One Hot Mess (17 page)

Sometime later I found the obituary for Francis Rivera. He was a shortstop for the Atlanta Braves. There was talk of steroids and batting averages, but no one suggested he had been either the senator's illegitimate son or his longtime lover.

Jimmy Rivera had died in Arizona, but he was ninety-two at the time of death, so murder seemed unlikely. I moved on.

Two months ago a woman named Carmella Ortez had perished in a house fire in her home in Baton Rouge. She'd been a Rivera before her marriage and subsequent divorce, but there must be thousands of Riveras on the Gulf Coast. I was scrolling dismissively downward when a photo snagged my attention.

A dark-haired woman was smiling at the photographer. Standing beside her, arm wrapped around her back, was a Latino demigod.

I glanced down at the caption, read the words, and felt my heart thump to a stop in my chest.

Miguel Geraldo Rivera
, it read.

N THE FOLLOWING DAY I focused on my clients as best I could, but sometimes their problems seemed a little less pressing than my own.

Micky Goldenstone was one of the exceptions.

He sat on my couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He had wide palms, shiny nails, and the lean, hungry look of a fighter.

“So, Micky,” I said, and prepared for battle, “how was work this week?”

He brought his gaze to mine. Passion was running wild in his eyes. “The kid's seven.”

I debated pretending ignorance, but why pretend when reality is so handy?

“Kaneasha's child,” I said.

He jerked to his feet. “He's in the first grade. Or should be.” He paced toward my lone window, body language growling.

“Have you spoken to her?”

I wasn't sure if he heard me.

“Name's Jamel. Lives in Lynwood with his aunt.”

I said nothing. Micky would talk when he felt ready. “Don't know where his mama is. The sister—Lavonn—I remember her from the old neighborhood. Not pretty like Kaneasha.” He stopped. Silence ticked off seconds.

“Does Lavonn know who the father is?”

He said nothing. Time echoed along.

“Do you think—”

“Didn't really seem like something I could ask,” he said abruptly, and faced me. “Hey, this is Pitt from the hood. I raped your sister about the time she got knocked up. You think the kid's mine?”

“He may not be,” I said, tone carefully steady.

He closed his eyes. I settled in for another silence, but he spoke in a moment. “Got ears like damn propellers.”

Micky's were small and flat against his skull. I didn't make mention.

“Where did you see him?”

“Drove by Lavonn's house.”

“Are you sure it was him?”

“He's got the ears.”

I opened my mouth.

“My mother was a…” He paused, gritted his teeth, glanced toward the ceiling. “She taped my ears down when I was a baby. Taped 'em to my skull so they wouldn't stick out like a damn chinchilla's.” He closed his
eyes. Anger danced in his dark jaw. “Nobody even cared enough to tape his ears down,” he said, and suddenly he was crying.

The remainder of the day went just about as well.

I discovered that I had gained another pound. I was still peeing in distant locales, and, if the truth be told, I still had no idea how or if Carmella Ortez fit into the big picture.

By the time I reached home, I was exhausted. There's nothing like a day of sitting on your ass, followed by a climate-controlled ride home, to really take it out of a girl, but a bowl of Haagen-Dazs revived me. Glucose disguised as a dairy product. Can't beat it.

Duly rejuvenated, I printed up photos of Carmella, Kathy and Emanuel.

At one time or another they all had ties to Senator Rivera, and all died in some bizarre circumstances. Okay, maybe the deaths weren't all
that
bizarre, but none of the deceased lived a particularly high-risk life and all had died in unusual ways: Kathy Baltimore had been dismembered by a machine she was familiar with and usually kept shielded. Manny Casero—an excellent swimmer, according to Mac—had drowned. And Carmella Ortez had died in a house fire. Granted, fires could ignite anywhere, but according to the almighty Internet, Baton Rouge was the sixth wettest city in the United States, so it wasn't as if the region was plagued by prairie fires. That added her death to the
rather unlikely
category in my mind. On the other hand, why would anyone want to kill any of them? The question was burning a hole in my head.

I picked up the phone before I could stop myself. The senator himself answered on the second ring.

“Christina.” His voice was like liquid sex. “It is good to hear your voice.” I was never certain how to talk to liquid sex.

“Do you have a minute?”

“For you I have several.”

I took a deep breath. “I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

“Regarding?”

“Acquaintances from your past.”

There was a long note of silence, then: “Christina, I want you to refrain from delving into this. Indeed, after some deliberation I realized that I was—”

“I cashed the check,” I blurted. Despite my capitalistic bent and aspirations for larceny, I felt guilty as hell, but the SuperSeptic guys were demanding money if I wanted them to continue annihilating my yard.

“Good. I am glad,” he said. “Consider it a gift. If one cannot give a small token of—”

“Do you remember a Carmella Ortez?”

The line went quiet, then: “She was a distant cousin. Why do you ask?”

“Do you know how she died?”

“What are you getting at, Christina?”

“Fatal house fires are pretty uncommon, especially on the Gulf Coast.” And as far as I could tell, the cause of hers had been undetermined. “Less than fifty a year in Louisiana. I checked.”

“Luck is a fickle mistress.”

“And seems to be in short supply for your kith and kin. Did Carmella smoke?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Cigarettes are the number-one cause of house fires in the United States.”

“Christina—”

“Your son and I are no longer seeing each other, Senator,” I blurted.

“I don't know what that has to do—”

“So there's no reason for me not to delve into this. Did she smoke?”

“I am certain he will come to his senses in time. He—”

“Did she smoke?” I repeated.

He sighed. “Carmella's mother's name was Inez. It means 'chaste' in my native tongue. A chaste woman did not go to church with her head uncovered. She did not take the Lord's name in vain, and she did not smoke. Violators were known to have their mouths cleansed with soap.”

“It happens,” I said, remembering my own sudsy childhood.

“Inez had her own recipe made from animal fat and lye.”

I considered that fact but secretly doubted the use of Dove made the process a hell of a lot more pleasant. “So Carmella
didn't
smoke,” I deduced.

“No.”

“How do you account for the fire, then?”

He was silent for a moment, perhaps thinking. Perhaps wondering which hit man to hire to get rid of me. “Carmella had a fondness for candles,” he said finally. “Perhaps one of them tipped.”

Some half-forgotten thought niggled at my mind.

“Candles?” I said.

“Yes. During my first senatorial term she bought a little bungalow in Baton Rouge so as to be close to her Priscilla.”

“Priscilla?”

“Her daughter. I visited once. The dining room was filled with light. I remember thinking it quite lovely. Sometimes the old ways—”

Something clicked in my head. “What color were the candles?”

There was a pause. “It was a long while ago, Christina.”

“Uh-huh. What colors do you remember?”

“I believe they might have been purple.”

“Purple?” My shoulders slumped as my slippery theories washed away.

“At least that is how they appeared to me with the flame shining through the melting wax. Carma had a flare for the dramatic.”

“Carma?”

“That is what we called her when—”

“Could they have been black?”

“What?”

“The candles. Could they have been black?”

“Perhaps. And I believe there was a white one. They were in a circle with the light—”

“I'll talk to you later,” I said, and hung up.

I scribbled
Wiccan, lesbian
, and
alcoholic
on a scrap of paper, then sat in silent thought. Was there a trend, or was I trying too hard? And if there was a trend, did anyone else know about it?

I went back to the computer and continued my search for bizarre deaths, then wrote down anything my convoluted little mind could possibly connect to the Riveras. After that I paced and stared at the phone like it was a viper, but finally I reached for it.

“Officer Tavis.”

I tightened my grip on the receiver and wondered, not for the first time, if there was something congenitally wrong with me. “Yes, this is Christina McMullen.”

There was a momentary pause, then: “Ms. McMullen.” I
could hear him settling into his chair like a contented house cat. “How's life in the big city?”

“Fine,” I said, voice cool enough to thrill a nun. “I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions.”

“I'm not wearing any.”

“What?”

“Underwear,” he explained.

I scowled, partly at him and partly at my own rapidly deteriorating thoughts, but I frosted my voice and spoke clearly. “Are you and I living in the same century?”

“Not sure. What century are you in?”

“The one where police officers are routinely indicted for sexual harassment.”

He laughed. “Call me old-fashioned,” he said.

I rolled my eyes. “Who knew that Kathy Baltimore was gay?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Curiosity.”

“You know what I'm curious about?”

“Whether or not a cop can get the electric chair for inappropriate behavior?”

He chuckled. “Have dinner with me,” he said.

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“I'll give you my solemn vow not to perform oral sex.”

I squirmed in my seat. “And I thought you were irrepressible.”

“I'm a man of principle.”

“Obviously. Who was aware of Baltimore's sexual orientation?”

“I'm free tomorrow night.”

“I'm not.”

“I won't even kiss your cheek.”

“Seriously! What is wrong with you?”

“I haven't had a date in five months.”

“That's probably because you're a pervert.”

“It's because I have very strict rules.”

“No oral sex with women you've never met?”

“I don't date women from Kern County.”

“How big is Kern County?”

“Eight thousand one hundred and seventy-two square miles.”

“What do you mean by date?”

“The usual definition.”

“No copulating on the mayor's desk?”

“No sex. No necking. No movies. They can't even sit in my car unless they're in the backseat.”

“You're lying.”

“I wish I were. I'm horny as hell. I won't even shake your hand unless you shake first.”

“Still lying.”

“Won't even speak unless spoken to first.”

“Officer—”

“I'll answer every question you have, unless prohibited by law.”

I could feel myself weakening. “Just dinner?”

“Unless you fill out a legal affidavit requesting more.”

I felt itchy and a little too warm, but I stayed firmly on my high horse. “If you're lying, I swear I'll sue Kern County for every hummingbird it owns.”

“Tomorrow night. Seven o'clock. Your house,” he said.

“I don't divulge my home address,” I said.

He laughed and hung up.

'M GOING TO FAX OVER a list of names,” I said. It was nine o'clock in the morning. My first client had yet to arrive. “I want you to give each of them due consideration, then tell me if anything rings a bell.”

“I'm quite busy today,” said the senator.

“Me, too,” I said. I had a full client list, then I had to shoot myself in the head for agreeing to date another cop. “But people are dying, Senator, and it's not going to look good for your political future if the press attaches their deaths to you.”