by Lois Greiman
“I call them tortillas locas.”
“Seriously?”
“If I wanted to kill you I’d think of a more expedient method.”
“Huh?” I couldn’t get past the fact that Rivera could cook. It defied all kinds of logic. I didn’t even know he could eat.
“I’m not trying to poison you,” he said.
“Oh.” I nodded, then dizzily cut off the end of a tortilla and tasted. I felt my salivary glands buzz to life and my brows shoot skyward. Suddenly, I was glad Jed hadn’t shown up to shoot me dead. Luckily, Rivera had already turned back toward the stove and didn’t witness my unadorned adoration.
He settled into the chair on the far side of the table with his own plate, and took a sip of his grape juice. Chilled . . . in a wineglass.
“I met a cop once,” I said, my voice monotone. “Name was Jack Rivera. Any idea what might have happened to him?”
He didn’t bother to glance up. “Good-looking guy? Charismatic as hell?”
“You got the hell part right.”
The corner of a grin tugged at his lips. “I’m just trying to keep you off balance until you decide to tell me the truth.”
My stomach quirked a little. “About what?”
He sipped his juice. “Right now I’ll settle for just about anything.” His gaze shifted to mine again, devil dark and unwavering.
“Okay.” I gave him a nod and tried not to melt under his gaze. Latin men should either be married or locked up. Possibly both. Both are good. “The tortilla thingies are excellent.”
“The trick’s in the sauce.”
“What?”
“I added some Chablis.”
“Oh.” I wrenched my eyes from his, took another bite, remembered I had missed supper, and considered inhaling the rest. It might have seemed uncouth. I took a third minuscule amount. “So your mother taught you to cook?”
“Give her a tomato and a stick of celery, she can make you a three-course meal.”
There was pride in his voice and a soft sort of reverence. Lieutenant Jack Rivera, momma’s boy. Life was weirder than shit. “So . . .” I cleared my throat. “You don’t have any sisters?”
“No brothers, either.”
Even the grape juice tasted better than normal. Holy crap. How do you improve grape juice? “Why is that?”
He shrugged. “Could be I was as much trouble as a whole houseful of kids.”
I could imagine him as a little boy. I don’t particularly like kids. They tend to drip from every possible orifice and smell like things gone bad. But he would have been a cute little bugger.
“So you haven’t changed,” I said.
He’d already finished his meal and leaned back to study me. “Some parts have.”
I caught his gaze, then skittered my eyes back to my meal. I couldn’t get a bead on this guy. Was he trying to seduce me or get me hanged? Or both? Possibly both. Holy crap.
“I was told . . .” I stopped, remembered my source had been his ex-wife, whom I had met under rather false pretenses, and tried again. “I heard your father was in politics.”
He nodded. “A senator.”
“Is that good?”
“If you’re a special interest group or have funds in a Swiss bank account.”
“Am I to understand that you don’t like him very—”
“Listen!” He leaned abruptly across the table toward me.
Uh-oh. Good cop gone.
“Much as I enjoy reminiscing about my familial roots, I think it’s time we get down to business. Don’t you?”
I hadn’t finished my tortillas yet. Surely I deserved a last meal. “What business?”
“What the hell were you doing last night?”
I shook my head. “Whatever are you . . . ?” Oh, crap. I sounded like Penelope Pitstop. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about a dead guy, a shot-up car, and your damned wallet.” He raised the thing like a smoking gun.
“I told you, I don’t have any idea how it got there. Is it my fault it was stolen?”
“Damn—” he began, then gritted his teeth, leaned back in his chair again, and folded his arms across his chest. “Okay, tell me your story. But if you lie to me . . .” He shook his head. “Swear to God, McMullen, I won’t be this pleasant when you’re in front of a judge.”
I felt my hand shake. I set the fork carefully on my plate, linked my fingers across my lap, and licked my lips. I really wanted to eat the tortillas. But I’d kind of lost my appetite. And that made me mad. So I fluffed my dignity and gave him a hard look in the eye. “I really don’t think it’s any of your concern how I spent—”
“God damn it!” The table jumped like a trampoline when he slapped it with his palm. I jerked in tandem.
“Okay! Okay! You don’t have to take it out on the furniture.” My head was spinning. What now? Run like the wind? Lie through my teeth? Tell the truth? Stall? Yep.
I stroked the unoffending table. “I bought it at that little flea market in Culver City. And it wasn’t cheap. I’m not on a government salary, you know. Can’t afford to buy new furniture whenever some hard-nosed—”
“McMullen.” His voice was low and deep and promised unpleasantries to come.
I swallowed, lifted my chin, and honed haughty to a fine point. “I was out with a friend last night.”
“A friend.”
“Yes.” Dad would have called my tone prissy and threatened to warm my bottom with his belt. Elaine might have used the word “constipated.” “I didn’t want to tell you . . . knowing how you feel about me.”
Judging by his expression, he felt like throttling me. But apparently he wasn’t the kind who wanted to discuss his deepest emotions.
“Go on,” he said—and rather coldly, I thought.
“I dined with an acquaintance.”
“What time?”
“Six o’clock.”
“With who?”
“Whom,” I corrected.
He showed his teeth.
I fiddled with my fork and gave him a snooty glance. “I don’t care to get him involved.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
I sharpened snooty into downright mean. It might not have been up to snuff, considering my knees were knocking on the legs of my flea market table.
“What’s his name, Chrissy?”
I pursed my lips and glanced into my living room as if I were trying to decide whether or not to tell him the truth. But I was pretty busy holding my bladder. “I know how you get, Rivera. I don’t want you bothering him.”
“Bothering him?” His eyes glowed like a werewolf’s, although I have to admit I’m using some imagination here. I mean, I’ve dated some weird-ass men, but most of them only had the usual amount of hair. And hardly any of them howled at the moon. “When have I ever bothered anyone?”
“You’re bothering me right now,” I said placidly.
He smiled. To say there was no warmth in it would have been a gross understatement. But “glacial” might have come close.
“And remember Solberg?” I asked. “You nearly gave him a coronary.” I tugged the peel off my orange slice for something to do. “Perhaps that’s why he’s missing. Because he—”
“Who was the lucky guy, McMullen?” he asked.
“Listen, I don’t—”
He leaned across the table. I leaned back.
“Okay, his name is Ross. You satisfied?”
“Ross who?”
What now? What now? What now? “It doesn’t matter. If you don’t believe me, you can contact the restaurant we patronized. I’m sure they’ll remember us.”
“You dance nude on the table or something?”
I tried another glare. It was getting there. “Ross happens to be a very attractive man.”
“Is he?”
“And successful.”
“You sleep with him?”
I jerked to my feet. “I think we’re done here, Lieutenant.”
He remained where he was. What the hell was I supposed to do now? Call the cops? It seemed a little redundant.
“What’d you do after dinner?”
I licked my lips and glanced longingly toward the door. I was a fast eater and a whiz at short division. But I wasn’t all that speedy at hoofing it.
“We went to the Four Oaks for a drink,” I said.
“They don’t serve drinks at the restaurant you . . . patronized?”
“I like the atmosphere of the Oaks. Elegant but comfortable.”
“And that’s where you left your purse . . . unattended.”
I nodded. The movement was surprisingly difficult to perform while continuing to breathe. “I forgot all about it.”
“Who can blame you, with a hunk like Ross.”
I spread my hands and gave him a “Well, there you go” expression.
“So how long were you absorbing the rarified ambience of the Oaks?”
“Not long. As I said, only a few minutes.”
“You and ol’ Ross think of better things to do, did you?”
I gritted my teeth. “As matter of fact, we did.”
He stared at me, his eyes lazy and mocking. “So the dearth has finally ended?”
The sexual reference was not lost on me.
“Get out,” I said.
“You have to carry him into your bedroom like Solberg, or was he able to make it under his own steam?”
I felt my nostrils flare. Maybe I hadn’t had sex for half a decade, but that didn’t give him the right to take cheap shots. “He could beat your ass to a pulp,” I said. I may have lost a little hauteur.
One eyebrow rose. “Easy, girl,” he soothed. “I didn’t mean to disparage the love of your life.”
“I’ll disparage your—”
He laughed. “How long did he stay?”
Anger is all well and good, but when terror starts pouring in like acid rain, anger tends to run for cover. I glanced toward my front door.
“He’s not one of those fellows who kiss and run, is he?”
I zapped my gaze back to his. “He stayed plenty long.”
His lips twitched, but I was far past reading the meaning. “Kind of out of practice, weren’t you?”
I snarled at him.
“No wonder you looked like hell this morning. Maybe you better give me Ross’s last name. I’ll tell him to go easy on you next time.”
“I’m sorry you’re jealous, Rivera,” I said. “But you’re just going to have to accept the fact that I’m spoken for.”
“Spoken for?” He rose to his feet. The movement was slow, like a sleek, hard-muscled predator sizing up an unsuspecting bunny. I don’t like being the bunny. Even if they are cute.
He came around the table just as slowly, his gaze never leaving mine. I followed him with my eyes, frozen in place. Poor, poor bunny.
“You know what I think, McMullen?” He was standing directly in front of me, his eyes deadly. “I think you’re lying. I don’t think there is a Ross.”
I filled my lungs with air. “Oh, there’s a Ross,” I said.
“Yeah?” He stepped a little closer.
“He’s taller than you.”
He quirked up his lips. “I heard it’s girth that counts.”
“Makes twice your salary. He’ll probably pull in more than Solberg in another couple of years, and he’s not even a nerd.”
He laughed. I fumed.
“Well,” he said, tossing my wallet onto the table and turning toward the door. “I’ve heard gigolos can make a hell of an income these days.”
14
I’d rather be pissed off than pissed on.
—Chrissy’s version
of Father Pat’s truth maxim
O NCE I QUIT slavering and my blood pressure simmered back down to the triple digits, I put Rivera firmly out of my mind and called Directory Assistance.
It was simple enough to get a phone number for Electronic Universe. Having no better options, I dialed the number immediately.
The man on the other end had a slight Asian accent. The kind that immediately makes me feel stupid.
“Yes, hello,” I said, using my nose voice in self-defense. “I’d like to speak to J. D. Solberg.”
There was a pause. “I am sorry. Is he an employee here at E.U.?”
“No. He just comes in from time to time to try out your fabulous equipment.”
“Can you describe him?”
I did. “It’s an emergency. Please put him on the line.”
“I am sorry,” he said. “But your Mr. Solberg does not seem to be here at this time.”
My heart rate sped up. “But he has been in the past?”
“I can’t say for certain.”
“Was he there today?”
“I do not know.”
“Yesterday? Was he there yesterday? You’d know him if you saw him. He has a nose like a—”
He hung up. I promptly drove to Santa Ana, where E.U. is located just off Mesa Freeway. It’s an imposing building the approximate size of Montana. Once inside its black glass doors, I searched every face and listened to every voice. Solberg was nowhere to be found. But there was enough electronic gadgetry to send a man to the moon. Which meant, I believed, there was also enough gadgetry to entice Solberg from his hiding place. If he was hiding. And if he was hiding, he must have some kind of plan to extract himself from his current troubles. He might be a cross-eyed little drip, but he wasn’t stupid.
Still, even smart cross-eyed little drips need accomplices to save their drippy hides.
I glanced around the store. The staff was dressed all in black. They weren’t your usual techno-geek employees. For one thing, they were all over the age of seventeen. They were sharp, predominantly male, and somber.
But I have yet to meet a man who can remain coherent in the smiling face of cleavage, so I popped open the top button of my sweater, gave my arms a squeeze, and approached the nearest employee.
“Hello.”
I gave him a smile. “This is amazing.” I looked around the store, wide-eyed. “I’ve heard nothing but good about E.U.”
“Thank you.” He gave me a little bow and dipped his gaze momentarily toward my chest. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I’m not sure. I was just wondering . . . if I brought in a disk that has . . . well . . . some pretty high-tech schematics, would I be able to open it on your computers?”
He gave me a sagacious glance. Or maybe he was looking down my sweater again. “Well, that depends. How familiar are you with E.U. technology?”
“Not very, I’m afraid.”
“Then you might be a little lost. We’re pretty innovative.”
“But your equipment would be able to handle it?”
He looked affronted on behalf of his machines, E.U., and technology in general. “Absolutely.”
“No matter what it is?”
“If it can be done, we can do it here.”
I thanked him and sauntered away. After that, I spoke to every employee I could find, asking about Solberg, but none of them admitted to seeing the little geek, although I thought a youngish fellow named Rex seemed somewhat nervous when I gave him J.D.’s description.
“Call me,” I said, giving him my phone numbers and a glimpse of cleavage. “As soon as you see him. Please. I’d be eternally grateful.”
He nodded numbly and flushed, proving that even gadgets can’t compete with boobs when they’re up close and personnel.
I returned home in unsurprised defeat and spent the rest of the day on the Internet, searching for the magician Ross had mentioned.
But there was no one on the Net called the Magical Martini. Go figure. After exhausting all my possible avenues, however, I did find a show called The Mystical Magic of Menkaura, which played at a hotel called La Pyramide.
It sounded foreign to me, and sure enough, when I popped onto his site, the man was wearing a turban and a long black cape, which flowed
out behind him—like magic.
I learned a buttload of stuff. For instance, the Magical Menkaura descended from an ancient Bedouin tribe known for its mystical ways. He looked damned good with his tasseled cape flying in the air-conditioned breeze. And all of his assistants were gorgeous, curvaceous . . . and topless.
I blinked at my monitor. Perhaps it should have occurred to me that Las Vegas magicians would have topless assistants, but the thought had never crossed my mind. And even though I was staring at a photo of several of his nubile bimbos, I found the idea somewhat unbelievable. Obviously, they couldn’t shove things up their sleeves.
Which made me rather concerned about where they would stow them.
But when I saw the picture of the horse, I realized their props were a little large for concealing in clothing . . . or other places.
A kohl black stallion, as the photo advertised, was one of the act’s main attractions, and much “admired” by Menkaura’s lovely ladies.
I made a face at the bevy of barely clad assistants draped suggestively around the poor animal, then searched the screen for the names of said assistants. None were listed, but maybe they didn’t need names. Maybe Menke just called them by color, because it sure as hell seemed that bimbos came in every shade. One bronze, one ebony, one brown, one redhead, one blonde. Maybe he was trying to make a statement, or maybe he just liked variety.
I stared at the blonde. I would have liked to believe that no man could have found her more attractive than Elaine, but men are unpredictable . . . and stupid.
Stymied, I ate a carrot and tried to think. But carrots aren’t very conducive to deep ponderings, so I wandered back into the kitchen and tried a Snickers bar. Sure enough, a thought struck me within seconds.
I went back to the website and gazed disgustedly at the photos. Five scantily clad bimbos gazed back. Five. Ross said there had been only four. Of course, he’d also said he was drunk, but I had a feeling a guy would notice how many 36D topless girls were on the stage, unless there were a thousand or something. Then he might be one or two off.
Which meant . . . the Magical Menkaura was short one bimbo.
I ate another Snickers bar and ruminated, but in the end, despite my deep thinking, I resorted to picking up the phone.
