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This business with Rivera seemed very much the same. And if there was one thing I knew for sure, it was that I didn’t intend to be just another pair of tits in the LAPD’s files.

It was 3:42 when I gave up on sleep and stumbled out of bed. My eyes felt gritty and my head throbbed like a bass drum when I turned on the lights. From the corner of my thumb-sized office, my PC glared at me with accusatory malevolence. It had been a while since we’d communed. I was, by no means, a techno genius, but I had learned a few things while writing my dissertation.

I typed in Rivera LAPD and waited. My system droned, then haphazardly presented a few options. For me, the Internet is a lot like fishing. It’s anyone’s guess whether you’re going to wind up with a sunfish or a tiger shark. But I netted out one of my choices and subsequently found myself looking at a well-greased young man sporting a come-hither smile and little else. It didn’t take me more than a minute of blank-eyed staring to remember that strippers are fond of impersonating police officers.

I moved on. My next feeble attempts garnered a mystery novelist, a snowboarder, and a guy who offered to clean my chimney for half the usual price. If I ever bought a chimney I’d have to look him up. But for the moment I settled back in my chair and glared at the screen. What I needed was more information if I was going to be able to anticipate the dark lieutenant’s next move. So I kicked my foggy brain into gear and tried to recall every moment of the traumatic events of August 24. Someone must have spoken to Rivera while he was in my office. What had they called him? Sir? Lord and master? Supreme commander?

Jack.

The name popped into my head like Redenbacher’s finest. I typed madly, made three mistakes on the four-letter name and tried again.

And voilà! Rivera’s photo materialized before my very eyes. Or at least a vague fascimile of him. Gone was the beard stubble and dare-me-to-do-you attitude. In its place was a well-groomed businessman in a suit and tie. And he was almost smiling. I squinted at the screen for a moment, then scrolled down. Jack Franklin Rivera. I tooled down again. Commendations as long as my arm followed, but little else. No attempted murders, no harassment charges. Nothing. Maybe he saved his barbed threats for female psychologists who killed tight ends in their second-rate offices.

I tried a few other avenues, certain I’d net a few peccadilloes at least, but I was disappointed again. Frustrated, I moved into the kitchen, spooned up a bowl of double mocha inspiration, and wandered back to my computer. But my search for facts about Bomstad was even less productive, garnering me nothing but information about his warrior days on the football field.

How could that be? Rivera had said the man had been arrested. Had he been lying? My heart rate rose a notch. Maybe he had fabricated the entire story. Maybe Bomstad had been as clean as a nun’s undies and the dark lieutenant was just yanking my chain. After all, Bomstad had been a highly visible personality in the community. Surely if there had been trouble, the media would have plastered it on the front page. Unless the Bomber’s handlers really
had
gagged the news hounds. In which case it was going to be much more difficult to learn the truth. But there would be records somewhere. If only I knew how to break into police files, I could—

Solberg. The little hacker’s image cluttered my mind like so much regurgitated SPAM. J.D. Solberg. I’d first met him in Chicago, but he’d since transferred to L.A. Short, bald, irritating. I didn’t really know him on a first-name basis, but he had been something of a fixture at The Warthog. In fact, he had spent a good deal of time trying to convince me to check out his hard drive. There’s nobody who can come up with clever come-ons like an electronics whiz and I had heard a million of them, which reminded me that the shrink business wasn’t so bad, even with dead men cluttering up your office now and again. It was possible even Rivera’s brooding attentions were preferable to . . . Crap. I still remembered Solberg’s e-mail address—[email protected].

I stared at my PC, considering, then clicked the screen into darkness and wandered back to the sanctuary of my kitchen. In a matter of minutes I had finished off the carton of ice cream and slammed my head against the wall enough times to convince myself to contact Solberg.

The task was quick and painful. When I flopped back into bed my clock said 5:55. At 5:56 I was out cold. At 6:17 the phone rang.

I blinked groggily at my clock radio, certain I couldn’t possibly be awake. Not at such an ungodly hour on a Sunday morning. It was just a bad dream, I assured myself, but the phone shrieked again so I picked up the receiver and croaked an unintelligible greeting.

“Gorgeous,” someone said. “I knew you’d come around.”

I checked the clock again. Still 6:17. The nightmare continued.

“Who the hell is this?” Consider this an early morning modification of polite but dismissive.

“Come on. You don’t recognize me?”

I had just about fumbled the receiver back into the cradle when he spoke again.

“It’s J.D. Solberg.”

My mind trundled along like a minivan at rush hour. I lifted the receiver tentatively back to my ear. “Solberg?”

“In the flesh.”

I shoved the hair out of my face and scrubbed at my eyes. “How’d you get my number?”

“You e-mailed me, babe.”

“I didn’t e-mail my number.” And it was unlisted—for several very good reasons, one of which was on the other end of the line.

He laughed. Yep, it was J.D. all right. He still sounded like an inebriated donkey.

“You know what they call me, babe.”

An ass? It was just a guess, but I had a good feeling about it.

“The Geek God,” he said, sounding inexplicably proud. “Give me a pair of initials, I can get you a green card.”

“I don’t need a green card.” What I needed was nine hours of sleep and a lobotomy. What the hell had I been thinking?

“So what’d you want from the Geekster, babe? The usual?”

I refrained from venturing a guess about the usual. As far as I knew, Solberg’s boasts of electronic genius were as overinflated as his self-reputed skills as a lover, but I had been desperate. Note to self: Desperation rarely fosters exemplary decision-making.

“I just need a little information,” I said cautiously. “Thought maybe you could get it for me.”

“You know it, babe.”

I considered threatening his life if he called me babe again, but if the truth be told I was still pretty desperate, so I cleared my throat and let it slide. “The information might be, uhhh . . . classified.”

He chuckled. “I’ll pick you up tonight. Seven sharp.”

“What?”

“Don’t be late. The Geek God don’t like to be kept waiting.”

The phone went dead. I stared at it for a minute, then snorted and grumbled it back into its cradle. That pretty much disproved the theory that everyone grows up eventually, I thought, and went to sleep with the soothing assurance that he’d never find my house.

I
awoke to the teeth-grinding ring of the doorbell.

Wandering hazily down the hall to the vestibule, I squinted through my peephole.

J.D. Solberg stood on the far side. Or at least I thought it was him, though he now sported a full head of curly dark hair and had lost the horn-rimmed glasses that had been as much a trademark as Zorro’s mask. He was, however, still two inches shorter than myself.

I opened the door, but left the security chain in place. Nothing says friendly like a three-inch length of metal between you and your would-be guest. “What are you doing here?” Yes, my mother had taught me better manners, and although I prescribe to the polite-but-dismissive philosophy, sometimes I’m better at dismissive.

“Babe!” JD said, spreading his arms as if I needed a better view. “It’s me.”

“Uh-huh.” I gave him a quick once-over. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s seven o’clock.”

I glanced down the street. The sun did seem to be sinking toward the horizon. I checked my watch, and sure enough, I’d been sleeping for a good thirteen hours.

My next expression might have fallen a little short of gracious. “I didn’t agree to go out with you.”

“Sure you did,” he said and leaned a shoulder against the brick outside my door. It needed sandblasting, and an exterminator. Although most pests weren’t quite so well dressed as this one. His suit was Armani.

“Listen, Solberg,” I said. Now that I’d looked at my watch, I was pretty sure I was no longer dead on my feet. So I stifled a yawn and tried to soldier my grumbling brain cells into submission. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. It was my mistake. I had a bad—”

“Andrew Russell Bomstad, christened on April 3 of 1981.”

My lungs felt suddenly tight. I let out a little air and stared at him. He was still five foot seven, so the world hadn’t gone completely mad.

“What?” I asked and, sliding the chain from its slot, eased the door open another few inches.

He grinned. When he smiled like that he looked like the J.D. Solberg of old, before the store-bought tan and the extra hair. It wasn’t necessarily a good thing. “I believe he was better known as the Bomb.”

Maybe I was naïve, but I was floored. I hadn’t told him who I wanted investigated, or even that I wanted
anyone
investigated. It made me ache to shake him until the truth fell out, but I played it cool. “What about him?” I asked, and he brayed again.

“What about him?” he repeated, slithering past me and slinking into my vestibule. “You should know. He croaked on your couch.”

“That’s not true.” My voice sounded raspy.

But he only shrugged. “Could be wrong,” he admitted. “I got that last part from the papers.”

“Where’d you get the rest?”

He grinned. “I ain’t called the Geekster for nothing.”

It felt strange in that alternate universe.

“Aren’t you going to ask what else I learned?”

It hurt to voice the question, but he was already there, leaking into my living room like flan gone bad.

“He liked girls. Young ones. Not like me,” he said, and grinned. I think a good description might be lascivious. Or maybe just creepy. “I like ’em aged. Like fine wine.
You’re
lookin’ good, babe,” he said, reaching out.

I slapped his hand away, feeling winded. “Let’s just stick to the facts.”

His grin widened. “Fact is you asked for a favor. And the god come through for you.”

“What do you want?” I asked, and slapped his hand again. It had started to rise like the living dead.

“Hey,” he said, sounding offended. “I just wanted to buy you a little dinner, impart a bit of information.”

I scowled. We have a maxim where I come from: Never trust a man who wears his pubic hair on his head. “Just dinner? That’s all?”

He shrugged. “I’ll understand if you can’t keep your hands off me.”

I gave him the evil eye, but maybe he’s one of those guys who thrives on a good stiff challenge, because he didn’t back down. “All right,” I said, exhausted despite the lying clock. “Give me fifteen minutes, but I warn you . . .” I turned back, drawing out the silence for dramatic effect, “you try anything funny and I’ll be wiping up my floor with your head.”

H
e drove a Porsche. An ’04 turbo Cabriolet to be exact, and since all three of my primordial brothers had spent their adolescence drooling over cars, I knew a little about them. This one, for instance, was expensive. Wouldn’t you just know it? The Geekster was rich.

“Dig the wheels?” he asked, grinning at me.

A chimpanzee would dig the wheels, but a chimp might also expect a little more subtlety from her dinner companion. For a man who had vowed to keep his hands to himself he was giving off vibes like Julio on a hot night.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” I began, and it was generally true, but it was harder at some times than others. “And I do appreciate your help, J.D.—”

“You can call me Geekster. I don’t mind,” he said, shrugging pragmatically. “Some guys, they got the looks and some guys, they got the charisma. Me, I got me a nice little job at NeoTech.” He grinned as he shifted into fourth. The gears snarled like pit bulls. “And a Porsche.” He stroked the steering wheel.

I shivered. “Listen—”

“A big-ass house in La Canada.”

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

“A swimming pool.”

“I mean, you’re a perfectly nice guy . . . I suppose—”

“Couple mil in the bank.”

“But you’re just not—” I stopped, blinked. “How much?”

He grinned toothily. “Two million, four hundred thirty-three thousand, seven hundred and twenty-two. Not that I’m counting.”

“Two million, four . . .” My voice drifted away, but I cleared my throat and managed to move on. “Listen, Solberg, you understand that this is just business, right?”

“I make five hundred an hour, babalita.”

I felt the blood drain from my face. I couldn’t even imagine what I would have to do to earn that kind of money, but I was pretty sure it would be illegal and probably physically impossible. “You do know that this is just a personal favor, right?” I asked, feeling weak.

He brayed a laugh. “That’s what I always liked about you, babe. Great sense of humor.”

Right. And the fact that the Warthog’s uniforms displayed more cleavage than a porn flick.

Just now I was showing no cleavage at all. I had gone for a staid image with black slacks and a black, button-up blouse. Only the slacks had been at the dry cleaners. So I’d had to settle for a skirt instead. It was by no means a mini, but geek boy kept staring at my knees. I tugged at the unobliging fabric.

“Where are we going?” I asked. We were heading west at breakneck speed on the San Bernadino Freeway. Sunday night traffic was light and congenial. We’d only been flipped off twice since exiting Towne Avenue.

“Hope you like lobster,” he said.

I don’t think I’m overstating things when I say I’d kill for lobster, but I felt it necessary to maintain my cool demeanor. Although I might have drooled a little.

The Geekster grinned. “So babe, what’d you do to the football player, huh? I heard he died of a heart attack.”