Unplugged (3 page)

Elaine only managed a weak smile.

“Listen, Laney.” I sighed. Twelve years at Holy Name Catholic School had taught me a lot of things. Mostly how to sneak boys into the rectory for a little uninterrupted heavy breathing. But I hadn’t known until that moment that I’d learned to be a martyr. “I’m going to find Solberg for you.”

She shook her head, but I hurried on.

“Because I know . . . I’m
positive
he’s just been delayed.”

“Mac, I appreciate your faith in my appeal. Really.” She squeezed my hand. “But not every man thinks I’m God’s answer—”

“Don’t say it,” I warned, and backed away. “I don’t want to hear any self-effacing crap coming out of your mouth.”

“I’m not—”

“Quit it,” I warned again. “If you say one negative thing about yourself, I’m going to blame it on Solberg. And then . . .” I dipped into my office and grabbed my purse from beneath the table by the Ansel Adams print. “When I find him, I’m going to kick his skinny little ass into the next solar system.”

“Mac, you can’t blame him just because he doesn’t find me attractive.”

“You shut your dirty little mouth.”

“He dumped me.”

I turned toward her with a snap. “He did not dump you!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Listen!” I pulled open the front door. “He might be a stunted little wart, but there’s no reason to think he’s gone totally insane. Well . . .” I corrected, “there’s not conclusive evidence that he’s gone totally insane.”

“Chrissy—”

“I’m going to go find him,” I said.

And when I did, I was either going to whack him upside the head . . . or give him a nice Irish wake.

2

If money don’t buy happiness, what the hell does?

—Glen McMullen,
father, husband, and homespun philosopher

S
OLBERG LIVED IN
La Canada in a sterile, New Age kind of mansion that overlooked San Gabriel’s grandeur to the north and Pasadena’s flashy wealth to the south. I knew, because I had driven him home not three months earlier. He’d been drunk and gropey. I’d dumped him on his bed, kicked him in the shins, and borrowed his Porsche to get myself home. Well, maybe “borrowed” isn’t quite the right term, but my point is, I knew how to get to his place. I can’t cook worth refried beans, but I have a kick-ass sense of direction.

According to the digital clock on my dashboard, I arrived at his house at 10:17. I was working on the maxim that there’s no time like the present. Maybe there isn’t, but the present was damned dark and kind of stormy. If I was one of those girls who had watched horror flicks as a kid, I would have been spooked. Unfortunately, I was. I’d seen
A Nightmare on Elm Street
three times and ralphed four.

But I was all grown up now, with a Ph.D. and enough panting credit cards to prove it, so I parked in front of Solberg’s three-car garage and got out. My little Saturn
ding
ed at my exit. It’s kind of paranoid about having its keys left in its ignition, but I figured it wasn’t in much danger of being jacked in a neighborhood where residents pay more for their cars than I had for my education. Besides, the LAPD likes to hide out in that part of town. There was probably a cop in every donut shop between Montrose and Glendale.

Still, I felt a little breathless as I strode up the inclined concrete and glanced to my right. The sprinklers were sprinkling, sweeping an arc across the smooth expanse of Solberg’s immaculate lawn. Illumined by his security lights, it looked to me like it had been mowed recently, but I suspected that was no clue to its owner’s present whereabouts. He probably had a posse of twelve come every Wednesday and Friday to prevent crabgrass from making a move on his pedigreed turf. Over in Sunland, where I call home, I would have welcomed crabgrass with open arms and three-in-one fertilizer. Almost anything is preferable to thistle and dust.

I rang the doorbell. It played a tinny techno song inside the bowels of his house. I waited. No one answered. I tried again. The same tune played. Glancing around once more, I placed the edge of my hand against my brow and peered through the window beside the door. The foyer was lit by a gigantic chandelier made of dangling bits of rectangular pieces of glass. The entrance marched off in monochromatic sterility in every direction. There was not a wall within thirty feet. Neither was there a scrawny little geek nerd.

Wading through his prickly shrubbery, I checked the next window. The view was pretty much the same, but darker. Traipsing along the side of the house while trying to avoid his overzealous sprinklers, I checked every possible architectural orifice. Not a door had been left open or a window unlatched. Hmmf.

By the time I’d reached the far side of his house I was perplexed. Where was the little weasel? It seemed to me he’d been breathlessly waiting his entire pathetic life for a woman who didn’t want to exterminate him, and when such a girl comes along—voilà! All of a sudden, he’s gone.

Of course, Elaine’s father
is
a minister, I mused. Maybe he’d heard all about Solberg and had been praying on his daughter’s behalf. Maybe Solberg had been sent straight to purgatory without passing Go. Maybe the Methodists had more pull than the Catholics. According to my mother, she’d prayed for her offspring every single night since our conception. Judging by the current state of her progeny, I figured Mom better stay on her knees, because my nicotine habit was one of the lesser evils in a clan that accumulates DUI citations like other folks collect coins.

I’d reached the front door again and I was out of ideas.

Scowling through the darkness, I spotted Solberg’s mailbox at the end of the drive and eyed my surroundings. All remained quiet, and I figured,
Why not.

It was a ridiculously long walk. At my house, I can reach out my window and fetch my morning paper. Holding my breath, lest Krueger be lurking in the bougainvillea and hear me wheezing like a fat guy on a stress test, I glanced down the street again. No one appeared to be lurking, so I opened the box with slow uncertainty. It was crammed to overflowing. I took out the contents, closed the lid, and marched nonchalantly up the drive.

I quickstepped into my Saturn and power-locked the doors. Snapping on the interior light, I creaked my neck to the rear and checked the backseat. Krueger wasn’t there, either. I took a few fortifying breaths and rummaged through Solberg’s mail.

There was a bill from the electric company, three notes from credit card people, and several letters from environmental organizations asking him to help save everything from amoebas to sea lions.

But not a lot of clues. And regardless how concerned I am about the plight of the sea lions—I mean, God knows we don’t want to lose a species that makes me look svelte—I was a little too curious about the whereabouts of the little geekster to give them much thought at that precise moment.

So I flipped through the rest of his mail. There were two periodicals that looked like they came to his house whether or not he wanted them to and a postcard from his dentist, saying he was due for his semiannual checkup. Nothing too intriguing there. But the final circulator did catch my interest.

It was a magazine called
Nerd Word
. I pulled it out from the bottom of the pile and stared at it agog. J. D. Solberg, hitherto and rightfully known as “the Geek,” hadn’t picked up his preferred techno mag. I knew it was his favorite because Elaine had told me he’d been featured in it on more than one occasion, and if I knew anything about J.D., which, sadly, I did, he would adore any publication that didn’t make him look like a half-witted jackass on—

A rap sounded at my window. I shrieked like a startled spider monkey and jerked toward the noise.

A woman stood beside the Saturn, slightly bent, just drawing her hand away. I eased my heart into a sedate gallop and wondered if it was too late to hide the mail. Stealing from the USPS is a federal offense. Isn’t it? Or maybe—

The stranger was still standing there, but her smile was starting to droop a little and her brow beginning to furrow.

I took a steadying breath. She was about my age, slim, and neatly dressed, and as far as I could tell, there wasn’t a single razorlike implement attached to her fingers. So far so good. Then again, she
was
wearing gardening gloves.

She brightened her smile a hopeful notch and motioned for me to roll down my window.

Polite Catholic upbringing insisted that I do so. But for all I knew, she might be hiding a bloody trowel behind her khaki-colored capris. Then again, it seemed unlikely in this neighborhood. Anyone who could afford the house payments probably had the wherewithal to hire someone to slice unsuspecting psychologists to death for them.

And she was still staring at me.

After some deliberation, I pressed the window button. Nothing happened, as is always true when the car isn’t running. So I hit “Unlock” and opened the driver’s door. The Saturn
ding
ed, its usual insecurities still intact. I pulled out the key. “Can I help you?” I asked, and managed, I thought, to imbue my tone with a nice blend of arrogance and courtesy. As if I had a God-given right to be rifling through Solberg’s mail like some weird-ass stalker.

“Hi.” She gave me a dazzling smile. Her teeth were aligned like so many perfect little pearls. I decided then and there to try one of those over-the-counter whiteners.

“Hello,” I said. Psychologists are paid to listen. Sparkling repartee is not my stock-in-trade.

Her capris, I noticed, were almost big enough to fit Barbie’s best friend, Midge, and her cropped, salmon-colored top didn’t quite reach her waistband. I noticed, too, that there wasn’t an ounce of cellulite to save her from the loathing of the rest of the female populace.

“I was working in my backyard.” She motioned vaguely toward the east. “When I saw your car in the drive.”

“Oh.” It was the best I could come up with on such short notice. I’d only stared through the window at her for about eighteen minutes. It looks like navigating social situations might not be my forte, either.

“Are you a friend of Jeen’s?”

“Who? Oh! Yes. Jeen’s. Yes. I’m a friend of Jeen . . . Solberg . . . J.D. I’m a friend of his.”

Holy crap!

Her smile had dimmed a couple watts. “Oh, sure. I figured as much. Was he delayed?”

I blinked at her. I was still working on the “I figured as much” statement. Was she trying to insult me? Did I look like someone who would fraternize with a stunted little techno geek with more stupid come-ons than common sense? I was still wearing my Chanel suit, for God’s sake. And . . . “Delayed?” I repeated.

“He went to Vegas, right?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“Is he back? I mean, I was expecting him last week, but he hasn’t been answering his phone.”

“You were expecting him?” I didn’t mean to sound shocked, but she was an attractive woman—with hair and everything. Why would she care when Solberg returned? Unless she wanted to know when to loose her rottweiler and padlock her front door.

“I’m sorry.” She laughed, pulled off a glove, and extended her hand. One of her fingernails was broken. I gave a mental sigh of relief. Not that I’m insecure about the state of my cuticles. “I’m Tiffany Georges. Jeen’s next-door neighbor.” We shook hands. Her skin was soft, but her palm was firm and slightly calloused. Could be she lifted weights. Maybe a little Nautilus. Or she might have a personal trainer. I’ve always wanted a personal trainer. One of those buff guys who makes you sweat with one glance at his pecs. But personal trainers charge about a hundred bucks an hour. For that kind of money, I figure I should be able to lounge around with a bag of Doritos while they do one-armed chin-ups for my amusement. Naked. Buck naked and—

“And you are . . . ?”

I realized that we were still shaking hands. Her upper arm didn’t jiggle at all. I pressed mine up against my side and released her fingers.

“Christina McMullen,” I said, and just managed to refrain from adding “Ph.D.” I’m a secure, independent woman. No need for pissing contests.

She cleared her throat. “So you’re a friend of Jeen’s.”

“Ummm . . .” It seemed kind of vindictive of her to make me say it twice. “Yes. In a manner of speaking.”

“Do you two work together?”

“No.”

“Oh, then maybe you don’t know when to expect him back, either.”

“Are you sure he hasn’t returned?”

She scowled a little. Maybe she was wondering why some strange woman who didn’t know squat was confiscating Solberg’s mail. I kind of wondered the same thing myself.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I haven’t seen his Porsche in the drive.” She looked worried. “I was going to invite him over for dinner, but, like I said, he hasn’t answered his phone.”

I must have been gaping at her, but the idea that this woman would invite Solberg to anything other than a lynching boggled my mind.

“Are you . . . ?” She looked suddenly embarrassed. “Are you his girlfriend?”

“No!” God, no. “Just a friend of a friend.” It hurt to say the words. “Barely that, really. A friend of an acquaintance.”

“Oh.” Did she care? Did she look relieved? Had the world gone mad? “Well . . .” She smiled. “He must have . . . asked you to pick up his mail for him?”

I looked down at my lap. Yep, his mail was right there, and I’d been taught since infancy that lying was a sin. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, he did.”

She nodded. “Well, when you hear from him, tell him to give me a call, will you?”

“Sure. I’ll do that.”

“Well . . . good-bye, then.”

“Bye.”

She backed away. I closed the door and started my car. She was still waving from the middle of Solberg’s driveway when I pulled onto Amsonia Lane and rumbled toward home, where we frown on interspecies propagation.