22

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.