Not One Clue (5 page)

I held my breath. Moms were sneaky. Men could be even sneakier. But men who were cops … they were the true experts. “What do you mean?”

“He’s been accused of rape. Did you know that?”

I hoped to hell he didn’t know about Jamel’s mother. If Kaneasha’s family knew the truth about the circumstances, Micky wouldn’t have a chance of obtaining custody. “A woman named Sheila Branigan, I believe.”

“But you hopped on over to Glendale to save him anyway.”

“What is it with you and weird verbs today?”

“Did you ever consider your own life might be in danger?”

“Did you know that Sheila Branigan also accused three other black men of rape? All of whom had solid alibis?”

“Maybe you’re not aware that most women don’t cry rape just for the fun of it.”

“I’m a licensed psychologist, Rivera. I’m well aware of the lasting effects of rape, but Sheila’s accusations were entirely fabricated.”

“You got something for this Micky guy?”

I raised my brows at the tangy sound of jealousy in his voice. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a masochist or anything, but jealousy is not necessarily frowned upon in Chrissyland. “He’s a client, Rivera. We have a professional relationship. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you? It’s a situation where two people treat each other with mutual—”

“Lavonn says he raped her sister.”

The air escaped my lungs like helium from an overfilled balloon. “What?”

“She’s not denying that the kid’s his, but she says he’s a product of rape.”

I kept my voice calm. “Does she have any proof?”

“The boy’s eight years old. Unlikely to be proof after this much time.”

I felt myself relax a little.

“Unless his shrink would step forward with evidence.”

“Micky’s made some mistakes,” I admitted. “But he has nothing but good intentions where his son is concerned.”

“Lompoc is full of men with good intentions.”

“I guess it’s a good thing he found me, then. To help him nurture those intentions.”

“Is that your job, McMullen? To save the fallen angels of the world?” Rivera had made his share of mistakes. For better or worse, his father, an ex-senator with more charm than morals, had been able to sweep most of them under the rug.

“Some are too far gone,” I said.

“Good to know you’re aware of that.”

“Micky’s not one of them.”

“Did he rape Lavonn’s sister?”

“Did you see Lavonn’s eyes?” I asked.

“You’re avoiding the issue.”

“That’s my job. Did you see her?”

“I heard reports.”

“Did they say she was stoned?”

“Tox hasn’t gotten back to us yet.”

It was my turn to snort. “I’m willing to bet Jackson was just as far gone.”

“That give your boy the right to shoot him?”

“My
client
has the right to defend himself … and his son … even in L.A.”

“Spoken like a gun-toting Midwesterner.”

“You don’t have to be an ass, Rivera, just because you’re jealous.”

There was a momentary pause. Maybe it was even thoughtful. “Is that what I am?”

“Sounds like it.”

“And what would you say if I told you I was really talking to Rachel last night after I hung up with you?”

Anger zipped through me. Immediately hot. “Is that skank circus back in town?”

There was a moment of silence, then he chuckled, soft and low, sending the sound skimming over my nerve endings like fingers on sensitized skin.

“Mamá says you should come over for margaritas,” he said, and hung up.

5

In my family, being an overachiever means drinking your weight in the alcoholic beverage of your choice.

—
Chrissy McMullen, whose
brothers had actually
achieved that feat on more
than one occasion

“H
ey, girl.” Shirley glanced up as I walked into the reception area of L.A. Counseling, then did a double take and popped to her feet. She was freaky graceful for a woman her size. Shirley Templeton is a big woman. Big hands, big shoulders, big belly.
Huge
heart. “I didn’t think there was no trains in your part of town.”

“I wasn’t hit by a train,” I said, carefully removing my sunglasses as I lowered myself into a chair near her desk. It had been hotter than jambalaya on Interstate 2 that morning and the Saturn’s air-conditioning hadn’t quite been up to the task of keeping my brain from shriveling like overcooked bacon. I closed my eyes and rested my head against the wall behind me.

“Well, what in God’s good name happened to you, then?”

“Oh …” I may have limped a little as I made my way toward my office. Maybe I had even added a pathetic little mew of pain as I’d entered the building. Let it never be said that Christina McMullen is above soliciting sympathy. Shirley’s usually comes in the form of sugar. Need I say more? “There was a little altercation.” Lavonn might have been a scrawny little crackhead, but she could pack a wallop when cornered.

“Who was she?”

I opened my eyes and turned to look at my receptionist. There are times when she can be almost as spooky as Laney. Maybe that’s why she had slipped so seamlessly into Elaine’s position behind the front desk.

“What makes you think it was a woman?”

“’Cuz I ain’t heard ’bout no fatalities in your part of town and if there was a man involved, I got a feeling there woulda been a funeral.”

“Actually, there
was
a man involved. Two, in fact.” I frowned, remembering Jackson.

“They gonna be all right?”

“Who?”

“Whoever you’re worried about.”

I considered that for a moment. “Have you ever thought about becoming one of those psychic readers?”

She shook her head. “They make a lot of money?”

“Has to be more than what I pay you.”

She thought about that for a second, then shrugged. “Money ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. My kids would just take it anyhow,” she said, and turned back toward her desk. “You need any ice for those ribs?”

“No. I’ll be fine.” I’m extremely comfortable in the role of martyr. More than once I had considered investing in a nice camel-hair tunic, but at that precise moment I was wearing a pair of black capris with a short-sleeved turquoise blouse. It may not be much in the way of fever-inducing itching, but the top was fairly new and I didn’t want to get it wet from melting ice.

“How about a long john?” Shirley asked, and opening a drawer, drew out a little white paper bag.

The glorious smell of refined sugar permeated the air. Thompson’s Bakery, I thought, then sniffed again, olfactory nerves twittering. No. Donuts Go Round, I decided judiciously. Two rolls. Fresh-baked that morning. Maple frosting. No filling. “I shouldn’t,” I said.

“You been in a scuffle,” she argued, and came back around the desk, delectable bag held in her right hand like a balm from the gods. “You need healin’ food.”

“Long johns
have
been proven to have medicinal benefits.”

“Nothing better.”

“And you
are
wiser than I,” I said.

“It’s God’s truth.” Handing over the bag, she lumbered back to her post. “Got a new client coming in at nine,” she said, but I was still staring at the bag and feeling a little mushy.

“Shirley …”

“I love you, too,” she said, and not bothering to look up, waved me off. “Now go eat that before the new gal shows up and finds you got frosting in your hair.”

Rising a little unsteadily, I turned away, knowing true wisdom when I heard it. I
do
tend to frost my hair when donuts become involved. Sometimes, in fact, my shoes get a little glaze on them.

It didn’t occur to me till later that I was unwilling to dampen my turquoise blouse with melting ice but willing to risk a frosting encounter.

I had just finished up the second john when my first client arrived. She was tall and slim and as serious as a Hemingway novel.

I stood up and turned toward the door as she entered. According to her chart, she was seventeen years old, but she looked like a leggy fourteen who was trying hard for forty.

“Emily Christianson?” I asked.

“Yes.” Her handshake was firm and quick, her complexion pale. There were purple crescents under her eyes. I smiled. She didn’t.

“I’m Christina McMullen. Have a seat.” I motioned her toward the couch. She went, turned, and sat slowly, sitting very erect on the ivory cushions. She was wearing a pale pink button-up blouse tucked into black slacks that were cuffed at the bottom and neatly pressed. Her hair was dark, straight, and pulled into a high ponytail. Her lips were pursed in a somber expression that looked as if it had settled in for the long haul. “So, why are you here?”

She blinked at me. “I filled out the chart.”

I didn’t glance at it. It only stated the most rudimentary information … just a little less than nothing. “So you came at your parents’ request?”

“They thought I seemed stressed.”

Ah, perception, thy name is parent. “Can you tell me why you’re stressed?”

She shrugged. Economical and stiff, as if she were afraid the motion would take too much precious time. “Isn’t everyone?”

Most were, but I had a feeling she brought it to collegiate levels. “You’re a junior in high school?”

“A senior.” Her lips pursed even more. “Accelerated classes.”

“Ahhh.” I hoped to sound smart, because I had a feeling I was in the presence of an intellect that would make my own relatively impressive brain blush with embarrassment.

“I’m hoping to be accepted into Harvard for my undergraduate courses.”

“How come?”

She scowled at me, just the slightest lowering of her brows. “What?”

“Why do you want to attend Harvard?”

“Education is the keystone to success.” She said the words very succinctly. I had once seen
I, Robot
with Will Smith. Mostly in the hopes of seeing Smith sans shirt. Eureka! Not only had he been shirtless, there was a shower scene. I remember it vividly. I didn’t recall the robots as well, but I believe they had spoken in a tone similar to Emily Christianson’s.

“And how do you define success?” I asked.

She seemed a little confused. “The generally accepted definition, I suppose. A good career. A nice home. A decent financial portfolio.”

She had a scant two inches of skin showing between her clavicle and the top of her blouse. Otherwise she was buttoned up tighter than Sister Margaret Mary on holiday. Even the cuffs at the ends of her long sleeves were secured over her narrow-boned wrists.

“What career are you considering?” I asked.

“I’ll become a vascular surgeon.” No equivocation. No “I hope” or “I might.”

“So you’re interested in medicine.”

Her hesitation was almost imperceptible. “It’s quite fascinating.”

“So are crickets.”

“What?”

I gave her a smile. This trying-to-act-intelligent stuff was already wearing on my nerves. “I’ve always thought crickets were fascinating.”

She blinked. Her hands, white-knuckled with close-cropped fingernails, were clasped atop her lap. “You’re interested in entomology?”

I didn’t try to explain my sense of humor. She wouldn’t be the first to mistake it for lunacy. “How long have you wanted to become a surgeon?”

She shook her head, an almost negligible toggle of her head. “For as long as I can remember.”

I wondered how long her
parents
had wanted her to become a surgeon, but I wasn’t quite ready to pose that question. “So your grades are good?”

“For the most part. I’m somewhat concerned about Physics.”

Somewhat concerned. God save the children. “Ninety-two percentile?” I guessed.

Her mouth tightened a little more. “If I receive less than a seventy-nine percent I’m in danger of an A minus.”

I nodded. There were no perfectionists in my family. In fact, there was some question regarding the actual
species
of a couple of my brothers, but I had seen enough self-inflicted perfectionism to recognize it when it sat on my couch and clasped its hands. “Is that why you cut yourself?”

It was all guesswork. I knew almost nothing about her, but the signs were there if anyone wanted to see them.

I wouldn’t have thought she could get any paler. Wrong again. She shifted her arms the slightest degree, but refrained from tugging down her sleeves. The epitome of self-control.

“They were only superficial incisions,” she said. “And just once.”

I nodded and settled in.

“M
s. Christina?”

I jumped, spun around, and jammed my spine up against the door of my humble domicile. Maybe that seems like dramatic behavior, but I’d had one hell of a day at the office, and sometimes I prefer to know ahead of time when people are planning to kill me on my front stoop.

In this case, however, my visitor was just my next-door neighbor, Ramla Al-Sadr. Her attire had changed somewhat in the past few years. She no longer wore the traditional robes and full-face veil. Now she favored pretty head scarves, and colorful gowns. Although, she had informed me years ago that virtually all Muslim women appreciated a nice G-string under their burka. Ramla had taught me a fair amount about Islam, but her very best attribute, in my own humble opinion, was the high unlikelihood that she would ever attempt to kill me. Still, it took some time for my heart to decide to remain in my chest.

“Yes. Hi. Ramla. Hi.” I considered trying to shuffle the bag of lo mein and fried rice into my purse hand so as to hug her, but it was too bulky. “How are you?”

She stared at me, dark eyes somber. “I am not so very well.”