In My Dark Dreams (29 page)

“A tiny one,” I admit. After putting in all that time, elbow grease, and passion defending Salazar the first time, I’m not completely ready to throw him overboard yet. “Maybe five percent. Do you? Have any, even an ounce?”

“I’m not thinking about that, because it’s a waste of time, and spinning what-ifs in the air is not going to help.” He gathers up our cups and drops them into the trash. “What’s important is Salazar’s time line for those nights. And a credible alibi witness.”

He’s seeing the forest, not the trees—forget sentimentality, concentrate on reality. The best chance we have to win is if we can come up with a solid alibi for Salazar for one or more of the nights the killings took place.

But we’re still going to have to confront those panties that were found in his truck.

A
MANDA BURGESS LIVES IN
Rustic Canyon, my favorite neighborhood in all of Los Angeles. It is north of Santa Monica, not far from the ocean. Nothing commercial, only houses. In a city that’s obsessed with celebrity and exposure, the people who live there are vigilant in protecting their privacy. It is a rich community, but not fussy like Beverly Hills or Bel Air. If I could afford to live anywhere, that is where I’d be. But since the median house cost is over four million dollars, I’ll only live there in my dreams.

Even by the lofty standards of this wealthy enclave, Amanda’s house is special. Redwood, rock, concrete, and glass block, reminiscent of the style of Frank Lloyd Wright. The floor plan is open, with an indoor/outdoor flow that makes you feel like you’re in the coolest tree house ever. Looking out to the back through floor-to-ceiling windows I can see a koi pond, a black-bottom lap pool, a low-slung pool house. Next to the pool there is an old-fashioned wooden hot tub on a raised platform. Hundreds of exotic plantings and trees populate the property. The inside furnishings are spare but classy Herman Miller and Japanese style. The art on the walls is modern American—abstract and pop. This house is clearly an expression of Amanda’s personality—one side of many, I’m sure.

I’ve never been here before. I separate business from pleasure. I don’t socialize with clients. I don’t want to know about their wives, kids, parents, boyfriends, girlfriends, anything that isn’t directly about the case; and when it’s over, it’s over. My wish is to never see or hear from them again. Nothing personal, but in my job, I don’t get to pick my clients; they are assigned to me. My friends, conversely, are my choosing. I don’t have friends who get into trouble with the law, unless you count traffic violations or DUIs.

Which is why I have steadfastly resisted Amanda Burgess’s entreaties to pay her a visit. But she is like water dripping on a rock, a steady, nonstop ping, ping, ping. Sooner or later, the rock wears away. She has been on me to come and talk about Salazar, and will not take
no
for an answer. I don’t think the word is in her vocabulary when it pertains to something she wants.

It took her more than two months of phoning, e-mailing, even some personal letters written by hand with a fountain pen to break through my defense. (Her penmanship is excellent, elegant and strong.) So here I am on a Saturday, a day off. A day I could be spending at the beach, an art museum, shopping, going to the movies, or just lazing around.

She did promise me a terrific lunch.

I got here shortly before noon. A maid in an informal white uniform opened the door and invited me inside. She left me in the living room with the great views and went to fetch her boss. I’ve been here for about a minute, more than enough time to be impressed. I’m sure that’s the intention.

“Thank you so much for coming, Jessica.”

Amanda entered on cat’s feet—I didn’t hear her. Now I turn. She is wearing lightweight cotton overalls over a short-sleeved blouse. Canvas flats. Almost no makeup, no jewelry. A sensible outfit to garden in or go shopping at the Farmers Market. I’m glad I dressed casually.

She comes to me and takes my hands in hers. They have been recently lotioned. “I know I’m imposing on your weekend, and I really appreciate your doing this.”

“I had to,” I tell her. “You wouldn’t give in until I did.”

Her laugh is low, throaty. “You’re a tough nut to crack. Tougher than most.” She withdraws her hands from mine. “Can I get you something to drink? I make a mean Bloody Mary. You don’t have to work today, do you?”

“No,” I answer. “I’m off. And water will be fine, or juice.” I’m pregnant now; I can’t drink alcohol. Not for months, maybe even years. Are you allowed to drink if you’re breast-feeding? Another question to ask my doctor. I’ve been keeping a list. It’s getting long.

“I have fresh-squeezed orange juice.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Come with me.”

She leads me through the house into a kitchen that could be straight out of
Martha Stewart Living.
It is bigger than my living room; hell, it’s almost as large as my whole house. A Guatemalan family of ten could live in here comfortably. The Wolf stove has six burners and two ovens, and there is a microwave and a separate convection oven. Sub-Zero refrigerator/freezer, of course. An in-kitchen barbecue. Rows and rows of shelves and drawers, all custom-built. The look is not ostentatious, but the cumulative feeling is one of power. I’ve been in similarly munificent kitchens before, and I’m always in awe at what money can buy. Not only every gadget you could ever dream of, but with understated taste as well.

“How many people live here?” I ask her. “Besides you.”

“Just Isabella.” She nods toward the maid/housekeeper, who is at the far end of the room, chopping lettuce. “And Jorge, her husband, who does a bit of everything. Anyone else comes in as needed, including my secretary and bookkeeper. And the gardeners, pool maintenance, the usual. I don’t like having a large permanent staff underfoot, I enjoy my privacy.”

She takes a pitcher of orange juice out of one of the refrigerators and pours me a glass. I take a sip. It tastes freshly squeezed, all right. Like ten minutes ago. “Yum,” I say.

“We have our own citrus trees,” Amanda says, as she pours for herself. “I forgot to ask you,” she says. “You’re not allergic to shellfish, I hope.”

“I’m not allergic to anything,” I assure her. Except selfish, self-centered musicians. And clients who lie to me. And street beggars. What else can’t I tolerate? “No food allergies.”

“Good.” She tops off my glass. “Let’s go outside. I’ll give you the tour.”

She has four acres. There used to be another house on two of them that belonged to someone else, but she felt hemmed in, so she bought it and tore it down.

The pond has several beautiful koi in it, some of which are close to four feet long. Keeping koi is an expensive hobby. I know someone who keeps them—you can spend upward of forty or fifty thousand dollars on a really good one. Several hundred thousand dollars worth of fish are swimming around in Amanda Burgess’s pond.

The fish sense her approaching and rise to the surface. She tosses some food into the water. They swarm to it. “Beautiful, aren’t they,” she says in admiration.

“Very,” I agree.

“They’re like parrots. Parrots of the sea. Not only because of their beauty, but they live long lives, sixty to eighty years. They’ll be here long after I’m gone.”

We meander around. She knows every plant, every tree, every piece of vegetation. The overall feeling is random harmony. I’m enjoying the tour, but I’m wondering when she’s going to bring up the real reason she asked me to come here. I’m not pushing that; it will come in due time. I hope she takes her time, being here is wondrously pleasurable.

Amanda checks the time. “I think Isabella will be ready for us now,” she announces. “Let’s eat.”

Lunch is terrific, as advertised. A lump of caviar the size of a tennis ball sits on a porcelain platter. A seafood salad, beautifully presented. There must be three or four pounds of lobster in the salad, plus crab, shrimp, oysters, mussels, and several kinds of fish.

“Dig in,” Amanda says. She piles my plate with food, then spoons up a big dollop of caviar on a side plate. “You wouldn’t know it to look at me,” she says, helping herself to an equally hearty portion, “but I have the appetite of a lumberjack. Fortunately, I have the metabolism of a hummingbird, so I burn it off.” She smiles. “Working out every day helps, too. Which you know, being a top athlete yourself.”

She uncorks a bottle of white wine and presents the label to me for inspection. It’s French. I’m sure it wasn’t $2.99 at Trader Joe’s. “Should I inspect the cork?” I quip.

Her laugh is genuine. “If we don’t like it, we’ll send it back.”

“I don’t know if I should be drinking,” I tell her, as she’s about to pour some wine into my glass.

She stops. “Do you have work to do later on?” Then: “That’s right. You’re in training. But a glass, or two?”

I’m not in training. I’m pregnant. Barely, but even so … “I’m not in training anymore,” I declare. Screw it. I’m not going to give up everything, at least not today. “I would love to drink your wine.”

Dessert is sorbet and fresh fruit. As the housekeeper is clearing our plates, Amanda says, “We’ll have our coffee in the study. It’s comfortable there, and private.”

Unlike the rest of her house, Amanda’s study has an old-fashioned, almost formal feel to it, as if it is a sanctuary from the outside world. Two of the walls are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and they’re stuffed with books. Judging by the spines, many of them are very old. “Great library,” I compliment Amanda. “Have you read them?”

She shakes her head. “I buy them by the yard. Makes me look like an intellectual. Most of them were my father’s and grandfather’s. Both avid readers.”

The coffee service has already been set up. Amanda pours for both of us. She asks if I take sugar and cream, and I tell her just some milk.

“I have a confession to make,” she says, as we settle into comfortable armchairs. “About the books. I’m mildly dyslexic. Einstein, Churchill, and Edison were, too, so I’m in good company. I’ve learned to overcome it, but reading never came easy to me.” The smile she flashes at me now is almost apologetic, as if she’s sorry to burden me with this secret. “Not many people know this about me, but I feel a kinship with you, Jessica. And I am impressed with your intelligence, as you already know.” She cocks her head, as if better to gauge my reaction to what she’s saying. “I’m not embarrassing you, am I?”

“No.” I feel a slight flush on my neck. Is it embarrassment, or is it pride, that a woman of her standing would take to me? Old insecurities never die, and they never fade away, either.

Finally, she gets to it. “How is Roberto doing?”

“He’s acclimating okay,” I tell her, “which is a shame, because you have to become hard to survive, and he’s surviving. One good thing is that he’s completely isolated from the other prisoners, so he doesn’t have to watch his back all the time.”

“What’s happened is horrible,” she says, shuddering. “I literally can’t sleep some nights, it so dominates my mind. How could he have done such a thing?” She rubs at her temples with her knuckles. “How could I have misjudged him so badly?”

“You’re not the only one,” I remind her. “We all did.”

She puts her cup down. Her hand is shaking. “So you think he actually did it.”

“I’m his lawyer, so I’m not going to answer that question. But the evidence against him is strong.”

“I have such a profound sense of betrayal,” she says. Now that Pandora’s box has been opened, her tightly controlled emotions are roiling. “Which, of course, makes me angry. And guilty! My God! Four young women, brutally murdered. I know it’s irrational, but I feel complicit in those murders. That I should have somehow …” She slumps back in her chair.

“Stopped them from happening? How could you have done that? You’re not a mind reader. And you’re assuming it is him.”

She looks at me sharply. “So you aren’t positive.”

I have to be careful about what I say to her. She could twist my words into implications I don’t mean. “That’s up to a jury to decide. What I mean is, no one—you, me, anyone—is responsible for those killings except the person who committed them. We can be our brother’s keeper sometimes, but we’re not his facilitator, for sure not in a situation like this.”

She clears her throat. “I guess you’re right,” she allows; grudgingly. “What is really eating at me is that I can’t accept that he’s the killer. I mean I’m not absolutely convinced. It’s an emotional reaction, I know, but I can’t help it.”

She scoots forward in her chair to get closer to me. “He’s not a stupid man. You know that. So why would he have been so dumb as to leave that evidence in his truck? That’s idiotic!”

“There’s a simple explanation for that,” I contradict her. “He didn’t have time to get rid of them. It was only a few hours. And maybe he didn’t want to get rid of them. Maybe he wanted to keep them, as a reminder.”

She shudders. “That’s a sick thought.”

“There are a lot of them.”

“But if that is the case,” she argues, “why weren’t any found from any of the other victims? I understand the police searched his house, his truck, his church, everywhere. Wouldn’t they have found something?”

“I can’t answer that. Maybe they’re stashed somewhere no one except him knows about. Again, that’s speculation. I’m not convicting him in a conversation, let’s be clear about that, Amanda.”

“I understand. But I have to talk about this with someone, and you’re the only one I can do it with.”

I’ve had the same concerns she’s voicing, but I’ve kept them to myself. As time passes, though, my belief in Salazar’s possible innocence, sad to say, has been plummeting. That theory about the panties being planted in his truck seems more unbelievable by the day. Too many coincidences would have had to happen to make that in any way credible.

Joe’s and my bigger worry, and it is major, is that we haven’t been able to find any alibi witnesses for Salazar for any of the other murders. You would think that if he is innocent there would be a confirmation of his being somewhere else, witnesses who could attest to that. But so far, not a single one.

Amanda breaks into my thoughts. “What should I do?” she asks me.