Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [46]
At four hundred ungodly hours? Was she kidding? “Yes,” I said, trying to wrestle my hair out of my eyes. “Please.”
“It is my estimation that the author knows Ms. Butterfield personally.”
“How personally?”
“An acquaintance.”
“A man or a woman?”
“I can’t ascertain that with any accuracy at this time. But for the moment let’s assume he is male.”
“Okay.”
I could almost hear the military-crisp nod. “He has strong feelings of inferiority and an intense need to be accepted.”
So he was human, I thought, and tucked my wet foot under the blankets. Harlequin looked bereft, which might mean that the letter-writer could also be canine. Or Great Danish.
“In your opinion is this person dangerous?” I asked.
There was a long pause. For a moment I wondered if she had fallen asleep. It was, after all, Ungodly Hour. But she spoke finally.
“That’s impossible to say for certain.”
“Let’s say for uncertain, then.”
“In the wrong circumstances, I believe he may be.”
I glanced at Laney again. “What circumstances would those be?” I asked.
“If there was a situation that was pushing him to act, perhaps violence would be imminent.”
“What kind of situation?”
“Something that needed immediate attention. My evaluation suggests that he is not a person who likes to be rushed.”
There were a few more salient pieces of information, but I hung up shortly afterward.
I couldn’t help but notice that Solberg was now sitting on my bed. The sexy man-slaves were notably absent. For a moment I questioned the existence of a loving God.
“A handwriting expert,” I said.
Laney nodded. “Who keeps odd hours.”
“Maybe she’s a night person.”
“Or you called in favors,” she guessed.
I didn’t comment. “Why is Solberg on my bed?”
“I thought maybe you were comatose,” Solberg said.
“Get off,” I said. “Or someone will be.”
He grinned and rose to his feet.
“Rivera’s not going to be happy if he finds out you contacted his father,” Laney said.
I scowled at her psychic weirdness. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
“We could have hired our own analyst,” she said.
“Or bought one,” Solberg suggested.
“Most of those analytic slaves don’t work around the clock like they used to in the good old days,” I said.
“Plus, doing it this way had the added bonus of irritating the lieutenant,” Laney said, watching me.
My first instinct was to brush off her statement, but even at Ungodly Hour, it made a certain amount of sense. So I filed it away for later analysis of my own before recapping my recent phone conversation.
“Inferiority and an intense need to be accepted,” Solberg said, ruminating.
“Yeah.” I stared at him. “Can I see a sample of your handwriting?”
He watched me for a second, then threw back his head and laughed.
I resisted rolling my eyes as I returned my attention to Laney. “Any ideas?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who didn’t feel inferior,” she said.
“Besides yourself.”
“I would hate to spoil your delusions, Mac.”
“Thank you. Can you think of anyone who might fit that description?”
She shook her head, then stopped abruptly.
“What?” I asked, and she adopted my scowl.
“I have a stunt double. I never even considered him before.”
“Aren’t stunt doubles built like … well, like you, thereby making her immune to inferiority.”
“I’d give an Oscar for his legs.”
“It’s a man?”
“Emery Greene.” She grinned. “We’ll discuss Santa Claus later.”
“Leave Santa out of this,” I said, then, “So why would you suspect Greene?”
“He hasn’t …” she began, then looked surprised and laughed at herself. “Nothing.”
I caught the drift. “Maybe he just hasn’t gotten around to proposing yet.”
“Not everyone has to like me,” she said, but there was something in her voice. It almost sounded like insecurity. I hadn’t seen that in Laney since she was buck-toothed and built like a chopstick.
“If that’s true we have no supporting evidence,” I said.
“I love you, Mac,” she said, then shook her head and waved away her previous thought. “Come to think of it, Emery just came on board recently. After Stevie broke her arm.”
“Stevie?”
“She was my other double.”
“Stevie’s a girl.