Unplugged (11 page)

He’d told me during his first session that his friends called him Willy, and since then had regaled me with tales of the tea parties he’d enjoyed while wearing his wife’s garters and little else. I studiously refused to think about why I should call him Willy.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Have you decided whether or not you want to tell Phyllis?”

He cleared his throat and scowled at me. He was a big man, well over two hundred pounds, and seventy years of age. But maybe it’s never easy to tell one’s spouse you’ve been playing dress up in her undies.

“ ’Bout the parties?” he asked.

I wondered vaguely what else he had to confess. Then wondered if I would be ready to hear it anytime soon. I was still a little shaky from the previous night, but I tried not to wince as I broached the next question.

“Are there other details about your past that are bothering you?” I asked.

He cleared his throat again and glanced out the window. “Not really.”

That meant “yes” in psychology terms.

I braced myself. I hadn’t awakened until nine-fifteen. My first appointment was at ten. It was a half-hour drive to work if there weren’t more than three cars involved in the 210’s current fender-bender. I’d once tried taking the 5 down to Eagle Rock, but subsequently decided I’d rather make myself a cardboard sign and join the other panhandlers on the off-ramp downtown than brave that kind of insanity again.

My hair, when I’d finally glanced at it in the rearview mirror, looked as if I had undergone some sort of medieval shock therapy, and though I’d doused myself in enough Jivago to drown a killer whale, I was afraid my particular meld of body odor and terror might be wafting up from under the gallon of cologne.

Life didn’t look good on a fast five hours of sleep and the jouncing memory of a guy running me to ground like a grizzly after a field mouse. Was he simply a burglar or had he seen me enter Solberg’s house?

But wait a minute. He hadn’t been searching for some
thing
. He’d been searching for some
one
. I was sure of it suddenly. The gun was burning a hole in my mind.

“I don’t see how telling her’s gonna help things any,” said Mr. Granger.

“Well . . . ,” I said, and glanced at the clock. It was twelve-fifty. “That’s something for you to think about this week, But I’m afraid our time is done for today.”

He stood up. I bid him adieu.

The Hunts came next. Their weekend had gone better than mine. She’d made him waffles on Sunday morning, and he’d reciprocated by cleaning the bathroom.

She sounded fairly shocked when she told me about it, and gave him a smile for his efforts.

Maybe I wasn’t a total screwup, I thought later as they hustled out the door. From my tiny reception area down the hall, I heard murmured voices. I sighed, cupped my hand over my eyes, and tried to refrain from wilting under my desk like yesterday’s spinach.

“You look tired.”

I jerked up my head with a squeal of surprise.

Lieutenant Rivera stood in the doorway. He raised one dark brow, the cynic’s version of a smile. “You’re awfully jumpy,” he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “You getting enough sleep, McMullen?”

Memories of the previous night came filtering back to me. I’d been chased by a guy with a gun and a lot of hair, which might be a good thing to tell the police. Then again, the LAPD might still be holding a grudge about one of L.A.’s favorite football stars dropping dead in my office three months earlier. And certain members of law enforcement might consider my foray into Solberg’s house to be less than legal, especially since a few items may have fallen into my purse before my departure—including Solberg’s secret computer disk, which I still hadn’t had a chance to look at.

I glanced longingly toward the door, but I was pretty sure Rivera would notice if I tried to dash past him, so I tidied the papers on my desk and gave him a dignified glance.

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” I asked.

A hint of amusement frolicked around his eyes. He wore a soft burgundy sweater tucked into black pants. They were cuffed at the ankle and rode low on his hips. He looked good—a forbidden cross between Antonio Banderas’s smoldering sensuality and Colin Farrell’s lawless magnetism. But I didn’t care. I had dignity. Screw magnetism. Please.

“Shall I assume you look so tired because your little geek has finally returned?” he asked.

I straightened my back and entwined my fingers on the top of my desk. “By my little geek, I assume you mean Solberg?” I said.

He sat down across from me and stretched his legs out in front of him. His eyes were half-masked and his mouth lifted slightly at the scarred corner.

“Kind of an impersonal form of address for the love of your life, isn’t it?” he asked.

I gave him a gritted smile, letting him guess whether I wanted to kill him or laugh at him. “No,” I said.

“No, it’s not impersonal, or no he hasn’t returned?”

“You’re the investigator,” I said. “Doesn’t that make it your job to investigate?”

He shrugged. The movement was slow and languid. His eyes were the color of Scotch whiskey. I’d discovered early in life that I could get smashed on about two tablespoons of Scotch whiskey. I felt a little dizzy already. “So you haven’t been looking for him?” he asked.

I shifted my gaze back to my desk and shuffled a few more papers into companionable piles. I had reports to file. Clients to see. A heart attack to schedule. Busy me. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” I said. “But unlike some people . . .” I paused and gave him a Sweet’n Low kind of smile. “I have real work to do here. Unless you’ve come to accuse me of murder . . . again, I would appreciate it if you would allow me to do my job.”

He lifted one hand as if to indicate peace. “I don’t think you murdered anyone.”

“Whew.” I made a delicate swiping motion with my knuckles across my brow. “What a relief. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Just breaking and entering this time. Maybe burglary.”

My heart jolted to a stop. “And what far-flung fantasy are you living out now, Rivera?”

Something dark and perilous sparked in his eyes. Temper flexed his jaw. He straightened abruptly, leaning over my desk. “Someone broke into Solberg’s house last night.”

“Really?” I felt my heart bump to life like a Chinese gong. “That’s terrible. He wasn’t home, I hope.”

“You tell me.”

I forced myself to stay in my chair and meet his eyes. “I know you have some strange delusions about Solberg and myself,” I said, “but believe me, he’s not my type.”

“Really?” His eyes were like lasers. Scotch whiskey lasers. “Last time I checked, he was still breathing.”

I jerked to my feet. “You f—” I snarled, but I lowered my hackles and tried again. “Excuse me,” I said. My tone was stunningly gracious. My teeth ached with the Herculean effort. “I have clients to see.”

Rivera rose, too, slowly, holding my gaze the whole time. “What the hell were you doing in Solberg’s house, McMullen?”

I pressed my hands against the desk to keep the world from tipping me onto the floor like rotting sushi. “I wasn’t in Solberg’s house.”

“My sources say you were.”

Jesus God! Sources! He had sources? I wanted sources. “Well then . . .” I gave him a smile. Could be only half of my mouth still functioned. Maybe the heart attack would have to wait until I was done having a stroke. “Your sources are as deluded as you are, Lieutenant.”

“My sources are his next-door neighbors, who got a close-up view of you scrambling over their fence at threefifteen in the morning.”

I held my breath. In my mind I was blubbering apologies and confessions like a white guy on the soul train. But the truth dawned on me like a flash of glorious light. No one could have identified me. It had been as dark as hell in the Georges’ backyard, despite the stupid security lights. I’d been sprinting like a Kentucky Thoroughbred, and my car was parked well out of sight.

Rivera was just yanking my chain. Even if Tiffany Georges had pressed night goggles up to her patio door, she couldn’t possibly have known it was me. Could she?

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rivera.” I gave him a prim smile. “But you must be mistaken, because I’m not the scrambling type.”

He stepped closer and leaned across my desk again. He smelled like bedroom. “I hate to disagree,” he said, “but I distinctly remember you scrambling.”

Memories of a night not so long past trilled along my frazzled nerve endings.

“I had to put my hand on your ass to . . . assist you,” he said.

The memory came tumbling back at me. We’d been in Bomstad’s backyard and Rivera had boosted me over the security fence. It had taken all my considerable fortitude to slide down on the opposite side instead of falling on him like a love-starved retriever.

And despite the fact that he irritated the hell out of me, I was having a smidgeon of the same trouble now.

“I could have gotten over the fence by myself,” I said. My voice was not the least bit breathless.

His eyes never shifted from mine. “What fence?” he asked. “I was talking about the night at your place.”

I felt my throat grow dry and my tongue wooden.

“You remember it,” he said. “The time you tore my shirt all to hell. You were scrambling like a wild—”

“I wasn’t in anybody’s stupid yard!” I snapped.

He raised a slow eyebrow. “Then, where were you last night?”

“In bed.” I swallowed, wishing to hell I were there now. Or anywhere. Anywhere but here, with him reading my mind like a black-eyed gypsy. “
My
bed. All night.”

His eyes smoldered. Honest to God, like a fire that wouldn’t be doused no matter how much Kool-Aid you pour on it. “So you weren’t dressed like a cat burglar and slinking through Solberg’s sprinkler system?”

Jesus. Oh Jesus, save me from myself.

“You have a rich fantasy life, Lieutenant,” I said.

His gaze burned into mine. “You’ve no idea, McMullen.”

My lips felt parched. Really. That’s why I licked them. Rivera dropped his gaze to watch the movement.

Silence screamed around us. He leaned toward me a little farther.

“Ms. McMullen?”

I almost shrieked at the sound of Elaine’s voice. I jerked away from Rivera, heart thumping and hands sweating.

“Yes!” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and tried for a more restrained tone. “Yes? What is it, Elaine?”

“Susan Abrams is here for her one o’clock appointment,” she said, but all the while she was giving me her “Is everything all right or should I squirt him in the eye with my mace” look.

“Thank you, Elaine.” My voice was now coolly melodious. I found that I wanted quite badly to swoon like a Southern belle, but I’ve never perfected the art, and Rivera was staring into my shuddering soul like the devil come to retrieve the damned. “You can send her in in a few minutes. The lieutenant will be leaving momentarily.”

“Very well,” she said, and paused, giving me one more chance to go for the mace. I declined. She left, closing the door behind her.

“So you were home last night?” Rivera asked.

“All night,” I repeated, and found that my hands had gone inexplicably numb. If I was lucky, my tongue would follow suit.

“Got anyone to collaborate your story?”

I gritted my teeth. “It is not a
story
.”

His eyes crinkled a little at the corners, as if amused that I had skirted the issue. “What time did you go to bed?”

“You concerned with my sleeping habits, Lieutenant?”

His nostrils flared slightly. “What time?” he asked again.

I gave him a shrug and rose to my feet. My knees worked like magic, but the door seemed like a thousand light years away. “Ten o’clock.”

“And you didn’t have an appointment until ten this morning? That gives you, what? Eleven hours of sleep?”

I gave him a carefully honed smile, like he was oh-so-amusing. Like I wasn’t going to drop to the floor and quiver like a palsy victim. “A girl needs a little time to brush her teeth in the morning, Lieutenant.”

“Uh-huh. So what time did you roll out of bed, McMullen?”

I concentrated on staying vertical and gave him a lazy glance, as if I didn’t have time for such foolishly mundane questions. “Please, Lieutenant—”

“When?” he asked, but his voice had lost some jocularity.

“Eight o’clock.” My own tone was on the fast track to pissy.

“So you probably had time to do more than brush your teeth. Maybe even a few minutes to mess with your hair.”

Jesus God, my hair,
I thought, but managed to keep from trying to pat it into place. It would have taken a battalion of hairdressers armed with gardening tools and shellac to make it look as if it weren’t inhabited by bats. “You plan to arrest me for having a bad hair day, Lieutenant?”

“Not at all,” he said, reaching up and brushing a strand away from my face. His fingers skimmed my ear. I put a steadying hand on the wall. His lips twisted up a fraction of a millimeter. “I was just wondering about your ablutions.”

“Ablutions?”

His fingers brushed my cheek. I held the orgasm at bay. “Are you going to night school, Lieutenant? English Vocab 101?”

His eyes laughed. “Well . . .” He drew back slightly. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

I nodded. Casual as hell. Hardly panting at all.

He turned toward the door and reached for the knob, but at the last moment he glanced back at me. “I like your hair like that, McMullen. It’s kind of sexy,” he said. “But you’ve got a little mud. Right below your left ear.”