One Hot Mess Read Free Page A

my own nocturnal imaginings jolted through me like a cruel electrical current.
    “She lay on the concrete beside my son's unseeing body.” He paused. I said nothing. I felt too sick to my stomach to remind myself that I didn't believe dreams were the harbingers of evil to come. Neither did I set much store by the boogeyman or extraterrestrials. “So you see why answers must be found. Before it is too late,” he said.
    “But who is she? How is Jack—”
    “So far as I know, Gerald does not know Ms. Baltimore.”
    “Then why—”
    “Neither is he acquainted with most of the victims with whom he becomes involved. And yet he is put at risk with each new tragedy. Therefore, we must do something. For her as well as for him. Before my dreams become reality. As they so often do.”
    I shook my head again. Thus far it wasn't helping the situation a great deal. And it was something I was good at.“The LAPD is a huge department,” I said. “Are you sure Jack is even involved?”
    “I believe my son has yet to review this case.”
    I turned my head a little, maybe believing it would help me think. Couldn't hurt. “You got the picture before he did?”
    He paused for a second. “In truth, Ms. Baltimore died in Edmond Park.”
    “Edmond Park! That's—Is that even in California?”
    “It lies some miles northwest of our fair city.”
    “Nowhere near Jack's jurisdiction.”
    “Maybe it would not be quite…
kosher
for Gerald to become involved in this tragedy, Christina, but he is a strong-willed man. A
stubborn
man. A man bent on justice, and I feel in my heart, in my
soul
, that he will become embroiled for some reason, and…” He shook his head, seeming to subdue a shudder. “My dreams of late have been quite vivid, filled with evil. With death. How would I forgive myself if something were to happen to him, my only son, before amends were made between us?”
    I remained mute for a moment, trying to separate honest emotion from calculated sensationalism. But he was a politician. Perhaps the two had blended into one quixotic toxin years ago. “Listen, Senator,” I said, “I appreciate your concerns, but I don't know what this has to do with me.”
    “It was you who solved the mystery of Andrew Bomstad.”
    “That was different.” And quite personal. Bomstad had been determined to rape me before he dropped like a slapped housefly at my feet. It hadn't seemed quite fair that I might be held responsible for his death.
    “What of Robert Peachtree?” he asked.
    “Sorry about that,” I said, but it probably wasn't my place to apologize. Old Peachtree, had, after all, murdered the senators fiancée, Salina Martinez, and
tried
to do the same to me after I'd learned the truth. I know it seems unlikely—a nice person like me—but these things happen … repeatedly.
    “I am not above begging,” the senator said.
    “I'd like to help you. Really I would, but—”
    “All I am asking is that you look into the situation. Learn the truth about her death before Gerald becomes involved. I would consider it an enormous favor.”
    “I wish—”
    “Indeed, you would be a hero to the great state of California. A shining example of feminine ability.”
    “That's nice, but—”
    Someone rapped a happy beat on a window not six feet from my head. I jumped, shoved my heart back into the too-tight confines of my chest, then excused myself to open the back door. SuperSeptic Guy stood there. His coveralls were still gleaming, as was his smile.
    “Are you finished already?” I myself may have been a little more on the scowly side.
    “I'm afraid you've a bit of a problem,” he said.
    My spleen knotted up despite his toothy expression. “A problem?”
    “It looks as if your pipes may need to be replaced.”
    “Replaced.” My spleen did a free fall, waving dismally to my stomach as it headed toward my knees. “Which pipes?”
    “All of them. It appears as if you're going to need an entirely new system.”
    “I