Unzipped (4 page)

“A Peeping Tom?”

“Howard Lepinski said you called
him
‘Mr. Lepinski.’”

“You talked to Mr. Lepinski?”

“I guess that answers my question.”

“What the hell were you doing talking to my clients?” I asked, taking an involuntary step toward him. He didn’t exactly cower away. In fact, his lips twitched again. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of an imprint a Ferragamo would make on his damned sardonic expression.

“Did you know he was a flasher?”

“Lepinski?” The shoe drooped in my fingers.

“Bomstad.”

“Are you shittin’ me?”

His brows did rise that time. I squeezed the edges of my robe together and remembered my professional image. “You must be mistaken,” I said and lifted my chin in a haughty expression of pride. Start the bonfires, the martyr was back.

“I’m not mistaken,” he said. “And neither . . .”—He pronounced it with a hard, elongated
i
sound.—“. . . am I shittin’ you.”

I wandered into my living room and plopped down in my La-Z-Boy. It had once belonged to a man named Ron. Ron was long gone. The chair remained. Yet another way furniture is superior to men. “Bomstad?” I asked, and glanced up at Rivera. His eyes were deep set, like a sculpture’s, and his hair was too long to be stylish. It curled around his ears in dark waves. “Andrew Bomstad?”

“The Bomber,” he answered. “You’re not the first woman he’s charmed the pants off of.”

“He didn’t—”

“Then why did you send him the wine?”

I just stared this time, numb as a cherry pit.

“The Spumante,” he said, and stared back at me. “Did you send it to him?”

I shook my head.

“Did you know he had a girlfriend?”

I nodded.

“That bother you?”

“I told you—”

“There were others, too. He liked them young, mostly. Teenagers. You’re not his usual type.”

“I didn’t—”

“Not that I’m faulting his choice, but how did he happen to hear about you?”

“I’m telling you—”

“I mean, I would think a guy like Andy the Bomber Bomstad might find a psychiatrist with more . . . notoriety. But then, I guess he didn’t pick you for your diploma. And maybe you didn’t know much about his background. His handler was top-notch at keeping his indiscretions out of the papers. But you’re going to have to come clean now. I’ll keep it quiet. Make sure it doesn’t affect your business. How long had you been sleeping with Bomstad?”

“I was not—”

“A month? Couple weeks?”

“Listen!” I growled and, shooting out of my ‘boy,’ stepped up close enough so I had to lift my chin to glare into his face. “I didn’t sleep with him. I never slept with him. I haven’t slept with anyone for ye—”

He was standing absolutely still, staring down at me, an expression of near surprise on his face.

Lucidity settled in at a leisurely pace. I took a deep breath and backed off a step.

“I didn’t have intercourse with Mr. Bomstad,” I said.

If he so much as twitched I was going to spit in his eye.

“Ever?”

“Never.”

“Oh.” He nodded agreeably. “You have a boyfriend?”

“Not at the present time.”

He snapped his notebook shut and headed for the door, where he turned. “Years of celibacy,” he mused. “It’s bound to make a woman short-tempered.”

I considered throwing my shoe at him, but I’m a professional. And he was damned quick in the face of a loaded Ferragamo.

3

Honest friends is kinda nice, but it’s hard to beat a big-ass lie and a six-pack of brewskies.

—Brutus O’Malley,
Chrissy’s first beau

I
’M SORRY to bother you,” I said. I was standing rather droopily on the spacious, pillared verandah of my friend and colleague, Dr. David Hawkins. A white wicker swing looked cool and elegant against the slatted railing at the far end of the gargantuan porch, making me feel even grittier by comparison.

“Chrissy,” David said, stepping outside and pulling me into a hug. “Don’t be ridiculous.” His chiding tone was fatherly as he held my arms and leaned back to take a look at me. My mascara was smeary and my hair was wind-fried, but I was pretty sure my nose had stopped running. I was practically at the top of my game. “Come in.”

I did, though I still felt shaky and disoriented. It had been a hell of a day, starting with Rivera’s visit and persisting with a dozen ragged phone calls from various unwelcome sources. Elaine had canceled my appointments. I didn’t quite feel up to discussing someone’s reoccurring dream about mayonnaise when my own tended to include a hard-on and a corpse.

Instead, I had called David.
Psychology Today
had named him one of the leading therapists of our time. His house, a stately edifice, complete with stained glass and a triple garage, was nestled up against the San Rafael Hills, surrounded by wealth and good breeding. My own modest abode was some thirty miles and five social steps to the northwest. It was the approximate size of David’s Jacuzzi. But I couldn’t quite be jealous of him. He was like the psychiatrist I’d never had.

“Sit down,” he said when we’d finally trekked the plush, endless hallway to his study. I took a seat on the leather davenport and laced my fingers atop my knees to keep them occupied. In the past I’d had a tendency to chew my nails in high stress situations, and in my experience, tight ends with postmortem erections tend to raise the stress level like nobody’s business. “Tell me,” David said as he settled into the chair opposite me.

Classical music played from some distant room. The airy sound of a flute wafted quietly through the house. I didn’t play the flute, but I’d been hell on wheels with the tuba.

I shook my head, feeling stupid and hot. Whoever said L.A. has idyllic weather hasn’t spent a day with malfunctioning AC in late August. I’d rolled the Saturn’s windows down in self-defense as I’d trundled west on I-210, and the smog had saturated my wind-smacked hair like so much London soot. “I’m sorry,” I repeated, for lack of a better segue. “I’m sure you’ve heard enough problems today already.” And every day. David’s clientele was both extensive and legendary. It was rumored he had once counseled Rush Limbaugh concerning his weight problem, but I guess even geniuses strike out sometimes.

“Nonsense.” He leaned forward and took my hands between his own. “The day I’m too busy for a friend is the day I’m no friend at all.”

Despite everything—the corpse, the lack of sleep, the electrocuted hair—I felt myself relax a smidgen. David had that effect on people. Maybe it was his voice—rich and soothing like French vanilla. Or maybe it had something to do with his age. He was a mature man, both physically and emotionally, which gave me some hope for the remainder of the male populace. His hair was silver, his face lightly tanned, and gentle lines marked his forehead and cheeks. But they were nice lines, the kind that make a face look comfortable.

“I just . . .” I exhaled carefully, holding onto my control by my, as of yet, unmolested fingernails. I couldn’t help noticing that I’d now lost three acrylics. Damn it all, a dead body and now this. “It all happened so fast.” I’d told him a pared-down version of my troubles on the phone. He had insisted that I come over straight away.

“What did the coroner say?” he asked, cutting to the proverbial chase.

“He died from a preexisting heart condition.” I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to think of a way to soften the next words. Nothing clever came to mind. “Which was exacerbated by an overdose of Viagra.”

“What?” He sat up straighter. “Andy Bomstad was taking Viagra?”

“Apparently.”

“And you didn’t know?”

“No.”

“But . . . Even so . . . Viagra is perfectly safe, unless ingested in extreme doses.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good lord,” he said and tightened his grip on my hands before releasing them and rising abruptly. “You don’t need a consultation. What you need is a drink.”

“I’m just in time, then,” someone said.

I glanced up. A goddess had appeared in the doorway. She stood about five four and couldn’t have weighed more than a can of peas. Her hair was swept up in a complicated knot that would have made a sailor swoon, and her ensemble was impeccable; her slacks pressed just so, her silk blouse without a wrinkle. She even wore heels—in the house.

Generally when at home I’m a little more casual. In fact, the outfit I had worn during Rivera’s last visit was a considerable improvement over my usual attire. Just now I was dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt. Usually, I make it a point to look presentable when I’m out and about. But . . . the staring eyes . . . the ridiculously large erection . . . I was lucky to be dressed and coherent instead of running around stark naked, yammering about gummy bears in wine sauce.

Still, I tugged at my shirt, making sure it was well past the bulge that overlooked my jeans. Some people become anorexic under stress. I don’t have that problem.

“Ahh, Kathryn,” David said, walking over and giving her a kiss on the cheek before taking the drinks she held in perfectly manicured hands. I curled my fingernails against my palms and noticed the glasses were cut crystal. Austrian probably.

“Chrissy, this is my fiancée.” He beamed. First at her, then at me. “Kathryn LaMere. My dear friend and colleague, Christina McMullen.”

She smiled. Her teeth were aligned like perfect, pearlescent soldiers. “It’s so very nice to meet you. I’ve heard nothing but good.” She had a faint but elegant accent, and she smelled delicious. Like high-priced heaven.

Reality dawned on me with belated brilliance: David was engaged . . . to be married. I let the fact sink slowly into my subconscious. It shouldn’t have been surprising, really. After all, he was an attractive, intelligent man. But . . . I had bananas older than that girl. And maybe I had secretly fantasized about becoming the future Mrs. Dr. David. After all, he exuded kindness and good taste, while my own sprawling family leaned toward pranks involving flatulence and dead vermin.

“I’m sorry.” I bobbled to my feet, feeling idiotic. Obviously they had planned to go out. It was Friday night, after all, and some people did that sort of thing on the weekend. “I’m interrupting your evening.”

“Don’t be silly,” David said.

“Not at all,” Kathryn chimed in. “This is the ideal opportunity for me to see to my work. Please, make yourself at home,” she said and smiling, exited, closing the double French doors behind her.

We were left alone. David crossed the floor and pressed a Scotch into my hand.

“You’re engaged,” I said. Perhaps it sounded as lame to him as it did to me, but my fantasies are nothing if not tenacious and prefer to be smothered rather than drowned.

“Nearly a month now,” he said, and motioned me back toward the couch. “Wedding’s in May. Kathryn wanted to move it up. At least that’s what she said. Personally, I think she was just trying to stroke an old man’s fragile ego.”

I stifled a sigh and dropped listlessly onto the cushy leather.

“You still look shocky,” he said, taking a seat and studying my eyes. “You didn’t see clients today, did you?”

I assured him I hadn’t.

“Good. Take Monday off as well.”

“I don’t know if I can afford to—”

“Chrissy.” He was the only person outside of my immediate family who called me that. My youngest brother still referred to me as Christopher Robin because of my former obsession with Pooh and the Hundred Acre Wood. But James was only thirty-six. Perhaps someday he would be as mature as David . . . if modern science lived up to its longevity promises. “Listen, you’ve just been through a terrible trauma. You need time to recoup.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

He settled back, studying me carefully. “It’s bound to happen every blue moon or so,” he said.

I tried a smile. It felt ghoulish, but the Scotch made me feel better. “I’m just . . .” I scowled into my drink. Glenfiddich. “They’ve been asking a lot of questions.”

“They?”

“There’s a lieutenant.” Rivera’s piercing eyes burned in my memory. “He seems to think I had a personal relationship with Bomstad.”

“That’s absurd.” David sounded immensely offended on my behalf. I had considered calling my parents, but history and common sense suggested otherwise. Thirteen months ago a gale-force wind had taken the roof off my garage; Dad had immediately asked what the hell I had done. “How did he come to such an asinine conclusion?”

“Well . . .” I cleared my throat. “Mr. Bomstad had brought a bottle of wine.”

“To his session?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You didn’t drink any.”

“No.” My answer was quick. Explanations were about as pleasant as a full body wax, but I needed advice and he was on a first-name basis with the Board of Psychology. “No. But . . .” I swirled my drink and managed not to do the throat-clearing thing again. “With the Viagra, he . . .” When I glanced up I saw David was still watching me, scowling a little. “He—”

“Oh, no. Chrissy.” He shook his head. “Don’t tell me he was aroused.”

I did clear my throat then. In my mind, David had always been a strange mix between mentor, friend, and the silver-haired guy on
Fantasy Island.
I’d been a kid when the show aired, but I’d always had a thing for that silver-haired guy. “I’m afraid so.”

“Even after the police arrived?”

“Yes.”

“But obviously they could tell there had been no relations. Even the dim-witted LAPD could deduce that much.”

“He, uhhh . . .” I stared into my Scotch. “He had his pants unzipped.”

David said nothing for a moment, but stared at me in silence. His eyebrows were nestled somewhere in his silvery hairline. “Did you—”

“I didn’t do anything. I swear it,” I said. “Sure, Bomstad was a good-looking guy, but . . .” I fumbled miserably for words.

“Perhaps you’d best start at the beginning,” he said, and so I did, rambling through the entire humiliation from start to finish until I felt limp and exhausted. Like a first-rate psycho on the doctor’s cushy leather couch.

“And he had given you no indication in the past that he was interested in you?”

“No. None.” Although I had kind of wished he had. But I wasn’t suicidal enough to admit that.