Unzipped by Lois Greiman Page A

dozen Hail Marys.
    “Tell me the truth,” she said, her voice deepening like a boxer’s.
    “The air-conditioning went out on my car. It’s a hundred and ten here.”
    “Well.” She sounded relieved, maybe that my problems were so insignificant, maybe that she had proof that she’d been right about L.A. “It’s beautiful here. Seventy-four degrees.”
    “In three months it’ll be seventy-four below.”
    “Keeps the riffraff out. You should move back.”
    It was an ongoing disagreement. So far I had won, but there was no guarantee that would continue to be the case. I was only thirty-three and not quite ready to live on my own, at least according to Connie McMullen, who was made of no-fail instincts held together with barbed wire.
    “What else is wrong?”
    Damn.
    “Chrissy?” There was already the threat of retribution in her voice. I winced, but at that moment the doorbell rang. Maybe I was being overly optimistic to feel relieved under the current circumstances.
    “I’m sorry, Mom, I’ll have to call you back. Someone’s at the door.”
    “Who is it?”
    I wanted to tell her I was a psychologist not a psychic, but I wasn’t brave enough to give my mother lip. I’d almost rather face Rivera, who happened to be standing on my stoop at that very moment.
    He wore dark sunglasses and seemed to be gazing into the Al-Sadrs’ immaculate front yard when I opened the door.
    He turned slowly toward me, removing his shades as he did so. “You an environmentalist?”
    “What are you doing here?”
    “Are you trying to save water, or do you just hate grass?”
    I glanced into my yard, feeling immediately guilty. Growing up, Dad had maintained our lawn like the back nine of Pebble Beach and had duly implanted the idea that I should do the same. “I’ve been a little distracted lately,” I said. “What with being accused of my attacker’s murder.”
    Rivera’s lips flickered, making me wonder if that was his version of a genuine smile. “A little nitrous might help.”
    I tried to keep up but it had been a long day. Mr. Osterman had presented several photos of his cycling exploits. His belly had been as pale as an onion and just as round. The idea of him biking past elementary school kids like a hirsute root bulb had left me somewhat shaken. “Nitrous?”
    “Something wrong?” he asked.
    “‘Nitrous’?” I repeated.
    “For your grass.”
    “Do the good citizens of L.A. know you drove halfway across California to give me lawn care advice?”
    “We’re a full-service police department now.”
    Was that a joke? Maybe I was staring at him like he’d grown tentacles, because he raised a cynical brow at me.
    “I can take a minute out of my yard consultation if you want to make a confession, though,” he said.
    “Haven’t found any of those elusive clues yet?” I asked.
    His eyes were Spanish dark, but his hair, highlighted by the late evening sun, showed reddish tints. His lips twisted slightly, as though he found me mildly amusing. “I have
you
,” he said, “looking disheveled and available at the scene of the crime.”
    “Motive?”
    He shrugged. “Jealousy.”
    “Of what?”
    “You tell me.”
    “Listen, there are ten million people in this city. Go talk to one of them. Or read his diary, or—”
    He stopped me before I could say something that might make me wish I’d never been born. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” he said. “What makes you think there was a diary?”
    I considered a half dozen smart-ass answers, but wisely decided on maturity. It was highly possible I hadn’t shown enough of that recently. “Mr. Bomstad made numerous references to a journal. He started it years ago and told me of several entries.”
    “During your . . .” He tilted his head slightly as if struggling for the proper word. “Time together?”
    “Yes. During our sessions.” I gritted my teeth. He was intentionally baiting me. Knowing that didn’t make it any less tempting to