One Hot Mess (21 page)

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 senator 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.

“You said Emanuel was attractive.”

He smiled. “I said women found him attractive. There is a distinct difference, to my mind.”

“Do you have a photo of him?”

“Of Emanuel? Yes, I believe I might,” he said, and left the room. He returned shortly, carrying a stack of leather-bound photo albums. Me, I keep my pictures in a shoe box from Wal-Mart. Sometimes I cut myself out of the image if things have gone awry with my hair or my face or my body weight. There aren't a whole lot of unscathed pictures in the ol' Wal-Mart box.

Sitting down beside me, the senator opened a book and flipped through a few pages.

“What about Kathy?” I asked. “Did
she
find Emanuel attractive?”

He glanced over at me. Up close, one was more aware
of his age, but it did little to make him less appealing. I truly resent that about men. Maybe even more so than the fact that chocolate makes my ass as wide as a dump truck. “I do not believe they knew each other.

“And as I have said, Christina, my staff was extremely moral.”

“Who was not?” I asked.

He shook his head like a quiet sage, then tapped a photo imprisoned in plastic.

“This is Emanuel.”

I glanced down. The man in the picture was dark. He wore a heavy mustache and no beard. I wouldn't have said he was handsome, but I could see that he had a smile that could make things happen. He was framing a
Vote for change, vote for Rivera
sign.

“How about him?” I touched the picture. It was fading a little. “Was he moral?” I asked. “Except for the drinking?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps he felt himself a bit overly important.”

“Were those his worst sins?”

“So far as I know.”

“There must have been someone with worse.”

He caught my gaze with grave sincerity. “Then I would have to choose myself as the greatest sinner, for I cannot throw stones.”

Save me from martyrs and vegans. “What did
you
do?” I asked.

He raised his free hand. “Life in politics hides few secrets.”

“What few did yours hide?” Good God, I'm clever.

He paused, then turned a few pages and gazed nostalgically at a faded 4×6.

I glanced down, recognizing his ex-wife. Rosita Rivera was small, curvaceous, and impishly lovely. Smiling, she had wrapped her arms around a young couple, one on her right and one on her left.

The senators expression was solemn. “I see now, through wiser eyes, that she deserved better.”

I didn't bother to agree. To say the senator was a philanderer would have been something of an insult to philanderers. “Who's she with?”

“Volunteer coordinators.”

I took a closer look. The woman was plump and cute, with big eyes and a bigger smile. The man was lean and wiry, with brown hair that curled like a fresh perm.

“What's
her
name?” I asked.

“Yvonne.” He said the name with a pensive dreaminess.

I glanced up at the tone, but it took him a moment to meet my high-browed gaze.

“And, no,” he said finally, “I did not sleep with her.”

“Did you try?”

He looked peeved. “She and Steve were something of an item at the time.”

“Steve who?”

He pointed to the picture of the sandy-haired fellow. “Steve Bunting.”

“Did they marry?”

“I don't believe Steve ever married, which is rather a shame.” He smiled a little. “His parents were a lovely couple. Old, but extremely devoted to each other. I think, perhaps, Steve could have—”

“Was it because he found you and Yvonne together?”

“What?”

“Is that why they never married?”

“As I said, I did
not
—”

“You didn't sleep with her.” I gave him the stink eye. “But what
did
you do?”

“Christina—”

“A bunch of people have died, Senator.”

He sighed. “Perhaps I lusted in my heart.”

I stared at him blankly and managed to refrain from guffawing like a hyena. “Where else did you lust?” I asked finally.

“Perhaps it would surprise you to know that I have known several women with whom I did not have relations.”

“Were any of them attractive?”

He opened his mouth to object, but I raised a hand. “All three of the victims were connected with you in one way or another. The police have no leads.” The room went silent. “They're not even
looking
for leads.” Why was that? Was the governor
really
that concerned about the meth problem in a city the size of my eye tooth, or had someone asked him to make sure Kathy Baltimore's death went undisturbed? And if so, why? Might someone be worried about
my
investigation? “We need to figure out who you might have offended.”