Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [11]
“Do you want to be dead? Is that it?” he asked.
“A client called,” I said. “He was—”
“Michael Goldenstone.”
“Micky. Yes. He asked me to meet him in Glendale.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge that sort of information about my client.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
Kind of. “Suffice it to say, the situation was defused and—”
“By tackling a woman with a gun!”
Oh. So he had heard that. Kind of heroic, really. He should be proud. He didn’t sound proud. He sounded pissed enough to pee tacks.
“No one got hurt.”
“Besides the guy in the ER.”
“Which happened before I arrived,” I reminded him. It was something of a feather in my hat, I thought. Generally, when people get shot, I’m Johnny-on-the-spot. Things were looking up.
“So you thought it a grand idea to trot on over so you could get in on the action.”
I refrained from telling him that I didn’t really trot, either. Maturity, thy name is Christina. “How is Jackson doing?”
“He’ll live.”
“That’s good.”
“Is it?” His voice was kind of growly.
“What?”
“He’s a rich fucking drug dealer who holds a grudge. There’s no reason to believe he won’t blame you.”
“He’s rich?”
“Funny, I thought you’d focus on the part about blaming you.”
“I was getting around to that.”
I heard him sigh. It sounded like the conversation was kind of making him old. I decided to change the subject before he needed an oxygen tank.
“How about Micky?” I asked. “How’s he?”
“I heard he’s a pain in the ass.”
“Sometimes he becomes fractious when he’s feeling guilty about his past,” I said.
“Are you being televised or is there another reason you’re talking like a damned robot?”
I made a face. “Sometimes he gets nasty when he’s scared.”
“Why should he be scared? He said the gun was the other guy’s. He said he acted in self-defense.”
“And I suppose the legal system is just going to take his word for it.”
“What do you know about this, McMullen?”
“I have no reason to believe he had a gun or would have chosen to use it on Jackson even if he did.”
“So you believe his story.”
“Doesn’t it seem unlikely that he would have intentionally shot him, then called the paramedics, if he meant to kill him?”
“I believe you were the one who mentioned guilt. Maybe he makes a habit of doing shit, then feeling bad about it later.”
I held my breath. Moms were sneaky. Men could be even sneakier. But men who were cops … they were the true experts. “What do you mean?”
“He’s been accused of rape. Did you know that?”
I hoped to hell he didn’t know about Jamel’s mother. If Kaneasha’s family knew the truth about the circumstances, Micky wouldn’t have a chance of obtaining custody. “A woman named Sheila Branigan, I believe.”
“But you hopped on over to Glendale to save him anyway.”
“What is it with you and weird verbs today?”
“Did you ever consider your own life might be in danger?”
“Did you know that Sheila Branigan also accused three other black men of rape? All of whom had solid alibis?”
“Maybe you’re not aware that most women don’t cry rape just for the fun of it.”
“I’m a licensed psychologist, Rivera. I’m well aware of the lasting effects of rape, but Sheila’s accusations were entirely fabricated.”
“You got something for this Micky guy?”
I raised my brows at the tangy sound of jealousy in his voice. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a masochist or anything, but jealousy is not necessarily frowned upon in Chrissyland. “He’s a client, Rivera. We have a professional relationship. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you? It’s a situation where two people treat each other with mutual—”
“Lavonn says he raped her sister.”
The air escaped my lungs like helium from an overfilled balloon. “What?”
“She’s not denying that the kid’s his, but she says he’s a product of rape.”
I kept my voice calm. “Does she have any proof?”
“The boy’s eight years old. Unlikely to be proof after this much time.”
I felt myself relax a little.
“Unless his shrink would step forward with evidence.”
“Micky’s made some mistakes,” I admitted. “But he has nothing but good intentions where his son