One Hot Mess Part 7

-Micky Goldenstone T'S HIGHLY POSSIBLE that I should have stayed at work and never made the trip over to Caring Hands, especially since I was undecided about whether or not to agree to the senators proposal. But my last client left at 4:50, and I thought if I hurried and no one tried to kill me, I could see for myself whether the stylish Miguel Rivera really was hobn.o.bbing with the down-on-their-luckers in one of L.A.'s high-crime areas. Besides, I had a secret shortcut across town. At 4:58 I joined a zillion cranky commuters who seemed to be in on my secret, but finally I arrived at a listing brick building on the corner of 134th and Wilmington. Leaving my Saturn in the donors' parking lot, I walked in the front door and up the railed ramp. A dining area opened at the top of the incline. It was filled with a couple of dozen long tables that teemed with shuffling diners. At the far side of the room, volunteers dished meals onto paper plates.

Making my way through the crowd, I ran into a dark-haired woman whose name tag proclaimed her to be Helen. She had somehow dodged the hip spread generally a.s.sociated with middle age, and I tried not to resent her for that. My efforts weren't tremendously successful, even though she was perfectly civil in a harried sort of way and didn't ask me if I was humping the senator when I inquired about his whereabouts. Pointing vaguely toward the shifting ma.s.s of humanity, she hurried off, but a moment later I spotted my quarry dishing up mashed potatoes to a bearded fellow in saggy trousers.

Miguel Rivera wore wrinkle-free blue jeans and a small-plaid b.u.t.ton-down shirt. The sleeves were rolled back from perfectly manicured hands and he wore no tie. I figured his working-man ensemble had cost more than I bring home in a week; if there's one thing to be said about the senator, it's that he knows how to dress for every occasion.

The bearded guy moved on, followed by an African American woman with a little girl. Vaguely, I could hear the senator commenting about her cornrows. But after a minute the middle-aged woman sans fat hips caught his attention and directed it toward me. Our gazes met with a little spark of recognition and he smiled.

Subsequently, the hipless woman took over his job and he came my way, wiping his hands on a napkin.

"Christina." He smiled. The expression was still top shelf, a little self-deprecating, a little flirty, as effective here as at any lavish banquet in Pasadena. His handshake, however, was the real showstopper. Warm and personal, squeezing my fingers intimately between his slightly calloused palms. "What a pleasant surprise. What are you doing here?"

Excellent question. "My secretary gave me your message, but when I called I got this number."

He shook his head and looked embarra.s.sed. "I must have given her the wrong number. How foolish of me. But you needn't have come all this way. I only called to ..." He sighed mournfully. "To apologize. Both for my behavior and for my son's. We were..." Another head shake, accompanied by a vague scowl. "What is the word?"

"There are a lot of them," I said, remembering the stunning stupidity of the other night. He looked at me and laughed.

"You see, this is why I like you so very much, Christina," he said. "You do not stand on ceremony. In fact, that is why I stopped by. I knew you would have the integrity and intellect to get to the bottom of this."

"The bottom of what, exactly?"

He gave me a curious glance. "The cause of Ms. Baltimore's death, of course."

"Uh-huh." Two days and a conversation with Laney had stirred up a few doubts about the good senator. "If you don't mind me asking," I said, "why do you care?"

"Despite the troubles between Gerald and myself, I am still his father and I still wish to protect him."

I was only more confused. "And you think he's in danger because ..."

"I am beginning to suspect that you are not a great believer in premonitions and dreams, Christina."

I shrugged, feeling a little guilty for my lack of faith. "I don't think I would bet a new septic system on either."

He laughed. "Perhaps it is my heritage that makes me more p.r.o.ne to believe. Or perhaps it is my age. In my many years I have seen a great deal that cannot be explained."

"Like your dream."

"Yes."

"About that-how did you know who the victim was when you saw her in your dream?"

"I did not," he said, and motioned toward the back. I moved in that direction.

"Then why-"

"As it happened, I read an article regarding her death just after..." He shuddered. "After that horrible dream."

"An article?"

"Online."

"And it had a picture of her?"

"Taken just weeks before her demise."

I nodded. I could hardly disprove it. One could find anything online. "Okay," I said, deciding to let that go for a minute. "But why not hire a professional if you're so set on investigating?"

He sobered handsomely. "May I be honest with you?"

"Does this suggest that you haven't been in the past?"

He laughed again. "As you know, I was in the political arena for a long while. Indeed, I may yet be again."

I stared at him, not sure where he was going or how long it would take him to get there.

"Having the media connect me with an unsolved death would do me no good," he added.

Something knotted in my stomach. "Are you connected?"

He shook his head like a sad warrior, wearied by the world. "The truth rarely has any bearing in matters such as these. Once the paparazzi learn I have paid to have a death investigated, they will insist on knowing why."

"Why not tell them about your dream?"

His smile suggested I might be kind of naive. "The citizens of this great country are wonderful people, Christina. Strong. Resourceful. But they-like you, perhaps-do not set a great deal of store in things they cannot touch. Cannot prove. You see, I have no desire to make my const.i.tuents believe I am easily spooked. Neither did I wish for my son to think less of me. I was certain I could trust you to be discreet. Still..." He motioned me toward a hallway. It was narrow and poorly lit. Three doors lined the wall on the right. One stood open. Inside, piles of paper were stacked on the desk. "I realize now that I was wrong to ask," he admitted, and motioned to a green plastic chair. "To put you in such a position. I know how you feel about my son."

Well, I thought, surveying the room, that would put him way ahead of me.

"I'd like to apologize, too," I said, and, smoothing my apple-green shift against the back of my thighs, cla.s.sify took the proffered seat. He closed the door and sat in the chair across the desk from me. "I didn't mean to call you a liar. Especially in front of your son. It's just that... he and I... we've had enough trouble between us without added fabrications." That's what I like to call lying if the lies are propagated by me. "But I'm afraid I may have only made things worse."

He scowled, looking concerned. "What do you mean?"

"He was obviously a bit... upset." That's what I like to call rabid when referring to someone I had recently considered s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g. "When he left."

The senator leaned back a little. "But surely you've spoken to him since."

I didn't reply but studied the endless piles of paper.

He stared at me a moment, appalled, then shook his head. "My son, he is a stubborn man."

"Really?" I tugged my attention back to him and gave him my first-string smile. "I hadn't noticed."

He looked startled for a second, then laughed. "Perhaps love makes you blind, yes?"

"I-" My mouth opened but nothing else came out, and he laughed again.

"Give him time. He will call. He thinks a great deal of you."

"Does he?" I didn't mean to sound pathetic. But sometimes ... well, I'm pathetic.

"Christina," he said, tone soothing. "Surely you do not doubt that."

"Uhh..."

"Have you not looked in the mirror?"

I remembered seeing myself in the microwave that night and stifled a shudder. "No more than necessary."

He shook his head. "Could it be that you truly do not realize how attractive you are?"

I was sure I should think of some snappy comeback to that, but nothing came to mind.

Nevertheless, he smiled, warm and toasty "I am truly sorry to cause trouble between the two of you."

I shrugged, determined not to act like a weak-kneed ninny. "About Kathleen Baltimore," I said. "Why didn't you tell me the police determined her death was an accident?"

He sighed and sat back, studying me. "Sometimes the police are wrong, Christina." His eyes grew intense, thoughtful. "I simply wish to ascertain that this is not one of those times."

I watched him, trying to read his expression, his body language. "You believe she was murdered," I said.

"That is what I had hoped to find out."

"Because you believe Jack, a Los Angeles police officer, might somehow become involved with an accidental death that took place in another city." My tone might have reflected my skepticism, because he drew a deep breath and pursed his lips, studying me for a moment.

"Christina," he began, and suddenly his eyes were filled with parental zeal. "I realize that, being as of yet childless yourself, you cannot fully understand the agony and ecstasy of bringing children into this world. But as a father, I feel it is my-"

"Senator," I said. He stopped, brows raised. "Let's try the truth," I suggested. "Just this once."

He opened his mouth, closed it, then gave a nod. "My apologies again," he said. "At times your beauty causes me to underestimate you."

Perhaps Rivera wasn't too crazy for thinking his father was propositioning me. But more likely the senator treated every woman like she was a s.e.x bomb about to explode. "How did you know her?" I asked, taking a stab in the dark.

He looked surprised at my attack. "As I told you earlier, I had a dream and simply wanted to make certain her death would in no way endanger Gerald."

I stared at him a moment, wondering if he could possibly be telling the truth, but then I remembered his occupation and stood up. "Well, I'd best get back to the office," I said. "I have an eight o'clock appointment. I hate to miss it for a sack of lies."

He watched me for a moment longer, then smiled a little and leaned back in his chair. His eyes were gleaming. "I never doubted that you would be good for my son. But until this moment I did not realize that you are exactly what he needs." He nodded. "Someone to cut through the murk of misinformation. To-"

I picked up my purse.

"My apologies," he said, and, blowing out a reluctant breath, motioned to my chair again. "Please. Sit. I shall tell you the truth. Nothing but the truth."

I stared at him, cynical and a little p.i.s.sed.

"The whole story," he added.

I sat reluctantly, perching on the edge, as if I might fly away at the flutter of another lie. "Story?"

"The truth is ..." He drew a slow breath, as if fortifying himself. "I did know Ms. Baltimore."

Perhaps I was about to speak, but he hurried on. "It was long ago, early in my political career. In truth, both she and her husband worked on my first senatorial campaign. Kathy was young and enthusiastic. As was I." He smiled nostalgically. "Those were good days, filled with hope and-"

"Did you sleep with her?" I asked. I really didn't have an evening appointment, but I hadn't had dinner yet and hated to miss out on all those empty calories for a bunch of bulls.h.i.t.

His eyes opened wide as if shocked by my a.s.sumption, then narrowed in seemingly earnest affront. "I don't know what my son has told you, Christina, but I a.s.sure you, I am not so immoral as he would make me seem."

I considered apologizing, but then I remembered Salina, the senators late fiancee. When I had first seen her, she was dead, but she was still astonishingly beautiful. Her eyes, as wide as fishbowls, were dark and sightless as she stared at the senators freshly painted walls. She had previously been involved with Rivera Junior before ending up with the senator. As had one of her contemporaries. "Did you sleep with her?" I repeated.

For a moment his brows dipped dangerously toward his eyes, but finally he relaxed. "I suppose I cannot blame you for possessing the very qualities that I admire. It is that same forthright nature that brought me to your door. Indeed, that, matched with your intelligent-"

"Holy c.r.a.p!" I said, and pulled my purse strap against my shoulder, ready to leave.

"Wait!" he said, and held out a hand as if to restrain me. "Very well." He sighed again. "No. I did not sleep with Ms. Baltimore."

I stared at him askance.

"I swear it on Mama's grave," he added.

I settled back in my chair. For a moment I considered asking if he'd even had a mother, but it seemed best to stay silent on that account. If his son was any indication, Latino men were a little touchy where their mamas were concerned.

"She was happily wed," he said. "As was I. Gerald was still in his teenage years. And if I remember correctly, she had a child. A daughter, I believe."

I heroically refrained from asking if he'd slept with the daughter.

"So why do you care what happened to her after all these years?" I asked.

"As I said, she was instrumental to my career when I was still young and inexperienced. I feel responsible."

"Are you?" I asked.

"What?"

The question was out now, and it seemed worthy. "Are you somehow responsible for her death?"

"I did not mean it literally."

"How did you mean it?" I asked, then hurried on, trying to soften the sound of it. "That is, over the years there must have been hundreds of people working on your campaigns. Why are you concerning yourself with her?"

He remained silent for a moment, watching me. I felt my nerves crank up tight, sensing something big.

"Is it the truth you want, Christina?"

"It might be a nice change." It was a quote straight from Rivera Junior, but the senator only nodded, not recognizing his son's words.

Straightening slightly, he looked me directly in the eye. "I want nothing to stand in my way," he said, "when I make my bid for the presidency."