Not One Clue (24 page)

“What? No. I—”

“He was the one who fired the shot, wasn’t he?”

I winced.

“A gun that is probably not registered.”

“Listen, Rivera, I didn’t know—”

Anger chased frustration across his face. “What?” His voice had risen. His teeth were gritted. He stalked to my easy chair and turned. “That you could have been shot? That you could have been raped and tortured and murdered?”

“Don’t get—”

“Dramatic?” he asked, and laughed as he jerked into a seated position. The warmth of his body abandoned me, and in that instant I felt my eyes fill with tears.

He glanced at me, looking angry as hell. “No!” he said. “You are
not
going to cry.”

I sniffled a little, feeling like a ninny.

He levered himself to his feet and pointed dramatically toward the back of the house. “You were just accosted by some madman, woman! That’s when you should have cried … or screamed or swooned or some goddamned thing. But did you? No. You ran out there in a mermaid suit, waving an aerosol can. So don’t pretend you’re getting all teary-eyed because I raised my voice.”

I shook my head, searching for the temper that usually saves me from that particular brand of humiliation. “It’s not that. I just …” I pressed my knuckles to my nose to stop the flow of snot. “Does this mean you’re not going to sleep with me?”

It may have been the dumbest thing I’d ever said, but the words were out there, searing me with their soppy honesty.

For a second every muscle in his body tensed. Then he swore and stormed across the floor. Bending, he scooped me into his arms. His chest felt hard against my boobs, his lips fire-hot against mine as he kissed me.

“You’re driving me fucking crazy.” He kind of panted the words. My arms had wound themselves around his neck.

“What kind of crazy?” My words came out as a kitten-soft whisper.

He stared at me for a full twenty seconds, then gritting his teeth, he swore out loud, and turned toward the bedroom.

“Mac! Mac!” Laney’s voice stormed through the house even before I heard the front door open. Footsteps galloped across the floor and in a moment she was standing there, staring at us with her eyes wide, her face pale.

Rivera stood half-turned toward her, frozen, cradling me in his arms.

She took in the situation like a speed-reader, searching for wounds or blood or dead bodies. “What happened?” she asked.

“I’m okay,” I said, but in that moment Solberg gal-lumped in after her.

“Why’s Rivera’s car …” His voice petered to a stumble. “… parked on the sidewalk?” he asked, eyes skittering from Rivera’s face to my own. “And why is he carrying a mermaid?”

“Are you hurt?” Laney asked.

I was starting to blush. It’s not something I do often. But when I do it’s a full-body thing, and I was just now beginning to realize that this looked as if Rivera had made an emergency booty call. Had careened through L.A., jumped the curb, and come charging into the house to service me.

I wiggled uncomfortably in his arms and he released my legs, letting me slither my slippery tail to the floor. I cleared my throat.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Everything’s fine. There was just a little bit of trouble with Aalia.”

“Her husband?” As usual, Laney had switched tracks with the alacrity of a train engineer.

The excitement of the past hour coursed through me again, firing up cold remnants of adrenaline. “He was pulling her behind the neighbor’s garage when I let Harlequin out to pee.”

“You stopped him?”

I glanced toward Rivera. “I, ummm, had my Mace.”

“Jesus,” Solberg said. He looked as white as talcum powder.

“But you called the lieutenant,” Laney said.

“First thing.”

She turned and gazed at Rivera with that expression that had made lesser men wet their pants. “Thanks for rushing over.”

He nodded.

“I know she drives you nuts.” I’ll never be sure how she managed to sound so sincere. “But she’s worth it.”

“She’s going to get herself killed,” Rivera said.

“Don’t let that happen.”

“Then she’d better quit—”

“I’m right here!” I said. “I can hear you, you know.”

“Then quit acting like a harebrained whack job,” Rivera said.

“Harebrained … Is that what you call saving lives?”

“It is when you’re not trained. When you’re armed with a damned spray can. When you—”

“Angel,” Solberg said, eyes wide in his chimpanzee face. “That dress!” I was holding my breath. “Wasn’t your friend—”

“Jeen,” Laney said, and turned toward him, expression as placid as summer as she hugged him. “Thank you for getting me home so quickly.”

“But … at the party … that girl …”

“Needs to relax now. Could you run out to the car and get my planner. I have a few details Mac and I need to discuss.”

“But …”

“I love you,” she said, and kissed him on the lips.

True, I was in dire danger of being exposed as the French mermaid at the party—the one who flirted with Rivera’s father and subsequently invited a might-be criminal into her house—but I would have rather done thirty days in San Quentin than see my best friend kiss the Geekster on the mouth.

25

And which do you think seems like a better plan?

—
Chrissy McMullen, Ph.D.,
after Emily Christianson
said she had weighed her
options: She could either
spend her evenings trading
microbes with a boy who
had half her IQ, or she
could become a world-
famous surgeon

“S
o everything’s going well?” I asked.

It was Monday afternoon and I was back at the office. I had discussed my party conversations with Laney a few days before. Together we’d decided that Morab genuinely liked her and therefore was unlikely to send her threatening mail. Not to mention the fact that he was just too gorgeous to be guilty. There was also the fact that if anything happened to her, everyone associated with
Queen
would suffer.

I had slept on that thought. In fact, I slept through most of the weekend, but I still felt tired. Nevertheless, I had managed to shove myself into a summer suit and strap on a pair of huarache sandals before dashing off to work.

Emily Christianson sat across the coffee table from me. She looked as thin and taut as a guitar string. She was wearing a black pencil skirt and a white button-down blouse. It was very similar to the ensemble she’d worn every time she’d visited my office. Did that mean she just really liked business attire, or did it speak of a deep-seated need to control her environment with an iron fist.

“I aced my calc exam,” she said.

“Good for you.”

“Well …” She sighed. “I thought I aced it, but Dad said I could have done better.”

“What was your score?”

“Ninety-eight percentile.”

I raised my brows in concession to her brainpower. “Did your father say why he was disappointed?”

“There were extra-credit points offered,” she said. “I didn’t do them. I would have,” she said, already defensive, “but I ran out of time.”

In retrospect, I thought I’d rather have been called Pork Chop and spent my days fighting off my brother’s dead vermin than have to live with such ridiculous expectations. “Parents often set extremely high standards for their children, but it’s usually because they want the best for them.” On the other hand, it was sometimes because they were assholes. I was dying to know which it was in this case.

“I know I should be grateful that he cares,” she said. “I mean, I have friends whose parents are barely present, much less intimately involved in every facet of their lives.”

I examined her for a moment. There was something a little funny about the statement. Something a little off, but I couldn’t quite determine what it was. The word “intimately” suggested egregious transgressions, of course, but I didn’t get the sense there was anything sexual involved here. “Tell me about your friends,” I said. “We haven’t spoken about them much.”

“My friends?” She shrugged. “They’re just, you know … kids.”

“Who’s your
best
friend?”

She almost looked as if she’d like to squirm, but she held herself perfectly still, pinned there by careful control and endless experience.

“I guess it would have to be Colleen. Colleen Anderson.”

“Tell me about her.”

“She’s the president of the debate team. And a member of the math league.”

“So you go to the same school?”

For a moment I thought emotion flared in her eyes, but then she laced her fingers in her lap and crossed her legs at the ankle.

“Well, she’s going to MIT now.”

“But you keep in touch?”

“As much as we can, but we’re both extremely busy with school.”

“How about extracurricular activities?”

“What?”

“Sports, school dances, that sort of thing. Do you make time for those?”

She pursed her lips. “I’m preparing for college,” she said. “I’ve never felt it was particularly important to learn how to belly dance or French-kiss some guy with an IQ of a cashew.”

The conversation went on like that for some time. She told me about her study schedule and her papers due and her appointments with professors from various colleges. By the time her fifty minutes were up I was exhausted. By the time she left my office I wanted to buy her a Popsicle and let her run through the sprinkler like every little girl should. Instead, I once again told her that I’d like to meet with her parents, reminded myself to contact her school about her progress, and accompanied her to the reception area, from which she efficiently escaped into the heat of the day.

To my surprise there was a little woman waiting in one of the chairs. She was small and quiet and as wizened as a raisin. I had seen her face once before. “You’re Micky’s grandmother, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “I’d like to have a word with you, Ms. McMullen.” Her voice seemed to scratch against my eardrums.

Dread filled my head. “Is something wrong?”

“Could we talk in private?” Her hands were dark and wrinkled, but looked firm and strong on the ivory curve of her cane. “I can wait if you have other obligations.”

“No. This is fine,” I said, and ushered her into my office while giving Shirley the “What the hell?” eye over my shoulder. She shrugged in return, but I noticed that she looked a little skittish. There aren’t many things short of a full-scale air raid that can make a woman of Shirley’s caliber skittish.

So I closed my office door gently behind me and followed the dwarfed little figure into the room. She stood in the exact center, turned, and faced me. “Why haven’t you told my grandson to get custody of his boy?”

I managed not to stumble back a pace.

“Won’t you have a seat?” I asked.

She thumped her cane on the floor. My carpet, though berber and overpriced, did little to muffle the noise. It dawned on me that there probably was very little that
would
muffle this woman.

“Did you hear me?” she asked.

I thought it was safe to assume that a turnip would have heard her, but I didn’t voice that opinion. Back in Schaumburg I had eaten soap for less.

“Please,” I said. “Sit so we can discuss it.”

“There isn’t a thing to discuss. I want you to tell Michael to do right by his son. It’s as simple as that.”

“Well …” I took a seat myself, hoping I would make it look so appealing that she would feel it necessary to follow suit. No go. Instead, I felt as tense as a fiddle string and she had the advantage of height. Not a simple task when you stand five foot naught in your Easy Spirits and weigh in at eighty-two pounds soaked in olive oil. “I’m afraid that’s not quite how I do business,” I said.

“Business!” She was scowling at me. I had always been of the opinion that Rivera had the corner on the scowling market but this little lady made him look as chipper as a beribboned flower girl. “Is that what you call this?”

“I’m a licensed psychologist, Mrs. Goldenstone. Here to listen to your grandson’s problems. To help him work through any—”

“He raped that girl. He tell you that?”

I felt like I had been blindsided. According to Micky, no one knew about the heinous actions of his youth. No one besides himself and his victim.

“My sessions with Micky are confidential.”

She stared at me a second, then nodded stiffly. “He tell you about that gal on the subway, too?”

I felt every fiber tighten. “Listen, Mrs. Goldenstone, I’d be happy to schedule an appointment for you and Micky to come in together so that we can have adequate time to discuss—”

“I didn’t think so,” she said, and jabbed her cane at me. It was the first time since an octogenarian had tried to kill me that I realized what an effective weapon a cane could make. “They were on the midnight train. There was a gal riding alone when three young men come up to her. They were members of the Crips. Michael knew that. He’s not naïve. Not with his upbringing. But he protected the girl. She wasn’t hurt.”

We stared at each other.

“He didn’t tell me that,” I said.

“He didn’t tell anyone. Just told the doctors in the emergency room that he’d gotten in a fight with an old friend. I talked to the girl herself.”

“He ended up in the ER?”

“That’s what happens when you get shot twice through the rib cage.”

I felt myself pale. “When was this?”

“Two months ago.”

So I had been seeing him. And I hadn’t had a clue.