And precisely what was I supposed to think when the doorbell rang at eight-thirty P.M., and it was Peter Gambino with a white box from my favorite bakery?
“I was in the neighborhood and remembered how much you loved the berry cake from Sweet Lady Jane.” What he didn’t mention was that he used to run out and get it for us after we had made love.
I went into the kitchen and came back with two forks. We sat on the couch and ate in silence, neither of us daring to so much as glance at the other. But we were thinking the same thing.
“So,” he said.
“So,” I said.
“How’s tricks?”
“Gambino, you can do better than that.”
“You’re heartless,” he said with a funny look, like maybe he meant it. “I finally got ahold of Detective Moriarty.”
“And?”
“The guy’s an idiot.”
“I told you.”
“Well, maybe not an idiot. But I will admit he’s not interested in this case.”
“How can that be? A woman is dead, for god’s sake! And he can’t even find her sons!”
“They found one of them, Damon. And he’s got an airtight alibi. He was caught robbing a convenience store that Friday and spent the day his mother was killed in county lockup. He’s in the clear.”
“What about the other one?”
“Don’t know. I don’t think he’s shown up.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. He didn’t do it.”
“Yeah, and who did?”
“I’m not sure yet. There’s this woman who was involved with Mrs. Flynn in high school who wants to keep her past quiet.”
“Involved how?”
“Involved involved.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know. I’m working on it.”
“You’re working on it.”
“Don’t worry so much about what I’m doing, okay?”
“Detective Moriarty also mentioned that someone was messing up his crime scene.”
I picked up the whipped-cream-smeared doily, put it in the box, and walked into the kitchen.
“Caruso.” He’d followed me in.
“I’m tidying up.”
“I don’t remember you being particularly tidy,” he said, picking up Mimi, who clawed at his arm. He dropped her like a hot potato.
“Baby,” I murmured, bending down to scratch her behind the ears. “Mean old cop hurting you?” She purred contentedly.
“What do you want me to say? Good for you, taking the law into your own hands?”
“Maybe give me a little credit for trying to do the right thing.”
“It isn’t the right thing if people are getting hurt.”
He was thinking of me, but I was thinking of Mrs. Flynn. It was my fault, her dying. I knew that even if no one else did.
He followed me back to the couch and sat directly on top of a heavily beaded Indian pillow. I have no idea why he did that. He was too big for a booster. He looked like Baby Huey. Plus, it couldn’t have been too comfortable.
“Gambino, can I ask you a hypothetical question?”
“Shoot.” He pulled the pillow out from under him and shoved it behind his back.
I was still working the Meredith Allan angle. “Why would a woman blackmail her husband’s mistress?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“C’mon.”
“Blackmail usually comes down to money. Defending the bottom line. Man cheats on his wife, he doesn’t give a damn if she finds out. Her feelings mean nothing to him, he just doesn’t want to pay the piper. Then there’s shame. People do things all the time that they don’t want to see the light of day. You’d be amazed. And they’ll do almost anything to protect themselves and everyone around them from who they really are.”
Meredith Allan knew very well who she was. Would she have been ashamed to have been sleeping with a married man? Not a chance. Like Jean, she’d never been innocent. But corruption is measured by degrees. Was she already married when she was sleeping with Joe, for example? I knew she married young, but I didn’t have the timing figured out. If she wasn’t married, maybe she was engaged at the time of the affair. Was she about to let her fiancé find out who she really was? Maybe, like Joe, he had a vision of her—beautiful, blameless Meredith Allan. That had to have been part of the deal. The guy had wanted an angel, but what he hadn’t understood was that angels don’t walk on this earth.
Jean. What didn’t make sense was Jean. She was supposed to have been crazy about Joe. He changed her life, he was going to be her ticket out. Was it possible that when it came down to it, she cared so little for him that she’d use the dissolution of her marriage as a cash-and-carry opportunity? Why the hell not?
“Cece, I’ve lost you. Come back.”
“Do you want me back?”
“Maybe I do,” he said, looking at me. That was the thing about Gambino. It could have been the police training, I don’t know, but when he looked at you, you got the feeling he really saw you.
It started to get hot, so I unzipped my sweatshirt jacket. Just because Gambino and I had been a mistake once didn’t mean we’d be a mistake now.
“Lael’s having her Labor Day barbecue on Saturday,” I said.
I exasperated him, that much was obvious. He was chewing his lip. “I remember her Cesar Chavez cake. How’s she doing?”
“Good. Her kids are so grown-up, you wouldn’t believe it. Nina gets straight A’s. Tommy’s an amazing surfer. Zoe can jump rope. And she’s got a baby now, little August. He’s adorable.”
“Nice woman.”
“Yeah, well, she always liked you.” I shook my head. “I mean, for me.”
“I had no idea.” He gave me a little smile.
“So,” I said, zipping up my jacket, then unzipping it again, “would you like to come with me, to the barbecue?”
“Sure.”
“Is that all?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you want to say anything else to me?”
He had come here with that cake. I wanted him to tell me why.
“That’s one silly pillow you got there,” he said, getting up. “They’re expecting me back at the station house.” He stretched his arms over his head. The fabric of his white shirt strained across his broad chest. I took it as a mating signal, but my mind was obviously in the gutter.
“See you Saturday, Caruso.”
He opened the front door, and the knob came off in his hand.
“I guess you must want to keep me here,” he said.
So maybe I did.