In My Dark Dreams

by JF Freedman

  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.

  I’m startled. “About what?”

  “This—God, I hate to call it an obsession with Roberto, but I can’t let it go. What should I do?” she asks again. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing, that I know of,” I answer. “But let me ask you a question of my own. Why are you so worked up about this? I could understand your support for him before, because we both thought he was duped in that television deal. And I know you like him and his family, and have been impressed by his good works. But I don’t get why you’re so emotionally involved with him now. Or is there something that I’m missing?”

  Shit, did I just put my foot in my mouth? My question, if taken the wrong way, could imply there is more to their relationship than she lets on.

  Fortunately for me, she doesn’t take offense, or perhaps the implication didn’t register. “It’s hard to explain,” she says. “Let me ask you something, Jessica. You aren’t married, are you.”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been?”

  “No.”

  She smiles. “But you are engaged, so one of these days …”

  I don’t answer. Jeremy, you bastard! I’m still crying myself to sleep over him.

  “So I assume you’ve never had children.”

  I could say a bun in the oven, but that is a tightly guarded secret, and will be until I’m showing and can’t finesse it. “No,” I tell her. “No children.”

  Her eyes get a faraway look in them. “I do. A daughter. She’s about your age, I think. Thirty-five?” she guesses shrewdly.

  “Exactly,” I confirm.

  “If you ever decide to have children, you’ll want to get tested,” she advises me in a strange, melancholy tone of voice, one I’ve never heard from her. “The unforeseeable consequences of having children as you age can be heartbreaking. I know, from my own experience.”

  Her look wanders across the room, where some photographs in silver frames are arranged on a side table. They are too far away for me to make them out.

  “For a woman of my generation, I married late,” she says. “I was your age, which in those days practically made me an old maid. I didn’t care, because before that, I had too many things I wanted to do. And I hadn’t met the right man.

  “Then, I did. Or thought I did. James Burgess. Opposites attract, they say, and I was attracted to him. I come from money, and he didn’t. He didn’t care about things material, which I found refreshing, since my family was all about making money. He was an academic, a professor at Pomona College. American history. A nice man, not a cutthroat, like the men I had always been around. He was happy to let me take the lead in our relationship, which I was used to doing. Still am, as you may have noticed.

  “With James, the attraction was more about compatibility than passion. We were never passionate for each other, at least I wasn’t for him. Until shortly before we got married, I was still involved with another man. He wasn’t someone I wanted to have a life with, but the attraction was too strong to resist.”

  My face must be registering my astonishment, both at what she is telling me and the candor in her casualness. “Have I shocked you?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I admit. “Not that you slept around—plenty of people do—but most people keep that kind of information to themselves. I’d never tell.”

  “It’s not something I’ve broadcasted freely,” she says nonchalantly, “but at this time of my life, who cares? It’s ancient history. And once James and I got married, I was faithful.”

  She continues. “Immediately, I got pregnant. It could have been on our wedding night. We were both a little tipsy, so I don’t remember the details. Our daughter, Elizabeth, was born nine months later. We lived in Beverly Hills then.”

  She crosses the room to the shelf that has the photographs on it, picks one up, and holds it out to me.

  The picture is a formal sitting. The girl in it is a teenager, or slightly older; it’s hard to tell—there is a lack of focus in her expression. Her hair is fine and straight, falling limply down the sides of her thin, delicately featured face. I see a bit of Amanda in her, around the eyes. Those eyes are looking toward the camera, but they seem not to be seeing it. The feeling I get is that she is not in the moment but is somewhere else, in her own special world.

  You look at Amanda Burgess, you see strength. There is no strength in her daughter’s face.

  “I can see the resemblance,” I say politely. “Does she live here in Los Angeles?”

  Amanda shakes her head. “Paso Robles. In the countryside.”

  “That’s a great area,” I exclaim. “Lots of cool wineries.” Jeremy and I spent a long weekend there last year. We stayed at a wonderful bed and breakfast on the Justin Winery property. I’ll never go there again. “Do you have grandchildren?” I ask.

  Amanda’s face contorts into a fist, as if I had punched her in the gut. “Elizabeth isn’t married. Nor will she ever be.” She takes the picture from me and stares at it with tenderness. “My daughter was born with severe birth defects. She is a virtual encyclopedia of them. She can’t talk, walk, can’t sit up by herself. She might have the IQ of a six-month-old. It’s impossible to know.”

  Christ. What do you say to that? “I’m sorry.”

  She looks at the photograph again. “A severely handicapped child is a real test of a marriage,” she says, her eyes on her damaged daughter’s uncomprehending face. “Which James and I failed. For a marriage to work when its feet are held to the fire, compatibility isn’t enough. There has to be passion, because passion is the real glue. Compatibility doesn’t hold up under that kind of stress. At least, it didn’t for us.”

  I’m flattered that Amanda is comfortable enough with me to share such personal information, but I wish she wasn’t. We are never going to be friends. She’s twice my age, and we come from different social classes. I could make a gazillion dollars and I would never be in her league. I don’t feel bad about that, her stature is not something I aspire to. And I have enough real worries of my own without taking on anyone else’s, even by the indirect osmosis of merely knowing about them.

  Besides, what does any of this have to do with Roberto Salazar?

  “We never brought Elizabeth home,” Amanda continues. “It wasn’t a questio
n of money. I come from a wealthy family. We could have turned our house into a permanent-care facility—around-the-clock nurses, aides, medical equipment. The decision was one of commitment. Were we willing to alter our lives, in a fundamental way, to raise a vegetable? A child who probably would never even know who we were?” She lays the photo aside. “James was willing to try. I wasn’t.”

  She takes up the coffee pot and pours herself another cup. I decline a refill.

  “Elizabeth was in the hospital for several months while the doctors tried to figure out what her long-term prognosis might be. In the end, the conclusions were bleak, as I knew they would be. We found the finest facility for someone with her needs, and she was brought there before her first birthday. She’s never left.”

  Her sigh comes from some pit buried deep within her. “My marriage didn’t last much longer. Too much stress, too much guilt.” She looks at me, then abruptly turns away. “Because there was another element in the equation, which you can probably figure out.”

  I can; but no way am I going to say it.

  She does. “Was James her father? Or was my lover the real biological father? James didn’t know about him, but a blind man could see there was nothing of him in Elizabeth. I think he suspected something, but that didn’t stop him from loving her. He loves her unconditionally. He goes up to Paso every month to see her, religiously.”

  She puts her cup down, untouched. “I don’t. A couple times a year is all I can take. Not that it matters, because she doesn’t recognize us. She doesn’t know her mother from the man in the moon. But that doesn’t buy me any solace from having abandoned my flesh and blood. That’s an emptiness inside me I’m going to live with forever.”

  Merely listening to this is painful. I can’t imagine what actually living with it must be like.

  “I took off like a scalded rabbit. I went on a retreat for a year, to try to find my lost soul. If I had one. To my surprise, at the end of that year I found out I did, so I came back. I sold the house in Beverly Hills and bought this one. It was the most tranquil place I could find, short of moving to Big Sur, which I didn’t want to do. I knew I wasn’t going to have any more children. I wasn’t in a relationship, and even if I had been, I didn’t want to take that risk again.

  “Whatever mothering instincts I had, I channeled into serving others who are less well off and need a helping hand. I mentor young people, I assist families who have financial troubles, I support minority businesses. If I find someone I think is worthwhile, I do what I can to help that person fulfill a greater potential than he or she would without my help. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some selfless saint. Mother Teresa would kick me to the curb in two seconds flat. My motives are selfish. If there’s a heaven, I want to get in—at least have a fighting chance. What I do is for redemption—my own.”

  She takes one of my hands in both of hers, the same warm inclusionary gesture she extended to me when I arrived. “Which brings me, by way of Timbuktu, to Roberto. As soon as I met him, I saw this innate decency and honesty. I could literally feel it, it radiated from him. His warmth toward people, his optimistic spirit, the way he is with his wife, children, everyone. I fell for him.” She gulps, and hesitates. “Not how that word is normally used, of course—I’m more than old enough to be his mother. But some people, you know they’re good, and you want to bask in their light. Do you know what I mean? I’m not rambling too much, am I?”

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “Good. So many people don’t. When I was your age, I didn’t. It took a life-changing catastrophe to wake me up.”

  She lets go of my hands. They’re hot from her warmth. “I have known Roberto for three years, but it feels as if I’ve known him much longer. In some ways, forever. And I know that in what is an unfair, perhaps even unhealthy way, I’ve subliminally, or maybe not so subliminally, adopted him. The replacement child for the one I lost.” This is heavy stuff. I’ve never unburdened myself to anyone like this, let alone to a virtual stranger.

  Amanda shakes her head as if there are cobwebs in it. “You must think I’m batty.”

  “I think you’re caring.”

  “That’s generous of you. The crux of the matter is that I have a bond with this man, and now it’s broken, and it hurts. It hurts like hell.”

  She sits down, deflated. “So there we are. What happens now?”

  “About the case?”

  “Yes.”

  “We keep working at it. So far, we’re not making much progress.”

  “What do you need?”

  “A good alibi witness. Someone who will swear under oath they were with Roberto during the time one of the murders was committed, and can prove it. We know there won’t be one for this latest murder, because we know his time line, and he was alone all that time. But someone from an earlier one.”

  “Have you asked him?”

  “Yes. He’s given us a few leads, but so far, none of them have checked out. It’s hard, because these killings happened in the dead of night. Not many people are around during those hours. We’re still looking, and we will until the bitter end, but it’s frustrating.”

  “I’m sure it is.” She glances at her watch. “I’ve imposed on your time for too long, Jessica. You must have more things to do on a lovely Saturday than listen to an old woman’s sob story.”

  “Actually, I don’t.” Now that Jeremy has dumped me, I have plenty of free time—too damn much. “The lunch was great. And you’re good company.” When you aren’t wringing me out emotionally.

  “Thank you. So are you.”

  She walks me through the house to the front door. “I value our relationship. You have a good head, Jessica. And heart.”

  We say good-bye to each other. I walk down the pathway to my car and pull out, watching her through my rearview mirror. She waits until I’m gone before she goes inside.

  Maybe I was wrong. Maybe money can’t buy happiness.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  LOS ANGELES IS VAST, vast, vast. You can live your entire life here and never set foot in huge chunks of it. I can count the number of times I’ve been in East L.A. on the fingers of my hands; I don’t have to remove my shoes to add more digits. A couple of times a year I go with friends, after work, to La Serenata de Garibaldi, a very good Mexican restaurant on First Street in Boyle Heights, which specializes in seafood. It’s a hop, skip, and jump from our office, an easy jaunt. That’s about it. Most of the best Mexican restaurants, like the Tapazola Grill, my personal favorite, are in West L.A. or the Valley, so for a gringa like me, there’s nothing over there that draws me in, particularly since my Spanish is rudimentary at best. I could get lost and vanish, never to be seen again.

  So here I am, driving deep into the heart of this city within a city. I am heading for Roberto Salazar’s church in East Los Angeles, where I will meet with the few people his wife has been able to round up who might be able to alibi him for one of the nights that one of the murders took place. Not nearly as many people have come forward as she had hoped; some are afraid of dealing with the system, from bad personal experience, while others have turned their backs on their former friend and pastor. He has brought shame on their heads, and they are upset, angry, and scared about it.

  When you’re on a murder trial, the department takes you off your other cases. That’s the good news. The bad news—one piece of many—is that even for the toughest cases, including murder with the possibility of the death penalty, we don’t get a full-time investigator. That is one of the big differences between a private-firm defense and one done by the government. We don’t have the money or the resources to bring in the big guns. No forensic specialists like Henry Lee, no Barry Schecks to add nuance (and confusion) for our side. Our team consists of Joe, me, and Tori Higgens, a very good investigator in our office who is spread thin over many cases, because our budget can only fit in a limited number of support staff. She has done some of our interviews, but she isn’t always available. She isn’t toda
y, for instance. And I want to do these particular interviews myself, because even if she did a good prelim, which she would, Joe or I would have to follow up. We have to look these people in the eye, read their body language, use our own bullshit detectors to determine if they are for real and can help us, or will blow up in our face.

  I like getting out and doing this stuff. Confinement in the office is becoming claustrophobic. I can feel my baby inside me, growing every day. So far, I’ve been able to hide my pregnancy, but soon I’m going to show. I’ve already constructed an elaborate fabric of lies to cover my real situation. My boyfriend/fiancé/partner and I aren’t getting married, at least not yet. Plenty of people don’t get married, and they raise fine, healthy, well-adjusted children. Look at all the lesbian and gay parents out there. The single women who adopt. Life is a mosaic, a multilayered tapestry of arrangements. We’re one more patch in that enormous quilt.

  I cruise down Whittier Boulevard. I have XM Satellite Radio, which I’ve tuned to a classic soul station. I’m in a Smokey Robinson mood today. The air-conditioning in my car is blasting cold air, which is vital for my well-being. Since I’ve become pregnant, my body has started overheating, a hormonal reaction, I assume. I’ll ask Dr. Schwartzman on my next visit.

  I turn off Whittier, drive north, then left at the side street I’ve written down. Garfield High School, a megacampus of almost five thousand students, is a couple blocks away. Half a mile past that is East Los Angeles Junior College. Both, high school and college, are almost completely Latino, predominantly Mexican with smatterings of other Central American countries—Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras—mixed in. A city within a city, a country within a country.

  I’m a stranger here, an interloper. It’s a weird feeling to have in the place you have called home your entire life. Not queasy or threatening, but definitely foreign. I wonder how I would feel being here at night, especially if unescorted. Nervous, I’m sure. I don’t plan on coming here after dark, so I won’t find out.