idiot. “It’s your wedding, Laney. You should—” I began, but she was shaking her head.
“It’s not that. Please don’t worry about that. I’m sorry I’m whiny. I just … I just feel badly that I’m taking advantage of you. Hiding out here like a frickin’ convict.”
“Well … you could deliver truckloads of cash to my front door.”
“Would you take it?”
“Absolutely.”
She laughed again. “I’ll call the cartage company immediately.”
“They’re probably closed now. Better wait till morning.”
“You’re so practical.”
“Yuh-huh,” I said, and watched her wipe her nose with the back of her hand. “Show me the letter.”
“Mac—”
“You want me to tell Solberg?”
“Oh, man, it would kill him.”
“Exactly.”
She sighed, then turned and trotted upstairs. Returning moments later, she handed me a business-sized envelope. Her expression was somber.
“Do you think I should wear gloves or something?” I asked.
“You’re the detective.”
“Psychologist,” I corrected, and going to a drawer, came back with tongs and a pair of mismatched rubber gloves.
“Very professional,” she said.
“CSI: L.A.,” I said, and pinching the envelope with the tongs, put it on the counter. The handwriting was blocky and perfect. There was no return address. “Nice penmanship,” I said.
“I was impressed, too, before I thought he might intend to kill me.”
“How many letters have you gotten?”
“It’s hard to say. I’m not exactly sure which ones are from him. There have been five that seem very similar. But I have other mail without signatures, too.”
“When did they start?”
“Back in May. About one a month.”
I glanced at the envelope again, finally read the address, and felt myself pale, felt the world slow like an unwinding top.
“They sent it here.” My voice was almost entirely without inflection.
Hers was the same. “Yes.”
“I didn’t realize … I mean, I thought you got it with your latest mail bundle. I …” The floor beneath my feet felt oddly tilted. “So they know you’re living here.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. It’s …” I began, but suddenly I was shaking too hard to continue. My skin felt clammy and my stomach queasy.
A hundred ugly scenarios bloomed in my mind, and as I imagined men in turbans floating down on a sea of oversized envelopes, I made a beeline for the bathroom.
12
Not every Prince Charming has a full head of hair.
— Brainy Laney Butterfield,
being brainy, and a little
depressing
“H ow long has she been sleeping?” Rivera’s voice rumbled softly through my sluggish system. I was lying on my side in my own bed, with no idea what time it was. In fact, I was entirely uncertain of the day. I glanced toward the window. It was dark.
“Half an hour,” Laney said. “Maybe more. I was worried. She was pretty upset before she fell asleep. I’m sorry to bother you.”
“It’d be more of a bother to find your decaying bodies three days after the event.”
“Sensitive,” she said. “That’s what I love about the L.A. Police Department.”
“To protect and serve,” he said, and she laughed. “Is this the letter?” I heard him move away, heard his volume lessen.
“Are you in love with her?” Elaine’s voice was barely audible now.
My ears perked up. I glanced furtively toward the kitchen but was foiled by a couple of walls.
I could imagine him looking at her. “You a spy?”
She said something I didn’t hear.
He answered. Also unheard.
I swung my feet quietly to the floor. Standing carefully, I stepped into the bathroom adjacent to the kitchen. Quiet as an Apache.
“She drives everyone crazy, but that’s not what I asked,” Laney said.
“She takes too many idiotic risks.”
“She’s plucky.”
“Plucky!” He snorted, then sighed. I could imagine him rubbing his eyes. Sometimes I seemed to make him tired. “I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep since I met her over
“It’s not that. Please don’t worry about that. I’m sorry I’m whiny. I just … I just feel badly that I’m taking advantage of you. Hiding out here like a frickin’ convict.”
“Well … you could deliver truckloads of cash to my front door.”
“Would you take it?”
“Absolutely.”
She laughed again. “I’ll call the cartage company immediately.”
“They’re probably closed now. Better wait till morning.”
“You’re so practical.”
“Yuh-huh,” I said, and watched her wipe her nose with the back of her hand. “Show me the letter.”
“Mac—”
“You want me to tell Solberg?”
“Oh, man, it would kill him.”
“Exactly.”
She sighed, then turned and trotted upstairs. Returning moments later, she handed me a business-sized envelope. Her expression was somber.
“Do you think I should wear gloves or something?” I asked.
“You’re the detective.”
“Psychologist,” I corrected, and going to a drawer, came back with tongs and a pair of mismatched rubber gloves.
“Very professional,” she said.
“CSI: L.A.,” I said, and pinching the envelope with the tongs, put it on the counter. The handwriting was blocky and perfect. There was no return address. “Nice penmanship,” I said.
“I was impressed, too, before I thought he might intend to kill me.”
“How many letters have you gotten?”
“It’s hard to say. I’m not exactly sure which ones are from him. There have been five that seem very similar. But I have other mail without signatures, too.”
“When did they start?”
“Back in May. About one a month.”
I glanced at the envelope again, finally read the address, and felt myself pale, felt the world slow like an unwinding top.
“They sent it here.” My voice was almost entirely without inflection.
Hers was the same. “Yes.”
“I didn’t realize … I mean, I thought you got it with your latest mail bundle. I …” The floor beneath my feet felt oddly tilted. “So they know you’re living here.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. It’s …” I began, but suddenly I was shaking too hard to continue. My skin felt clammy and my stomach queasy.
A hundred ugly scenarios bloomed in my mind, and as I imagined men in turbans floating down on a sea of oversized envelopes, I made a beeline for the bathroom.
12
Not every Prince Charming has a full head of hair.
— Brainy Laney Butterfield,
being brainy, and a little
depressing
“H ow long has she been sleeping?” Rivera’s voice rumbled softly through my sluggish system. I was lying on my side in my own bed, with no idea what time it was. In fact, I was entirely uncertain of the day. I glanced toward the window. It was dark.
“Half an hour,” Laney said. “Maybe more. I was worried. She was pretty upset before she fell asleep. I’m sorry to bother you.”
“It’d be more of a bother to find your decaying bodies three days after the event.”
“Sensitive,” she said. “That’s what I love about the L.A. Police Department.”
“To protect and serve,” he said, and she laughed. “Is this the letter?” I heard him move away, heard his volume lessen.
“Are you in love with her?” Elaine’s voice was barely audible now.
My ears perked up. I glanced furtively toward the kitchen but was foiled by a couple of walls.
I could imagine him looking at her. “You a spy?”
She said something I didn’t hear.
He answered. Also unheard.
I swung my feet quietly to the floor. Standing carefully, I stepped into the bathroom adjacent to the kitchen. Quiet as an Apache.
“She drives everyone crazy, but that’s not what I asked,” Laney said.
“She takes too many idiotic risks.”
“She’s plucky.”
“Plucky!” He snorted, then sighed. I could imagine him rubbing his eyes. Sometimes I seemed to make him tired. “I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep since I met her over
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