simultaneously dumping a little wine on my lap before righting my glass. “You think?”

“It is truth.”

“He was married before, huh?”

“Sí.”

“Was he happy then?”

“Tricia.” She sighed and shook her head. “She was a fine girl. But she was not…” She scowled as if searching for the proper word. “She was not one to make a man’s blood run hot.”

“Really?” I had met Rivera’s ex-wife under rather odd circumstances. Let me just say there was a borrowed dog with an alias involved. Tricia Vandercourt was cute, sweet, and tiny as a toothpick. Meeting her had made me feel like a lumberjack with bad hair. Come to think of it, she had been the very antithesis of Salina. And yet, years after his divorce, Rivera was, once again, involved with the hot Hayek look-alike who had surely wounded him on more than one occasion. Did that tell me anything about life, or did it simply imply something about boob jobs?

“While you are…” Rosita paused, watching me. “Tell me the truth, Christina. Does he not make your heart gallop in your chest?”

“Well, yeah, but usually that’s because he’s accusing me of murder,” I said, and remembered about diplomacy a second after the words left my mouth.

“He accused you of the murder?”

“A couple of times, actually.” Whoops. Wasn’t going to tell her that, either.

She nodded, thinking. “And yet you want him. I can see it in your eyes.”

She stared at me. I had the good sense to look away.

But she nodded knowingly. “So why are you here with me, instead of with him?”

“He accused me of murder,” I repeated. Damn it!

The
pfft
ing sound again. “He does not mean it. He only longs to keep you at a distance. For he knows he is not safe with you.”

“Safe?”

“He has been hurt by those he loves, Christina. He is afraid to risk his heart yet again.”

“You think so?”

“Trust me on this. I do not have many years of schooling, but men—men, I know.”

“I have a buttload of schooling.”

She shrugged as if it were a fair trade. “A wise vaquero does not let a fine stallion run wild for long, Christina.”

I stared, mind slogging along. “Am I the wise vaquero or—”

“Do not let this one get away, Christina,” she said, looking a little peeved at my ignorance. “There are not so many good men left. You know this,
sí?
”

“I got it embroidered on a pillow.”

She laughed. “The Rivera men, they will make you want to kill them. This I know. But it is that fire that makes the nights warm, yes?” She drank. “Miguel…” She shook her head. “He is a cheating son of a wizened whore, but he can make a woman weak in the knees.”

“I’m not sure I want weak knees.”

She looked surprised. “What is it you want from a man, then?”

“I’d prefer it if he didn’t wear my underwear.”

I think she gave me a strange look. “I admit that there are things about American men that I do not understand.”

“You and me both.”

“Gerald will not wear your underwear.”

“It’s a plus.”

“But he will look good in his own, huh?”

“Yeah.” I gazed morosely at nothing in particular. “But shouldn’t there be more?”

“More?”

I leaned forward, holding my bathtub-size drink in both hands. “Don’t you want someone to engage your intelliction…intil…to share his deepest thoughts?”

“I have found that a man who shares his deepest thoughts does not often have
culata
hard as a Spanish onion.”

I felt suddenly deflated. “Good point.”

“And, too, how deep can a man’s thoughts be?”

I nodded and drank.

“Christina, you are woman of business,
sí?
”

Right at that moment I wasn’t quite sure.

“You have patients and friends and…What is the word? Colleagues. You have colleagues,
sí?
”

“Si.”

“And with them you can engage the intellect, yes?”

“Ummm…”

“Must you be engaged while in your bed also?”

I was pretty sure there was a mistake in her logic, I just couldn’t seem to ferret it out from the muzziness in my head.

She seemed concerned by my silence. As for me, I’ve found silence to be the least of my worries.

“Do you not find my Gerald sexy?” she asked. “Do you not burn for him?”

I opened my mouth, searching hopelessly.

Three knocks sounded from the front of the house, nearly launching me from my chair. “Someone’s at the door.”

“Sí.”
She did not move. “That will be young Manny with the brandy. But he can wait. It will teach him patience. You did not answer my question.”

“Listen, Mrs. Rivera—”

“Rosita.”

“Rosita, sex isn’t that important in the big—”

“Not important? What do you say?” She looked appalled. “Do you not feel the fire when he touches you?”

She stared at me. My mind roved back to the time in my vestibule when I’d found myself straddling her son like a junkyard dog. The sound of his ripping shirt was still loud in my head. “There might be a little fire,” I admitted.

She watched me for a moment, then smiled. “So you do lust for my Gerald.”

“It’s not lust…exactly.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s—”

“Christina,” she warned.

“Okay, I lust!” I snapped. “I lust. Holy crap, I can’t sleep at night thinking—”

A noise sounded in the doorway. I glanced up. And there, not twelve feet away, stood Jack Rivera, dark, brooding, and lusty as hell.

16

M
Y STOMACH DROPPED. I sucked in air. The room was as silent as death, and for one hopeful second I thought I was going to faint.

“Gerald.” His mother sounded euphoric. I felt like barfing. “This is the wonderful surprise. I was not expecting you.”

He was staring at me, eyes dark with suspicion and anger. “What the hell’s going on here?”

My cheeks felt hot, my stomach was doing some complicated knot work. I tried to speak. Nothing happened. I’d rather run naked through the frickin’ Getty Center with a watermelon on my head than have him hear the words I’d just spoken.

“Gerald Rivera, you watch the language,” Rosita scolded.

I felt him pull his gaze from my face. But it didn’t do any good. I was pretty sure he’d already singed my eyebrows. “What’s she doing here?” he asked.

Mrs. Rivera had risen to her feet, and even though her head didn’t reach his chin, she was a formidable force. “I asked her to come,” she said. “Invited her.” She took a step toward him. A little of the wind seem to sail out of his sails. “Into my house. My home.”

He shuffled his feet.

“What are
you
doing here?” she asked.

He looked at me, then away. Anger shone in the depths of his devil’s eyes, but there was something else there, too, something that had been showing in men’s eyes for as long as they had mothers. It looked a little like fear.

He drew a deep breath, settled his gaze on Rosita, and ignored me. “I need to talk to you.”

But her hackles were up. “About what?”

He didn’t shift his gaze, but I could feel his attention turn toward me. “Now’s not a good time.”

“Whatever it is you have to say, you can say it now.”

“Not with her here.”

She shook her head. “I taught you better…” she began, then slammed into a barrage of Spanish.

He countered with a tide of words just as confusing.

I stared like a besotted pumpkin.

The voices jolted to an abrupt halt, but the combatants were still glaring.

I cleared my throat.

“Well…” I gave Rosita an ingratiating smile. It hurt my face, which still felt hot. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Rivera, but I should be getting home.”

“What?”

“The hell you should.”

Both of them spoke in unison with the ringing of the doorbell.

“I’m going home,” I said, and rose to my feet. My head spun off into space. The floor jittered.

Rivera laughed. The sound echoed like a bell in my cranium. “You’re drunk off your…” He shifted his gaze to his mother, gritted his teeth. “What’d you give her, Mama?”

“Gerald, you shame me!” she scolded. “What is the matter with you? We had dinner. That is all.”

Rivera’s expression was deadpan. He can do deadpan like nobody’s business.

“We had some wine,” she said finally, and waved dismissively. The doorbell rang again. She made her way toward it, speaking over her shoulder. “Not so very much. But perhaps you are right,
sí?
Perhaps you should drive her home.”

“No!” The word escaped before I could grab it back.

Rivera turned toward me with a scowl.

I laughed. I’m not so great at deadpan, but I’m hell on wheels when it comes to maniacal. I stumbled a little, trying to keep my feet under me. They seemed kind of bendy. “I mean…no.” I cleared my throat and refrained from closing my eyes. My head was swirling. I thought I heard him swear, which was confusing, because I was pretty sure his lips never moved. “That won’t bed necessary.”

“What?” He and his identical twin to his left seemed to speak in unison.

“Be,”
I corrected, not exactly sure which one to address. “That won’t
be
necessary. No need to trouble yourself.”

“Just some wine, my ass,” he snorted. “Come on.”

“I can drive,” I said, but maybe the last word sounded a little more like “dwive.”

I made a beeline for the door. It wavered like a shimmering palm tree, but I managed to keep it in sight. To my surprise, a man stood beside it holding an amber bottle by the neck. He didn’t seem to be either one of the lieutenants.

“Hullo,” I said.

“It is too bad you must leave, Christina,” Rosita said, fuzzily appearing beside him. “Manny has finally arrived with the brandy for the jubilee of strawberry.”

I tried to formulate some kind of response but my stomach beat my lips to the punch. It gurgled dramatically. I toddled outside and braced myself against the wall. The stucco felt rough and blessedly solid against my palm. The air caressed my face, rejuvenating me. I straightened my back, hurried my step…and toppled forward. I squeaked in surprise as the cobblestones rushed up toward me, but suddenly the pavers were yanked away. The world was set aright with confusing abruptness. I glanced to my left. It seemed that Rivera was holding my arm. My biceps protested beneath his deadly grip, but in my magnanimous mood, I gave him a grateful smile.

I think he swore in return. I know he tugged me toward the street. I stumbled along beside him like an inebriated duckling.

“Let me go.” I don’t really like being treated like an inebriated duckling. I gave my arm a dignified yank and almost fell off my feet. But I gritted my teeth and tried again. “Let me go!”

He turned toward me. “Over your dead, fermenting body,” he said, and hauled me over to the passenger side of his Jeep. “Get in.”

I gave him a condescending glare. We were eyeball to eyeball. He had a face that could make a virgin cry. I’d been a virgin once. Celibacy was my
new
friend. “I’m perfectly capable of diving…
driving
,” I said, and miraculously finding my keys, I toddled toward my car. Somehow, he beat me to it and plopped a hand on the little Saturn’s roof, barring the door. His arm was pressed against my breasts.

I faced him again. The muscles of his arm scraped across my nipples. They seemed to think it was cold outside.

But his skin felt warm against me, and he smelled like Hugh Jackman in heat. Granted, I’m not really sure how Jackman smells when he’s in heat. But I’m pretty sure it’d be like that. Rivera leaned in. I couldn’t help but catch my breath…pray…close my eyes. The last one was a mistake. The world spun. I teetered off balance a little.

“Fuck,” he said, and bending down, he lifted me off my feet, strode around the bumper, and plunked me into the Saturn’s passenger seat. I tumbled onto the emergency brake, protesting all the way.

By the time he got in I had almost dragged myself upright. It was pretty dark in the car but I could still see his glare. Would probably see the damn thing in my dreams.

I propped myself rigid against the seat. Pride may goeth before a fall, but it’s better than the alternative.

I’m not sure how he got my key, but suddenly he was shoving it into the ignition. In a second we were tooling along while my stomach did a tango in my roiling gut. I opened my window, hoping for enough air to keep all my contents inside.

Silence screamed around me. I kept my eyes drilled into the windshield. Dignity was mine. I wouldn’t obsess about what he had heard me say. It didn’t matter. I didn’t care what he thought. He was a cretin anyway. And maybe a murderer. Oddly enough, that last thought made me feel a little better. Yes, I was trapped in the car with a murderous cretin, but at least I didn’t care what the murderous cretin thought. I would go home, throw up, forget about him, move on. I raised my chin.

“So what were you talking about?”

“What?” I snapped my attention toward him. A little too fast. I took a steadying breath, remembering dignity, and that ralphing eats the lining of one’s esophagus. “I beg your pardon?”

He stared at me. “What were you talking about?” he asked, but slower this time, as if he were waiting for my brain to get back from its sabbatical.

I gave him a stare. I was trying to look dignified, but I’m afraid my pupils might have been staring in opposite directions.

He gritted his teeth. “With Mama,” he explained.

“Oh.” Well, I certainly hadn’t been talking about how hot he’d look in his underwear. That would have been wrong. And just damned weird. I was holding my breath. I let it out carefully, lest I forget to start up again. “Not much. She asked me to dine with her.” The air felt good against my arm and face.

“Did she?”

“Yes. She’s very gracious.” I turned back to stare through the windshield. Cars zipped by on the…whatever the hell road we were on. For all I knew we could be flying to the moon. “I have to admit I’m surprised.” I didn’t look to see if he was glaring at me. Odds were good. “Genetics,” I muttered. “Go figure.”

“You saying I’m not gracious?”

I gave him a smile. I’m pretty sure half of my mouth was still functioning. “Yes, Lieutenant, that’s exactly what I’m thaying.” Damn it! “Saying.”

He smiled back. He looked like a Doberman guarding a hot dog. But maybe that was just the Chablis talking…or the champagne…or the tequila. Holy crap.

“So you were just two girls getting together to shoot the breeze?” he surmised.

“And eat.”

“Ah-huh.” He concentrated on the road ahead. Vehicles were zipping past, leaving red streaks of light in their wake.

“She’s an excellent cook.”

“Always has been.”

“And I like her house. It’s homey and—”

“God damn it!” he swore, and jerked the Saturn onto the left shoulder. A sixteen-wheeler whizzed by, missing my elbow by an inch.

“Hey,” I shrieked, and yanked my arm inside.

He was already leaning toward me, eyes glowing like a wolf’s in the surreal lights cast by an oncoming SUV. “What did she tell you?”

I huddled against the door. “What?”

“You’re barking up the wrong damned tree, McMullen,” he warned, and grabbed my wrist.

“I’m not barking at all.” I’m afraid my voice may have squeaked, but I didn’t bark, so I was pretty damned happy about that.

“What did you think she’d tell you?” He seemed to calm a little, but his body was tense, his eyes smoking. Really, I think they were. “That I’d been jealous of my old man all my life? That I killed Salina in a fit of passion?”

“Passion?” I was pressed against the passenger door like lunch meat gone bad. “No. You’re not a passionate kind of guy. Never rash or…or…violent?” The last word kind of sounded like a weak-assed question.

He stared at me, almost laughed, eased off a few inches. Shook his head. But suddenly his eyes struck me again.

“God damn it,” he said, but his voice had lost all emotion and in the stillness between rushing cars, I was pretty sure he’d gone beyond the purgatory depth of anger and sunk lower. “God damn it, McMullen. She’s my mother.”

I swallowed, not following, shaking my head.

“You want a coldhearted killer? Is that what you want?”

I shook my head harder, but he wasn’t really listening.

“Then try the old man.”

I stopped in mid-shake. “What did you find out?”

“She was baking cookies,” he said.

“What?”

“Salina. She was baking. Like she didn’t have a care in the world. Dishes half-washed. Water in the sink. The crime photos…” He drew a breath, carefully controlled.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be investigating the case.”

“Yeah?” His eyes snapped. There was something untamed and desperate in his eyes. “Well, she wasn’t supposed to die, was she?”

“Listen, Rivera, I know you cared about her. Maybe you even feel responsible, but—”

“Cut the shrink crap!” he snapped. “And stay the hell away from Mama.”

“She asked me to—”

“She’s got nothing to do with this. Do you hear me?” He tightened his grip on my biceps. “Nothing.”

“I didn’t say she…” I began, but just then a rogue thought shambled groggily into my brain. “Is that why you went to her house? To check her alibi?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He leaned closer. “She doesn’t need a damned alibi.”

“Because she’s your mother?”

“Because she’s innocent.”

I jerked my arm away. “Then why the hell do you think you have to protect her?”

He glared at me, silent for a second.

I was breathing hard. “Christ, Rivera, you’re acting like a moron.”

Something traveled like lightning across his face, but he shut it down.

I watched him, mind grinding rustily. “Worse. You’re acting like she’s guilty.”

The car went silent. My mind was sweating, and at that moment I realized that a functioning brain might have come in really handy about then.

“What’d she tell you?” His voice was a monotone.

I gave up trying to analyze him and glanced toward the highway, wondering if I could make it across without getting squashed by a passing motorist. I knew my odds weren’t good, but at that precise moment, it didn’t really matter, because the truth was, I would rather have taken my chances with a speed-happy commuter than admit we’d been discussing how he’d look in his underwear. Crap. I’d rather tell him she confessed. “She said men are idiots.”

He glared at me a moment, then leaned back, rubbed his eyes, and chuckled. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. Well…” He blew out a breath, watched the traffic stream by. “She’d know, wouldn’t she?”

I drew my first clear breath since I’d seen him standing in his mother’s doorway. “How are things at work?”

“Work?” He snorted, then shrugged. “They’re great. Just dandy.”

There was sarcasm in his voice. And fatigue. And possibly the suggestion that he’d like to toss me out of the car and put tire tracks over my head.

“I was afraid you’d get in trouble.” I watched his face. He hadn’t shaved that day. Either that or he was part wolf, which I’d kind of always suspected. He was wearing a blue, western-style shirt with snaps. It was rumpled. As were his blue jeans. I gave a mental scowl. “You know…after last night.”

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. A red Maserati zipped by at about five hundred miles an hour. I wondered if the cop in him wanted to slap on a blue light and chase it down the road or if he was too busy working on the tire tread fantasy.