From Barcelona, with Love (34 page)

“And now it has to be undone,” Mac said. “And to do that, we have to clear your name. I believe Peretti killed those two people. What I can't explain is
why
he did it. Not only that, he has an alibi for that night; he was at home in Palm Springs.”

“Peretti always had a answer for everything,” Bibi said bitterly.

He leaned toward her, searching her face. “Bibi, there has to be something you remember, some strange thing about that night, or about Peretti's behavior, even before that … something—anything—however small and unimportant it might have seemed at the time. You have to search your memory, think back to that night, put yourself back there in time, in that place. Remember, however small a detail, it could mean something to us. To Paloma's future.”

Bibi closed her eyes and leaned back against the sofa cushions. She tugged the scrunchie from her ponytail, and let her hair fall free, shaking away the lurking headache.

She remembered she'd had a headache that night when she'd gone to visit her friend Brandi. Her head was pounding so badly then, she had not even taken a sip of the wine, the Sauvignon Blanc that was her favorite. She could picture the scene quite clearly: Brandi sprawling on the white sofa in her small apartment just off the Sunset Strip, her physical assets lavishly displayed in a leopard-print low-cut top and skin-tight leggings.

“I don't know why,” Bibi said, puzzled, “but somehow I'd never thought of Brandi as a tart, I mean she always showed up in regular clothes, y'know, a cami and a cardigan, a pair of expensive pants, gold hoops and a lot of gold bracelets. That kind of Beverly Hills housewife look. Though of course I knew she was no Beverly Hills housewife, just an aspiring actress. At least that's what she told me.”

“She invited you over?”

Bibi looked at him, startled, she'd thought he'd known all the circumstances. Which of course Mac did but he wanted it from the horse's mouth. “Oh, no. I'd found out about her and Wally.…”

“Your boyfriend,” Mac said helpfully.

“You might call him that. Anyway, I'd found out and I was in a tearing rage, humiliated, ready to kill her.…”

Rodolfo said quickly, “She didn't mean that.”

“I understand,” Mac said.

Bibi shrugged. “Anyhow, by the time I got there and saw her, looking so … so well,
unremarkable,
and kind of slutty, all that anger had drained away. I really didn't care. I didn't care about Wally either. I was sick of both of them. And especially of Peretti.

“And then Brandi said she was fucking Peretti too, and I just stood there, looking at her, and I knew it was true. It was Peretti who'd told me about her and Wally, and now she was telling me about her and Peretti, and I was thinking why am I involved with these corrupt people? Why do I even
know
them? If it were not for Peretti I would never have called them my friends. And my daughter, my poor little Paloma, has this man for a stepfather, and she's met these immoral evil people in
my home,
her
own home
…”

“So you didn't put anything in Brandi's wine?”

“I was angry, Mac Reilly, but I'm no killer. And by then I didn't care who Brandi was screwing, or Wally, or Peretti. I just wanted out. And that is what I did. I turned and walked out.”

“What's your last memory, before you walked out on Brandi?”

Bibi thought for a minute. “That she had been drinking. Before I got there, I mean. The wine bottle was almost empty and her glass was half full. I remember the lipstick on the rim.”

“And you did not drink any wine?”

“Nothing.”

“So you just went back home?”

“I drove back, alone. Yes.”

“What car were you driving?”

“The dark gray Lexus SUV I always drive. The blue Bentley was Peretti's idea. He was always flashy, always trying to make an impression, the kind of man who over-tipped the maître d' and was abusive to waiters.”

Mac knew exactly the type she meant.

“So, where was the Bentley that night?”

Bibi frowned, trying to remember. “I guess it was in the garage. The house had three garages, each quite separate. It was an old house and that's just the way things worked out garage-wise.”

“So you didn't actually see the Bentley when you returned from Brandi's.”

“No. I did not.” Bibi sighed. “But I already told the police that.”

“I know, I know.” Mac patted her hand consolingly. “Have patience with me, we're getting somewhere with this. So, the Bentley might have already been gone. The wine was already drunk. And where was Peretti when all this was going on?”

Bibi shook her head, mystified. “He said he was in Palm Springs, with the dog. That bastard old pit bull,” she added, frowning at the memory.

She suddenly sat up straighter. “You know something weird, though? The next morning—the morning after the murders—I got a call from our local vet. He told me they had the body of a dog there. A pit bull. Someone out hiking in the hills behind my house had found it and brought it in. It had been mauled by coyotes. He traced it to Peretti through a microchip in its ear. He wanted to know if Peretti would come and claim it, or should he dispose of it. I gave him Peretti's number in Palm Springs and told him to ask him.”

“This is the dog who was Peretti's shadow,” Mac said. “The dog who never left his side. Without whom Peretti never made a move.”

“Yes,” she said simply.

Mac knew Peretti was there at the Hollywood house the night of the murders. He could have done it. What he did not have was a motive, and he asked Bibi for that now.

“You must know the reason he'd kill your lover, and his woman,” he said. “You know Peretti well enough to understand his every move.”

Bibi's eyes widened as she thought about what Mac had said. “I always believed Peretti was mentally disturbed,” she said finally. “The sudden rages, the screaming and shouting, followed by terrifying silences. He was jealous of my success, jealous that I was the one in the limelight, the one treated like a star.” She shook her head. “I'm not saying that to show off, Mac Reilly, it's simply the way it was and Peretti couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand being Mr. Bibi Fortunata. He wanted to be who I was, and he wanted my success and my money. And he told me so. He told me he'd only married me for what I
was,
not
who
I was, that I was really nothing.”

Mac understood the psychology of a man like that. He'd wanted her to suffer for a lifetime. He'd wanted to see her ruined. His satisfaction would come from seeing her jailed for life, her beauty gone, her talent destroyed. Peretti was a sociopath, a killer in disguise as a well-heeled man about town.

There was no doubt Peretti still burned with that anger and hatred for Bibi, and since Bibi had disappeared, the only way he had left to get at her, was through her daughter Paloma.

It was Bibi Peretti really wanted to kill, but he'd come up with an even better way to destroy her, and get his hands on her money. Peretti knew that once he got Paloma, if she were still alive Bibi could be forced out of hiding, and this time he'd make sure she ended up in jail for two murders. And he'd get away scot-free.

 

Chapter 53

Rodolfo went to
sit next to Bibi, on Juan Pedro's sofa, where the fat old cat Magre used to snuggle against his master, right up until the night he died. There was no sadness in this room of Juan Pedro's, only a sense of ease, of a contented man who'd left a legacy of a life well lived, a man who loved his children, difficult though they might have been, and who had dearly loved his wives, but most especially, in the end, Lorenza.

Rodolfo looked at Bibi. She was leaning forward, chin in her hand, lost in memories too.

“How I wish my father still was here,” she said, taking Rodolfo's hand and gripping it tightly. She met his eyes, both remembering. Then she turned to Mac.

“I trust you,” she said finally. “I'll go back with you to Hollywood, face the police again. I'll do whatever you say, but first I must see my daughter. I have to be with Paloma, to explain, so she'll understand why I did this to her.”

“Paloma will understand,” Rodolfo said. “She's very like her mother, that girl.”

Bibi smiled for the first time that night. “And maybe her father too,” she added quietly.

Mac caught what she said. Paloma's father had never been mentioned up to now. It was simply taken for granted there was no father, at least no one who counted enough in Bibi's life to let him near her daughter. He wondered again how Bibi had ended up with a maniac like Peretti. Any other father would have been better. The story of the Russian dancer absconding from the ballet company was obviously one of those myths Bibi invented to keep the truth a secret. And that was her privilege. Until, of course, her daughter started to ask questions, as one day she would, and wanted to meet her father.

Mac got Sunny on the phone. “Where are you?”

“Barcelona, in a hotel. Actually we're eating paella in an outdoor café, watching the boats, and the flamenco dancers. It's great fun.”

“Sunny!”

“Ooops, sorry. But Paloma is having a good time, she's safe, right here with me and Ali. And Lorenza.”

Mac put Lorenza out of his mind for the moment and brought Sunny up to date on Peretti. “I spoke with Lev,” he told her. “He alerted the Turin cops, who've already alerted the Spanish Guardia. They'll meet the flight and arrest Peretti. And now Bibi wants to see her daughter. She needs to explain.”

“A reunion!” Sunny whispered into her phone because she didn't want the others to catch what she was saying, not until she had it all fixed, about Bibi and Paloma.

“I want you to bring Paloma here, right away,” Mac said. “Later, I'll take Bibi back to L.A. to face the past. I'll be waiting for you, outside the house.”

“We're in Lorenza's car, she says the guardian knows it, he'll let us in,” Sunny said.

“I just want you and Paloma. No Lorenza. Okay?”

Sunny nodded into her phone. She understood, but she didn't quite know what to say to Paloma. “What shall I tell her?”

Mac said, “Tell her you're taking her home, and I will be waiting for her.”

 

Chapter 54

The old house
was so silent you could hear every clock tick: the French ormolu on the mantel, the gilded Venetian one in the salon, the British grandfather with the solid brass movement, made in England a hundred and fifty years ago.

Bibi thought the minutes had never gone so slowly. Every second seemed an eternity.

Mac waited outside. Rodolfo stood by the window, looking at the dead fountain illuminated in the faint bluish light from the moon. He turned abruptly away. “I'll wait outside with Mac,” he said.

“No! Rodolfo, please don't leave me.”

“I thought you'd want to see her alone, it's such a private moment, so important in both your lives.”

“I
need
you,” Bibi said simply, and he went over to her and took her hand in both his, and kissed it.

“I'll never leave you, you know that,” he said, just as tires scrunched on the gravel. There was the sound of doors slamming, women's voices. And a child's.

Bibi's face lit with a mixture of panic and happiness. Now the moment was here, she didn't know how to handle it. She said, “Rodolfo, whatever shall I do?”

“Listen to what she has to say,” he advised. “Explanations will not be needed, all Paloma wants right now is her mother back.” He patted her hands again and went to open the door. “And the father,” he said, turning to look at Bibi. “Maybe it's time now, that she knew about him.”

Mac and Sunny were standing on the steps, with Paloma between them. There was a smile on the child's face and she brimmed with excitement about the daring exploits of the night: running away, the hotel, the boats and flamenco dancers, the paella.

“Rodolfo,” she cried. “Are we having a party?”

“Kind of,” Mac answered for Rodolfo. “Go with Rodolfo, sweetheart. He'll take care of everything now.”

Paloma turned to him, suddenly panicked. “Oh, but no,
you
are taking care of everything,” she said. “You promised to find my mom.
You promised.
”

She clung to him. His eyes met Sunny's across Paloma's ragged red head.

“Remember, I always keep my promises,” he said, and unraveling her arms he gave her a little push toward Rodolfo, who grabbed her hand, took her inside, and closed the door.

Sunny sank onto the steps. Mac sat next to her. Allie and Lorenza waited in the car.

“I don't think I can bear the suspense,” Sunny said.

Mac put an arm around her. He kissed her cheek. “It'll be okay. Trust me.” And finally reprieved from his silence, he got on the phone to his friend at the L.A. police department, and began to fill him in on his strange story of Peretti and Turin and the arrest, and the dog and the Hollywood Hills murder.

*   *   *

Paloma was still
clutching Rodolfo's hand when she walked into her grandfather's old study and saw Bibi standing there. There was an explosion of happiness inside her head, her brain seemed to go on “hold,” rainbows of colors flitted before her eyes. Her heart thudded, her knees shook, but she did not cry. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stop the scream, stood rooted to the spot, then rushed into her mother's arms.

*   *   *

She's grown,
Bibi thought. She's not the same little girl I left. How could she be, she's nine years old now and there's a big difference between seven and nine. Inches taller, and skinny with it. But she knew her daughter, knew the fresh smell of her skin, her carrot-red hair, she
knew
her as only her mother could. There was no going back now, only going forward, together, she and her girl, forward with the truth. With honesty. With love.