Not One Clue_ A Mystery.

by Lois Greiman.

To my sister, Gail, who inspires me daily with her love and devotion.

You're my hero.

1.

Give me ice cream or give me death.-Chrissy McMullen, during an ongoing bout of teenage angst I had just drifted into the feathery nest of Sleepdom when the phone rang. Cracking one aggravated eye, I glared at my bedside clock. Eleven-seventeen. Okay, eleven-seventeen may not exactly be the wee hours of the morning, but I have a deep and abiding affection for sleep and tend to get somewhat miffed when I and my beloved are separated. I happen to consider REM to be the next best thing to chocolate, which is the next best thing to ... d.a.m.nit. I couldn't remember anything that beat the cocoa bean for sheer unadulterated bliss, and that wasn't a good sign. I was pretty sure there had once been something rather t.i.tillating. had just drifted into the feathery nest of Sleepdom when the phone rang. Cracking one aggravated eye, I glared at my bedside clock. Eleven-seventeen. Okay, eleven-seventeen may not exactly be the wee hours of the morning, but I have a deep and abiding affection for sleep and tend to get somewhat miffed when I and my beloved are separated. I happen to consider REM to be the next best thing to chocolate, which is the next best thing to ... d.a.m.nit. I couldn't remember anything that beat the cocoa bean for sheer unadulterated bliss, and that wasn't a good sign. I was pretty sure there had once been something rather t.i.tillating.

The phone blasted my eardrums a second time. I gave it a jaundiced glare, but it remained unrepressed and rang again. Cheeky b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Snaking an arm across Harlequin, a dog who disguises himself as a hundred-pound door-stop, I hauled the receiver from its cradle, dragged it into my lair, and rumbled an impolite salutation.

There was a moment of silence followed by, "Jesus, McMullen." Rivera's smoky voice sizzled through my system like cheap wine. "Did your larynx have a run-in with a sander or are you just on a bender?"

Meet Lieutenant Jack Rivera, LAPD down to his cotton boxers. He and I go back a ways. When Bomber Bomstad, client and exfootball star, dropped deader than kibble on my overpriced berber, Rivera was the first on the scene. Irritating, smart-mouthed, and preposterously hot, he's as tempting as truffles. He is also equally restricted, because although a little dark chocolate may boost your serotonin levels, a steady diet is likely to be fatal. And I had no intention of suffering death by Rivera. On the other hand, I had no qualms about a little Latin appetizer. I turned on my side, letting the cord drape over Harley's bicolored ear. He ignored it as if it were the "sit" command.

"Maybe this is how I sound when I'm satisfied, Lieutenant." My voice was s.e.xy-low and husky.

"Like you need a defibrillator?"

I grinned a little. After all, he couldn't see me, so it was okay to admit that sometimes I kind of appreciate his smart-a.s.s wit. "You a doctor now, Rivera?"

"If that's what floats your boat." I could hear the sigh in his voice as he started to unwind. A cop's day can be as stressful as a shrink's, which just happens to be my calling.

"In your dreams," I said, but the dreams were more likely to be mine. I'd had enough fantasies about Rivera to fill an erotic miniseries.

"You're usually Catwoman in my dreams."

"Catwoman." My stomach tightened a little at the thought that I might occupy his late-night imaginings.

"Crime fighter with a tail."

"You're one sick b.a.s.t.a.r.d," I said, and he laughed.

There was something about the sound of it that did naughty things to my otherwise saintly equilibrium.

"Maybe you you could play the doctor this time." His voice rumbled through me, but I fought off the effects. After all, I was no longer a p.u.b.escent tuba-player. In fact, I had worked like the proverbial dog to become a card-carrying psychologist. Even harder to become immune to the kind of low-level charm Rivera exudes like rush hour exhaust fumes. could play the doctor this time." His voice rumbled through me, but I fought off the effects. After all, I was no longer a p.u.b.escent tuba-player. In fact, I had worked like the proverbial dog to become a card-carrying psychologist. Even harder to become immune to the kind of low-level charm Rivera exudes like rush hour exhaust fumes.

"Did you have a reason for calling?" I asked.

"This is it," he said.

"s.e.xual hara.s.sment?"

I could hear the shrug in his tone. "I won't call the cops if you don't."

I snorted. Sometimes when I'm really tired I tend to sound like an overwrought Guernsey and it was now ... holy cow ... 11:22.

"So what do you think?" he asked.

"About what?"

"s.e.x."

The buzz that had begun in my overzealous endocrine system geared up to an insistent hum. "In general or-"

"Now."

My breath caught in my throat. "You're not under my bed or something, are you?"

"Freaky," he said. "But if that's what trips your trigger, I'll try to squeeze in."

"Big of you," I said, and refrained from dropping my head over the edge of the mattress to take a peek.

"You've no idea," he said.

I resisted rolling my eyes, mostly because, in actuality, I did did have something of an idea. There had been a rather memorable episode involving an overdose of Nyquil and Rivera ... in the shower. have something of an idea. There had been a rather memorable episode involving an overdose of Nyquil and Rivera ... in the shower.

"Listen, Rivera, as much fun as this is, I have to work tomorrow."

"I didn't think it would take that that long, but I'm willing to call in sick if you think it's necessary." long, but I'm willing to call in sick if you think it's necessary."

"Are you drunk?" I asked.

"That's not the adjective I'd use."

"Adjective ..." I rolled onto my back, warming to the conversation. "I'm impressed." ..." I rolled onto my back, warming to the conversation. "I'm impressed."

"They've been teaching us to read down at the station."

"Our taxes," I said, "hard at work."

"I'm willing to share what I've learned."

"Maybe you can send me a syllabus."

"I could deliver it in person."

"I said 'syllabus,' not 'syphilis.'"

He chuckled. I could hear his chair squeak as he leaned back, and imagined him stretching, body arched, cuffs rolled away from well-muscled forearms, black hair teasing his b.u.t.ton-down collar. "You always this mean when you're sleeping alone?"

"Who said I'm alone?"

"Me."

"Maybe you're wrong."

"I'm willing to put money on it."

I considered swearing at him, but that was the old Chrissy. The new Chrissy was saving the "f" word for major emergencies. And L.A. drivers. Low-fat m.u.f.fins. And Mondays.

"Unless Elaine's sleeping with you," he said.

"I'm not that desperate."

"Yes you are. But if she's not doing her fiance I think I can trust her with you."

I scowled. He had inadvertently touched on a raw nerve. Brainy Laney b.u.t.terfield, beauty personified, and my best friend since the fifth grade, was betrothed to a man I referred to in nothing but four-letter words. The kindest of them was "nerd."

"So how you doing with that?" he asked, and I wondered in my sleep-deprived brain if that was why he had called in the first place. It didn't take a genius-or a h.o.m.o sapien-to know that I was patently unhappy about the impending nuptials. It wasn't just because Elaine would forever belong to someone else. It was because she would belong to the geekiest guy on the planet. And that made my skin crawl.

"Fine."

"Yeah?"

"Of course." Reaching out, I fiddled with the pad on Harlequin's left hind paw. I'd learned early on that Great Danes did not necessarily make stupendous watchdogs. He was a gift from Rivera. As was my Mace, the cactus that guarded my yard, and the baseball bat I'd stuck in my hall closet. Rivera had a penchant for things that could inflict pain. "I'm a grown woman."

I waited for his comeback but he was silent for a moment, then, "He'll be good to her."

For a moment I couldn't say anything. Elaine had been my pillar through every major catastrophe in my life: my first period, zits, and the devastating realization that most guys are are like my brothers. That truth can still bring me to tears. But the thought of her wedding looming over me like a gawking gargoyle was almost more than I could bear. The only positive thing to come out of the impending ceremony was the fact that this would be the first time my bridesmaid gown wouldn't look like a pink train wreck. like my brothers. That truth can still bring me to tears. But the thought of her wedding looming over me like a gawking gargoyle was almost more than I could bear. The only positive thing to come out of the impending ceremony was the fact that this would be the first time my bridesmaid gown wouldn't look like a pink train wreck.

"You know that, don't you?" Rivera asked. "That he'll be good to her?"

"Sure." My voice sounded a little strange. I glanced up. The iron k.n.o.b on the antique bed Laney had given me as a bridesmaid gift gleamed dully. She'd found it at a Hollywood estate sale. Upon examination, I had discovered the initials "A.A.L." scratched in the metal. With my luck, it probably stood for the forerunner of Alcoholics Anonymous.

"Besides, you can always kick his a.s.s if he isn't," Rivera said.

I refrained from sniffling. "It wasn't his a.s.s a.s.s I was thinking of." I was thinking of."

He was silent for a moment, then, "Jesus, McMullen, if you're considering any any part of Solberg's anatomy, it might be too late for me to save you." part of Solberg's anatomy, it might be too late for me to save you."

I scowled at the ceiling.

"But I'm willing to make the effort."

Despite myself, I laughed. "You're a giver."

"Like a saint."

"G.o.d, I hope not," I said, and he chuckled.

"Last chance," he said.

"Promise?"

There was a momentary pause, then, "Not on your life," he said, and hung up.

I did the same, shuffled the receiver into its cradle, and smiled even though there was less than a month left until my best friend's wedding. A month during which she was staying with me since she'd given up her apartment long ago and didn't relish the idea of hotel life. I had hoped we would have some time to spend alone together, but her schedule was pretty hairy. Not only was there the wedding from Elm Street to contend with, there was also a considerable amount of hoopla involving the upcoming spin-off of her popular television series, Amazon Queen. Jungle Heat Amazon Queen. Jungle Heat featured several of Laney's coactors and would premiere soon. Wesley Donovan, a relative newcomer to female fantasies, played the male lead and was creating most of the hoped-for heat. featured several of Laney's coactors and would premiere soon. Wesley Donovan, a relative newcomer to female fantasies, played the male lead and was creating most of the hoped-for heat.

All this meant that the Geekster would not only be nearby, he could d.a.m.ned well be in my house in my house. The idea made my skin crawl, but the phone rang again, pulling me from my morbid musings.

I grinned through the darkness at it. There's nothing like a trash-talking stalker to make a girl feel special.

I picked up the receiver on the third ring. "Okay. But bring a condom," I whispered, then squirmed a little and wondered how I was going to sneak Rivera past Laney. "h.e.l.l," I corrected, "bring a box of 'em. Do they still come in boxes? It's been-"

"He's dead," a voice hissed.

I jerked upright in bed, heart crammed tight in my throat. "What? Who is this?" I rasped.

But the dial tone was already buzzing in my ear.

2.

I been a pretty good mama. Too bad I'll have to wait for my funeral to hear it said out loud.-Shirley Templeton-mother of seven, and a vocal proponent of birth control My muscles were frozen, my lungs petrified. I jerked my gaze toward the hall, sure someone was watching me, but the doorway was empty, so I yanked my imagination under control and jabbed Rivera's number into the keypad.

His line was busy. I hung up and tried again. Same results. Settling the receiver into the cradle, I stepped off the bed, stiff as a pool cue, but just then the phone rang. I squawked as I swung toward it.

Atop the bed, Harlequin stared at me, sleepy-eyed, head half lifted from the mattress, one ear c.o.c.ked up. Slowly I reached once again for the receiver.

"Who is this?" My voice quivered like a falsetto's.

"I think I killed him," the voice hissed again. It was juxtaposed eerily against a keening noise in the background.

"I'm calling the police."

"They're already coming."

I moved to hang up, but in that instant a sliver of recognition pierced my foggy brain. Squinting, I tightened my grip on the phone. "Who-"

"I came to see the boy. Just wanted to see him. You know? Never had much family. Not really. Didn't intend to ... Didn't think ..."