One Hot Mess Read Free Page B

can't—”
    “And the sooner the better.” He turned away, one happy little camper.
    “Wait,” I said, stepping onto my dry, crackly lawn. “There must be something else you can do.”
    “Traid not,” he said, and was already whistling as he disappeared around the corner of my house.
    I followed him, intent on verbal persuasion or bodily intimidation or both, but in that instant, the senator spoke from behind me.
    “I'll pay” he said.
    I turned in a haze.
    He stood framed in my humble doorway, well dressed, polished, and as serious as a coronary.
    “I am quite a wealthy man, Christina,” he said. “If you help me save my son, I shall pay you handsomely.”

2
    Excrement happens.
    —
SuperSeptic Associate
    ORRECT ME IF I'M WRONG, but isn't there some sort of governmental department that handles things like, say, the prevention and investigation of crimes?” Laney asked. Elaine Butterfield has been my best friend since the fifth grade. Back then she was called Brainy Laney—later she was called a lot of other things, several of which had to do with her cup size. Brainy Laney Butterfield is as watch-me-as-I-sink-into-depression beautiful as she is smart. Currently she was on location, filming segments of
The Amazon Queen
, an admittedly hokey series that had garnered millions of fans.
    As for me, ten hours after the senator's visit, I was snuggled up on the couch with an oversize dog, cellphone pressed to my ear. Following work, I had changed back into my tattered shorts ensemble, considered going shopping for Christmas gifts, and promptly fallen into a post-Thanksgiving coma from which the phone had awakened me.
    “The senator said the murder was in a different jurisdiction, in Edmond Park,” I explained.
    “So crimes committed in other parts of the state can no longer be solved without involving Christina McMullen, Ph.D.?” she asked.
    “I guess he's worried about Rivera.”
    “His son Rivera?” she asked. Her tone was a little dubious. Laney has a tendency to cut through bullshit like a snowplow through whipped cream. Though she herself would never call it bullshit. Or eat whipped cream. Nothing but self-harvested seaweed sprouts and moon juice for Laney. “The son whose fiancée he was sleeping with?”
    I rubbed my eyes. “The same.”
    “The son whose fiancée he planned to marry?”
    I refrained from sighing. “I never said the Riveras were normal.”
    “Uh-huh. How exactly is he worried about his son?”
    “He said he had a nightmare about him.”
    “About Jack.” Her tone had gone from dubious to don't-even-go-there.
    “Yes.” I didn't tell her I'd had a similar dream. It was, after all, probably just a coincidence. But I'd had other dreams about Rivera. Less horrific ones, but just as vivid. They had revealed that he was … well, quite favorably endowed. And if I remembered correctly how he'd looked stepping out of my steamy shower some months ago—which I thought I did—the dream had been startlingly correct. I didn't tell Laney that, either. I needed some time to think things over before voicing the words aloud. “Saw him facedown on the concrete and felt it was a premonition. Something destined to take place if he became involved in this investigation.”
    “Well, he
is
an investigator,” she said. “Which, lest you forget, you are not, Mac.”
    “I know, but…” I pulled a blanket over my legs. I felt a little chilled despite the fact that the temperature still hovered near triple digits. Must be my minuscule body weight. “You didn't see the picture.”
    “There was a picture?”
    “Of the murder… of the
victim.”
    “How did he get a picture?”
    “I don't know. He was in politics. He can probably pull a rabbit out of a hat, too.”
    “That's great, if you need a rabbit. Do you need a rabbit?”
    “Not so much.”
    “Then I'd be careful. This sounds kind of fishy to me. How did he even learn of a death in Edmond Park? Who is this woman? And why does he care