Unzipped by Lois Greiman Read Free Book Online Page A

hell I hadn’t taken the bait.

4
    Maybe curiosity did kill your cat. But it wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye on the neighbor’s rottweiler just the same.
    —Elaine Butterfield,
wondering why her “steady” suddenly smells like Shalimar
    W HY?
    It was three o’clock in the morning. Questions ran through my mind like tequila in a west Texan’s veins. Why would anyone see a therapist for a problem that didn’t exist? Why would a man say he was impotent when he wasn’t? Why would that same man take an overdose of Viagra? And why, for pity’s sake, would he choose my office in which to drop dead?
    I had no answers. Only more questions that sent my mind spinning off in a dozen baffling directions. What had Bomstad hoped to achieve with his supposed subterfuge? Would the board blame me for this horrific fiasco, and did Rivera really think I was responsible for Bomber’s death?
    True, there was still a tiny, pathetic part of me that was flattered Rivera might think a man like Bomstad had been attracted to me, but mostly I was mortified to learn that despite thousands of dollars of tuition and a zillion years of night classes, my ability to judge men hadn’t improved one iota. It was terrifying, as were Rivera’s suspicions, because there was one thing I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt: Men like the lieutenant didn’t care about anything except mounting a trophy on the wall. I knew the type. Any cocktail waitress worth her tips had witnessed the scenario a million times: A man saunters into her bar. He’s feeling good, confident, on the prowl for the perfect woman, but as the hours slide by and Heidi Klum once again fails to appear, he becomes less particular. Willing, in fact, to settle for anything with boobs and a dab of mascara.
    This business with Rivera seemed very much the same. And if there was one thing I knew for sure, it was that I didn’t intend to be just another pair of tits in the LAPD’s files.
    It was 3:42 when I gave up on sleep and stumbled out of bed. My eyes felt gritty and my head throbbed like a bass drum when I turned on the lights. From the corner of my thumb-sized office, my PC glared at me with accusatory malevolence. It had been a while since we’d communed. I was, by no means, a techno genius, but I had learned a few things while writing my dissertation.
    I typed in Rivera LAPD and waited. My system droned, then haphazardly presented a few options. For me, the Internet is a lot like fishing. It’s anyone’s guess whether you’re going to wind up with a sunfish or a tiger shark. But I netted out one of my choices and subsequently found myself looking at a well-greased young man sporting a come-hither smile and little else. It didn’t take me more than a minute of blank-eyed staring to remember that strippers are fond of impersonating police officers.
    I moved on. My next feeble attempts garnered a mystery novelist, a snowboarder, and a guy who offered to clean my chimney for half the usual price. If I ever bought a chimney I’d have to look him up. But for the moment I settled back in my chair and glared at the screen. What I needed was more information if I was going to be able to anticipate the dark lieutenant’s next move. So I kicked my foggy brain into gear and tried to recall every moment of the traumatic events of August 24. Someone must have spoken to Rivera while he was in my office. What had they called him? Sir? Lord and master? Supreme commander?
    Jack.
    The name popped into my head like Redenbacher’s finest. I typed madly, made three mistakes on the four-letter name and tried again.
    And voilà! Rivera’s photo materialized before my very eyes. Or at least a vague fascimile of him. Gone was the beard stubble and dare-me-to-do-you attitude. In its place was a well-groomed businessman in a suit and tie. And he was almost smiling. I squinted at the screen for a moment, then scrolled down. Jack Franklin Rivera. I tooled down again. Commendations as long as my arm