Not One Clue (16 page)

“Ms. McMullen?”

I glanced around the dimly lit room. There were four articles of clothing on the floor, six half-read novels beside the bed, and a dehydrated philodendron wilting by the window. Probably my house. “I believe so,” I said.

“This is Renee Edwards.”

I patted the top of my head. The snarl quotient felt about the same as mine usually does at this time of night. Evidence was rising that I was, indeed, Christina McMullen. “Who?”

“I’m a handwriting expert,” said Edwards. She had a tough, impatient voice. “I work for the Los Angeles Police Department.”

“Oh, yes.” I shot my gaze to the twosome near my bed and tightened my grip on the phone.

“I’m told your case is of an extremely urgent nature.”

I bit my lip, feeling the slightest twinge of guilt. After some soul-bending deliberation, I had called Rivera Senior. Subsequently, the senator had worked his usual magic. But as with any genie’s lamp, there were always repercussions. I was still waiting to discover what they would be.

“Yes,” I said again.

“Ergo, I’ve reviewed the letters in my free time,” she continued.

Ergo, she sounded a little miffed about it. “All of them?”

The affirmative seemed to be implied. “And worked up a preliminary analysis.”

I was trying to get my ducks in a row, but there were a couple little buggers that kept popping out of line. “What time is it?”

“Four hundred hours.”

My mind worked dizzily on that for a while only to realize it was an ungodly time of the night when no one in her right mind should be conscious. What on earth did this gal owe the senator?

“I’ll send you a written transcript of my findings, as well, of course, but thought you might like to hear an expedited opinion of my conclusions immediately.”

At four hundred ungodly hours? Was she kidding? “Yes,” I said, trying to wrestle my hair out of my eyes. “Please.”

“It is my estimation that the author knows Ms. Butterfield personally.”

“How personally?”

“An acquaintance.”

“A man or a woman?”

“I can’t ascertain that with any accuracy at this time. But for the moment let’s assume he is male.”

“Okay.”

I could almost hear the military-crisp nod. “He has strong feelings of inferiority and an intense need to be accepted.”

So he was human, I thought, and tucked my wet foot under the blankets. Harlequin looked bereft, which might mean that the letter-writer could also be canine. Or Great Danish.

“In your opinion is this person dangerous?” I asked.

There was a long pause. For a moment I wondered if she had fallen asleep. It was, after all, Ungodly Hour. But she spoke finally.

“That’s impossible to say for certain.”

“Let’s say for uncertain, then.”

“In the wrong circumstances, I believe he may be.”

I glanced at Laney again. “What circumstances would those be?” I asked.

“If there was a situation that was pushing him to act, perhaps violence would be imminent.”

“What kind of situation?”

“Something that needed immediate attention. My evaluation suggests that he is not a person who likes to be rushed.”

There were a few more salient pieces of information, but I hung up shortly afterward.

I couldn’t help but notice that Solberg was now sitting on my bed. The sexy man-slaves were notably absent. For a moment I questioned the existence of a loving God.

“A handwriting expert,” I said.

Laney nodded. “Who keeps odd hours.”

“Maybe she’s a night person.”

“Or you called in favors,” she guessed.

I didn’t comment. “Why is Solberg on my bed?”

“I thought maybe you were comatose,” Solberg said.

“Get off,” I said. “Or someone will be.”

He grinned and rose to his feet.

“Rivera’s not going to be happy if he finds out you contacted his father,” Laney said.

I scowled at her psychic weirdness. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“We could have hired our own analyst,” she said.

“Or bought one,” Solberg suggested.

“Most of those analytic slaves don’t work around the clock like they used to in the good old days,” I said.

“Plus, doing it this way had the added bonus of irritating the lieutenant,” Laney said, watching me.

My first instinct was to brush off her statement, but even at Ungodly Hour, it made a certain amount of sense. So I filed it away for later analysis of my own before recapping my recent phone conversation.

“Inferiority and an intense need to be accepted,” Solberg said, ruminating.

“Yeah.” I stared at him. “Can I see a sample of your handwriting?”

He watched me for a second, then threw back his head and laughed.

I resisted rolling my eyes as I returned my attention to Laney. “Any ideas?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who
didn’t
feel inferior,” she said.

“Besides yourself.”

“I would hate to spoil your delusions, Mac.”

“Thank you. Can you think of anyone who might fit that description?”

She shook her head, then stopped abruptly.

“What?” I asked, and she adopted my scowl.

“I have a stunt double. I never even considered him before.”

“Aren’t stunt doubles built like … well, like
you
, thereby making her immune to inferiority.”

“I’d give an Oscar for his legs.”

“It’s a man?”

“Emery Greene.” She grinned. “We’ll discuss Santa Claus later.”

“Leave Santa out of this,” I said, then, “So why would you suspect Greene?”

“He hasn’t …” she began, then looked surprised and laughed at herself. “Nothing.”

I caught the drift. “Maybe he just hasn’t gotten around to proposing yet.”

“Not everyone has to like me,” she said, but there was something in her voice. It almost sounded like insecurity. I hadn’t seen that in Laney since she was buck-toothed and built like a chopstick.

“If that’s true we have no supporting evidence,” I said.

“I love you, Mac,” she said, then shook her head and waved away her previous thought. “Come to think of it, Emery just came on board recently. After Stevie broke her arm.”

“Stevie?”

“She was my other double.”

“Stevie’s a girl.”

“Bending the genders,” she said. “Anyway, the first letter arrived before Emery.”

“Which doesn’t necessarily rule him out.”

“But doesn’t put him at the top of the list.”

I scowled, hating to agree, but if the truth was told, I didn’t even
have
a viable list. “Who’s the king of the heap?”

She considered that for a minute, then shook her head. “I just can’t think of anyone who would threaten me.”

“We’re not talking out-and-out threats, remember. We’re talking skin prickles.”

She thought some more, then did a little head tilt.

“What?” I asked.

“Do you know Morab?”

“It’s the language they speak in Morabia, isn’t it?”

Her brows lowered, etching tiny creases in her forehead. “There is no Morabia.”

“Then I don’t know it.”

“Morab,” she repeated. “He’s one of the characters in
Queen.”

I shook my head, feeling guilty for my lack of time spent devoted to her rising success. Some say the Catholics have taken guilt to an art form. I would say it’s more like a science. “I haven’t had much time lately to watch—” I began, but she was already shushing me.

“Mine is not a series you should apologize for missing,” she said.

“Not everything has to be the History Channel,” I said.

“You’re too good to me,” she said, but before we got sappy, she continued. “Morab … he’s one of the Withians. His name is hardly ever mentioned, but you’ll see him in the background periodically, looking … shiny.”

“Shiny?”

“These guys could keep Chevron in business.”

I thought for a moment. “Ahh, they’re oiled.”

“Like the Tin—” she began, but suddenly I remembered my wet dream.

“Are you talking about the guy in the loincloth?”

“All the Withians wear loincloths,” she said. “It’s to denote their lowly status.” Her voice was deadpan. Despite her well-fought climb to success, she was not one to overemphasize the importance of pop silliness.

“Yeah, but the guy with the …” I took a deep breath and tried not to burst into spontaneous orgasm. This guy had probably prompted my current fantasies. “The guy with the brand on his …” I motioned vaguely toward my right hip.

“Shall I get you a paper bag?” she asked.

“I’ll be fine as soon as my vision clears.” I shut my eyes for an instant and shook my head. “Yeah,” I said finally, making my tone perfectly matter-of-fact. “I think I might have noticed him.” I glanced at Solberg. For his own self-preservation, he rarely watched
Amazon Queen
. Thinking of Laney surrounded by beautiful people tended to make him depressed. I figured there wasn’t enough Prozac in all of L.A. County to offset the effects of seeing Morab in a loincloth.

“He has talent, classical training, and an accent,” she said.

“Not to mention the fact that he’s hotter than tamales,” I added, and thought I could actually
feel
Solberg pale. I liked this Morab guy better by the moment.

“And he’s intelligent. Still, he was cast because of his physique, more than anything else. He exercises like a machine. Cross-training, weight lifting, tria—”

“I think he’s the culprit,” Solberg said.

Laney and I each raised a brow at him.

He shuttled his gaze back and forth between us. “You can’t trust those bodybuilder types. Obsessive-compulsives.”

I blinked.

“Neurotic,” he added. “Maladjusted.
Weird.”

I smiled a little and turned back toward Elaine. “Why didn’t you think of him earlier?” I asked, and she shrugged.

“Generally, he seems really secure.” She paused, mouth quirking. “In fact, sometimes he seems a little
too
secure.”

I considered that for a second. Thought about Emily Christianson, the self-destructive girl who had everything; Micky Goldenstone, uncertain he would make a better parent than a violent crackhead; and Howard Lepinski, still obsessing about sandwich options after umpteen years of therapy. “I rarely see that in my line of work,” I said.

Elaine shook her head and sighed. “I mean … the chances of getting a successful show … they’re astronomical.”

“So?”

“What determines an actor’s success? Besides luck?”

“Tiny pores?”

“Sergio happens to
have
tiny pores.”

“Sergio?”

“Sergio Carlos Zepequeno. Aka Morab. He’s Brazilian.”

“A Brazilian who you think is hiding his jealousy?”

“I would be if the situation were reversed.”

I stared at her. Laney … jealous? I hadn’t seen that since the neighborhood boys had started an all-male clubhouse. “Please don’t tell me the Easter Bunny’s fictional, too,” I said.

She gave me a bland expression. “He once told me there was no one more deserving than I. And he said it with absolute conviction.”

“The Easter Bunny?”

“Sergio.”

I shrugged. “I concur. With both of them.”

She was stellar at ignoring me. “What about the Dalai Lama.”

“I wasn’t even aware he belonged to the actor’s guild.”

“You know what I mean,” she said.

“Maybe he just admires you. This Morab guy, I mean. Not the Dalai Lama.”

“The point is,” she said, “no one’s completely secure.”

“And you think if his act is too convincing …”

“He’s an excellent actor. Worked on Broadway to sold-out crowds.”

“Then maybe you can’t tell if he’s acting or not,” I said.

“Or maybe he thinks he deserves more,” Solberg said.

“But getting rid of Laney won’t help him. It’s not as if he can take her place.”

“Maybe he’s so bitter he doesn’t care,” Solberg suggested. “You know what those good-looking guys are like.

“Baby,” he turned to Laney with panic in his eyes. “We should get you a bodyguard.”

We stared at him as if he’d just grown a second head.

“What?”
he said.

“A bodyguard,” I repeated.

“Yeah.”

“Someone big and burly and manly to shadow Laney’s every move?” I said, and watched him pale some more.

Laney shot me the kind of look she used to give bullies who were picking on the skinny kids.

“I didn’t say Sergio wanted to get rid of me,” she said. “It was just … I thought of him, the unfairness of this business. That’s all. He’s a nice guy.”

“And extremely good-looking.” I glanced at Solberg. Sometimes I
am
kind of a bully.

17

I’d rather be happy than be president.

—
Jamel Blount, weighing
options

“H
ow’s Jamel doing?” I was back at work. Neither talk of Morab the man-slave nor dead of night shall keep me from my appointed tasks.

Micky Goldenstone sat on my couch. “All right, I guess.”

“Is Jackson back home?”

Micky nodded stiffly, then glanced out the window toward the coffee shop. “Back home, filling my son’s mind with shit.”

“What do you mean?”

He shook his head. “Lavonn thinks he’s some kind of damned savior. Bought that house in Glendale, and a big-ass Cadillac.”

“Where’d he get the money?”

He shrugged. “Not all assholes are morons. I heard he got a scholarship to some Ivy League school. Made a shitload of money in biochemistry or something, then came back here to save us poor niggers.”

“How do you mean?”

“He got some investors together, bought up a bunch of property on the east side. Tried to …” He made air quotes … “save the culture.”