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For a moment I didn’t understand his meaning, but when I gave it some consideration, I thought I remembered getting a compliment sometime in the distant past. This might be one of those, I thought.

“I, ummm . . .” If I blushed I was going to kill myself. “I’ll give you my office number,” I said, and bending over the cavern I liked to call my purse, I drew out a card. It was smeared with lipstick. At least I hoped it was lipstick. I shoved it back into my handbag, gave Ricardo Montalban a smile, and handed over an unstained copy.

“Christina,” he said. “A lovely name.”

He was flirting with me, I realized, and resisted the temptation to giggle like a ninny. “I’d appreciate any information you could give me,” I said.

He nodded. If he was disappointed by my ultramature professionalism he didn’t show it. “If there is anything else I can do for you, Ms. McMullen, you’ve but to ask.”

His eyes were earnest, dark, and entrancing. I swallowed. It’s not as if I have an older-guy fetish or anything, but . . . Well, hell, this guy owned a suit and hadn’t once accused me of murder.

“As a matter of fact, there is,” I said, my mind kicking in. “Do you happen to know if Mr. Bomstad kept a diary?”

“A diary?”

“Yes.”

“I very much doubt it, Ms. McMullen.” He spread his hands atop his desk and explained. “You see, our
Andrew . . . he could not read well.”

14

Chocolate may be cheaper than a psychologist, but the latter doesn’t generally adhere to your ass for the rest of your natural life.

—Christina McMullen, Ph.D.,
in defense of her chosen profession

S
CREW THE DIET, I thought. I’d gone running. What more did the world want from me? I took another scoop of Raspberry Rhapsody straight out of the carton. It tasted like Sunday mornings, before Bomstad had ruined my life and I hadn’t been able to sleep in without wondering if I’d still be a free woman on Monday.

Where the hell was his damned diary? Okay, I realized I was fixating on that one thought, and maybe it was because I was desperate to believe I hadn’t been completely fooled by the Bomb. Maybe it was because my life was sliding down the tubes, and I needed some means of keeping it from flushing away. Something to hold on to. But damn it all, why would he lie about a diary he had seemed so sincere and enthused about?

A half dozen possible reasons came to mind: He wanted to impress me with his sensitivity; he was a pathological liar; he liked toying with me . . . But instinct told me that none of those answers quite jived. And if I couldn’t trust my instincts, what could I trust?

Ice cream.

I took another scoop, nodded at its succulent honesty, and sighed. One could always trust ice cream.

And one’s self. It was Thursday morning. I didn’t have any appointments until twelve forty-five and I was feeling philosophical. Never good.

Resolutely thumping the lid on the carton, I tossed the spoon in the sink, marched to the fridge, removed the lid, took one more scoop with my finger, and shoved the rest into the freezer. A waft of cold air swooped past the glacier growing inside and cooled my face, but it did my brain little good. Nothing made sense. I still believed, despite everything, that the Bomb had kept a diary. But where? If I could gain access to his house perhaps I could figure that out. But Rivera and I hadn’t exactly hit it off thus far. So I’d best pursue other avenues since breaking and entering seemed both difficult and idiotic. I thought hard for thirty seconds, got tired of that, and went to gaze in my cupboards for something that might pass as nutrients. A box of raisin bran and a bag of dried apricots were the only foodstuffs that wouldn’t require any sort of preparation. A moth flew out of the raisin bran. I put the box back, took out the apricots, dragged the yellow pages from under the sink, and sat down at the kitchen table.

Five apricots and two minutes later, I knew that one could rent a safe-deposit box at Sunwest Bank for twenty-five dollars a month if one had an account with them. I did. Unfortunately, I didn’t have anything worth putting into a safety-deposit box. But odds were good that Bomstad had.

I chewed on that and another apricot for a moment. It was entirely possible, of course, that the Bomb would have kept his diary safely hidden away as Rivera had suggested, but the idea of a super-sized ex-football jock sitting on the tile floor of Sunwest Bank as he scribbled in his diary was a little mind-numbing. So where would he keep it?

No great ideas came to mind. If I had ever gained any honest insight into Bomstad at all, maybe I could venture a guess, but it seems he had lied like a Protestant since the day I met him.

The apricots bag was half empty and I’d discovered two things: I hated apricots, and I needed some unbiased information about Bomstad. But how would I garner that info? It seemed likely that anyone who had met the Bomb had probably formed some pretty strong opinions of him.

I trundled back to the cupboard and scanned the contents again. Still nothing. So I removed my sneakers and limped off to the bathroom, my knees hurting from asphalt burn and unwanted exercise.

A warm shower generally helps me think. It didn’t. But as I was driving to the office, my brain started popping. What I needed were police records. I was a respected member of the medical community after all. Surely the LAPD would welcome my input.

N
o.” Somewhere along the line, Rivera had given me his business card. And somehow I’d convinced myself to call him.

“Listen.” I was sitting behind my desk, in my power chair, wearing my power suit, and drinking PowerAde. Actually, I was drinking orange pop but that’s neither here nor there. “You asked for my professional opinion about the diary, and I’m willing to give it to you, but I can hardly ascertain where he may have kept such a personal item if I don’t have the facts about his—”

“Like I said, Ms. McMullen, I don’t think there is a diary.”

I curled my lip at the receiver. If I wanted to be interrupted, I’d call my mother. “And what has caused you to arrive at that conclusion?” I asked.

I could almost hear his feral grin through the telephone line. “I realize you were his psychiatrist, Ms. McMullen.” I didn’t correct him. If Reivers was infantile enough to try to annoy me with improper terms, I’d just let him enjoy himself. “And that you were, above all, professional, but I’m afraid Bomstad may have been less than one-hundred-percent forthcoming with you in this regard.”

Bite me,
I thought, but kept my tone level. “Perhaps you are unfamiliar with the idea that there is generally a grain of truth in every lie, Mr. Repper.”

“You’re not acquainted with a lot of known felons, are you, Ms. McMullen?”

“Regardless of what you might think, the theory is correct. And I believe that if I were allowed access to Bomstad’s records, I could better evaluate his personality.”

“Or maybe, if you were allowed access to his records,” Rivera began, “you’d find a way to screw up my investigation.”

“I’m innocent,” I snarled. “I’m not going to screw anything.”

“My loss, then,” he said. “Why so eager to help, Ms.
McMullen?”

I forgot to breathe for a moment, concentrating on the “loss” statement, but I found my train of thought and jumbled an answer. “Some of us truly are law-abiding citizens, Mr. Reebler, despite your jaded opinion.”

“Then this has nothing to do with saving your own ass?”

“Absolutely not.” And that was just a stupid thing to say. I doubted if even Rivera was dumb enough to believe it. His laughter pretty much proved me right.

“Thanks for the offer, Ms. McMullen, but I think the LAPD will just have to muddle along without you.”

I wanted to swear at him, but I didn’t. I was mature, even-tempered, and professional.

I hung up and made another call immediately. “Solberg,” I said, “Christina here. Give me all the dirt you have on Rivera.”

T
he process was fairly simple from then on. A few more phone messages, a couple favors called in, and voilà, I found myself in the dog park on the following Saturday—the very dog park Rivera’s ex frequented during the weekends.

True, the greyhound I accompanied was not mine; I had gotten lost twice and driven forty-five minutes to arrive at a green belt filled with dog poop; and I felt, somehow, like I was trading secrets to Al Qaeda, but still, I was there.

Sophie, the greyhound in question, glanced at me, her eyes shining as I pulled to a halt in the gravelly parking lot. There were already a fair number of animals loping about and she gave a little cock of her head, maybe telling me she wanted to be amongst them. I don’t speak dog. My mother had once owned a cocker spaniel that was in serious need of exorcism, but that was as far as my canine knowledge went. During my girlhood, the dog had mostly peed on my carpet and tried to remove my fingers when I suggested he do anything contrary to his wishes, such as abstain from peeing on my carpet.

Sophie seemed more amenable. And Eddie, her owner, had raved about her on more than one occasion. But I wasn’t sure one could trust the opinion of a man who called his dog Princess and bought her tasseled pillows proclaiming her name and title. Eddie was like that. We’d dated briefly, and truth be told, he was one of the good guys, but he’d come out of the closet some months later and it didn’t look like he was going back in any time soon. Wouldn’t you just know it.

“You ready to go?” I asked, turning toward the dog. Sophie tipped her head at me and gave me a cool smile. You gotta like a dog that smiles. Especially one that does so coolly. Snapping on her leash, I opened my door and wondered what the hell I was doing. But thoughts of sharing a communal shower every day for twenty-to-life urged me to get out of the car.

Sophie stepped regally out behind me. A couple was sitting on a bench to my right, talking baby talk to a hairy mongrel I couldn’t identify. I looked at the greyhound, wondering if I should do the same. She glanced back. I swear I could see one eyebrow shoot up, a subtle suggestion that I keep my baby talk to myself. All right.

Solberg had said Rivera’s ex-wife usually arrived at the park sometime before ten and stayed nearly an hour. It was now nine forty-five. The sun was out. The air was clear. It was the kind of glowing morning only California can dish up. I wished to hell I was still in bed. I wished more that I had never met a psychopath named Andrew Bomstad. But since I had, and he had shown the bad manners to die in my office, I felt a need to learn all I could about the LAPD’s irritating lieutenant who wanted to put me away for the rest of my natural life.

In the end it was quite simple meeting Tricia Vandercourt. I’d seen a photo of her standing next to Rivera as he accepted a commendation.
She looks younger in person,
I thought, as I watched her cross the park, but she’d subsequently left Rivera and that was bound to put a spring in any girl’s step. The golden retriever Solberg had told me about, on the other hand, looked exactly as I’d pictured him. Golden and retrieverish. Set free of his leash, he loped after a tennis ball she tossed out. He snatched it up on the run and returned it to his mistress, who took it with a smile and tossed it back out. She was wearing blue shorts. Her legs were tan and lean, her blond hair pulled back in a bobbing ponytail. If she’d hit the thirty-year mark she hid it detestably well.

I took a deep breath, gazed across the park at the other patrons, and wondered what the hell to do next. Intellect suggested that I get my ass back in the Saturn and take Sophie out for ice cream. Paranoia, or whatever force was driving me, reminded me that Rivera was the type of guy who had tested a fruit stain on my blouse.

I walked around a while longer, trying to look casual.
Here I am. Just me and my borrowed dog
. . . enjoying a Saturday morning when I could still be in bed. Sophie seemed content enough to glide along beside me like a runway model with her ’droid, though I was pretty sure she too was wondering what the hell we were doing. Eddie had assured me I could turn her loose within the fenced confines of the park, but I had no way of knowing if the little princess would return when called, and I was pretty sure that telling Eddie I’d lost his royal hound would be worse than admitting I was indeed Bomstad’s murderer.

Glancing surreptiously about, my eyes cleverly concealed behind dark glasses, I saw that Tricia had taken a seat on a park bench nearby. Seeing an opening, I made one more circuit of the park, then sat down on an adjacent bench. Sophie gave me a look that suggested I might be the laziest slut to ever walk the face of the earth, so I decided to turn her loose. I tried to think of some doggy kind of thing to say to her before the emancipation, but in the end I just said “bye” and unclipped the leash.

It was then that the retriever returned. The two dogs did a little butt-sniffing, which the regal Sophie seemed to find surprisingly inoffensive, then galloped off together. Huh.

I gave my throat a mental clearing, turned toward Vandercourt, and threw out my opening gambit. “Is he yours?”

Tricia Vandercourt turned to me, her lips curved up in a half smile. What cradle had Rivera robbed to find her? “What was that?”

“The retriever,” I said, sure she could use her cop-wife vision to see straight through to my quivering viscera. “Is he yours?”

“She. Yes, she is.”

“Oh, sorry. She’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. Yours, too.”

This was going great.

“Did you rescue her?” she asked, and my mind screeched to a sudden halt.

“Sorry?” I said, stalling.

“She’s a greyhound, right?”

“Ahh, yes.”

“Was she raced?”

“Oh, ummmm . . .”
Lie, you idiot. Lie your ass off.
“Yes.”

“How long have you had her?”

“Just, ummm, four years.” Holy crap! Why hadn’t I prepackaged a few likely answers?

“So how old is she?”

What was she, the dog police? “Six. Just coming up on six.”

“Really?” The pair was loping toward us in tandem. “She doesn’t look more than two.”