by Lois Greiman
“If I did, would you—”
“No sex,” I said, then: “Maybe you’re covering for Baltimore’s husband.”
He didn’t respond.
“Are you?” I asked. “Is that—”
“I know a monster when I see one.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“My old man…” He paused. “Mom was lucky to survive.”
“He beat her.”
“Whenever he was drunk. Which was usually.” His throat constricted. He took a deep breath, seemed to clear his head. “And I… I kind of fell through the cracks. That’s not going to happen to the kids in Edmond Park.”
I nodded. I believed him. Maybe I was naive, but it seemed unlikely after all this time. “Well… it’s been—”
“Damn entertaining,” he said, and chuckled, mood seemingly restored by the time I exited the car.
20
I believe my father may have been born during low tide of the gene pool.
—D, a self-made gangster
BOUGHT POSTER BOARD at an office-supply store larger than most third-world countries, removed the seascapes from the wall of my office at home, and pinned up the overgrown paper instead. After that I taped up the pictures of the three victims and wrote their stats beneath their photos, per Tavis’s suggestions. I wrote lesbian under Kathy’s pic, alcoholic under Manny’s, and Wiccan under Carmella’s. Next I dragged my checkbook out of my purse, squinted at the microcalendar on the back, and noted the dates of their deaths.
They meant nothing to me. But I was in too far to quit now. I didn’t even try to pretend otherwise. Instead, I picked up the phone.
“Senator.” I was gripping the receiver like an undersize linebacker on his first catch.
“Christina.” He sounded surprised to hear from me. “It is late. Nothing is wrong, I hope.”
Yes, a shitload of things were wrong. I had recently acted like a hormonally charged nut-job, I was obsessed by a case that no one seemed to take seriously, and a man who hadn’t had sex for nearly half a year had looked at me with pity in his eyes. Pity!
“Did you get a chance to look over the list of names I sent you?”
“Christina…” He sounded exasperated and a little tired. People have been sounding like that since the day I learned to say “candy.” “As I have told you, there is no need for you to go to this trouble. The deaths are a terrible tragedy. But I have discussed them with several experts in the field. They all agree that this is nothing but a coincidence.”
Then why had he originally asked me to look into it? And why would he later insist that I stay out of it? The sneaky part of me that understood men like the senator suggested that he wanted me on the case while he officially stated that he wanted no such thing. Maybe to cover his ass if his son became irate. Maybe for reasons even the sneaky part of me couldn’t understand.
“Was the governor one of them?”
“What?”
“Did you ask the governor to make sure Kathy’s death wasn’t investigated further?”
There was a pause. “I would have little reason to do so.”
“Is that a no?”
“Yes.” His tone was a little frosty.
I mulled that over for a second. “And what about—”
“I’ve told you all I know,” he said. Someone murmured something in the background. It sounded like a woman. “One minute,” he murmured back at her. I imagined him carrying the phone into his office as his footsteps echoed on the hardwood. Salina Martinez had died on that hardwood, her face still as perfect as a porcelain doll’s.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company,” I said.
“An old friend.”
For reasons unknown, an image of Thea Altove’s stunning baby-doll face popped into my head. I wondered momentarily if I should try to be diplomatic. But I was uncomfortable breaking with tradition. “How old?” I asked.
He paused for a moment. “I have known Teddy for a long while.”
I thought about that for a second. “Did he have some sort of unfortunate accident in his formative years?”
“I am not certain I understand what you—”
“His voice sounded pretty high,” I explained.
If he found me amusing, he hid it admirably. “He brought his lovely daughter with him. Thea. I believe you may have met her at Caring Hands.”
I scowled. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not psychic. So why had I envisioned Thea’s shining face?
“Haven’t daughters of old friends gotten you in enough trouble already, Senator?” I asked. He had known Salinas father also.
“They wished to see my rancho.” His voice was a little cool when he responded. “She is an excellent equestrienne.”
I could imagine them together, perfectly dressed in their Western finery. Despite their age difference, they looked inexplicably right together. I shook the image out of my head. “About the names—”
“I shall be at home tomorrow evening if you feel the need to discuss matters further.”
“I’d rather discuss matters now.” Patience may be a virtue, but it’s not mine. I’m still looking for mine.
“My apologies,” he said. “But I will not be rude to my guests.”
I squelched the question about whether he would screw his guests, and we hung up a moment later.
I felt grubby and tired and in need of a bath. But I had no bath. My current bath was in the next house, which reminded me of Ramla’s tears.
I spent the rest of the evening looking into immigration policies but didn’t learn much.
The next day sped by like a unicyclist on crack.
My first two appointments were newcomers to my clinic. Always nice to know there were fresh crazies hatching every day. Mr. Lepinski came next, though he didn’t have an appointment and he didn’t come alone.
“Ms. McMullen.” He stepped through my door with his usual temerity, but there was happiness in his eyes. “I’d like you to meet someone.”
Coming fully into the room, he motioned a woman in behind him. She was in her mid-thirties, plump, with hair reminiscent of an earlier decade. Her pants were a nondescript beige, as was her blouse. In fact, she was almost invisible. Until she smiled.
“This is Penny,” said Mr. Lepinski, and his lips crept into a grin big enough to make his mustache twitch.
She reached out her hand. We shook. “Ms. McMullen…” She cleared her throat. Her eyes were as pale and blue as distant mountains. “I’m sorry to barge in like this.”
“No problem,” I said. All grown up. “It’s nice to meet you.”
They sat down side by side, not holding hands but looking like they kind of wanted to. Try as I might, I couldn’t really remember feeling like that. Although I had a vague recollection of wanting to rip off men’s clothes. And an even clearer recollection of wanting to rip out their hearts.
“I’ve been wanting to …” She glanced at Lepinski. He was smiling full bore now. It looked strangely natural on his peaked face. “Well, I’ve been wanting to thank you.”
“Thank me?” I settled back in my chair, trying to look intelligent, but it had been another long day.
“Well, yes. The truth is … if you hadn’t… if it weren’t for you, Howard would have never left his wife. I mean…” She looked appalled by her own words. “Not that I’m a home wrecker or anything.”
I had to admit, she didn’t look like a home wrecker or anything. She looked kind of like wallpaper.
“But Sheila, she’s …” Her brow furrowed. I had an idea it might have been as angry as she could look. “It’s not that she’s a bad person…” She paused. Her mouth twitched. She switched her gaze to Lepinski. “Well… you know what… she kind of is,” she murmured.
And I liked her immediately.
By the time they left, I was a little in love, but I refrained from giving Lepinski a high five. Instead, I told Penny, “I’m so glad you stopped by.” I planned to say somethi
ng equally acceptable to Lepinski, but instead I just waggled my eyebrows at him. He looked momentarily shocked, then grinned deliriously, ducked his head, and followed her outside.
It was the highlight of my day.
Knowing I would be seeing the senator that evening, I called Laney and asked to have lunch, but Solberg, forever selfish with her time, had already snagged that meal. So we determined to meet on the following day.
I arrived at the senators domicile at 7:04 p.m. He lives in Pacific Palisades, an upscale community on the Santa Monica Bay and a couple of castes above mine. I’m just below maggot. He might not be a cow, but his status as a mammal is pretty well locked in.
“Welcome, and please… come in,” he said, and raised a gracious hand, apparently having forgiven me for implying he was out to sloop another friends daughter. Perhaps because he was out to sloop another friends daughter.
I was a little surprised he hadn’t moved out of his posh digs after Salinas death, but who am I to question the way of the mammal? The house looked much as I remembered it. The vestibule was large, paved with marble, and open.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” he asked, and led me through an arched doorway into the living room. It was vaulted. Persian rugs covered the pale hardwood. Half a football field from the stone fireplace, an ornate, antler-pronged rack held headgear. A low-crowned cowboy hat for playing caballero. A Lakers cap, great for cheering Kobe at the free-throw line. And a captain’s cap; yachting was just one of the senator’s passions.
I was out of my depth and sinking fast.
“There is a splendid red,” he said. “A little ostentatious perhaps, but quite piquant.”
I was incapable of deciphering wine gibberish, but I was pretty sure it involved alcohol, and even a maggot is smart enough to know that I had done enough drinking around the Riveras. In fact, I believe I had once imbibed enough to admit to Mrs. Rivera that I did indeed want to see her only son sweaty and naked.
“Maybe just a glass of water,” I said, and hoped that wouldn’t be a little strong for my constitution.
He canted his head. “You must indeed have something rather serious to discuss.”
“Three people have died,” I reminded him. Maybe my tone was a little dramatic.
He nodded, looking both intelligent and sincere before turning toward the kitchen. If his constituency had seen that expression, I was pretty sure they would have voted him king high commander. But maybe that was his hope.
In a minute he was back, bearing a glass of ruby wine for himself and sparkling water for me. He indicated a grandiose leather couch that stood near the fireplace. I took it while he settled into its smaller comrade on the opposite side.
While I daintily sipped my water, he placed one ankle over his opposite knee. His pant leg draped perfectly, revealing a scant inch of dark, high-quality sock and polished leather shoes with a sassy tassel. His shirt was as wrinkle free as a cheerleaders chipper brow.
I felt a little crunchy.
“So despite everything, you continue to believe the two deaths were somehow connected,” he said.
“The three deaths,” I said.
He shook his head. “Carma died months ago.”
“Two,” I said. “Two months.”
He scowled, nodded, took a sip of his wine, and swirled it gently, seeming lost in his thoughts.
“Can you think of anything that might have changed around that time?” I asked.
He shook his head, swirled some more. “I am an old man, Christina,” he said, and smiled, intelligent, serene, and gently self-reproachful. “Little changes in my life.”
I refrained from snorting. “What of Salina?” I considered adding “the gorgeous Latino woman who was half your age,” but I thought it might sound a little uncharitable.
“My fiancée was killed by a madman whom I once counted as a friend,” he said, and paused. “The world will never be the same without her.”
I watched him. His eyes were mournful, his expression solemn, but he turned his lips up in a grim smile. “Perhaps I am not as coldhearted as you think.”
Perhaps. But what did I know of him, really? His own son seemed to think him capable of murder.
“I loved her,” he said. “Maybe it was an unusual love, a love that you neither understand nor condone—”
I opened my mouth to object, but he lifted an elegant hand to stop me. Which was just as well, because I didn’t condone his multigenerational philandering and I had no desire to admit it.
“But it was love just the same,” he said.
“She was half your age.” Okay, now I said it.
“Is age what determines affection?”
I considered debating the issue, but I was pretty sure I had come for a reason. I shifted, restless. He reminded me of his son in too many ways for comfort.
“Tell me about Manny Casero,” I said.
He drank again. “What do you wish to know?”
“Everything.”
“I have not seen him for some years.”
“Then tell me a little.”
He sighed, settled back. “His name was Emanuel. But he liked to be called ‘My Lord.’”
I started in surprise. “What?”
He smiled at my shocked expression. “He was christened Emanuel. Someone mentioned the true meaning of the name—God with us.” He shrugged, a casual lift of impressive shoulders. “Manny had a position of some power amongst my staff. He suggested his… underlings, if you will, could simply call him Lord and Master.”
I mulled over the thought, trying to see the scenario in my mind. As a general rule, people don’t like to be subjugated. Americans are particularly touchy. “Perhaps that would have been reason enough to make someone want to kill him,” I suggested.
But the senator smiled. “Manny was not a man with whom one could be angry. No. He was amusing. He was charismatic. I believe, in fact, that women found him quite attractive.”
“Women often find alcoholics attractive,” I said, voicing an opinion that had mystified me for some time.
“He was fond of drink. That I will admit. But it was not a problem. At least not at that time.”
“Maybe it was his God complex that caused the trouble, then.”
He smiled as if I understood so little—about men, about women, about life in general. I could hardly disagree. Even François baffled me sometimes. “It is not as you think. He was excellent for morale. Enthusiastic. Optimistic. There was not a person on my staff who did not like him.”
“How refreshing,” I said. “A Utopia.” Maybe I’m becoming jaded.
“It was a well-run campaign.”
“Uh-huh.”
He sighed. “There were, of course, conflicts from time to time. Some of which…” He glanced sorrowfully into his wineglass. “Some of which were my fault.”
I remembered the scandals about interns and secretaries. And anyone else with the appropriate sex organs. “Such as?”
“It is not easy being the leader of the Moral Majority.”
I almost spewed water through my nose, but I hadn’t done that since my brother Pete had blasted my brother James in the face with a blob of applesauce, and I didn’t want to ruin my record. Maturity is a slippery thing for a McMullen.
“And a senatorial campaign incurs a great deal of costs,” he added.
I nodded, trying to look naive and a little blond. It wasn’t very difficult.
“Some of my supporters…” He paused, searching for the perfect word. “… disagreed with my fund-raising methods.”
My blond little ears perked up. “Such as?”
“Perhaps you have heard of a Mr. Craig R. LaCrosse.”
The name rang a vague bell that seemed to be attached somehow to the entertainment industry. I thought back through a half dozen actors’ events I had attended with Laney before she’d become an Amazon Queen. “Isn’t he a director?” I thought I remembered some slasher flicks.
“A producer.” The se
nator sighed. “A patriotic man. And quite passionate about his beliefs. He gave rather generously to my early campaign, but there were those who did not want to become involved with Hollywood. The surrounding immorality would not sit well with my constituency or so they thought.”
“And you think this guy could somehow be involved with the deaths of—”
“Mr. LaCrosse died some years ago,” he said. “I simply wished to dispel your misconception that I believed my campaign was trouble free.”
I ran that information around in my head for a minute while I sipped at my water. It was still fizzy I don’t like fizzy “What other problems existed amongst your people?” I was vaguely aware that my terminology made him sound a little like Moses.
He placed a hand on the horizontal length of his lower leg and watched me. “There were those who did not think we should campaign on Sunday.”
“Seriously?”
“You were raised Catholic, were you not, Christina?”
I was raised stupid. “Even for a Catholic the idea’s a little outdated, isn’t it?” I asked.
“This was some time ago, Christina. Before the prevalence of laptops and Blueberries and iPods.”
I didn’t have any of those things. I wanted them, but not as much as I wanted a working commode.
“It was a slower time.” He smiled. “There were different sensibilities, and much of my staff was quite devout.”
“But you did campaign on Sundays?”
“A man must take a stand, and I have found it impossible to please everyone. I felt it more important to spread the wisdom of our policies than to worry about offending a few constituents.”
Translation: He wanted to win.
“Who was against the Sunday idea?”
He shook his head. “I no longer remember the details. It was a small ripple in a large pond.”
“Who was for it?”
He stared at me for a moment, and then his brows lowered. “Kathy Baltimore.”
I felt my heart rate bump up.
“She was a very ambitious woman. When she threw herself into a project, she threw with all her heart. Perhaps that is why she stayed with her husband so long, even though…” He shook his head, looking surprised and a little disturbed.
My mind skittered on.
