Unscrewed (4 page)

“Christina,” I said. What had happened? Where was Rivera?

“And your relationship to Mr. Rivera, Christina?”

Good question. Excellent question. “I’m a psychologist,” I said, straightening to my full height, just over six feet in the silver-bowed Guccis. “I’d like to see him.”

“You’re his psychologist?”

I had a friendly face, too, but I wasn’t about to waste it on him. “Is he in trouble?”

“Has he ever spoken to you of a Ms. Martinez?”

The name rang a tinny little bell in my brain but I couldn’t recognize the tune. “Not that I can recall.”

“She was…” He paused a second. His eyes gleamed as they skimmed toward my cleavage. “…a friend of his, too.”

The world felt suddenly cold.

“She was also the senator’s fiancée,” he added.

“I don’t…” Reality was a hard glacier pressed up against the world I wanted to have.
“Was?”

Something feral gleamed in his eyes. “Was,” he repeated.

The earth seemed to be dropping away from me.

His gaze slipped lower, down my exposed legs to the little bows at my ankles. “Were you on a date, Christina?”

“What’s going on?” It was all I could manage.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions if—” he began, but at that instant hell exploded inside the house. Something shattered. Someone yelled.

And suddenly Graystone had a gun in his hand. He spun around and sprinted up the walkway to the house.

I went with him. I don’t remember ascending the front steps. Don’t remember passing the threshold. But suddenly I was there and no one stopped me. Like a feather on Graystone’s coattails.

The air smelled of taut nerves and melted chocolate.

The entry seemed hollow and empty. Marble clattered beneath my heels. The living room was vaulted, arched stucco doorways, Persian rugs, crowded with people. Lieutenant Jack Rivera lay facedown on its pale hardwood floor. Two men dug their knees in his back. His forehead was bleeding, a bright stain of crimson over crusted black, but he never saw me. His eyes glowed with rage. Veins stood out like swollen tributaries in his dark forearms.

I didn’t realize until sometime later that I had pressed my back up against the rough plaster of the wall behind me.

“Get the hell off me,” Rivera snarled, like a wild animal netted but not yet tranqed.

“Calm down. Just calm down.” The nearest standing cop had a gun trained at Rivera’s head. There was a bruise developing over the officer’s left eye. Another uniform was wiping blood from his nose with the back of his hand.

“What the hell’s going on here?” A man entered beside me. I cranked my head to the right, taking him in in strange blurps of frozen time. Big man. Black. Huge hands. Tired eyes. “Graystone?” he queried.

The blocky suit stepped forward. “Dispatch got a call at nine-twelve. Said there was trouble at this address.”

“Who called?”

“Don’t know that yet, sir.”

“Christ!” The big man’s gaze, thunderbolt-fast and midnight-dark, snapped to Rivera’s.

“Get these assholes off me,” the lieutenant snarled.

“Shut the hell up!” ordered the officer in charge, but his eyes were beyond tired when he turned them back to Graystone. “What time did we arrive?”

“Nine twenty-eight, sir.”

“Who came?”

“Tebbet and Irons.”

The big man’s gaze swung sideways, probably to the two officers in question, who were standing out of my line of vision. “And?”

“Front door was open when we arrived, Captain Kindred.” The man who stepped forward to answer was short and squat, back straight, expression cranked tight, just starting to perspire. “We knocked. No one answered. House was quiet. I announced us. LAPD. Tebbet notified base of our intentions to enter said residence, then we went around back.” He swallowed. “The light was on in the hallway, as was the light in the kitchen. Unsure whether there were lights—”

“Get to the damned money shot,” growled the captain.

Irons nodded snappily. “The lieutenant was lying just to the left of where Tebbet is standing. He seemed unconscious.”

“Fucking hell.” Kindred ran his fingers through nappy hair cut short. “And the girl?”

All eyes turned toward something I couldn’t see. The captain took a step forward. The crowd parted like grains of sand, opening my view like a panoramic picture.

And then I saw her—sprawled on her back, half in the living room, half in the hall. She was barefoot. Her toenails shone bloodred against the hard marble tile and matched her long, tapered fingernails to perfection. A white satin bathrobe was belted at her waist. Her head was turned just so, her lips as red as her nails, her smooth ballerina’s neck flawless, flowing gracefully into her shoulders and half-exposed breasts. Her eyes were wide and staring, liquid amber, shocked and unblinking as she gazed through a sable net of glossy hair. It flowed like a blue-black river over the slick fabric of her robe and onto the blond basswood floor beneath.

She was extremely beautiful, I thought, and found myself sliding down the wall onto my near-naked ass, legs spread wide and head reeling.

Extremely beautiful and absolutely dead.

4

I
WAS RUNNING, running and falling. Crying and screaming. But I couldn’t get away. Death was squeezing my lungs, stealing my breath. I thrashed wildly, trying to break free.

“Mac? Mac.”

I heard my name through layers of cotton batting. I jerked, found I was free, sat up, and blinked. My heart was hammering at my ribs. It was dark all around me, but light streamed from some sort of opening. An apparition stood in the center of it.

“Mac.” The apparition rushed at me. A horse thundered along beside it. I scrunched back in terror. “Are you all right?”

I think I shook my head. My bumbling thoughts cleared a little. “Laney?” I guessed.

“What’s wrong with you?” Her palm felt cool against my forehead. “What happened?”

I blinked, tried to take a deep breath. The horse morphed into a dog the size of a Hummer. It licked my hand.

“Are you okay?” Laney pushed the hair back from my face. Her fingers felt soft against my cheek. The dog’s tongue was rough. Harlequin. His name was Harlequin. Where was I? “I tried to call you after you talked to Jeen.”

Jeen. Solberg. A few more facts filtered lethargically into my cranium.

“But you didn’t answer your phone. Or your cell. You must have let the battery run down again.”

“Battery,” I said. The filtering was pretty slow going. I can’t dance worth crap, and I’m like the anti-Christ in the kitchen, but I’m a world-class sleeper. I’m not quite such a champion at waking up, however.

“Mac, what happened? Are you high? Did Rivera drug you or something?”

“Rivera.” The filtering turned to a sudden flood: Shock on a dead girl’s face. Rage in Rivera’s eyes. “Laney.” I snapped my gaze to hers and grappled for her hand. “I think he killed her.”

“What?” The question came from the doorway. I jerked in that direction. Solberg jittered there, short, skinny, bespectacled. I hoped this wasn’t my bedroom, considering his presence.

“What are you talking about?” Laney was holding my hand between both of hers, squeezing gently. “What’s going on?”

“The senator was dating his ex.”

“Slow down.”

“Creepy.” I shivered. “And she was…” I felt breathless, shaky. “So beautiful. Like the statue of Madonna in Father Pat’s office. You remember?”

She nodded, but she might have been humoring me. I’ve noticed that people do that with the mentally deranged.

“Her skin…” I shook my head. My memories were vivid. Her skin had looked flawlessly smooth, as if she’d never suffered a day of acne. Never struggled through manic brothers and adolescent boyfriends. But it was her eyes that snagged me. Eyes wide with shock and dismay, wondering how her perfect life had come to this. “I think
she
called him. Not his father,” I rambled. “But from his house.
‘Like a Virgin.’
Dead. And I thought—”

“Jeen, turn on the light, please.” Laney’s voice was firm but soft.

Light splashed all around me. Reality seeped in a careful inch. We
were
in my bedroom. But at least Laney was here, too.

She squeezed my fingers in hers. Her eyes, as green as the hills of the old country, looked naked and troubled. Harlequin’s looked droopy and sad. Maybe he’s not great at waking up, either. Sometimes I think we have a disturbing number of characteristics in common. “Start at the beginning,” she said.

I drew a deep breath, thought back, let my tension ease a notch, and did just that. I remembered the hazy shock that had enveloped me, Graystone’s tight-lipped questions, my own monosyllabic answers, Officer Bjorklund’s silent presence as he drove me home. Somehow my little Saturn had followed us. Magic maybe. Maybe not.

Two hours and a pot of coffee later, I felt scrubbed clean of emotion. Drained, beaten, sandblasted. Laney and I were sitting in my living room. Solberg had left some time before. Harlequin had happily taken his place, sprawling across the end of the couch with his head on Laney’s lap and his tail curving toward the floor. Light seeped cautiously between the slats of my blinds, illuminating every sparkling dust mote in its path.

Elaine and I stared at each other.

“So what now?”

I wasn’t sure for a moment if it was her question or mine. But I didn’t think I had spoken, so I shrugged a response.

“You know…” I was sitting in my La-Z-Boy, balancing a mug atop my knees and wrapping my arms around my shins. The coffee had long since gone cold. “I think my taste in men is actually getting worse.”

She fondled Harlequin’s ears. He grinned drunkenly. Elaine always affects guys that way. “I think you’ve forgotten Ace.”

I glanced at her, unsure, but then the memory struck with sudden rudeness. Ace had been the man’s actual, given name. He had used my credit card to hire prostitutes for my surprise twenty-second birthday party. Three prostitutes.

“He only paid them,” I mused. “He didn’t murder them.”

“Mac—”

“Listen,” I said. Snapping the mug from my knees, I jerked to my feet. “I don’t think I ask too much. All I want is a normal guy. One who doesn’t murder anyone. Who doesn’t hire call girls for my entertainment. Who doesn’t steal my underwear. Who doesn’t—”

“Who stole your underwear?”

“Warren,” I said, facing her. “You remember Warren.”

She scrunched her face. She was only moderately more adorable than usual when she did so. If I had a grain of pride I’m pretty sure I would hate her for that and a thousand other irresistible attributes. “I don’t recall a Warren.”

“Please tell me that even in my list of loser beaus an underwear-stealing hypochondriac is unforgettable.”

There must have been something pathetic in my expression, because she said, in something of a monotone, “Oh, yes. Warren.”

I stared at her. “You are the worst liar I’ve ever known.”

“No, really, I re—Am not,” she said, changing course and looking offended.

I closed my eyes and sank down beside her, scrunched between her and the armrest. “What the hell’s wrong with me, Laney?”

“Nothing.” Her answer was quick and solid.

“Worst liar ever,” I said, and dropped my head back against the cushion. It smelled a little like dog. I hate dogs. I reached out and stroked Harlequin’s muzzle. He snored happily.

“Really, Mac,” Laney said, “there is nothing wrong with you, except…”

I lifted my head and blinked at her. We’ve been best friends since fifth grade, bonded by serious adolescent ugliness and boys who stink. And in all that time I couldn’t remember a single instance when’d she found fault with me.

Well, maybe once. No, twice. No…Well, she found a lot fewer faults than most people.

“What?” I said.

She glanced toward the window. Dawn was becoming more aggressive.

“What?” I repeated.

She shifted her gaze back to mine. “I think you’re intentionally looking for flaws.”

I stared at her.

“In the men you date,” she explained.

I kept staring. “Laney,” I said. “When a guy commits murder, it’s called a felony, not fault-finding.”

“You don’t know he killed her.”

Memories were rushing in again, revving up my heart rate. “I don’t know he didn’t kill her, either.”

“You could say that about—”

“Who?” I challenged. “Who? Solberg?”

She gave me a smirk.

“How many people has your little cabbage possibly killed, Laney?”

“That’s not the point.”

“That’s exactly the point. Solberg is normal compared to the guys I date. Solberg! That hurts me,” I said, clutching my mug to my chest. It said “I Hate Mondays” in red letters, with “Monday” crossed off and every other day of the week scratched in. It had been a gift from a guy I’d dated five years before. I’d gotten rid of him but kept the cup. One of my better deals. “It hurts me right here to say it,” I told her.

She grinned. “Careful, Mac, your jealousy’s showing.”

“Oh!” I flopped back onto the couch, free hand pressed to my chest. “
Et tu,
Brutus?”

“What are you going to do now?”

“‘Do’?” I rolled my head toward her. “What can I do? I’m going to cross the dark lieutenant off my list of possibilities and move on.”

“You have a list?”

“I didn’t say it was long.”

“How many?”

“Don’t be cruel.”

“Maybe he’s innocent.”

“Of what? Murder or lying?”

She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Okay, he maybe lied about his father calling.”

“Either that or he thinks his father’s a virgin.”

She ignored me. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t give him another chance.”

“You’re sticking up for him?”

“I just think you’re being hasty.”

“You’re sticking up for Rivera. You remember that he accused me of murder, don’t you?”

“That was…unfortunate.”

“He stole my blouse so he could test a cherry stain. A cherry stain, Laney.”

“I’m not saying he’s well adjusted. But then…he’s a cop. Maybe you can’t expect—”

“Threatened me.”

“They call you a ballbuster,” she blurted.

I stopped, mouth agape. “What?”

She cleared her throat and lowered her brows. They formed perfect twin arcs, like canopies, over her Emerald Isle eyes. “Jeen thinks men are afraid of you.”

I shook my head at her. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“You put them on the defensive.”

“So you’re saying Rivera lied to me about his dad calling, drove over to his father’s house, and killed Martinez because he was afraid of me?”

“I’m saying…” She pushed Harlequin’s head gently from her lap and rose to her feet with the grace of a dancer—which she is. Men make pilgrimages from as far away as Poughkeepsie to see her in tights. “You’re going to get up.” Reaching for my hand, she pulled me to my feet. “Get dressed.” She turned me around like a windup toy, then pushed me toward my bedroom. “And go talk to him.”

I stopped dead in my tracks and pivoted slowly back around. “What?”

“You’ve got to give him a chance. Ask him what happened. Get his side of the story.”

“I do not.”

She stared at me, her eyes wide and solemn, like the preacher’s daughter she would always be. “Someone Rivera once cared about is dead, Mac. He’s hurting, and whether he had anything to do with her death or not, he’s in trouble. The Chrissy McMullen that I know…that I love…is going to do something about that.”

She could instill guilt in a rock. But I’m harder than a rock. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

She stared at me. I have never once beaten her in a stare-down. I glanced at the floor.

“I’ll drive you to the police station,” she said.