Unscrewed Page 8

There was something about the way she said it with such devout conviction that almost made me believe, too. I felt myself straighten and wondered foggily if I looked like Mr. Patterson.

  “Marry me, Laney,” I said.

  She laughed.

  The front door dinged. “Answer the phone,” she countered. “And take notes.” She disappeared into the lobby. “Mr. Granger. Great pumps.”

  Mr. Granger had come out of the cross-dressing closet a few months earlier. He stands six-two in his stocking feet and gets a five o’clock shadow at high noon. I’m pretty sure there are more than a few who would like to see him go back in. Mrs. Granger included.

  “Are they Phyllis’s?” I heard Laney ask.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on the conversation ahead. But really, how does one prepare herself for a hot ex-senator who might just be a murderer?

  I cleared my throat and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Ms. McMullen.” His voice was exactly like I remembered it, as if he’d waited his entire life to talk to me.

  “Yes. Is this Senator Rivera?”

  “Miguel. Please.”

  Miguel. Please. Like poetry from the mouth of Zorro. Geez, I’m a child. I straightened in my chair and amped up my nose voice. “What can I do for you, Senator?”

  There was the slightest pause, then, “As you may well guess, I am concerned for my son.”

  Because he’s a nutcase? I wondered, and couldn’t help but remember how the lieutenant’s eyes had smoldered as he’d bent me over my stained Formica. “Is there any news? How is the investigation progressing?”

  He sighed heavily. I imagined Zorro doing the same. “Slowly, I fear, as is so often the case.”

  Uh-huh. Say something else.

  “Thus I am hoping to assist.”

  I paused a moment, trying to catch up. “With the investigation?”

  “I am not completely without influence in this city of angels, Ms. McMullen. Toward that end, I thought perhaps you would dine with me so we might share information.”

  Yeah, he sounded like Zorro, but maybe he wasn’t Antonio Banderas, with his smoky voice and love-me eyes. Maybe he was Anthony Hopkins, who also happened to be Hannibal Lector. My nerves were jumping. Salina had been very dead. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be very helpful, Senator.” Especially if I were also dead.

  “There I am certain you are wrong, my dear. My son thinks very highly of you.”

  I was probably just about to say something fabulously witty, but I can’t remember what it was, ’cuz his words shut my mind down. I like to think I’m all grown up. But I lie to myself about other stuff, too. Caloric consumption, for instance. “I would be happy to help you, Mr. Rivera. Really I would. But my schedule is terribly tight. In fact—”

  “I would not take up so very much of your time, Ms. McMullen. An hour. No more.”

  “I’m—”

  “You do not have another appointment for some while after Mr. Granger.”

  “That’s true, but…” I paused, temporarily stunned in spite of my mature realism. “How do you know—”

  “Please.” His voice had dropped a little, making it a rich, dark blend of regret and concern, and almost causing me to forget he knew more about my schedule than I did. Zorro was tricky. “For an old man’s only son.”

  It was the third time he’d interrupted me in a three-minute conversation. It might be the only thing the old man had in common with his only son. Well, that and the fact that they were both murder suspects. At least in my book.

  The hair at the back of my neck was getting a workout lately.

  “I shall pick you up at one o’clock. You may choose the restaurant.”

  “No!” I didn’t want to seem jumpy, but I’d gotten into cars with murder suspects before. It hadn’t gone so well.

  “Then I shall choose,” he said. “Gennaro Rosata sets a fine table.”

  My nerves jangled. I fiddled with a pen. It slipped out of my hand and onto the floor. I tried speaking again, keeping my words carefully slow so that they wouldn’t jumble together like an upset Scrabble board. “I meant, no, I can’t meet you, Senator. As I was about to say, I’ve a great deal of paperwork on which to catch up. I’m afraid…” No kidding. “…I will be forced to forgo lunch today.”

  “Oh, but you must not. You shall waste away to a shadow.”

  Hmmmph? “I assure you—” I began.

  “Gennaro’s entrees are all fatto en casa.”

  I was prepared to be impressed. But it was difficult since I had no idea what the hell he was talking about.

  “Their cannelloni melts in your mouth.”

  Cannelloni! Holy crap.

  “Do you like tiramisu?”

  My mouth was starting to pool with saliva. Sometimes I dreamt about tiramisu. But wait a minute. That was the old Chrissy. The new Chrissy eats broccoli and free-range chicken. I calcified my resolve and slurped the saliva down my throat. “I’m sorry. Truly I am. But—”

  “I shall be waiting outside your office in my Town Car.”

  “Town Car?” Did Town Cars have tinted windows? Bulletproof glass? Soundproofing? I wondered, but then my stomach rumbled, drowning out all those mundane considerations.

  “You needn’t divulge any information that makes you uncomfortable,” he said.

  The old stomach whined again. I covered it with one hand. Well, almost covered it. “Like I said—”

  “Please, Ms. McMullen, it is of the utmost importance.”

  Elaine stepped in, eyes wide with un-Amazonian interest.

  I gave her the eyes back and made a throat-slashing motion with the edge of my left hand.

  “Very well,” I said, hating myself and my weak-assed salivary glands. “I’ll meet you outside my office in one hour. But I’m telling my secretary where I’m going and with whom.”

  He laughed. “You are cautious. That is wise. Gerald would be pleased if he knew.”

  I had an idea he might be wrong. I had an idea Gerald might piss in his pants if he knew.

  “If it would make you feel better, I could give you Captain Kindred’s direct number,” he said. “You could inform him of your whereabouts as well.”

  Call Rivera’s superior? I would have laughed out loud if I weren’t still having that saliva problem. “Why not just inform the president?” I asked.

  He laughed. “We could do that also if you like.”

  The funny thing was, I had no idea if he was serious.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting with you, my dear.”

  “Yeah,” I said, fresh out of intelligent conversation.

  9

  Maybe in fairy tales you’re only as old as you feel, but here in L.A. you’re every second as old as your pores.

  —Tess Langley, makeup artist

  MS. MCMULLEN.” Senator Rivera bowed over my hand. Behind him the Town Car stretched on for a couple city blocks. “It is very good of you to join me.”

  His eyes looked shadowed and tired, but it didn’t do much to detract from his overall attractiveness. In fact, it may have added a weary monarch kind of appeal. “Come.” He made an elegant gesture toward his vehicle. I think I had seen the prince do the same in Cinderella once—but come to think of it, it might have been the footman…who, in reality, was a rat. Something to think about. “You must be famished.”

  As I slithered inside, the leather seat sighed almost loud enough to muffle the groaning agreement of my stomach.

  The senator settled in gracefully beside me. Not a groan to be heard. His driver shut the door.

  “What did you wish to discuss?” I asked. I rather think I sounded like Cinderella herself. Or maybe one of the stepsisters. I hoped I wasn’t the fat one.

  “Salina’s death…” He paused, drew a breath, shook his head. “It is a terrible shock.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “As am I.”

  We pulled decorously into early-afternoon traffic, no honking horns, no rude gestures—like
Des Moines without the pig stench.

  “She was an incredible woman.”

  I tried and failed to think of something to say in reply.

  “A beautiful woman.” This seemed to be a recurring, and possibly tiresome, theme. “It is difficult,” he said. “Tragic beyond words.” His back was very straight, as though he supported the weight of the world on his capable shoulders. “But nothing I can do will bring her back. Therefore I must live with the pain.”

  I opened my mouth, hoping something intelligent would fall out, but he held up a palm, saving me from myself.

  “I have not been completely honest with you, Ms. McMullen.”

  The same could be said of every man I had ever met. But they usually didn’t admit it right off the bat. I was flabbergasted.

  “The truth is this…though I am convinced of my son’s innocence, there is little I can do to help prove it. But perhaps…” He paused, looking weary. “Perhaps I can prove my love for him.”

  I scowled. After talking to Rivera Junior, this wasn’t exactly how I’d expected the conversation to proceed. Maybe my surprise showed on my face, because he smiled grimly.

  “I see by your expression that Gerald has told you something about me, Ms. McMullen.”

  I searched again for something to say. Nothing.

  “I know he paints me as something of a monster,” he continued, “but perhaps I am not the ogre he thinks me to be, yes?”

  A shrug didn’t seem sufficient. Neither did absolute silence, but I went with it anyway.

  “I want nothing so much as to overcome the bad blood that has come between us.”

  I carefully formulated a question. But nothing sounded great. “About that bad blood?” seemed a little vague. And “You were boinking his girlfriend” a bit accusatory.

  He watched me, seeming to see into my soul. His smile was flickering, sad. “I did not seduce Salina away from my son, if that is what you believe.”

  He seemed to be waiting for a response. “I’m not sure what to believe,” I said, which was oh so true.

  “Perhaps I should start at the beginning.” He glanced out the window. Palm trees lined the boulevard. As the story goes, they’d been transported from Florida in the ’40s, hoping to convince folks that California was the tropical paradise Palm Beach was currently thought to be. Sixty years and ten million cantankerous citizens later, and voilà…L.A. was a shining example of political spin. “Salina is…was…the daughter of an old friend. Luis Martinez.” The senator’s expression was solemn, aged, wise, introspective. I had to remind myself that he was talking about his late fiancée, a woman younger than his only son. “She and Gerald became friends. Indeed, we had hopes they would someday wed, combine our families. It would have been an advantageous arrangement.”

  “So her family was wealthy?” I realized suddenly that I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn Rivera had lied to me. What did that say of our relationship?

  “Wealthy?” He shook his head. “Not in the usual manner. But she had all the makings of greatness. Strength, beauty, ambition.” He tapped the side of his head, not disturbing a single hair. “Brains.” He sighed. “Her mother died when she was yet young. Luis, he was beside himself with grief. I thought it best that he leave Mexico, put the memories behind him. I finally convinced him to come to California. I did not have much influence at that time, but I managed to secure him a job on a ranch—the Mañana Estrella. It was no more than manual labor, but he did well there. And Salina…” He sighed. “She looked much like her mother.” He shook his head. “Perhaps the pain was too great. Perhaps that is why Luis could not seem to appreciate her as he…” His voice trailed off. “I’ve no wish to speak poor of the dead. Luis was a good man, a fine man. He did the best he could. And Salina, she loved the horses. Took to them like a bee to honey. I can see her still, black braids bouncing as she rode. Bareback. Always bareback, and fast as the south wind. She was fearless. Even then. It was something my son did not understand.”

  “Her fearlessness?”

  “Sí. I believe he thought he must protect her.”

  “From what?”

  He looked into my eyes. “From me. But he was wrong. I had no interest in her. Not in that manner. Not even when she first worked on my campaign. I thought for a time that she would have been good for my son, that they would wed, but Salina…” He drew a deep breath through his nostrils, leaning back slightly. I could imagine him smoking a Cuban cigar and playing poker with the heads of state. “She was not one to take a backseat to another.”

  “A backseat?”

  “Gerald…Well…” He lifted a hand as if in resignation. “He will always be a Rivera, whether he wishes to admit it or not. And he was young.”

  “How young?”

  “Young enough to look at others.” Ageless, then. “And Salina…” He smiled fondly. “She did not take any slight lightly.”

  “He cheated on her?”

  “Cheated?” He made a surprised expression, as if he did not quite understand the word. “No.”

  Maybe there was no such thing as cheating in his world. Maybe it was flirting or loitering, or tripping into someone’s bed. “He was forthright with her. Said that he thought they should see others.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “If you are wondering if Gerald told me, the answer is no. But I worked very closely with my volunteers, Ms. McMullen. And Salina was the daughter of a special friend. I knew she was troubled even before she came to speak to me of her concerns.”

  “And that’s when you started seeing her?”

  “Oh, no.” He gave me a paternal smile. “My wife and I had our problems even then, but Salina was far too young.”

  Unlike two days ago when she was in her dotage. I remembered the baby-soft skin, the whiskey-bright eyes.

  “It was some years later that my affection for her became interest in her as a woman. Some years after the death of her father. After Gerald’s marriage, in fact. You see, regardless of what my son has told you, I never intended to hurt him.”

  “So you didn’t know he would be upset if you married his ex-girlfriend…who happens to be half your age?”

  He watched me in silence for a moment. His eyes wrinkled a little, an older version of the younger Rivera, no less appealing, perhaps, certainly no less powerful, but craftier. “You are not one to mince words, I see. I should have known that would be the case. My son would not cohabitate well with a woman of weak resolve.”

  I felt an almost overwhelming need to inform him that I wasn’t cohabitating with his son. In fact, we might not even be speaking. But after a moment of silent reflection I had a strong suspicion the senator already knew. After all, he knew Mr. Granger was my last client until evening. He probably knew what size pumps the poor guy wore.

  I said nothing. There are few things that make one seem more intelligent than silence. I’d learned that from shrink school and three garrulous brothers.

  The senator was still watching me. He drew a deep breath, as if reaching into his reserves for strength. “To the best of my knowledge, Gerald and Salina hadn’t seen each other for more than a decade when I began seeing her. He had been married and divorced. I believed, at the time, that he was through with her, that he had moved on,” he said.

  My stomach cramped. “You believed?”

  He sighed. “Salina is not an easy woman to forget.”

  Tell me how gorgeous she was again, I thought. ’Cuz that’s never going to get old. “Was he still in love with her?” My tone was, I thought, beautifully casual.

  The senator watched me, gaze hard and steady. “What do you know of Salina Martinez, Ms. McMullen?”

  I resisted squirming. This wasn’t exactly where I’d hoped the conversation would go. I mean, I wasn’t thrilled to be locked in a Town Car with a possible murderer, but it seemed preferable to telling Rivera’s father that I’d never heard of Salina until I’d seen her dead on his living room floor. It might suggest that my sup
posed boyfriend had been less than completely forthright with me.

  “That she can ride horse bareback?”

  He laughed. “What else?”

  “What should I know?” I asked, hedging.

  “That Gerald did not kill her.”

  Silence echoed in the car, like secrets wrapped in darkness.

  “You must believe that,” he said.

  I went with the intelligent silence idea for a moment, then, “Where were you at the time?”

  Surprise showed on his striking features. If he faked it, he was as talented as he was handsome. But then, he’d spent more than a decade in Washington and no small amount of time in L.A. What isn’t faked? “Tell me, Ms. McMullen, do you think I may have killed her?”

  I didn’t say anything. Not so much for intelligence’s sake as to keep myself from cutting my own throat.

  He dropped his chin as if to study me more closely. “So that was the reason for your hesitation over lunch,” he said. “I assumed it was a wise woman’s usual reservation about seeing an unknown man alone.”

  He watched me in silence. I waited for his denunciation.

  “How brave you are,” he said instead.

  Huh?

  “To think I may have had a hand in a woman’s death and still accompany me here.”

  Umm…

  “You must care a great deal for my son.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I reminded him.

  Outside the tinted windows, the world seemed strangely quiet.

  “I was on a plane, Ms. McMullen, and I did not harm my fiancée. Nor shall I harm you.”

  I refused to fidget, but it was a close thing.

  He smiled wryly. “My driver would never allow it.” He flicked his gaze toward the front seat. “Would you, Roswald?”

  “No, sir,” came the answer.

  “There, you see. He is very old-fashioned that way. The last time he had to clean blood off the seats, he said…” The senator made a halting gesture with his palm. “…absolutely no more.”

  My breath caught in my throat and he laughed.

  “I joke,” he said, then, taking my hand between his, he sobered handsomely. “I would never have harmed my Salina.”