Unzipped (27 page)

Rivera turned his feral eyes on me. The corner of his mouth lifted. I could tell that much in the darkness. “That’s between
Chrissy
and me.”

David straightened. “I believe you’ve harassed her enough, Lieutenant.”

“How do you know each other?” I asked.

“Really?” Rivera ignored me as he stepped onto the stoop. I considered saying something clever like “This stoop isn’t big enough for the three of us.” But in retrospect I’m pretty glad I didn’t. “Because I don’t think I’ve harassed her nearly enough.”

“She doesn’t need to speak to you,” David said. “Not without legal representation.”

Rivera barked a laugh. “Why the hell would she need legal representation? Unless she’s guilty of something.”

“If I were you, Lieutenant, I’d be careful about throwing around false accusations.”

“False accusations,” Rivera scoffed. “Cozy as you two look here, I guess she didn’t tell you about her late-night excursion to the Bomb’s—”

“How the hell do you two know each other?” I almost shouted the words. They turned toward me in tandem, as if they’d only just noticed my existence.

“Didn’t he tell you?” Rivera asked. “Your Dr. David here was Stephanie’s psychiatrist.”

“I didn’t cause her death,” David said. “Just as Chrissy had nothing to do with Mr. Bomstad’s demise. If you were capable of doing your job, Lieutenant, you’d know that.”

“And if you’d done your job, Stephanie would still be alive,” Rivera said and stepped closer to David. They squared off like a pair of Cousin Kevin’s roosters.

“Back off, both of you,” I said, and stepped into the fray before it became unraveled beyond recognition. “David.” I turned toward him, feeling hideously sober, but a little sick to my stomach. “Thank you for coming to my defense, but I’d best speak to Lieutenant . . .” I was tempted almost beyond control to screw up his name, but it seems my consuming desire to appear mature in David’s eyes won out. “Rivera.”

David calmed himself with no visible effort and took my hand gently in his. “I’ll stay if you like.”

“No.” I gave his fingers a squeeze for the gallant gesture. “But thank you.”

He turned toward Rivera. “Hurt Chrissy,” he said, “and you’ll be out sweeping streets for the city of Santa Monica. I don’t care who your father is.”

I stared after him wide-eyed as he strode down my tilted walkway, and I think in some inebriated corner of my mind, I actually thought the words “my hero.” But a moment later his Mercedes purred to life, and I was left alone with Lieutenant Laugh-a-Lot.

23

There is no surer road to perdition than to let your glands dictate your direction.

—Father Pat,
upon finding Chrissy necking with Marv Kobinski in Holy Angels’ chapel

R
IVERA TURNED BACK toward me. I couldn’t see very well in the darkness, but I was pretty sure he wasn’t smiling. “Well,
Chrissy,
curious why I’m here?”

I swallowed, pulled my gaze away with an effort, and sifted through my purse for my keys. Nonchalant and dismissive. Go, me! “Not particularly.”

“Really?” he asked. “And why is that?”

“Murphy’s Law,” I said, and pulled out my trophy, eleven keys and a big-ass can of pepper spray. I couldn’t remember the purpose for half the keys, but knew what to do with the spray. And damn, if it wasn’t tempting.

Rivera was watching me with the cozy warmth of a glacier. “Are you saying you know why I’m here, or that you’re too shit-faced to care?”

“For your information, I am not shit-faced,” I said, and finding the proper key with startling aplomb, turned to slip it into its lock. Strangely though, it no longer fit. In fact, the doorknob seemed to be doing some sort of intricate fandango. I tried to follow its lead. Rivera waited, fuming silently behind me, then cursed with some vigor, pushed me aside, and grabbed my keys.

The door opened like magic.

I stepped regally inside. Magicians had never impressed me. They always have it up their sleeves.

Rivera followed me inside. I scowled, or tried to. “I don’t remember inviting you.”

“Sorry if I’m not as suave as Dr. Trueheart.” He flipped on the hall light and turned toward me. We were standing awfully close. Seems I had forgotten to move away from the door.

I glared at him. “What do you want?”

“What exactly were you planning for the good doctor, Chrissy?” he asked. “Hoping for a deep psychological bond, or just a roll in the hay?”

“Excuse me for saying so,” I said, proud of my sophisticated tone even though the floor was starting to undulate gently beneath me. “But I don’t believe my private activities are any of your concern.” I turned coolly away, but he grabbed my arm.

His teeth were gritted. “Where’d you get the hound?”

I was temporarily perplexed, until I remembered he was nuts. “And there it is,” I said, giving him a dismissive glance. “Proof that you’ve gone mad. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

Maybe he intended to smile, but his teeth were still clenched. “The greyhound,” he said. “I believe its name was Sissy Walker.”

“Oh, crap,” I rasped. Reality came rushing in like a three-hundred-pound linebacker. I felt the blood drain to my knees and tried to stumble away, but he tightened his grip.

“How’d you find Tricia?”

I should have apologized right then. Should have fessed up, vowed to refrain from speaking to anyone ever again, and prayed he considered me unworthy of torture. Instead, I tilted my face up to his and gave him my best glare. “You’re not the only one who can investigate, Reebler. In fact, David’s right. It looks like you’re doing a piss-poor job at it.”

I think that for a moment he considered tossing me out the window. Luckily, the contractor who’d built my house was too cheap to put a window in the vestibule. “My wife is off limits, McMullen. You understand that?”

“Ex!”
I said, which makes it pretty clear, I think, that I harbor some latent suicidal tendencies. “Ex-wife, Rivera. That means she left you. Why do you suppose that is?”

His face was red now, his jaw clenched. “Stay the hell away from my family.”

“Or what?” I tried a sardonic chuckle. I might have snorted a little. “Or you’ll beat me senseless?”

I was thumped up against the wall before I had time to cover the snort.

“You’re already fucking senseless,” he snarled. “What the hell did you want from her?”

His fingers dug into my upper arms, his body was flush against mine. I was breathing like a winded sprinter. But my dander was up and my adrenaline was rushing along at a heady pace, melding with the alcohol in my saturated system. In my experience, there’s not a combination in the world more likely to scramble brains than the heady mix of adrenaline and liquor. “Let me go or you’ll wish to God you had.”

He chuckled at my threat. No snorting at all. “How so?” he asked. “I don’t need Viagra, and I’m not partial to wine. What did you want from her?”

It took me a moment to remember who we were talking about, but he was leaning closer now, so close I could feel his thighs against mine. They were really hard. As was my breathing. “I didn’t want anything from her.”

“What was it, then? Take a Greyhound to the Park Day? They must have forgotten to send me the memo.”

“Forgive me,” I said. One of his thighs was propped between mine, pressed with insane intimacy against my crotch. “But I’m not accustomed to being accused of murder. It makes me do strange things; I might even try to exonerate myself—or figure out why you’re such an ass.”

He scowled and his grip loosened a little, but he didn’t move away. “Maybe it’s because of women like you.”

“Did you know a lot of women like me when Daddy saved you from juvie?” I asked.

If he was surprised I knew about his past transgressions, he didn’t show it.

Instead, he smiled. “What did you do to make Bomstad go off the deep end?” he asked.

“I didn’t do anything.” When I inhaled my breasts brushed his chest. I was pretty sure it wasn’t making my nipples hard. I was probably just cold. “And you damn well know it.”

“Christ!” he said and closing his eyes, leaned away the slightest degree. “I don’t know anything.”

I laughed. Probably because of that suicidal problem again. “And you think that’s my fault?”

“Did he need the Viagra, Chrissy? Even around you?”

“How the hell would I know? I wasn’t—” My breath stopped for a second. My heart may have, too. I bit my lip, trying to think. It didn’t help. “What do you mean . . . even around me?” I asked.

“You know exactly what I mean,” he said and leaned close again. And now I felt something hard and long against my belly. I was pretty sure it wasn’t a flashlight this time. In fact, it felt more like a nightstick.

“Oh,” I said. It might not have been my brightest quote. Then again . . . He was staring at my lips. I licked them. I’m not a tease or anything. My lips were just dry. “You don’t even like me, Rivera.”

“No.” His gaze never left my mouth.

“And I detest you.”

“It’s a pickle, isn’t it?”

A frickin’ big pickle if I was any judge. And I was. “You accused me of murder.”

“Did you do it?”

I growled. Really. Like a she-wolf or something. I shoved at his chest. He swayed back a little, which just pressed his crotch more firmly against mine.

“Did you?” he asked.

“No!”

“Well, that makes it simpler, then,” he said, and kissed me.

I’d like to say I tried to fight him off. That I was shocked and outraged. That he was too powerful for me, teeny as I am. That I thrashed wildly . . . or at least . . . called him a big meanie or something. But I think I might have been a little too busy tearing at his belt. One second I was up against the wall and the next he was flat on his back and I was atop him. Life’s funny.

But my hands were shaking, and I was having trouble with his buckle.

“Jesus, woman!” he growled and pulled me up the length of his body. It’s embarrassing to think about, but I’m afraid I might have whimpered. “No wonder it’s been fourteen months.” He pulled my head down to his and kissed me, hard and deep, making something curl up in my gut and go soft between my legs. But my brain was still functioning. Kind of.

“It hasn’t been fourteen . . .” I paused, put a little space between us, and realized suddenly that my bra was undone and his hand was cupping my breast. I tried to stifle the groan. Maybe. “Months,” I finished, but his fingers were doing some sort of forbidden voodoo and I think my tongue was hanging out.

“Closer to fifteen,” he said, and unbuttoned my blouse with his left hand. Wow. An ambidextrous cop with a nightstick!

I was panting hard. “You don’t know that,” I said, and fumbled with his buttons.

“Unless you lied about your relationship with Bomber.” He kissed my breast. I managed to refrain from passing out. “Or were doing it with your lawn boy.”

His lips touched my nipple. When I opened my eyes next I found that his shirt had been ripped open. Maybe that should have given me pause, but his firm chest was as alluring as Swiss chocolate.

I mean, despite my rather checkered past with men, I’m a pretty fair judge of chests. His was beautiful.

“McMullen?” he said.

“You’ve got a really nice body,” I said, and felt suddenly and inexplicably like I was going to cry.

He propped himself up on his elbows. His erection moved with him, under my skirt which had pooled up around my waist like vanilla pudding.

I leaned down and kissed him for all I was worth.

He kissed back, then growled and pushed me to arm’s length. “How the hell drunk are you?”

I pressed up against him, my emotions a tangle of hormones and frazzled senses.

He puffed out a breath and eased his hand along my thigh. I was pretty much bare to the waist. His fingers skimmed under my skirt and he gritted his teeth. “Don’t you wear underwear?”

“Yes,” I said as his thumb snagged my thong. “But I don’t have to.”

“Holy Christ,” he groaned. I felt his erection buck between my legs.

“I didn’t kill Bomstad,” I said and slipped out of my blouse. My bra drooped below my breasts. I let it fall onto his chest, white lace against dark skin.

He exhaled carefully. “Okay.”

“He was a client. Nothing more.” Leaning down, I kissed him again. My hands were on his biceps, which bunched and quivered as my nipples brushed his chest.

I pushed back up. He gritted his teeth against the increased contact of our lower bodies.

“Did you want more?” he asked.

I let my gaze travel down his chest to his belly. There wasn’t a molecule of fat. Just smooth, lovely muscles and a narrow band of dark hair that disappeared beneath his waistband. I put my hands on his belt buckle again, moving slower this time, lest I screwed up again and had to kill myself.

“He seemed like a nice man,” I said. The belt opened beneath my quaking fingers. “You know?” I glanced at his face. A muscle jumped in his jaw as I released the buttons on his fly.

“Is that what you want?” he asked. “A nice guy?”

His erection eased out, bulging, thick and long, through his boxers. I swallowed. “Of course. I mean—” Thank you, Jesus. “—what else would I care about?”

That muscle jumped in his jaw again. He brushed his thumb over my nipple. I jerked like I’d been shot and let my head fall back, but I managed to remember his words and refocus.

“What’d you think?” I asked. I might have been panting. My hair had come loose and was falling down around my face like a waterfall gone mad.

Maybe it dawned on me that I was straddling him like a mountain lion in heat, that I’d torn off his shirt and was now peeling off his pants. Maybe I realized the ridiculousness of my words, but maybe I was pretty much past that point of coherency.

“I don’t usually do this,” I said.

He brushed his knuckles between my breasts, then slipped his hand behind my neck. “Once every fifteen months?” he asked and pulled me down for a mind-bending kiss. I stretched against him, balanced on top.

“I’m really . . .” I began, but he slid his hand up my thigh and massaged my ass. “Sensible,” I finished and sighed, because it felt so good, so ridiculously right. And at that moment I sniffled. I couldn’t help myself.