I Dreamed I Married Perry Mason (13 page)

I
met Detective Peter Gambino (no relation to the crime family) one night about three years ago when, following a lovely Placido Domingo concert at the Hollywood Bowl, I discovered my car had been stolen. At the police station the booking sergeant listened to my tale of woe, nodded sagely, and told me to wait while he called for Detective Gambino.

I remember being a little surprised they'd put a detective on a run-of-the-mill car theft, especially once I told them I owned a 1983 Camry, which in Los Angeles is roughly equivalent to being invisible. Perhaps there was a car-theft ring operating in the area or something. And it wasn't as if I'd never owned a sexy car. There was a Karmann Ghia one of my ex's ex-students needed to sell in a hurry because he was moving to London. He was the spoiled type who couldn't be bothered, so I got a great deal. And I lost my head. Just sitting in that beautiful thing made my heart beat faster. But I learned my lesson after the top wouldn't open and the privilege of fixing it set me back $1,700.

Anyway, that evening had been full of revelations. I found out my theory about the stolen-car ring was beside the point because my car had not been stolen, merely towed away for blocking someone's driveway. I also found out that Sergeant Owens had taken one look at me and decided Gambino and I would make a nice couple. Owens had a good eye. We did make a nice couple. But that was a long time ago, and this was now. I burst through the double doors, dragging my hat behind me.

Apparently, Sergeant Owens hadn't budged in three years.

“Cece Caruso? I'm having déjà vu. But I'm fresh out of Italian cops, sorry to say.”

“Owens, I think I'm being followed. That's why I came here,” I gasped. “It's a dark SUV. Black, I think. It followed me all the way from Pasadena.”

“Jesus Christ. Calloway,” he bellowed at a kid in uniform who was just coming on duty, “get out there and see if you see the car.”

Without a word Calloway sprinted outside, his hand poised on his gun. I was sobered by the fuss I had generated without exactly meaning to. I wanted to scream “No guns!” but doubted Calloway had been trained to take orders from a civilian trailing a picture hat.

Owens came out from behind the desk and put his arm around me while we waited for the kid to return.

“Did you get the license plate?” he queried.

I hadn't.

“Forget about it,” he said, all avuncular. “Your hair is different. I like it.”

Calloway came back, panting. “No one out there, Sarge. I went around both corners, but didn't see anything out of the
ordinary. No SUVs at all. I'm really sorry, ma'am,” he added politely.

“Oh, don't be sorry,” I said, wondering if I had imagined the whole thing. “Can I just sit down here for a minute?”

“Of course. Calloway, get her some water. Caruso, you want water? Or coffee? Coffee would be better. Calloway, get her some coffee.”

While I sipped the coffee, which was suprisingly good, I thought about it. I liked excitement. I tended toward hyper-bole. I was making something out of nothing, as usual. That was all it was. The black SUV was one of the thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, probably, going from Pasadena to Hollywood at the same time I had been.

Feeling sheepish, I got up to leave. Then I heard a familiar voice.

“Caruso, you in trouble again?”

“Don't you have work to do, Gambino?”

“Still got a mouth on you. And as gorgeous as ever.”

Gambino wrapped me up in a bear hug. I closed my eyes and felt the warmth of his body. Then I pulled away, suddenly shy.

“How've you been, Peter?” I managed. At that moment, I had no memory of why we'd broken up. None whatsoever. Well, maybe a glimmer. Something about oil and water.

“Getting by. How about you? God, it's been a long time.”

“Everything's good.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

I was about to answer when there was a ruckus at the door. Three ladies, actually three gentlemen decked out as ladies, were being dragged in, boas flying.

“How come you never dressed cute and sexy like that for me?” Gambino cracked.

I burst into tears.

“Aw, jeez. I guess it's been that kind of day. Me, too. Let's go back here.”

I followed him into the interrogation room.

“You must have a guilty conscience,” he said, laughing. “Don't look so worried. This is the only place we can have any privacy, that's all.”

“I'm not worried about that,” I said, drying my eyes.

“What's going on, Caruso?”

I looked up into his intelligent brown eyes, framed by a pair of worn-out wire-rimmed glasses, and told him everything.

I told him how I'd been blocked with my book, and how I'd thought meeting Joseph Albacco would give me some insight into ESG. I told him about Jean and her penchant for blackmail, and about Meredith Allan, whom I could swear was hiding things, and about stumbling over Mrs. Flynn's body. I was about to get into the stranger who had plowed into me in the middle of the night but thought better of it. Ditto the lockbox. I didn't want to have to admit I'd violated a crime scene. And impersonated a dead woman's daughter. Actually, more than one person's daughter, if you were counting Ellen Sammler. And I told him about Annie.

He listened intently. I remembered what a good listener he was. And that he didn't like watching sports on television. That he had a million good stories about Buffalo, where he grew up, like the one about his neighbor, who started a fish hatchery in his basement, forgetting that water freezes in Buffalo starting in October. That he hated capers. That he
had a soft spot for so many things it couldn't really be called a spot. It was kind of a general condition.

At the end of my story, he shook his head in disbelief.

“Look, Cece, do you realize what you're doing? Let me put it clearly so you can understand. You are not a police officer. You are not a prosecutor. And lord knows, you are not a defense attorney. Even assuming this guy is innocent, which I highly doubt, you do not have the slightest idea of what has to be done to get him out. Do you think you're going to walk up to the warden and bat your eyes and they're going to apologize for everything? Your dad was a cop. You should know better.”

“You don't have to be so condescending. I'm not an idiot.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. But this guy's dangerous, Cece. There's more here than meets the eye.”

“I know. That's my point.”

“That's not what I'm talking about. Listen, Cece, you don't sit in prison for forty-plus years for killing someone, not unless you're Charlie Manson. It just doesn't work that way. This guy's been up for parole before, guaranteed, many times, and the reason he's still in Tehachapi—-Jesus, fucking Tehachapi—is he's been denied.”

“So?”

“Prisoners are denied parole when they're considered a threat.”

That hadn't been Father Herlihy's interpretation.

“Albacco's probably caused all kinds of trouble since he's been inside. I'm telling you, the guy is violent.”

“He certainly didn't seem that way.”

“They never do.”

“Are you seeing anyone?” I asked, less casually than I'd meant to.

“Sort of,” he answered. “You?”

“Sort of,” I said. “And what about Mrs. Flynn?”

“What about her?” he asked, all flustered. I'd remembered how it used to bug him when I would switch gears all of a sudden. That's why I did it just then.

“The police think her sons killed her, but I'm not so sure.”

“What were the names of the detectives on the Flynn case?”

“Moriarty and Lewis.”

“Look, I am willing to call them and talk to them about it, see what's going on. But these are completely unrelated matters, Cece. You can't take on other people's problems.”

But they weren't unrelated, and they were my problems.

“Just promise me you won't do anything foolish. Wait until you hear from me.” He reached out to stroke my cheek. “I care about what happens to you,” he said softly. “And Annie.”

But I couldn't wait. So I went ahead and did exactly what Gambino told me not to.

I
headed back to Tehachapi first thing the next morning. And after the long ride out there, I was impatient. So when Joe sat down, looking paler than I'd remembered, I got right to the point.

“What's your blood type?”

“AB positive,” he answered, knowing exactly what I was asking him. “Same as Jean's.”

The same as Jean's. Of course. The police had just assumed the blood on Joe's sleeve was his wife's. And that he had gotten it on his shirt when he killed her. But he hadn't killed her, I knew that now—I believed it absolutely. It was his blood on that shirt. I don't know how it got there, but it was his blood nonetheless. But why bother with the facts? They were inconvenient. They clogged the works. The husband was going to take the fall, the truth be damned.

Sometimes things come to you in dreams, things that elude you by day. It makes getting up a hell of a bummer. But if you trick yourself a little, ease into consciousness, you
can keep hold of what's been revealed to you. You can grab on to the truth while letting your dreams slip away.

The night before, I had seen it. Like a jigsaw puzzle with a thousand pieces you despair of ever finishing, and anyway, you've lost so many of the pieces it doesn't matter, but you keep going, you keep trying, and you finish, only to realize you had the pieces all along, not a single one was missing. In my dreams, it made sense, just like that. I couldn't put it into words yet, but it was only a matter of time. Too bad time was what I didn't have.

“So where is that shirt now?” I asked, my thoughts racing. “We have to get the DNA analyzed.”

“It's in an evidence locker somewhere, but even if we could prove the blood on it was mine, it wouldn't change things.”

“It would change everything. It would destroy the case against you.”

“No, it wouldn't, Ms. Caruso.”

“Why, because you still don't have an alibi?” I snapped.

He didn't answer me.

“You have an alibi, Mr. Albacco. We both know you do. I'm through pretending.”

He called for the guard. He was through, too. “Get out of here,” he said coldly. “I'm hanging up the phone.”

“What's wrong with you?” I shouted. “You're a fool! Do you realize you've wasted your life for nothing? She wasn't worth it.”

“Shut up,” he said in a voice that frightened me. “You don't know anything.”

“Yes, I do. I've seen her. I've seen Meredith Allan.”

Everything stopped. The clock stopped ticking. The molecules in the air stopped circulating.

“Do I have your attention now?”

He didn't answer, but I needn't have asked.

“I went to her house. I met her son. She told me things about Jean.”

He was breathing hard now. He wanted to leave the room, to go back to his cell, back under the covers, back in time. But he wasn't strong enough. He never had been. That was why he kept choosing the wrong woman.

His blue eyes were red. I owed him something, so I didn't look. I stared at the wallpaper instead. It looked dirty and wrinkled, like used paper towels.

He cleared his throat. “Ms. Caruso?”

I turned to him.

“Did she ask about me?”

I wanted to lie but couldn't.

He swallowed hard, accustomed to disappointment. I had misread him so badly the first time we met I had to laugh.

“Is something funny?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make light of this. I'm just nervous.”

“My father killed himself when I was just a kid,” he said, apropos of nothing.

“I didn't know that.”

“It was horrible for my mother. He betrayed her, left us with nothing. So what did I do? I was no better than my old man. I betrayed my wife. I cheated on her. She trusted me and built a life for me and I betrayed her. I couldn't do it again. Not twice. Not to Meredith. I can't even now. Don't you understand?”

“No, I don't.”

“It doesn't matter. So what did Meredith say about Jean? That she knew about us.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“No. That she blackmailed people.”

He was stunned, and I mean like he'd been hit in the gut. He accused me of lying to him, he accused me of everything in the book, but I couldn't back down, not now.

“Your wife socked away a lot of money, ruining people's lives. Meredith's life, for example.”

“Meredith's life?” He looked more puzzled than ever.

“Tell me something. Why would your wife have blackmailed your mistress?”

“You're out of your mind.”

“I don't think I am. Maybe Jean did know about your affair. Maybe she knew and didn't care. You never considered that, did you? But someone else might have cared. Meredith's father, maybe? Maybe he didn't want his daughter wasting her life on someone like you. Or a boyfriend? Did Meredith have a boyfriend, someone who couldn't find out she was sleeping with a married man?”

He wouldn't look at me. That was fine. I didn't need him to.

“Maybe Jean knew something else about Meredith. That she went a little crazy sometimes? Like that night, maybe? Did she hurt you that night, Joe? Is that why your shirt was covered with your blood?”

Still no answer.

“Or maybe it was something else entirely. Did your wife know something about Meredith's father's business dealings, something that wasn't right, that could ruin him? Like
about some tidelands holdings? Does that sound familiar? Meredith would've paid Jean to keep something like that silent. She would have, wouldn't she?”

“I don't know anything about Morgan Allan. This is ridiculous.”

“How long could Meredith keep it going? Forever, I suppose, a rich girl like her. But it must've stung, having to keep her lover's wife quiet with her father's money.”

“What are you asking me?” he demanded.

“I'm not asking you anything. I'm telling you something. I'm telling you Meredith got sick of paying off your wife, so she killed her.”

“That's impossible, and you know it.”

“So now you admit it. You were with her.”

“I'm not admitting anything.”

“She still could've done it, Mr. Albacco. Don't you get it? She has that black magic. If anybody could, that woman could have been two places at once.”

“Why don't you stop this?”

“And the thing is, that wasn't the end of it, oh, no. She killed Jean's sister, too.”

“Theresa?” he asked weakly. “What happened to her?”

“She was killed on Saturday.”

“That isn't true.”

“I'm sorry, but it is. And I think that the person who killed your wife killed her, too.”

“It wasn't Meredith, I'm telling you. She could never do anything like that. Not to Jean, not to Theresa, not to anyone. I know that. She's a good person. Beautiful and good. And I loved her.”

He was a wounded animal who needed to be put out of his misery. But I wasn't the one who could do it.

“Has she had a good life, Ms. Caruso?” He was pleading with me now. “Has it been a good life?”

It was my turn not to answer. I just left, feeling sick at heart.