Unzipped (25 page)

Although I had spent some time in discount stores, too, I was pretty sure the burglar’s chosen aroma was either Bvlgari, Jivago, or Arpège. All upper-end products. But that would make sense. Bomstad hadn’t exactly been destitute. It stood to reason that the women he knew would also be affluent. Although I had been at his house, too, and I wasn’t exactly rolling in dough. Then there were the high school girls he’d been caught with, and Sheri Volkers, none of whom were likely to be raking it in.

I sat at my computer and considered knocking my head against the screen. According to the five million links I’d viewed, Bvlgari could be purchased from approximately forty different companies. Of course, each company could have as many as a hundred stores. And that wasn’t even considering the possibility of buying on-line.

In other words, it would take me about eight lifetimes to investigate all the possibilities. Which might not be all that long in my case. I hadn’t heard from Rivera since the hospital debacle, but I had a feeling he was the kind to hold a grudge.

Other memories crowded in—memories of hot gazes and warm skin—but I shoved them back and concentrated on more immediate problems. Like survival.

I had purchased samples of each of the three perfumes. Luckily, they came in bottles the size of my pinky toe, so I hadn’t needed to take out a second mortgage on my house. With them in hand, I’d be able to check their scents against any possible suspects. Plus, there was the added bonus of smelling really great when Rivera threw me in the slammer.

I smelled all three options again, but my olfactory system was becoming overloaded, and it was then that the phone chimed. I picked it up on the second ring.

“Ms. McMullen.” The voice was unfamiliar at first. Deep and lusciously male, it had my heart jumping with all kinds of unwanted emotions. “This is Miguel Rodriguez.”

It took me a minute to place the name, but images came flooding back—Latino, handsome, suave. He must have had the wrong number.

“Ms. McMullen?”

“Yes, hello,” I said and wondered if I sounded as breathless as I felt. The night with Rivera had left me wound up like a Slinky. “Mr. Rodriguez, what can I do for you?”

“I was hoping I might do something for you.” I had noticed in the past that a Spanish accent could make a death sentence sound sexy, and I had no reason to reevaluate my original assessment. If he had asked for a week of fornication in Barbados, his words couldn’t have sounded more seductive. My glands hummed, drowning my nerves. My mind was a little slower to rev up, because I couldn’t seem to think of a single reason he might have called, except for that week in Barbados, of course. “I have, I think, some information that may interest you.”

“Information?” It wasn’t until that moment that I finally remembered I’d asked him to call me. He was merely fulfilling his obligations and probably hadn’t purchased plane tickets to some secluded island after all. Life sucks.

“Oh, that list of ‘C’ names,” I said. “Did you think of someone?”

“
Sí.
But surely this is a topic best discussed in person. I was hoping we might meet later.”

My glands slowed their leakage and something twisted in my stomach. Bad things had been happening when I left the sanctity of my home, and I didn’t know much about this guy. Except that he had an accent like Julio Iglesias and eyes to match. Maybe that was enough. And maybe it would be rude to say I thought he intended to murder me over a cappuccino. I didn’t want to be rude to Julio Iglesias. “What did you have in mind, Mr. Rodriguez?”

“Please, call me Miguel.”

Miguel. Of course. He sounded as luscious as forbidden fruit to a tuba player from Schaumburg, Illinois.

“I had hoped we might meet for dinner. At Bella Vista, perhaps.”

Dinner at Bella Vista? Not a hamburger at Micky D’s or coffee at Denny’s? It boggled my mind. He was like a real grown-up man or something. But I stomped down the glands that were starting to growl like starved pit bulls and fired up my professional tone. “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Rodriguez. But I’m extremely busy, and—”

“Yet surely, you must eat.”

There was something about the way he accented his syllables that made the saliva pool in my mouth.

“Do you not?” he asked.

“Yes. I do eat.”

“It is good then,” he said. “I shall meet you tomorrow night at six o’clock.”

I almost agreed before I remembered I’d spent more than a decade trying to extract myself from overbearing men. My brother, Michael, had once met my date at the door with a baseball bat. I’d weighed in at one hundred seventy pounds at the time. I could have squashed the poor little piccolo player with my left foot. I’d been mortified, and yet there was something about a forceful man that still made my mind go a little limp.

Shit, I thought, and shut the door on the estrogen machine. It had gotten me nothing but trouble since the day I’d reached puberty. “I’m afraid I can’t make it tomorrow night, Mr. Rodriguez,” I said.

“But you do want this information, no?”

“Yes,” I said and refused to acknowledge the relief I felt with that admission; I’d have to meet with him. “How about tomorrow for lunch? At Wellingtons?”

“But lunch is so . . .” There was a smile in his voice. “Plain.”

“I’m a plain girl,” I said, “and—”

“No,” he interrupted me smoothly, “you are not. But lunch is acceptable.”

We agreed on the time and place and hung up a few seconds later. I stared at the phone as if it were an alien and told myself I was not going to drag Mr. Rodriguez into the ladies’ lounge and have my way with him, no matter how he accented his syllables.

M
iguel rose from his seat the moment he spotted me. He wasn’t a tall man, but he stood as straight as a soldier, and his gaze never left mine. There’s nothing like a Latin man’s eyes to make you feel like you’ve forgotten your underwear.

“Ms. McMullen,” he said. I tried to be professional and brusque, but found my hand clasped between both of his. His eyes were dark and spaniel soft.

“Mr. Rodriguez,” I said primly and retrieved my hand. He held it a moment longer, then released me and motioned toward the seat opposite his.

I slid into the booth, silk against leather. Apparently Wellington’s didn’t waste its time on vinyl. He studied me in silence for a moment, a little smile curling his lips. “I am surprised you have a single patient,” he said. “They must, each of them, be cured after the first glance at you.”

An accent and compliments. Down, girl! I hadn’t gone there for a tête-à-tête, after all. I straightened my back and gave him my no-nonsense look. My blouse was canary yellow and wore like a second skin. It had cap sleeves and gray piping that crossed between my breasts. My skirt was ivory silk and slightly ruffled. The care with which I had chosen my ensemble had nothing to do with Mr. Rodriguez.

“I appreciate your researching those names for me,” I said.

He smiled. “American women. So rushed. Would you not like a glass of wine before we begin with the business?”

I noticed that there was a shapely split on the table. His glass already sparkled with it, though it didn’t look as though it had been touched.

“No, thank you,” I said and settled my purse on the seat beside me. “I have appointments this afternoon.”

“Of course,” he said, and smiled again. “It must be interesting.” He lifted his glass and swirled the wine. “Your job.”

I thought of Mr. Lepinski’s luncheon dilemmas. Poor guy. He had become the poster child for all things dull. “Yes,” I said, “it is.”

“And you have a chance to . . . how is it said . . . to make a difference.”

“Sometimes,” I agreed, and he sighed, then took a sip of his wine.

“There was little you could do for our Andrew, Christina. You do not mind if I call you Christina?”

His eyes had saddened at the memory of the Bomb, and I couldn’t really think of a reason to insult him.

“Christina is fine.”

“He was a disturbed young man.”

No shit. “I’m afraid I wasn’t fully aware of the extent of his troubles,” I said, digging carefully. “I take it his womanizing was an ongoing problem?”

“Womanizing.” He shook his head. “In my country, we appreciate a beautiful lady.” His eyes gleamed and his lips curled again as he stared at me. “But Andrew . . . there were many times I thought he hated them.”

“Hated women?”

“He was . . . attracted to them, of course. But strong women . . .” He made a fist and canted his head slightly. “Smart women . . . they angered him, I think.”

I reached for my wine glass just for something to do. He filled it, maybe for the same reason.

“You are a strong woman, Christina,” he said.

I took a sip of the wine and tried to keep my breathing regular, though the memory of Bomstad’s hands on me made me feel like I needed a shower. “Do you know of anyone who would have wanted him dead, Mr. Rodriguez?” I asked.

He looked at me for a long time, then swirled his wine again. “My employers would prefer I lie to you, I think. But yes, Andrew was a man who made enemies.”

“Any that would be willing to kill him?”

“None of the people in my acquaintance.”

And he’d been so honest up until then. “Forgive me,” I said, “if I find that difficult to believe.”

He shrugged. “We pay our players well,” he said. “They have families, comfortable homes, good lives. They would be fools to risk that.”

“I believe they might be fools.”

He smiled. “Do you speak of professional athletes, Christina, or men in general?”

I thought it best to skirt that question, but there was no need because the waitress appeared. We placed our orders. Miguel ordered manicotti with extra marinara sauce. I settled on a salad.

He was smiling at me when the waitress left.

I raised a brow, hoping to look aloof and silently wondering if there was a Mrs. Rodriguez darning his socks at home.

“Tell me you are not concerned about your figure,” he said.

“I, um . . .” I was a grown woman, for God’s sake, but he had a way of making me feel like a teenybopper with my first crush. “I just like lettuce.”

He laughed out loud. “It is good to know you are not worried about your weight,” he said. “Because a woman cannot have too many curves.”

That was a bunch of rubbish, and I knew it, but rubbish can’t be all bad. “You said you had some names for me.”

“So fast back to the business,” he said. “But yes, I do. And I shall give them to you.” His eyes sparkled. “If you promise me one thing.”

Sex. Hot and fast. Right on the table. “What promise is that?”

He reached for my hand with both of his. “They make what is called a chocolate volcano here,” he said. “You will share one with me, yes?”

22

You lose a couple pounds and get a guy good and drunk, you could have a hell of a good time even if you are smart.

—Michael McMullen’s advice to his sister upon her graduation from high school

M
IGUEL GAVE ME two
C
names. One was the Bomb’s father, Christian Bomstad. The other was his accountant. I followed up on both.

Bomstad’s dad, it seemed, was a retired steel worker. He lived in a middle-income subdivision in Clinton, where one can still survive near Detroit, and was deeply grieving for his son. Or so it seemed. But I admitted at this point that one could never be sure. Still, it was unlikely he would send his son a bottle of wine with a cryptic inscription or spritz on a dose of Arpège to burgle his house like Catwoman.

Bomstad’s accountant’s name was Catherine Hansen. She was fifty-two years old. She lived with a guy with a comb-over and a son called Rocko, possibly not his real name, who occupied the space above her garage.

When I met her at her office in Culver City I didn’t think she smelled like either Bvlgari or Jivago. In fact, she smelled a little like cigarette smoke disguised with Scope.

By Wednesday evening I felt wilted and old. It hadn’t rained for half a decade, and my air-conditioning seemed to be on hiatus. I lay spread-eagle, one leg thrown over the back of my couch, and lived for the moments the oscillating fan blew my way while I waited for inspiration to come knocking. It didn’t, even though my mind was working considerably better than my body. Though, at that moment, it wasn’t going to win me the Nobel Peace Prize.

Maybe I was a fool to rule out the
C
’s Miguel had ferreted out for me. As murderers went, they were certainly as likely as I was. And Rivera hadn’t seen fit to cross
me
off the short list. But then he seemed to have something against psychologists. Which seemed strange because half the population of Los Angeles was in treatment of some sort. Little Tricia Vandercourt/Rivera, who seemed the most unlikely of clients, for one. Bomstad was another, though his reasons seemed a little suspect, now that I realized he had lied about everything from his hat size to his personality flaws. Stephanie Meyers, Rivera had said, was also someone’s client. Which made me wonder if her death was somehow related to Bomstad’s. I had the feeling Rivera thought so.

Dragging myself to a seated position, I gazed into my shell-sized office. In a couple minutes I had managed to slither off my couch and turn on my PC.

It growled at me—something it did when the weather was unfavorable, or when I turned it on.

My search for information about Stephanie Meyers was more successful than most I’d tried. Despite her death, or maybe because of it, her photos were everywhere. I stared at the pictures on my screen. She was young, trim, and beautiful. One would think that would be enough. But there was more. It wasn’t just that she was sexy, though she certainly was that. There was something about her expressions. She always looked as though she knew secrets you weren’t privy to, but that she might be willing to share the fun if the spirit moved her. She oozed seduction.

Rivera had implied they knew each other socially. Had it been more than that? Had they shared a common bond? Had they shared a bed? Not that I cared on a personal level, but certainly it would have a bearing on how he treated the case. Wouldn’t it?