One Hot Mess (14 page)

“He got himself fired a few months back.”

His answers seemed strangely succinct after his former verbosity.

“I'm sorry. Were you two close?”

“Me and Manny?” He glanced at me. He had kind eyes, pale green, a little sad.

“Evening,” said an aging man in a sport coat.

“Hey, Milt,” he said, then sipped some more and shrugged. “Actually, I don't think he liked me very much.”

A blue-jeaned man in a sweatshirt paused in passing. “Hey, Mac. Me and Garrett are goin' to Burley's come Friday. Wanna come?”

He nodded. “I'm driving this time, though.”

Garrett's friend laughed and moved on.

“You seem like a pretty popular guy,” I said. “Why would anyone dislike you?”

He sighed, glanced at the bottles again, then looked at
me. “You must be tired of listening to peoples problems all day.”

I drew back a little, wondering wildly how he had known my true occupation.

“Delivering drinks,” he said.

“Oh, yes. Well…” I tried to relax, but tense was becoming so comfortable. “I like talking to people. It's kind of…therapeutic.”

He smiled. “You get a lot of drunks where you work?”

“It's not uncommon.”

He nodded. “Manny was an okay guy.”

“Just okay?”

He took a sip of gin. “Were your parents really mean or do you have another name besides Mac?”

He seemed like a nice guy. But other guys did, too, and sometimes they tried to kill me. “Truth is,” I said, “I'm a little uncomfortable about giving out my name.”

He watched me for a minute, then: “I'm sorry,” he said.

“For…”

“Whatever made you skittish. Sometimes life kind of sucks.”

It was one of the wisest things I'd heard in weeks. “Sometimes.”

“Manny's wife left him 'bout a year back.”

“The guy that died?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think it was suicide?”

“There's talk, but…” he said, and shrugged.

“He got fired. Lost his wife. Sometimes people get depressed.”

“They do indeed.”

“But you don't think that was it.”

He shrugged again.

“Why?”

“Word was he might be expecting some money.”

“Money? What kind of money?”

“He was suing Ironwear for a …” He nodded at his unspoken thoughts. “A hefty sum.”

“For what?”

“Racial discrimination.”

“And he had won the suit?”

“Guess it's a moot point now.”

“A hefty sum should have put a smile on his face.”

“It's the last thing he needed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Sorry. What do I know?”

“Mac,” someone said in passing.

“Woods,” he responded, lifting a hand.

“I thought everyone needed a… hefty sum,” I said.

He smiled, but the expression was grim. “Maybe some people know how to spend it better than others.”

“He didn't?”

“Some guys are sweet as puppies when they're drunk,” he said. I wondered if he was one of them. If you listened closely, you could hear his words beginning to slur.

“He wasn't?”

“Maybe we could talk about you for a while,” he suggested.

“I get weepy when I drink,” I said.

“I pass out.”

“Often?”

“Not as much as Manny,” he said.

“He was an alcoholic?”

“I don't know what's wrong with me,” he said. “I'm trying not to talk about him.”

“Sometimes it's just best to get it out of your system.”

“I thought women liked to talk about themselves.”

I shrugged. “Maybe it's the cocktail girl in me. Tell me about him.”

He examined his drink. “He really was an okay guy” he said. “Worked for Ironwear for a bunch of years. Always had a new joke. Some of them were even funny. Liked to talk politics. But usually didn't let it get sticky.”

I felt my heart lurch. “Usually?”

“He could get pretty steamed up sometimes. Heard he used to campaign for some senator.”

My gut cramped. I took a drink and tried to remember to breathe. “Some senator?”

“Yeah. The Latino one.”

I felt a little sick to my stomach, but I felt excited, too. “I'm afraid I don't know—”

“The good-looking guy with the great voice,” he said. “Roberto. Remono.”

“Rivera?” I said.

“Yeah, that was it. Rivera.”

HRISTINA.” The senator
did have
a great voice. Even better in person than on television. It was Thursday afternoon. He was manning the mashed potatoes at Caring Hands again. “What a wonderful surprise.”

“I was hoping to talk to you for a minute.”

“Of course,” he said, and glanced toward a young woman who stood a few yards to his left. “Thea, could you take over for a minute?”

“Certainly,” she said, putting napkins near the flatware and hurrying over.

She was, in a word, sickeningly gorgeous. Okay, that might be more than one word. But you couldn't look at her and think in monosyllabic terms.

She was wearing nondescript blue jeans, a carameltoned cami, and a simple Western shirt, but it wouldn't have mattered if she'd donned an apple barrel and frying pan. She still would have looked like royalty. Her hair was a long, wavy sweep of amber and her skin was creamy perfection, but it was her body that made me want to trade my genes in for a pair of sweatpants and a shotgun.

The senator met her gaze. She smiled shyly. He smiled back. I held my breath, wondering if they would fall into each other's arms, but he just murmured his thanks and stepped out from behind the table.

“Who's that?” I asked, voice innocent.

“Who? Thea?” he said, glancing down at me.

“Yes. She's …” A host of superlatives streamed through my head. “Rather pretty.”

“Yes.” He glanced back at her for a moment, but his face didn't light up like a tinseled tree. Instead, a shadow of worry flitted through his eyes. “Yes, I suppose she is.”

Suppose! That was like saying you supposed L.A. had a gang problem. And why the worry? Did he think he had finally found a woman too young for him? Did he think he couldn't get her? Did he, perhaps, finally worry about the moral implications of seducing a woman younger than his last meal?

“Who is she?” I repeated.

“Thea?” he said again.

I stared at him. “Is there another woman here?” I asked.

He laughed and focused fully on me. “Well, there's you, Christina.”

“Like I said …” I let the sentence fade.

“Thea Altore is rather an amazing young woman,” he admitted. “She's been giving of her time here at Caring
Hands for more than a year now. She's very selfless. Bright.” His attention wavered again, and he stared through me for an instant, as if seeing someone else. “Idealistic.”

“And gorgeous,” I added.

“Yes, that, too, I suppose,” he said, seeming to shake off the mood as he closed the office door behind us. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“You can explain why you didn't tell me about Emanuel Casero.”

I watched him blanch, but, honestly, I couldn't tell if his pallor was real or faked. Senator Rivera could make Anthony Hopkins look like a community-theater hack.

“I should have known you would find out,” he said.

Because he had wanted me to? I wondered. Because he'd dropped hints? “He worked on your campaign,” I said.

He didn't respond but stood with his hands deep in the pockets of his trousers, staring out the window. “A long time ago.”

“As long ago as Kathy?” I asked, and sat down in the green plastic chair.

He closed his eyes for a minute. “Time rushes by so quickly. It all seems like a recent dream.”

“How recent?”

He shook his head, sat. “Ten years or more.”

“What did he do for you?”

“Manny helped coordinate volunteers.”

“So you knew him well.”

“Quite well, yes. I like to befriend my workers. The victory is really theirs, after all. One cannot forget those who help him—”

He seemed to be gearing up for a gusty speech. I felt the need to drag him off the soapbox before things got too slippery. “Did you forget
him?”

“What?”

“I hear he was a staunch Republican but he had gotten out of politics. I was wondering if it was because of some rift between the two of you.”

He sighed. “There are always some bumps during a campaign.”

“Was this bump more like a mogul or a mountain?”

“Manny thought I should take a firmer stand against abortion. But I felt it was not necessarily my place to make that decision for a woman.”

Sadness was in his eyes again. Which made me wonder rather uncharitably if there would be a whole host of little senators on the planet had abortion not been legalized.

“Is that when he quit?” I asked.

“No.” He glanced out the window again. “It was some time later.”

“Another conflict?”

“Not at all. I won the senatorial seat. He moved on.”

“So there were no other problems.”

“Mr. Casero was a good man, Christina. I would rather not besmirch his name.”

“How do you feel about being dismembered with a band saw?”

He paled this time for real. I was sure of it. “So you think their deaths are somehow connected.”

I didn't address that directly. “Do you know of anyone who might have had some grudge against them?”

“No. No campaign is without conflict, as I have said, but they were both fine, upstanding people.”

“Did Kathy drink?”

“What?”

“Manny liked the booze. How about Kat?”

He shook his head, looking a little peeved that I was aware of Casero's bibulous nature. “Not that I remember.”

“What
do
you remember?”

“She was a good person. Solid. Quite devoted to her family.”

I caught his gaze. “In other words, she wouldn't sleep with you.”

He drew a surprised breath, then gave me a wounded expression. “Christina, I cannot tell you how your low opinion saddens me.” He put his hand to his chest. “It is like a dagger to my—”

“It must have been rather soothing when you learned the truth,” I said, stepping carefully, wondering how much he knew of her.

“The truth?”

I rose to my feet. “Why ask me to investigate if you intend to lie to me at every turn?”

“I have not lied.”

“There are those who believe the omission of truth to be a lie.” I turned toward the door and didn't tell him I was not one of them. Does that make me a liar?

“Wait, Christina. I'm sorry.” I glanced back. Hearing a Rivera apologize was something of an epiphany for me. He was on his feet. “I was quite attracted to Ms. Baltimore. That I will admit, but I am not the kind to—”

I put my hand on the doorknob.

“I have made mistakes,” he added hastily. “I freely admit it.”

I turned back.

His chin was held high, like a persecuted saint. “But she was unhappy. I could see it in her eyes.”

“And you thought infidelity would make her ecstatic?”

“She was an amazing woman,” he said. “Not just beautiful. But intelligent and kind and—” He shook his head. “It is hard to believe that she is dead.”

“Did her husband know you thought her this paragon among women?”

“You make me sound quite despicable.”

I didn't address that statement. “He worked on your campaign, too. Isn't that correct?”

“It is.” His mouth pursed a little.

“You didn't like him.” It seemed I was beginning to read the good senator.

“He did not deserve her. But then…” He sighed. “Perhaps none of us deserves the women who love us.”

“She loved him?”

He shrugged. “I know you do not think highly of me, Christina. But there are those who believe I have a certain amount of charm.”

“Therefore, she must have loved her husband to stay with him,” I surmised.

Another shrug. “Stranger things have happened, perhaps.”

“How so?”

He drew a heavy breath. “There were rumors that he struck her.”

“Were they true?”

“In actuality, when it was clear that she did not… appreciate my attention, I distanced myself.”

Translation: When he figured out she wasn't going to
sleep with him, he moved on to another, probably younger, possibility.

“Was there tension between you and her husband?”

His expression hardened. “Mr. Baltimore was a pea of a man, but he was still a volunteer for my campaign. I had no wish to cause trouble.”

That much I believed. “So you let the abuse go.”

There may have been guilt in his eyes. I wasn't sure. “Ms. Baltimore did not seem interested in my help.”

“Did you confront the husband?”

“I thought it best to let them work out their differences.”

I wondered how many times that had been said at funerals and visitations.

“Did she ever have bruises?”

“Not that I was aware of.”

I watched him closely. If he was lying, I couldn't tell, but maybe he could have told me he was Aquaman with the same kind of conviction.

“How about the others? Did any of them complain about having her on your team?”