One Hot Mess Part 36

"So the senator didn't kill anyone?"

He drew a breath. "Sounds like it might be the opposite."

"What?" I froze. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't know. I mean-"

"Did something happen to him?"

"No. No. Sorry. I just meant... well, like I said, Dad's a big fan of the senator, so he didn't want to besmirch his name, and-"

"What did he say?"

"You were right. The senator's kind of a womanizer."

I exhaled carefully. That was like saying dirt was dirty. "Anyone specific?"

"No, he just said ...well, he said that despite the senator's ...appet.i.tes, he knew how to keep his money for himself."

"What does that mean?"

He cleared his throat. "Dad pays the approximate equivalent of the national debt in alimony."

I remained quiet, thinking.

"Apparently the senator doesn't marry the women he... admires." There was a pause. "Or pay child support."

The world was silent.

"There's a child?"

"No. I mean, I don't know. Dad just said Rivera knew how to stay clear of... costly entanglements."

"Costly-Do you think there are children he's not claiming?"

"I can't say. I-"

"Why?" I sounded a little manic even to my own ears.

"What?"

"Why can't you say?"

"Because I don't know."

"Oh." I tried to breathe normally. But it was difficult. Harley on the other hand, didn't seem to be having any trouble. He was beginning to snore.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

I can't tell you how many people ask me that after they get to know me a little. I closed my eyes. "I might be losing my mind."

"Yeah?" He paused for a second. "You crazy enough to go out with me again?"

n the end I told Archer that if I was still alive after the new year I'd give him a call. We hung up a short while later.

That weekend I finished up my shopping and mailed off the last of my out-of-town gifts. I emerged from the post office relatively unscathed. Hostilities hadn't escalated past a couple of minor skirmishes.

Evenings were spent poring over my scanty clues. After Riveras visit-and a lengthy discussion with Frangois regarding the lieutenants shortcomings (no pun intended)-I had checked into the deaths of Steve Buntings parents. As it turned out, they had both died on the same day And both in their sleep. Excitedly suspicious, I delved further, only to learn that the elder Mr. Bunting had been suffering from congestive heart failure for some time. The hospice nurse remembered him well.

"Such a gentle man," she said. "And very devoted to his wife, despite his discomfort. The morphine often made them a little ... distant. But he was always so concerned about her. I think it was a blessing that they both pa.s.sed on the same day."

A blessing? I wondered. Or murder? Despite my psychotic sleuthing, I couldn't determine whether their son had been with them that night. Nevertheless, it seemed odd to me that a man who had lived with his parents suddenly found the wherewithal to spend a year and a half on the Continent following their deaths.

After some internal debate, under Buntings name I scribbled down the statistics I'd garnered, then wrote Murder? below that in bold red letters.

cky Goldenstone arrived in my office a little early on Monday. It was Christmas Eve. He looked relaxed but tired as he settled onto my couch.

"Holidays wearing you out?" I asked.

He watched me in silence for a moment, then: "I told them," he said.

I sat very still. "You told them ..."

He drew a deep breath, settled back against the cus.h.i.+ons. "Kaneasha's sister. Her mama."

"You told them about the rape."

He smiled a little, but the expression was grim. "I was too much of a chicken s.h.i.+t for that." He glanced out the window. "I told them we was..." A muscle jerked in his jaw. "Together."

I let that sit for a moment.

"Turns out Lavonn..." He looked back at me. "Lavonn's got some financial problems. It's been hard... you know... taking care of all three kids."

"So-"

"They agreed to a paternity test."

My office went quiet.

"Merry Christmas to me," he said, and flickered a small smile filled with terror and guilt and the shy beginnings of hope.

laine returned that evening. She'd asked me to pick her up at the airport. Apparently Solberg had been called out of town at the last minute on business and wouldn't return until late that night. I didn't allow myself the luxury of considering the possibility that their unG.o.dly union was cooling-or that he'd died in his sleep.

The hubbub at LAX surpa.s.sed insane. But when Laney appeared, slipping through the crowd in blue jeans and a sweats.h.i.+rt, the world seemed to quiet. After she'd signed three autographs and turned aside a couple of marriage proposals as gently as possible, she ducked into my little Saturn and sighed.

We talked nonstop on the way to my house. She'd decided to stay with me for the night, but when we pa.s.sed Roscoe Boulevard, a little chapel caught our attention. It was filled with light and music, and when we turned into the parking lot, "Silent Night" pulled us into the sanctuary.

In the end we were only there for half the service, but there were hymns and candlelight and not a single priest to glare at me with all-knowing eyes.

We returned home happy. The fact that the SuperSeptic guys had delivered a Porta-Potty made me ecstatic. Laney made lentil soup with all-natural ingredients she'd smuggled in her carry-on. I made popcorn b.a.l.l.s with all things unnatural. We laughed and exchanged gifts and laughed some more as Harlequin systematically destroyed his new squeaky toys.

Christmas dawned, warm and smoggy, pretty much like every other day of the year. Because Laney hadn't had much time to prepare, Solberg sprang for the Christmas meal. To my surprise, we didn't end up at a fourteen-star restaurant in Beverly Hills. Instead, he'd ordered a catered meal consisting of every conceivable delicacy, and his house-expensive as h.e.l.l but weirdly futuristic-seemed almost cozy when filled with the holiday smells of high-calorie goodies.

I ate myself into a near-catatonic state, but Harlequin was gazing at me like a s.e.x-drunk lover, head level with the top of the chrome dining-room table. I slipped him a piece of honey-glazed ham. He slurped it down and gazed some more.

"Time for gifts," Solberg said, and the exchange commenced.

I gave him a rug. A literal rug, explaining it was meant to pick up the slack when he ran out of body hair to transplant onto his head. He gave me a blow-up boyfriend. I was still reading the instructions when he cleared his throat.

"I got something for Angel, too," he said.

I didn't like the sound of his voice. When I looked up he was already on one knee facing Laney I froze, mesmerized, horrified. The ring he pulled from his s.h.i.+rt pocket had a stone the approximate size of the moon.

"Elaine ..." His tone was choked, his face as pale as the rock he held in his shaky right hand. He cleared his throat. "Elaine ..." he began again, but he couldn't go on.

"Yes," she said, and I started to cry.

28.

Solberg: nature's greatest argument against cloning.

-Chrissy, still a little bitter T WAS SOMETHING of a relief to go back to work, proof positive that I wasn't the only one who was crazy. I saw two clients before noon. Officer Tavis called me at two.

"How you doing?" he asked.

I glanced out my window and thought about Brainy Laney b.u.t.terfield, a virtual G.o.ddess, about to marry a man who harvested his hair from south of his beltline. What did that mean for mortal women?

"I'm doing well."

"Yeah? Who's the lucky man? The good lieutenant?"

I scowled, trying not to remember my behavior on the night I'd seen Rivera with the blonde. "I'm sorry, Officer," I said. "I'm a little too busy to be s.e.xually hara.s.sed right now. If you'll-" I began, but he was already laughing.

"Don't hang up. Listen..." His voice sobered smoothly. "Kathleen Baltimore got an offer to work in politics again."

"What?" I sat up straight, mind pumping.

"Queenie said Kathy got a call a month or so ago from somebody who wanted her to help out with a campaign."

"Who? What campaign?"

"I don't know. But she was considering it. Said it was a generous offer, but she couldn't discuss the details yet."

"What else do you know?"

"We closed down another meth operation."

"About Kathy."

"Nothing," he said. "Sorry."

What did it mean? Had the senator called her? Had he gone there himself? She would have trusted him, and he certainly had the funds, but I couldn't imagine him as a killer. Maybe a lady killer, but not an actual...

"Hey," Tavis said, "don't get yourself killed, okay? I'm still hoping to see you naked."

I rolled my eyes and hung up. Five minutes later I called Rivera.

He answered on the third ring. "What are you wearing now?" he asked.

"Holy c.r.a.p, what is wrong with you guys?"

There was a dark pause. "What guys is that, McMullen?"

I couldn't help myself; I liked the harsh rasp of jealousy in his tone. Liked the way his voice lapped rough and t.i.tillating against my senses. But I stifled my girly foolishness and ignored the question.

"Have you spoken to your father yet?"

"About what?"

I resisted grinding my teeth. "About the fact that his life is in danger."

I heard him sigh as he settled into a chair. "I'll give you an A for imagination."

"Imagination starts with an I."

"Amateur starts with an A."

"Don't be a-"

"If I promise to dig into it a little, will you drop it?"

I hesitated. I shouldn't have hesitated.

He swore. "I know CSI makes crime look s.e.xy as h.e.l.l, but real life doesn't work that way. Murderers aren't rocket scientists, McMullen. They don't take a d.a.m.n millennium to plan out intricate accidental deaths. They're just p.r.i.c.ks who've had too much to drink and were turned down by girls in-"

"You think he's a scientist?" I asked.

"I think he doesn't exist!" he rasped. "The deaths are coincidental. Accidental. Unconnect-"

"You're right!" I said. "I should have seen this before."

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"