Blessed are the Meek (15 page)

 

Chapter 32

T
HE ROILING CLOUDS
whipping in from the Pacific Ocean turn a clear, starry night into darkness in an instant. I nearly miss the entrance to the park. My headlights catch a small wooden sign in time for me to sharply make the left turn. The road winds steeply up the hillside, flanked by tall pines and redwoods. Every once in a while, the moon peeks out from the clouds, bathing the looming trees in light, but for the most part, the forested area is coated a deep black full of even darker shadows.

On the freeway, I called C-­Lo but he didn't pick up. I left a message telling him to meet me at the park as soon as he could. I've realized this past year that I need to be more careful and let ­people know when and where I'm going. I owe that to Donovan and my family.

As my old Volvo chugs up the steep road, I dial Lopez again. When his voice mail picks up, I leave him another message asking him to call.

My nerves are on edge tonight. And it's not because I'm worried about meeting this guy. He seems harmless. Sort of grandfatherly. And although I don't like his choice of meeting spots, I'm learning to trust my gut instinct—­he wants to help me—­not hurt me. I'm certain of it. Besides, this might be my last chance. If I don't show tonight, he might be scared off and never call back, disappearing forever with his information. I wish Donovan could be here with me. He'd drop everything. I know it.

Thinking of Donovan in jail makes my stomach hurt, so I push those thoughts aside. A thrill of fear and excitement makes me press my foot down hard on the accelerator. I'm about to get the answers I've been waiting for my whole life.

At the top of the windy road is a parking lot. My headlights illuminate one other vehicle in the parking lot, a Jeep Cherokee. I pull up beside it and peer into the driver's seat. It's hard to see much in the dark, but it's obvious the vehicle is empty. A water bottle and what looks like a jacket is on a picnic table a few feet away near the head of a hiking trail. A small wooden structure with bathrooms is to the right of the table. He's probably in there. I wait a few minutes. Nothing. Then, I roll down my window. The air is warm, still, without even the slightest breeze.

“Hello?” My voice echoes in the silence. A flicker of apprehension runs through me. I'm a few minutes early. Maybe he's not here yet and that Cherokee belongs to someone taking a night hike. It's been known to happen around here although I've never understood the appeal.

Keeping my gaze on the empty lot in front of me, I rummage in my glove box, hunting for a crumpled pack of old cigarettes. Bingo. They're probably stale, but I'll take it. A cigarette might subdue the butterflies in my stomach. What is this guy going to tell me about Caterina? I light my cigarette and get out of my car, closing the door softly behind me. I'll sit at the picnic table, smoke, and wait for my source.

For some reason, the eerie silence makes me hesitant to make any noise. My footsteps are inaudible as I make my way over to the picnic table. I'm almost there when my phone, in my jacket pocket, rings, startling me so much I jump. It must be C-­Lo.

“Giovanni.” I don't know why, but I whisper.

“Why didn't you show up the other day? I got better things to do than sit around a fishing pier waiting for you.”

“What? Then who —­?”

A hand clamps down over my mouth. I struggle and try to scream, but the sound dies in my throat as sharp pain overtakes me, and the world grows black.

 

Chapter 33

I
WAKE IN
a hospital bed. I can tell by the smell before I even open my eyes. The back of my head feels as if someone is using it as a conga drum.

“Giovanni?” A man's voice sounds like it is coming from far away.

I blink and try to focus. Why is Donovan calling me by my last name? As I focus, I realize the blurry shape in front of my face is not my boyfriend. It's Lopez. He's so close, it startles me for a second. He jerks back.

“Sorry, man. Wasn't sure if you were awake.”

“C-­Lo?” The word comes out thickly as my fuzzy brain tries to piece together what's going on.

Then I remember. Donovan is behind bars. I'm in the hospital. I came in an ambulance last night. Or was it yesterday?

“What happened? I was at the park to meet that man about Caterina—­“

“You got a little whack across the back of the head. Lucky some hot-­blooded teenagers were looking for a place to neck.”

“Huh?”

“Some Orinda kids. Pulled into the parking lot in time to see dude standing over you. Man, he was up to no good. He had rope and duct tape. Jumped into his car and peeled out of there like a bat out of hell. The teenage girl is a sharp one. She tried to copy down his license-­plate number, but there was mud smeared all over it. It was so dark, she couldn't even give the cop shop enough description for a composite. There's an APB out for the dude now, but they aren't working with much.”

I vaguely remember two kids kneeling down over me when I came to. The girl covered me with her coat. I wonder if I can get her name to thank her. I remember her soothing voice and smoothing my hair back from my face so sweetly, telling me the ambulance was on its way.

“It was a Jeep Cherokee,” I say, and try to sit up. A black fuzzy circle begins to close in around my vision. I lean back and close my eyes. “When can I leave?”

Lopez shrugs, then punches the chair beside him.

“I should've been there. I was hanging with my lady friend. Didn't answer my phone.” A blush creeps up his cheeks, something I've never seen.

“Lady friend?” I say with a big smile. He grimaces, so I give him a break and change the subject. “What time is it?”

“Midnight. You got a concussion. They want to keep you overnight for observation.”

“How could I be out for so long?”

“Dude injected you with some shit in a needle—­docs say sodium pentothal.”

The name makes me sit up straight, which sends a wave of dizziness through me.

“Didn't have a chance to give you all of it, those kids pulled up. Needle was sticking out of your arm. Only a little bit was in you. The girl yanked the hypo out, or you'd probably be in worse shape. Maybe dead.”

I close my eyes for a minute.
Sodium pentothal?
Lopez doesn't say a word. I crack one eye to look at him. “What is it? What aren't you telling me, C-­Lo?”

“Nothing, man.” He looks away for a minute, chewing his lip, then turns to me. Here it is. What he was going to say. “It's just that it's too bad your boy's in the clink. I'm sure he's going to go ape shit when he finds out what happened to you.”

There's not a lot of love lost between Lopez and Donovan, but I'm touched he feels bad Donovan's been arrested.

“He didn't do it, you know,” I say.

Lopez shrugs. “Hey, man it's none of my business. Want me to call your ma or something?”

“Mother Mary, no. That's the last thing I need. You go on home to your lady friend. I'm going back to sleep. I'll be fine.”

I'd already ignored calls from my mother yesterday. I'm not ready to talk to her about Donovan's arrest. Not yet.

“Sorry,
chica,
but I'm sticking around. I'm going down to get a refill on this black sludge they call coffee, then I'm going to sit right here reading my new Vince Flynn novel. You better call someone in your family.”

I roll my eyes.

“That's not right. They need to know. If you don't, I will.”

I can tell he means it. “Fine.” My phone is on the table near my bed. It shows I have a message from last night. I press the phone to my ear and lean back into my pillow. It's a news clerk at the paper.

“Are you okay?” she says. “I got a really weird call. This man called and said he was talking to you on the phone, and it disconnected. He was worried about you. Told me to call 911.”

At her words, more about what happened in the park comes back to me. The man who had information about Caterina wasn't the one who called and told me to meet him at the park. I wince, replaying our conversation. I made it so easy my attacker: assuming he was the informant and even going so far as offering to meet with him. So, who the hell was it? The killer? They found a needle with the same drug found in Laurent's blood. A wave of exhaustion hits me, and I close my eyes. “Let me take a little nap,” I say to Lopez. “Then I'll call my brother.”

The next time I open my eyes, the sun is streaming through the blinds. Lopez is beside me in the chair, tapping his fingers. “Morning.”

It's a regular party in my hospital room. Moretti is here, probably on police business, and good Lord, my brother, Dante, is, also, here.

“Hey, kiddo,” Moretti says. “How's the noggin? When you feel up to it, I'm here to get your statement. Hope you're not planning on making this a habit. This is round two for us.”

He was the one who took my statement at the hospital last year after Jack Dean Johnson attacked me at the Oakland harbor.

Moretti is in his trademark Armani suit. And even though he wears his expensive black shoes with the built-­in platform heels, my brother still towers over him.

Dante is glowering and pacing. He's wearing slacks and a blazer, but he looks like he's warming up for a boxing match, taking shots. Dante is a lawyer, but also an amateur boxer.

We've had a rough year. Last year, before beating me up, Jack Dean Johnson kidnapped Dante's daughter, my niece, Sofia, to try to get back at me. I found Sofia and stabbed Johnson to death to stop him from shooting Donovan. I was too late. Luckily, Donovan was wearing a bulletproof vest.

Sofia has always reminded me of my sister, Caterina, but in looks only. Sofia is fierce and stubborn and strong. Caterina was quiet and shy and meek. I always wonder if that difference is what kept Sofia alive until I could find her, but I'll never know.

Dante continues pacing. An unlit cigarette dangles between his lips. He's swearing in Italian. I guess I'm lucky my brother Marco isn't here, too. As if reading my mind, Dante brings up our oldest brother. “As soon as Marco and I get ahold of that
putano,
he's going to regret ever fucking with the Giovanni family.”

“Dante?” I say. He ignores me. “Did you forget that Lieutenant Moretti is a cop? You better watch what you say.”

“He's only saying what I'm thinking,” Moretti says. Dante gives him an appraising look, then turns his attention back to me.

“Ella, going up to meet that guy was a knuckle-­headed move on your part.” His eyes narrow as he says this. Guilt instantly floods through me.

“I got caught up in the thought that he might be able to tell me something about what happened to Caterina.”

“Yeah, well, it looks like he was trying to
show
you what happened to Caterina. In person like. You know?”

“But it ends up the real guy—­the one who called and wanted to give me the information—­that's a whole different man,” I say. “And when he calls back—­
if
he calls back—­I'm going to meet with him. In a safer place, yes, but I am going to meet with him. No matter what.”

Dante walks over and grabs my hand, rubbing my fingers in his. “Listen, I'm not going to chew your ass for this in front of everyone, but you need to promise me you'll be more careful. Okay?” His voice grows soft on the last word.

“Yes.” My voice is firm. “I know. I promise I'll be more careful.”

He smiles and starts to turn away, but then I add, “But I can't turn my back on information about Caterina. You understand this, don't you, Dante? You of all ­people—­you understand this, right?”

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard and nods. He knows what I mean. I won't be foolish, but I'm no longer putting my head in the sand, either. He turns away. We have an understanding.

Moretti leans in toward me. “Gabriella, do you feel up to talking about this yet?”

“Yeah, let's get it over with.” Lopez reaches down and grabs my hand. “Stay out of trouble, man. You had me worried.”

I gratefully squeeze his fingers good-­bye.

Before he leaves, Dante leans down and whispers in my ear. “That guy better hope me and Marco never find him because we will fuck his shit up.”

A
FTER
M
ORETTI
LEAVES,
a nurse and doctor come in. They tell me they are going to keep me here a day for observation and say I'm lucky there doesn't appear to be any permanent damage.

“We'll do another MRI tomorrow, and if everything looks good, you'll go home then,” the doctor says. She walks out before I can protest. I need to leave this morning. Donovan's arraignment is today. I'm going to get dressed and get the hell out of here. I have to be there for Donovan. I pull myself up to a sitting position and realize I'm not going anywhere. The pounding in my head makes me lie back down.

I hate to admit it, but I know another day of drugs for this incredible pain in my head will be welcome. And I'm so tired I feel like I could sleep until tomorrow.

I
CALL
T
RO
UTMAN
and get his voice mail. I explain what is going on. I hate asking him to tell Donovan why I can't be there.

“I'm totally fine, really. Will you please tell him not to worry?” I say. “And tell him when he gets out that I'm in room 507 at the Pleasant Valley Medical Center.”

I'm asleep later when my phone rings. It's Troutman. I blink looking at the clock, wondering why he's calling and why Donovan isn't here yet.

Donovan was arraigned. He pleaded not guilty. The judge denied bail. He was charged with first-­degree murder. My hand involuntarily flies to my mouth when I hear this. Denied bail and charged?

It doesn't seem real. How could Donovan be charged with murder? It's a mistake. He's being framed. His preliminary hearing has been set for next month. It makes my stomach flip-­flop to imagine him in jail that long. I can't understand why he was denied bail—­he's a police officer, for Christ's sake. But Troutman says that is exactly why the judge thought he might be a flight risk. That doesn't make sense to me.

“What evidence do they have against him? I can't imagine they have a single thing on him besides their idiotic theory and that batty old blind lady witness.”

“They got something else,” Troutman says in a quiet voice. “They served search warrants at Sean's apartment and his locker at work.”

“And?”

“They found a vial of sodium pentothal and a needle in his locker.”

A cold chill races through me.

“Detectives asked to rush tox on the victim in your apartment. But there was a needle on the floor by your bed. Came back positive for the drug.”

Heat races up my neck at the same time I shiver with cold. It's suddenly hard to breathe. I close my eyes.
No. No. No.

Sebastian Laurent. Carl Brooke. Me. And maybe Adam Grant.

All of us injected with sodium pentothal. It points to the work of one man—­or woman. The investigators have to see this. They have to realize my attack was connected to all these deaths and that Donovan is innocent.

Troutman quietly hangs up. I hold my hands over my ears, but I can't quiet the screaming in my head.

Pull it together.

Finally, I fall back asleep, freeing me from my tormented thoughts. I sleep all day, and the next morning, the doctor says my MRI isn't until nine, the earliest she could get me in. I need to see Donovan. I plead with the doctor, but she refuses to release me until they do an MRI.

As soon as the MRI is over, and I'm brought back to my room, I immediately strip off the hospital gown and throw on my jeans and sweater. I perch on the edge of a chair, waiting for the doctor or a nurse to arrive with my release papers. I feel a bit dizzy, but the nurse had given me some painkillers, and my head is only a little achy right now. The back of my skull feels like a gigantic bruise when I touch it. After a few minutes, I grow even more impatient, throw open the door to my room, and peek out in the hall. A few nurses are busy at their station. I look the other way. Nobody. I'm outta here. They can send me the release papers in the mail.

V
ISITING
HOURS AT
the jail don't start for another hour today. I don't know when—­or if—­I'll be able to sleep at my place again, but I should probably grab some necessities while I'm in the city. The thought fills me with dread. My apartment has turned into a place I fear. I hate that so much. Slowly, I push open the door to my apartment and peer in, listening for any movement. Nothing.

The place is spotless. Scott's right. No trace of a dead body. A new mattress, and he even made my bed with fresh sheets he must have found in the cupboard. Even so, my own apartment gives me the creeps. It's as if an invisible darkness lingers over it. I leave my door open to the hall and rush into my bathroom, grabbing my perfume, birth-­control pills, deodorant, and a big jar of aspirin. My head is starting to hurt again. Locking my door, my heart is pounding as I race down the stairs.

“
A
RE YOU O
KAY?”
Donovan's eyes search my face.