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I really couldn’t remember and told him so.

“How about his speech patterns. Ghetto? Middle-class? Latino?”

I thought about that for a minute. “Kind of African American. Or more—ghetto wannabe.”

“Was he waiting for you when you got to your car or did you see him cross the parking lot?”

“He just . . .” It was getting harder to breathe. “There all of a sudden. Right behind me.”

“And you never saw his face.”

“No.”

“What made you think it might be a mask?”

“When I kicked him, it didn’t quite seem like I struck skin.”

His brows rose. The room went silent. “You kicked him in the face?”

Was that against the law? I mean, he had been trying to rape me. Surely even in L.A. self-defense was considered acceptable behavior.

“You’d better start at the beginning,” he said, and though I argued, he finally won out.

Forty minutes later I was feeling like a whipped poodle. Rivera was sitting a few inches away in the roller chair I’d abandoned. He’d pulled it out from behind my desk and prodded it up to the couch where I huddled.

“Your life always this exciting?” he asked.

I figured a romance novel heroine would tell him this had been a dull week, but I wasn’t feeling either romantic or heroic just then. “Do you still think I killed Bomstad?”

He didn’t answer. “Where’s your receptionist?”

I vaguely wondered if he was already in love with Elaine. That would just about cap off the night. “Yoga,” I said.

“And you didn’t think to lock your door? Even after last Thursday?”

“I was playing the odds,” I said. “What are the chances?”

He looked at me funny. Go figure.

“Come on. I’ll drive you home.” He rose to his feet, leaving me staring at his crotch.

“Ms. McMullen?”

I realized the direction of my gaze and jerked to my feet. “Oh. No. I’m fine.”

The funny look had expanded. I turned away, looking for my purse . . . or something.

“You’re one entertaining woman. I’ll give you that.”

I stopped my search and stared at him. “I’m glad you find me amusing.”

He laughed. The sound was deep and quiet, and almost . . . admiring. But not for a minute . . . not for one damned second did the sound intrigue me. Really.

11

Analyzing dreams is much like walking on water. There are a limited number of people who do it well.

—David Hawkins, M.D.

I
DREAMT ABOUT RIVERA that night. He was Batman. Unfortunately, I wasn’t Catwoman, all sexy and sleek in black leatherette. I wasn’t even Robin. I’m afraid I may have been the Joker, but that part was a little fuzzy. I know, though, that Rivera looked really hot in his codpiece and cape.

“Solberg,” I said, speaking directly into the receiver. It broke my heart that I had the Geekster’s phone number on my Rolodex, but then the rest of the week hadn’t been that great, either. “It’s Christina.”

“Hey!” He sounded happy to hear from me. Apparently he was the forgiving sort, but I was afraid that wouldn’t last long. And how depressing was it that a guy like J.D. Solberg would get tired of me? “You talk to those football players?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“How’d it go?”

Well, I’d been attacked, bruised, and nearly raped. Not so good really. “All right.”

“That info wasn’t easy to come by. For big macho guys, they’re sure private ’bout their numbers.”

Uh-huh. “I need some more information on Rivera.”

The line went silent, then, “No way.”

“Listen, Solberg—”

“Absolutely not. That guy’s just looking to put me away.”

Okay, Rivera could be a little hard-edged sometimes, but still, the seeping drama seemed a bit over the top even for a Geek God.

“Put you away? What are you, some kind of desperado, Solberg?”

“Laugh if you want to.”

“Come on. I let you have the Porsche.”

“It’s my car.” His voice had gone all squeaky and self-righteous.

“I just want a few details.”

“Why?”

And now we came to it. I wanted to tell myself that I needed to understand my nemesis—to figure out how best to outwit him. But as some poor sap had once said, we’ve met the enemy and he’s us—or something like that. I wondered vaguely if the author’s hormones were out of control, too, if he’d dated a couple dozen losers who’d taught him better than to fall for the wrong sort. If, perchance, he’d felt it necessary to investigate anyone he’d had a wet dream about just so he could stave off any idiotic emotional attachments. Sigh.

“He thinks I killed Bomstad,” I said.

“What?”

“Come on, Solberg.” I was tired and crabby and pretty sure I was premenstrual. “Don’t be an ass.”

“I’m not the one who stole your car.”

“And I’m not the one who’s being charged with sexual harassment.” It was a cheap shot. Did I mention that I was premenstrual?

There was a prolonged silence that boded ill. Note to self: Never let a techno geek think too long. “What’ll I get out of it?”

Oh, crap! Visions of me naked on the Internet danced in my head like sugarplums, whatever they are. Or maybe he’d go for the big one this time. Instead of him ralphing in the azaleas, we’d be—“I’ll do it if you’ll hook me up with your secretary.”

My X-rated visions screeched to a halt. “What?”

“Eileen, Arlene—”

“How do you know Elaine?”

“Saw a picture of her on the ’Net. She’s scorchin’.”

I couldn’t get him a date with Elaine. I liked Elaine. “Sorry,” I said. “But she’s not . . .” I paused, searching for a euphemism.

“Brilliant? Like me?” He brayed. “Hey, don’t sweat it. I’m tired of brainy chicks anyway.”

I had been going to say she wouldn’t be interested in an irritating little monkey with bad hair. But sometimes it’s best to try to control our hormones no matter where we are in the mad cycle. “She’s seeing someone,” I said.

“Well . . .” He laughed again. “I ain’t going to ask her to bear my children. Though with my brains and her looks.” Bray. “Or vice versa . . .”

I was starting to get a headache. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to make your own conquests, Solberg.”

“Hey, you can leave the conquesting up to the Geekster. I just want you to put in a good word for me.”

But I couldn’t think of any good words. “I’m sorry, really—”

“Yeah, and I’m sorry you’ve been accused of murder.”

He may be a weasely little geek, but he was sneaky, too.

“Get me the info,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

S
ome therapists take Fridays off. So apparently some therapists don’t have sewage systems that are older than God and periodically threaten to erupt like Mount Vesuvius gone mad. Personally, I need money and generally put in extra hours on Fridays. Clients often want special help to get through the weekends—when they spend time with their loved ones, a phrase often used rather loosely.

Still, sometimes things work out. Sometimes my occupation has a purpose. Sometimes people’s lives actually improve.

“I told Kelly I couldn’t see him anymore.”

It was late afternoon. I was behind my desk. Angela Grapier sat on the couch with her legs curled under her like a lost puppy. Her latest boyfriend’s name was Kelly. He’d introduced her to Ecstasy and unprotected sex. Kelly should be shot with a tranquilizer gun and turned loose in Tanzania with the rest of the wild animals. But I kept that opinion to myself.

“How’d that go?” I asked instead.

“Oh.” She sighed. At sixteen, she was cute as a button and small as a pin. She had a tiny ring through her left nostril and a cluster of stars tattooed below her right ear. Generally, I’m against piercing living flesh, but she made it look so appealing, I had to repeatedly fight the urge to pick up the hole punch. Of course, I could always call Tats “R” Us, but I’d been to that particular establishment some years before and learned a valuable lesson from the experience: Do not, under any circumstances, visit a man called Whack when you’re drunk and infatuated.

“It was hard, you know, but I don’t wanna . . .” She fiddled with the strap of her backpack. I let her fiddle. It was tough being thirty-something, but it was hell being a teenager. Don’t ask me why. It seems like they have everything, and maybe that’s the problem. Maybe Homo sapiens were meant to be fighting off saber-toothed tigers while foraging for berries. We have no idea how to be happy when things are swell. “Ally ran away from the halfway house again.”

Ally was her older sister. She was officially a lost soul. Bringing her back from the abyss was going to take more than therapy. Direct intervention from God might not even do it. But there was still hope for Angela. Her mother was a first-rate twit, but her father cared—enough to send her to me anyway. Enough to tell her to stay away from Kelly the animal. Folks had to be damned brave to become parents these days. Or drunk.

“I thought she’d maybe make it this time,” she said, referring to her sister again. “I thought, you know . . . she was gonna be all right.” She glanced at the Ansel Adams. There were tears in her eyes. “But she’s not gonna be, is she?”

Shit. “I don’t know,” I said, carefully keeping my tone in that beige, neutral zone.

She turned her gaze to me. She had eyes like a beagle puppy, big and brown and soft. If I were her dad I’d have moved to the Antarctic with her by now. Keep her in layers of goose down and feed her whale fat.

“But I do know this,” I added. “The choice is her own. Just like yours is. You can make anything you want out of your life.”

She watched me as if assessing the honesty there. Luckily, the past few days had drained me of lies.

“You really believe that?”

“Bill Clinton grew up poor and fatherless.”

She thought about that for a second. “I’ve got enough people hounding me. No way I need the Secret Service on my ass.”

She had the ability to make me laugh. Even when things were really grim. And things were often pretty grim for her.

“Eminem’s classmates put him in the hospital,” I said. “Now he’s a millionaire.”

“You listen to Eminem?”

“Me? No. Strictly polkas.”

She smiled. “How old are you, Ms. McMullen?”

’Bout ninety, going on Methuselah. “I’m thirty-three.”

“Hmmm.” I wondered if she could imagine what that meant. “Did you ever . . . you know . . . screw up?”

Oh, man! “I made some mistakes,” I said. I may have been all out of lies, but I could hedge like the devil himself.

“Yeah?” She cocked her head at me. My profs had been pretty clear about the importance of refraining from sharing too much information with clients, but this one’s eyes were still misty. A misty-eyed beagle puppy. That’s hard to fight. “Like what?”

Screw the profs. “Well, for starters, I had an eating disorder.”

“Like anorexia?”

“Not exactly.”

“Bulimia?”

“I was a compulsive overeater.”

“No way!”

“My father called me Pork Chop.”

“He did not.”

“God’s truth,” I said. No one could accuse Glen McMullen of being overly sensitive.

“You were fat?”

“My brothers suggested using me for a cage ball.” My brothers should have been hung up by their thumbs and beaten with a broom.

She gave me a look. “But you’re so skinny now.”

I sat there for a moment, let the ragged feelings of inferiority wash away, and contemplated adopting her. Screw her father and his good intentions. “I don’t think I’m skinny, but thank you.”

“My mom’s always fighting her weight. Says I’ll get fat someday, too. Like she can’t wait.”

“It’s just another choice, Angie. Like drugs and school and boyfriends. Sometimes people like to believe the stars are aligned against them or something. But it’s just because they’re scared, or weak.”

“I’m scared,” she said. Her voice was very small and a little broken.

I could convert my office into a bedroom for her, I thought. I could read her stories and make her popcorn. It wasn’t as if I ever had overnight guests anyway. “It’s a scary world sometimes. But you’re not weak,” I said.

“Ecstasy makes you forget all the shit.”

“But all that shit’s still there when you come back,” I reminded her. “And then you have the shit and a drug addiction.”

“Yeah.” She sighed.

“Tell you what, maybe you can just stay clean until I see you again,” I suggested.

“A week?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“Then we can talk about it. See how you feel. Figure out what needs changing and how to change it.”

She gave that some thought. “Okay.”

The Hallelujah chorus blasted through my mind. “Good,” I said and managed to refrain from begging her to move in with me.

I
mowed my lawn on Saturday. Or rather, I mowed my weeds and did some swearing as I paced behind my antiquated Yard-Man. I believed what I’d told Angie, that we make our own destiny and all that crap. But I didn’t like the direction it took my thoughts. Because if I was going to make my own destiny, I’d damned well better do something to keep my ass out of jail.

But there wasn’t that much I could do besides talk to people. And the last time I’d done that had been something of a disaster. Who had attacked me? And why? Was it just some random hooligan or did it somehow tie into Bomstad’s death?

The memories made me feel queasy and paranoid. I glanced over my shoulder. Mr. Al-Sadr was staring at me from across his fence. I wasn’t sure if it was because my grass was nine inches long or because my shorts were approximately the same length.

I didn’t give him my hunky-dory smile because I had discovered a terrible truth. I was scared, too, and it was time to do something about it.

12

A pig’s a pig, until you really get to know ’em. Then he’s a pig with a soul.

—Cousin Kevin McMullen, porcine expert

M
S. VOLKERS.” I extended my hand. Sheri Volkers took it in her own. She had once been Andrew Bomstad’s fiancée and apparently wasn’t mourning his death enough to abstain from adhering little pink hearts to her fingernails. She gripped my hand as though she were afraid they might fall off. “Thank you for meeting me.”