Blessed are the Meek (10 page)

 

Chapter 20

A
S SOON AS
the door slams shut, I tell Troutman my concerns—­I don't want Donovan to look bad—­or like he is in cahoots with Annalisa, God forbid. I talk quickly. It's already eight fifteen. I have to leave in the next half hour to get to my meeting at the Berkeley Pier on time.

Troutman bites his lip for a minute, thinking.

“I think that Sean's showing up at her house offering to help shows his good character, so you spin it that way. Tell them that your boyfriend is the kind of guy who will go out of his way to help old friends,” he says.

“They'll know I'm ‘spinning' it, as you say.”

“True. But if this did—­and this is a big if—­ever go to trial, we can refer to this interview and use that in our case.”

My face grows warm with the realization that a trial is even a possibility. I don't even ask whether he means my trial or Donovan's. Nicole said Donovan's name had come up in this investigation, as well. I swallow and nod. Eight thirty comes and goes.

The detectives are taking their sweet time coming back into the room. Are they doing that to try to wear me down? Taking smoke breaks? Having breakfast? Whatever they are doing, I'm beyond irritated.

At five to nine, my irritation turns to anger. I'm going to miss my meeting with the man at the Berkeley Pier unless I leave
right
now. It might be my only chance to meet with this man who claims to know something about what happened to Caterina. Instead, I'm stuck in a grimy interview room answering idiotic questions.

I pace. “Do I have to stay here? I'm not under arrest am I?”

“Let's be cooperative for now. But when they come back in, I'll tell them it's over.”

I sink back into the chair. What the hell has that redheaded cop got against me? I think he hates me because I'm a reporter. Plain and simple. And maybe because I'm dating a cop. I've infiltrated their inclusive little world. Nicole said the cop had it out for Donovan, too. That's probably why that cop hates Donovan, too—­for dating a reporter. It's not the first time I've seen this.

One of my worst experiences dating Donovan was when he invited me to a birthday party for a fellow officer. The cops had rented a union hall for the party. When I showed up on Donovan's arm, everyone stared. All the cops' wives' glances toward me might as well have been daggers through my heart.

The worst part was that so many cops I considered friends acted like I was invisible. They sat there with their wives and brushed off my attempts at normal conversation, even going so far as to walk away. These cops, my good sources, whom I talked to on the phone daily, pretended like we'd just met. I was furious. Wimps. Every last one of them.

And forget trying to be nice to the wives. My efforts to strike up a conversation were ignored. They acted like they didn't even hear me and started talking to each other about something else. It was humiliating. Even though I came on the arm of a cop, I was a pariah.

A reporter! Who dared to dress up for a party by wearing high heels instead of loafers! Treason! There was one wife who was nice to me. Unlike the other wives, she wore a slinky dress, and her laughter could be heard throughout the room. Everyone loves Claudia. She's friends with all the cops
and
their wives. At one point, she took me aside and whispered drunkenly in my ear, “Oh fuck those bitches if they don't like you. I think you're swell.”

I'll be forever grateful to her.

The door opens, and the detectives walk in. I push back my chair so forcefully it tips over. Troutman grabs my arm.

“Listen, I'm out of here,” I say, shrugging my jacket on. “I'm missing a very important meeting.”

“I'm sorry, miss,” the older cop, Gold, says. “We think a murder might be a little more important than any appointment you might have. Time is of the essence. There's a killer out there, and it's our job to stop him.”

“Or
her
,” adds Jack Sullivan, giving me a nasty smirk. He presses
RECORD
on the machine and continues his questions. Troutman gently puts his hand on my arm, and I sink back into my seat, feeling the frustration and anxiety and anger boiling up inside me. I jiggle my leg and tap my fingers on the table. I need to get the hell out of here. Before the man leaves the pier.

The clock strikes nine. I still have a sliver of hope. Maybe if I leave right now, the man will still be there waiting. I fidget in my chair as they think up more inane questions to ask me. Troutman holds up his palm to calm me. It doesn't work. Going over what I've already told them three times. I stand and pace, refusing to sit down again.

By nine thirty, when they finally are done, I know it's too late. I wouldn't make it to the Berkeley Pier until ten. And that is if there is no traffic. Which, of course, is highly unlikely. If I speed, and there's no traffic I could maybe, maybe make it an hour after I was supposed to be there. Nobody, especially a wary source, would wait that long.

“I told you everything I know yesterday.” I say, glaring. “Why don't you just find the woman in the black bikini? Why don't you concentrate on talking to Annalisa Cruz? She saw him last, not me. I'm sure her DNA is all over him.”

Troutman places his hand on my arm. “Only a few more minutes, love,” he says, and turns to the detectives. “My client is right. Unless you have another question to ask right now, it's time for her to leave. She's been here long enough.”

“We'll decide what long enough is, pal,” says Sullivan in a huff.

Troutman remains unruffled. “Unless my client is under arrest, I see no reason for you to keep her here any longer. She's been extremely cooperative and done everything she can to help you in your investigation.”

Harry Gold, the detective from Napa, gives the other cop a look, and says, “Okay. Thank you. We'll be in touch.”

“I hope not.”

And just as quickly, they both leave the room. I'm free to go.

D
ONOVAN
IS WAITING
in the lobby.

“Good Lord! I thought that would never end. I can't believe we missed the meeting. I'm
furious.
”

“I thought about going anyway,” Donovan says. “But it probably would've scared him off if you weren't there.”

“Yeah, he seems skittish. I can't believe they think I had something to do with—­you know . . .” I say, trailing off when I see other ­people in the lobby staring at me. Troutman shakes his head in warning.

But Donovan knows what I mean.

“They've got nothing. Don't worry.”

I nod. I hope he's right.

“I need to get to work.”

He wraps his arm around me. I shrink into the embrace, relief seeping through me. I'm not in this alone. Still, anxiety surges through me.
I was just questioned by detectives in a murder case.
I scream it inside my head. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I need something to tamp down the fear and nervousness coursing through me.

“Can you please take me somewhere to get a drink?”

He raises his eyebrows. I glance at the clock. Not even ten.

“How about some caffeine?”

At the door, we both shake Troutman's hand.

“Thanks for coming,” Donovan says.

“No problem, but I'm not sure they're done with her,” Troutman says. “You're going to have to find another attorney next time—­if there is a next time,” he adds, seeing my startled expression. “Otherwise, it might be considered a conflict of interest.”

His words don't really sink in until we are in Donovan's small Saab.

“Wait a minute, what did he mean conflict? He's representing Annalisa Cruz?” Did Donovan bring him in to help his ex-­girlfriend, too?

“No. Annalisa hired some high-­powered Los Angeles defense attorney.”

Donovan turns away as he maneuvers out of his parking spot.

“So what's the conflict of interest?”

“He's already representing me.”

Apparently, the San Francisco police were being kind waiting to question me in the morning. They didn't give Donovan the same consideration. They hauled him in at midnight and were finishing up with him when I arrived. That's why Troutman beat me there. He'd been there all night.

 

Chapter 21

I
WANT TO
go back to bed, but instead, I order a triple shot of espresso at my favorite North Beach cafe, kiss Donovan good-­bye, and head to work. Once there, I finish my story on Sebastian Laurent. I'd been waiting to talk to his family, but nobody has returned my calls, so I'll have to run the story without their comments. Which sucks. His family swooped into town from France, had him cremated, and left town with his ashes. No memorial ser­vice. Sadly, my big story on him is now old news in light of the mayor's murder.

Adam Grant's murder—­and its repercussions—­will take up the bulk of this Sunday's front page. Four reporters in our newsroom have been assigned stories on Grant. I don't tell Kellogg I was called in again for questioning, so he's still letting me write a story about the mayor as a person, not a politician. Lisa's got the political angle.

Maybe if I don't say that I was brought in for questioning out loud, that big leaden weight in my stomach will go away faster. Every time I think about this morning, an adrenaline shot of fear races through me. I quickly shake it off, reminding myself that the cops are desperate, but that doesn't mean they can find anything to make a murder rap stick. Because there's nothing there. You can't arrest someone for murder without solid evidence, right? At least that's what I've always believed covering the cops beat. But what if I'm wrong?

And why are they after Donovan? How can they be looking at him in connection with the murder? He left the party hours before I did. Then, I remember trying to call his cell and his not answering. He would never kill someone.

But he has,
a tiny voice says.
And so have you.
But only bad guys. But who or what is a bad guy? It's a term children use. Bad guy or not, does anyone deserve to die at the hands of another?

To shake off these thoughts, I focus on work. I make a list of ­people to talk to about Grant, including Annalisa. This time when I call, she picks up on the first ring. Choking on her sobs, she tells me how Adam Grant was one of the finest men she's ever known.

“He didn't deserve to die,” she says. “He was going to be president. He was going to change this world.”

I'm not so sure about any of that, but I bite my tongue. She bursts into tears and hangs up without saying any more. It sounded pretty convincing over the phone, but I suppose if you were facing a murder rap, you'd put on the best performance of your life.

Later, at my desk, I hear Code 3 calls from fire and rescue squads in Moraga. I turn up the scanner. It sounds like a trench collapsed around a worker laying pipes at a construction site. I dial Chris Lopez's cell phone.

“C-­Lo, hear that?” He's never without a small earbud headphone trailing down to the police scanner clipped to his belt.

“Yo, man,” he says. “I'm on it. I'm in the side lot smoking a heater. What's your 10-­20?”

“Meet me at my car. I'll drive.”

I'm relieved that there is something to do besides wait around, hoping that the guy with info on Caterina calls back.

Lopez and I share a special bond.

He's ex–Green Beret and packs heat wherever he goes. Rumor has it he saw some nasty shit in Vietnam. He's one guy you want on your side. He's wasting his talents at the
Bay Herald
—­he should be off in foreign countries covering war zones. But after a three-­month stint for the paper in Afghanistan, he decided he missed his elderly mother too much to be that far away.

Lopez was with me the night we hunted down Jack Dean Johnson at his lair on Fort Ord, an abandoned military base. At the time, I thought Johnson was responsible for Caterina's death. Donovan ended up at the scene, as well, but Lopez was the one I called. He's had my back for years. Sometimes I think my relationship with Lopez makes Donovan jealous although he'd never admit it.

Lopez and I are the first news­people to arrive at the scene. Construction workers were digging a long, waist-­high trench when the dirt shifted and buried one man up to his armpits. From where we are, across a small grassy area, we can see the man's shoulders and head sticking out of the dirt. ­People crouch down beside him, monitoring his vital signs.

“Extracting him is a little tricky,” Rick Mason from the Moraga Fire Department tells the reporters gathered on the lawn. “They're afraid if they shift the dirt too much or too fast, the trench will collapse even further. They're trying to dig around and free him up, but it's a lot more difficult than you would think. We're calling in our special trench-­rescue team.”

I've been with the newspaper for six years but never knew there was a team trained for trench rescues. I scribble a note to do a story on them another day.

The media is kept about thirty feet away. Lopez, who has more energy than a three-­year-­old hopped up on Halloween candy, can't sit still. Frustrated that he can't get closer to the scene to take photos, he paces, smoking cigarette after cigarette and muttering to himself. My fingers itch to bum one from him.

I hide from the sun under a leafy tree. Lopez climbs the tree and fires off snapshots with his telephoto lens. Even from afar, the man's face looks pained as rescuers tilt back his head to give him water.

A long, slow hour passes. I can't understand what's taking so long. A few reporters I know are here, so we make small talk, joking about a recent prostitution sting and how one young, hot-­blooded deputy went undercover and was teased mercilessly about it afterward. Heads swivel at a commotion by the hole. Bodies are a blur, running, moving, crouching. Then, all movement stops. I arch my neck, trying to see, but legs rooted near the trench block my view.

The sudden silence hits me right in the chest. The legs step away seemingly in slow motion. A small white tarp covers a mound where the man's head had been. The men look down as they walk away without speaking, shaking their heads, some swiping at their eyes.

I can't even comprehend what I am seeing. I sat there, joking around and laughing. All of the reporters did, waiting for the man to be rescued, not realizing it was a life-­and-­death situation. Not realizing it for one second. How could he have died? We all just watched a man die.

Rick Mason comes over, grim-­faced, and says he will fax over a press release by the end of the day. He walks away in a daze. He's not ready to talk about it, either. He just watched a man die. Up close.

Lopez and I are somber as we walk back to my car, parked on a nearby street.

“Man, that's a shitty break for that guy,” Lopez says, putting a cigarette between his lips and offering the pack to me. “Want a heater?” I shake my head. “Guess the pressure on his chest was too much. Shut him down.”

I nod, afraid to speak. When we get to my car, it takes me a minute to process what I see. My car is slumped low to the ground. All four tires are slashed. I see something glinting in the sunlight. A shiny police badge is trapped under one windshield wiper. For some reason, it gives me the chills. It says
ROSARI
TO POLICE DEPARTMENT
. Donovan's department.

Is it a sign? A warning? Is it from someone who thinks I killed Adam Grant? Some cop from Donovan's department making a statement? If they thought Donovan was dating a murderer, I could think of half a dozen cops at Rosarito who would be rubbing their hands together, waiting to see me behind bars.

I slip the badge out from under the windshield wiper and stick it in my jacket pocket. I finger it. It feels weighty, real, but I've heard about ­people getting caught with fake badges before.

Lopez lifts an eyebrow. “What the hell, man?”

T
HE TOW-­TRUCK DRIV
ER
drives us to the newsroom. The mechanic promises that the garage will drop off my car in the paper's parking lot by six tonight. I've been going to the same garage for years because of little individual touches like this.

The Moraga Police Department was not the least bit interested in my punctured tires. A bored beat cop came out to the newsroom to take a report, but only after I insisted. “Probably some punk kids,” he said. His lackluster attitude made me clam up about the police badge.

But I know. Somebody is trying to send me a message, and it's not a message I want to receive.