In My Dark Dreams (50 page)

“My aunt will be glad to hear that,” I tell her. “She will be so very glad. I don’t think she has ever really gotten over giving up that baby. But she had to.”

Because he was brown, and she wasn’t.

“I understand,” the nun says compassionately. “Please tell her that her child had a good home. That she would be proud of him.”

I don’t have to tell her that. I know that she already is. And that having abandoned him once, she never will again.

J
OE HAS A FRESH
and important piece of news waiting for me when I arrive back home. He doesn’t know where I have been, and I’m not going to tell him. This is my personal crusade.

He comes over to my house to give me the news, bringing his own six-pack of Diet Coke with him.

He blurts it right out. “They found an alibi witness.”

“Are you serious?” I’m glad I put the baby down for a nap, I might have dropped her.

“Serious as cancer.”

“Is he believable?” I’m assuming it’s a man.

His answer confirms my guess. “Seems to be.”

Nothing should surprise me now, but I’m stunned anyway. “Where did Abby Lench find him? And where was this bozo when
we
needed him?”

Joe pops the top of a Diet Coke can, takes a swallow. He would offer me one, but he knows I’ve sworn off soft drinks while I’m nursing. “Supposedly, in Iraq. Working construction for Halliburton the past year. Didn’t know or hear anything until he got back.”

“Damn …” I sit down. This is a shock. Great for Salazar, but I have an empty feeling in my stomach. I know Joe does, too. “You predicted that,” I remind him.

“Yeah, and God doesn’t make little green apples. You got any vodka?”

“In the freezer.”

He gets out the bottle of Smirnoff, pours some into a glass, tops it off with Diet Coke. Drinks. He sits down heavily. I look him in the face. He looks pasty. He needs to get out more. With all these drinks, and his weight, he’s a prime candidate for a heart attack. I should talk to his wife about getting him off his ass and working out.

“Well, good for them,” I offer without conviction. “We always said that was the one piece we were missing.”

Joe takes a drink, contemplates his glass. “Someone’s crossed the line, Jessica. You know it, and I know it.”

I do know it, better than he does, but I’m not sharing my information. We’re not a team anymore. I’m allowed to keep secrets.

“You believed in him,” Joe says. “I never did.”

“Which means you did a better job for him than I did.”

He slumps back in his chair. “He’s gonna get off.” He drains his glass. “Usually I love my work, but sometimes I can’t.” He pops himself another soda, mixes it with more vodka, takes a long pull. I pick the bottle up and put it back in the freezer. Two is his limit in my household. I don’t want him picking up a DUI.

“We don’t judge our clients,” I remind him, as he so often preached to me. “We defend them.”

“We do.” His lopsided grin turns into a grimace. “Sometimes too damn well.”

The health club for women was the only connection any of the victims had to each other. The police would have looked into it, but since that knowledge was only discovered at the eleventh hour, they would not have had the time to do a thorough job. And they had their suspect nailed down (so they thought). Standard operating procedure for police work—don’t go muddying the waters. You might dredge up something that doesn’t fit your carefully structured game plan.

I’m not working, so I have time on my hands. And I have this itch that I keep scratching. So far, I haven’t gotten all the relief I need.

The manager, Angie on her name tag, discusses the application process with me. She’s in uniform—shorts, golf shirt with the club’s logo over her left breast, running shoes. She is an Amazon, like the other women who work here, but she doesn’t seem to have an attitude problem, which I have found is common among trainers, especially women. One reason I’ve never joined a gym before. When I let slip that I ran a marathon last year, her eyes sparkle with appreciation.

“That’s great,” she says with a touch of envy. “Being in shape is obviously important to you.” She smiles at Amanda, who is propped up in my lap. “We have an excellent mother-baby program here. Gymboree, the pool, yoga. You and your daughter will really like it.”

“That’s the main reason I want to join.”

Angie escorts me around the facility. Very high-class, everything first-rate. There are two tennis courts outside, a small track, volleyball pits. The grounds are lush and tasteful, although a bit fraying at the edges, as if the gardener has gone on vacation.

“We had to let our last gardener go,” she says, as she notices me looking at the less than perfect landscaping. “He wasn’t dependable. It’s hard, finding a good one. There’s so much competition for quality help in this area.”

I know a very good one, but I’m not going to recommend him. Not to this club.

“The man who did our planting last year was terrific,” she says, as we continue our tour. “We had to discharge him too, though. Some of the members felt that he was …” She fumbles for the right phrase. “Hitting on them. Not that he wasn’t a good-looking guy, and not that some of the girls didn’t like the attention, but you don’t want anyone to be uncomfortable.” She picks some decaying rose petals off a bush that needs trimming. “I should get him back, just to freshen up the place. He really had a green thumb. I don’t know if I have his card anymore, though.”

“What was his name?” As she looks at me quizzically, I explain, “Some of my friends who live in the area have good gardeners. I could find out if he works for any of them.”

She shakes her head. “Robert, maybe? I don’t remember the last name.”

“Was he American? I mean Anglo?”

“Mexican American. Robert … shoot, I can’t remember.” She smiles. “We’ll find someone. Have to keep everything looking pretty.”

I follow her to the pool enclosure, where an infant/mother swimming class is in progress. My baby strains in the Snugli when she sees the other babies. She is raring to go. This is going to be fun—teaching her to swim, tumble, climb.

“Tomorrow,” I whisper to her. I didn’t bring bathing suits or gym clothes. “Hold your horses.” She is an impatient child. She takes after her mother in that way, too.

We take the elevator down to the changing area. It’s as posh as a country club. Individual lockers with combinations, plush carpeting, steam, sauna, Jacuzzi. A massage room with a masseuse available all day and early evening. You get your money’s worth here.

“By the way,” I say, trying to sound casual, “does an instructor named Dimitra St. Clair work here?”

Angie shakes her head. “She left us. By mutual agreement,” she adds, as if tacitly telling me they canned her. “Why, is she a friend of yours?” she asks suspiciously.

“No. I just heard her name somewhere. That she was good.”

“She wasn’t that good.” I’ve touched a nerve; I can hear the irritation in her voice. “She was a star fucker,” the manager informs me bluntly. “We have some celebrity members, and we don’t like staff cozying up to them.”

“That’s good to know, even if you’re not a celebrity. Keep business and personal stuff separate.”

“That’s our policy.” She pauses. “And there was that trial she testified in. It put the spotlight on us, which left a sour taste in some of the members’ mouths.”

It’s evident this woman doesn’t know who I am. One potential stumbling block I don’t have to finesse. “I heard about that. One of your members was a victim of that killer, right?”

“Two were,” Angie corrects me. She shudders involuntarily. “The aftershocks around this place were off the Richter scale. It was like, were we a magnet for their killer? But nothing has happened since, so that feeling has gone away.”

“Good,” I say enthusiastically. “I wouldn’t want to be around that vibe.”

Angie frowns as she suddenly remembers something unpleasant. “I had almost forgotten,” she says, as she shows me an empty locker. “One of the murder victims left some clothes here. Sometimes a client will be running late and leave in her exercise outfit, and come back for her clothes the next day.” She covers her eyes with a hand, as if to ward off an ugly memory. “She left them the day before she was killed.” Her voice choking, she continues, “She never made it back.”

“What happened to those clothes?”

“We bagged them up and put them in storage.” Apologetically: “We wanted to give them to her family, but we didn’t know how to get in touch with them. Should throw them out, I suppose.” She laughs nervously. “It’s like having a ghost in the closet.”

A ghost, indeed. “I’m a lawyer for the city,” I tell Angie. “I’m sure I could find out her next of kin. Because you’re right, they would want her things. I could take them for you.”

She doesn’t have to think twice about my offer. “That would be the right thing to do,” she says gratefully.

I follow her down to the basement. She pulls a plastic garbage bag out of a storage bin and looks inside. “Yes, this is it.”

I look at the contents. A pair of slacks, blouse, bra, shoes, underpants. Having been enclosed for a long time, they emit a slight smell of mildew.

I take the bag from Angie. “I’m sure we’ll be able to take care of this properly,” I assure her.

She gives me a smile of gratitude. The sooner this ghost is exorcised, the better. “That’s nice of you. I’m really glad you’re joining.”

We finish the tour and go back to her office, where we fill out the application together. I give her my credit card. Nothing registers in her face as she processes it, confirming that she hasn’t connected me to the trial. I have a week in which I can withdraw and get my deposit back, so I’m not worried about the money. Maybe I will like the mother-baby program. I need to start exercising again, and I want to get Amanda in the pool as soon as possible. It’s never too early to protect your child against a swimming pool tragedy.

It’s hot outside. I strap Amanda in her baby seat and turn the air-conditioning on. As I drive away, I think about the gardener the club let go because he was coming on to some of the women. Robert somebody.

The name for a Mexican American Robert is Roberto. Angie doesn’t have to remember the last name. I already know it.

T
HERE’S A MOON OUT
tonight. It’s full. I can hear the coyotes howling their dirges up in the hills of Griffith Park.

I’m here alone. Kathy Baron, a dependable high schooler who lives near me, is babysitting Amanda. She has my cell number in case of an emergency. I left two bottles of expressed breast milk in the refrigerator, so there is ample nourishment. Next week, I’ll start Amanda on her first solid food. I’m told they make great organic baby food now.

The street is quiet. A few of the small houses have lights on inside, but not Salazar’s. His truck is parked in the driveway. My loaded gun is in my purse. I will only use it if I have to.

It is a little after midnight. My cutoff time is one o’clock. My gut feeling is that if he is going to make a move, it will be by then, because he would have to drive all the way across town, have a rendezvous, then get back before his family wakes up. If he isn’t in his house when his wife awakens, there would be trouble. She has covered for him all this time, but she is at the breaking point. I could see that etched in her face at the end of the trial.

Twelve-thirty crawls by. No movement. I’m playing a hunch. Some of my intuitions have paid off in the past. I hope this one doesn’t. I should have brought coffee with me to help me stay awake, but I’m trying not to drink caffeine now, and it would make me have to pee. I don’t want to leave here, and where would I find an open ladies’ room in an unfamiliar neighborhood at this time of night?

Quarter to one. My hunch was wrong after all. Time to go home. I am both surprised and relieved, because if I had been right, there would have been hell to pay.

I reach for the key in the ignition to turn the car on, and as my hand touches it, Salazar comes out of his house. He is dressed in dark clothes. He takes a cursory look up and down the street, but there is nothing to see except dark parked cars. Mine is one of them, but it’s far enough away that he wouldn’t notice me. He has never seen my car, so as far as I know, he doesn’t know what make I drive.

He gets into his truck and coasts it down his driveway, waiting until he is at the street before he starts it up. A precaution not to wake up his wife, I’m guessing. That makes his behavior more suspicious to me than it already is, which is very suspicious.

He drives down the street. I wait until he rounds the corner before I start after him. There will be very few vehicles on the road at this time of night, and I know what he drives, so I’ll be able to stay back and still be in contact with him.

I see him ahead of me, about a block separating us. There is another car between him and me, so I feel comfortable in this space. He drives south on Atlantic Boulevard. If he is going to West Los Angeles he can hop on the 60, which will lead him to the I-10. At this time of night, he can be in Brentwood or Santa Monica in twenty minutes.

My stomach is churning. The taste of bile rises in my throat. I feel as if I have to throw up. I brought a bottle of water with me, and I drink from it now, to keep from puking.

He crosses through a light and I follow, barely making it on the yellow. I need to stay far enough away so he doesn’t spot someone tailing him, but close enough that I don’t lose him. I don’t know how to do this the way a professional would. The way Cordova would, for instance.

Cordova should be here tonight. I’m sure he’d want to be, but he can’t. For the first two months after Salazar’s release, the police shadowed his house during the full-moon period. They weren’t particularly inconspicuous about it—they wanted him to know they were bird-dogging him, as if daring him to make a move. But he complained to Abby Lench, his lawyer, and Abby got a restraining order to stop the police from surveilling him. So now he can move about freely, without the police knowing what he is doing or where he is going.

They didn’t get a restraining order against me, though. I’m a civilian. I can go wherever I please. Tonight my pleasure is to drive around the streets of East Los Angeles, and then, if my intuition is right, West Los Angeles. I have Cordova’s cell number on my speed dial. If the shit hits the fan, I will call him. I’m brave, but only to a point.