Blessed are the Meek (16 page)

His concern sends a surge of guilt through me. “I'm so sorry I wasn't here for you yesterday,” I say. “The last thing I want is for you to worry about me. You have enough to deal with.”

“I'm the one who's sorry. What kind of boyfriend am I? Can't even protect you?” He grits his teeth and his eyes flash in anger. I want to tell him this isn't the Dark Ages. It's not his job to protect his “woman,” but I bite my tongue. He feels helpless, and hearing that I was attacked must make him feel even more so.

Even so, I figure it's time to come clean and tell him about my slashed tires and the badge left on my windshield. I briefly fill him in. His eyes narrow. I don't think I've ever seen that look in them before. Another ribbon of fear snakes through my insides.

“What? Why do you have that look? Do you know something?”

I want to let him know I saw him take a badge off the dead body. But I'm too worried about the possibility that our conversation is being recorded. Plus, I'm afraid to ask.

Maybe that is why we are together—­I'm the type of person whose job is to tease every single personal detail out of a perfect stranger, yet in my own personal relationships, I live and let live. I never push and never prod or pry. Which, apparently, is the perfect match for Donovan, who will only reluctantly share the most mundane details of his life. Is that what the attraction is? We are both terrible at sharing details of our lives.

I'm going to call my shrink as soon as I leave here and tell her I want her next available appointment. I'm foundering here and have no idea what to say or do. Is it my paranoia and insecurity, or is there really something for me to worry about? I haven't a clue. So, I clam up.

He chews on the inside of his lip for a second. “Can you do me one small favor?”

I nod.

“No more meeting strange men by yourself,” he says. “Chris Lopez has promised that he'll be with you every time you leave the office on assignment. I've cleared it with Kellogg.”

What? “I'm not a child,” I protest. I'm a little bit stunned he has made arrangements with Lopez, whom he barely likes, and Kellogg. I try to interrupt to ask about it, but he keeps on talking. My anger dissipates when I see how wan he looks in that orange jumpsuit. Fine. I'll put up with a babysitter. If it makes him feel better, worry less, then I'll go along with it. The last thing I want is Donovan sitting in a jail cell fretting about me.

“At night, I've arranged for you to stay in one of the guest bedrooms at the rectory. Father Liam is going to give you the garage door opener, so you can pull right into the rectory garage every night.”

For some reason, the image of having a priest as my bodyguard makes me do a half roll of my eyes. It doesn't get past Donovan.

“Don't underestimate Father Liam. Remember, he's from Ireland. He not only knows how to dance, he knows how to kick some serious ass if he needs to. He's going to loan you a gun.”

That shuts me up. I've been taking shooting lessons ever since I found myself face-­to-­face with Jack Dean Johnson last year and had my gun knocked out of my hands by him, not once, but twice. It's not my having a gun that surprises me. What doesn't make sense is why the priest would have one to loan me.

The guard is standing behind him, and I'm about to leave when Donovan's voice makes me turn back around.

“There's something else—­the way the cops are talking, I get the feeling they think you were in on it with me. They're after you. Watch yourself.”

 

Chapter 34

“G
ABRIELLA?”

I slouch in the chair and avoid meeting Marsha's eyes. I look past her at the sunny plot of trees in the office courtyard. A small bird tugs at a berry. I called Marsha as soon I left the jail, and she told me to come straight in.

I drag my eyes back to Marsha. My shrink seems distracted, as usual, tucking her plaid skirt under her legs and glancing into her mirrored wall, running her pinky over an unruly eyebrow to put it in its place. But she is listening. And waiting for my response.

“I know,” I say, looking up. “You're right. Every single thing you said.”

I had spilled the beans about my jealousy about Annalisa and my irrational reaction to Donovan's possible proposal.

“You're never going to find true love or happiness in life unless you make yourself vulnerable,” she says with a bright smile.

“I know.” It's not the first time she's told me this. Maybe she figures if she says it enough, it will finally sink in.

“When you allow yourself to be jealous of another woman, you are essentially telling yourself that you are worthless and not worthy of love.”

“Yup.” I nod. She's the expert. Who am I to argue with her logic?

But I think about what she is saying. Is my self-­esteem that low? I've never been jealous in any of my previous relationships. But then again, I've never cared as much as I do now. Dating Donovan is a game changer.

In my rambling about my jealousy, I've completely ignored the, volcano-­size issues in my life. Better fess up.

“Um, by the way, Donovan's in jail for murder.”

Marsha stops her grooming and sits up straighter. She begins lightly tapping her pencil on her desk and peers at me over her cat's-­eye glasses.

“Why don't we talk about that for the rest of your time.”

“He didn't do it,” I say. “But there's something else I should probably tell you.”

She raises an eyebrow waiting.

“I got a call. From a guy who says he knows something about Caterina.”

I tell her how I missed the meeting, but how nothing on this Earth will stop me from meeting with him if he calls back. I don't mention, however, that I got hit in the head meeting with someone I
thought
was that guy.

She nods, listening, then says, “Let's go back to your boyfriend.”

“But . . . I just told you that after twenty-­three years, I might find out what happened to my sister.” I'm baffled until she responds.

“I do want to talk about how that makes you feel. Can you come in later this week?”

“But I want to talk about it. Now.” I'm getting mad.

“Gabriella, we can talk about whatever you like. It's your dime, but I think it is only fair for me to remind you of something . . . will you indulge me?”

The hostility rising in my throat fades away. “Yes, I'm sorry.”

She takes a deep breath and slowly exhales, enunciating her words carefully. “One of the issues we have been talking about is how sometimes in your life you have used the past—­an awful, difficult, terrible past, yes, but the past—­to avoid dealing with the present. I don't know if you realize what you did just then, but as soon as you brought up your boyfriend—­the present—­you immediately wanted to switch topics and talk about your past—­your sister.”

I open my mouth to respond. And then slowly close it and nod.

“Gabriella, I think you are avoiding what is happening in your life right now. I don't mean to be harsh, but you just told me your partner, the man you love, is in jail under arrest for murder. You said it like you were telling me the temperature outside.”

My mouth crumples. She's right.

“Oh shoot!” she says, glancing up at the clock, “Our time is up for today, but I want you to think about what I said, and I'd like to see you back here sooner than later. Either this week or next week.”

I nod and flee the room before I start to cry.

W
HEN
I
GET
to the newsroom, Nicole calls.

“Are you okay?”

She must have heard about the attack in the park. She's called me several times since Donovan's arrest on my cell phone, and I haven't had the heart to pick up. If I talk about it with my best friend, then it is all real.

“Yeah. Guess I got lucky. Again.”

“Are you sure you're not Irish? You're awfully lucky for an Italian girl.” She gets the laugh she was going for.

“Hey, I'm sorry about Donovan.” Her voice is subdued.

“I'm sorry I didn't pick up your calls.”

“No problem, as long as you know I'm always here for you, no matter what.”

I gulp back another sob trying to escape.

“Thanks.”

“Hey, anyway, don't worry. They won't be able to make the charges stick. They can't possibly have anything on him.”

I bite my lip. But then I spill it, telling her about the eyewitness and the sodium pentothal. I also tell her how the drug was found in Sebastian Laurent's body.

She's quiet for a long moment. “Someone might be setting him up,” she finally says. “What about Grant? Have you checked the autopsy?”

The mayor's death was only a little over ten days ago. “Morgue in Napa said they won't release the autopsy report until tox is back—­six to eight weeks.”

“That's total bullshit. You know they rushed tox on Grant.”

“What do your sources say?”

“They've clammed up. Not a peep. Nobody will say anything now.”

I think about that for a second in silence.

Nicole clears her throat, and her voice grows louder. “By the way, I did some research on Annalisa Cruz for you, like you asked.”

“What's the skinny?” I stop twiddling the phone cord and wait. I've been wondering how Annalisa got the red phone to our publisher.

“Jordan in the D.A's Office told me that Annalisa has something over Coleman.”

Nicole pauses dramatically.

“What?” I bite.

“Photographs of Coleman's new wife in a compromising position. Hear it's something involving handcuffs and restraints and Annalisa in a garter belt.”

“Seriously?” Not Coleman. His wife? And Annalisa? I shake my head to dispel the image of Coleman's Chanel-­ wearing trophy wife in bondage gear with Annalisa looking on.

“God's truth. Probably before they were married, but still.”

“Fuck an A.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” Nicole says.

That's why our paper hasn't printed one word about Annalisa.

Not long after I hang up, Lopez swings by my desk.

“I'm on your tail. Like white on rice, man. Donovan told me you're my responsibility.”

I sigh. “I thought you guys didn't even like each other, and now you're taking orders from him?”

Lopez scoffs. “He's okay, but nobody gives me orders. It's a collaboration-­type deal. We both want something in common—­ making sure that weirdo stays the hell away from you. He had duct tape and rope, man. I didn't think you were coming back home again.”

“Well, I'm touched,” I say, maybe a bit sarcastically, “but I still think you're both treating me like a child.”

I probably would protest even more, but right then, my phone rings.

“Giovanni.”

“It's Red, the guy who has some info on your sister? I heard you got hurt. I called your office when the line disconnected. Glad to hear you're okay.”

The informant I
thought
I was meeting at the park. So, he's decided to give me his name. My palms grow damp, and I can feel my heart thumping in my neck.

“I was in a bit of trouble, but I'm fine now. Um, did you tell anyone that you were getting ahold of me?”

“Hell, no. You think I want to get labeled a snitch?”

There goes that theory. “When can we meet?” I look over at Lopez, who raises his eyebrows when he hears my voice quavering.

“How about five o'clock? Berkeley Pier?”

“Perfect. Red, I'm going to bring a friend with me, but he'll stay in the car. He's a little protective of me since I was attacked.” I roll my eyes at Lopez, who is giving me the thumbs-­up.

There is silence.

“Okay, I guess I understand that. As long as he stays in the car 'cause I don't want the word to spread I'm a snitch.”

“Fair enough.”

“Take a walk on the fishing pier. I'll find you.”

I spend the rest of the day trying to track down possible sources of sodium pentothal. My initial research shows that someone would need a medical license and a DEA certificate to buy the drug. Unless you worked in a hospital or were a doctor, it'd be pretty hard to get the drug. In America. If you lived in Europe? No sweat.

Someone could smuggle it into the U.S., right?

Annalisa mentioned frequent weekend getaways to Europe. Thinking of Annalisa reminds me that I need to talk to her. Soon.

R
IG
HT BEFORE FIVE,
I pull into the dirt parking lot at the Berkeley Pier. A few cars and trucks are parked, some with beds full of fishing buckets. Lopez followed me in his car. His passenger-­side window is open so I lean in. “Okay, here goes nothing.”

“Don't worry, man. I got my eye on you.” He holds up his camera. “Nobody is going on or off that pier without my seeing him. Me and
my little friend.
”

He says it with an accent straight out of
Scarface
and pats his side.

“Thanks.” He flicks on the radio to the classical-­music station, cranks up Bach and points his telephoto lens toward the pier. I straighten up. My head still hurts, and I feel a bit woozy, but nothing is going to stop me from meeting Red this time.

As I walk to the pier, the wind picks up, and I gulp in the salty, fishy cool air that whips my hair back from my face. In the distance, the San Francisco skyline makes my heart soar, and off to the right is Alcatraz, with the Golden Gate Bridge behind it. The sunlight reflects off the waves, licking them with silver sparks that match the billowing clouds overhead. I shield my eyes with my palm, take a deep breath, and step onto the worn wooden planks, heading toward the water.

 

Chapter 35

S
EVERAL MEN LEAN
over the rail at the end of the pier, either looking into the murky depths or casting a line. I plant myself between two men, propping my forearms on the wooden railing. The wind has lashed the water below into a gray froth.

A few feet away, a man with a heavily lined face, thick glasses, and a black stocking cap looks over at me. He gives me a wry smile and makes his way over to me. He uses a cane and looks to be in his sixties.

“I'm Red,” he says, sticking out a leather-­gloved hand. A wisp of gray hair sticks out from his cap. His square chin is grizzly, with a stubbly gray beard forming. His small frame is swallowed by a big, thick, blue down jacket and baggy jeans with workman's boots.

“Gabriella Giovanni,” I say, gripping his hand. “Thanks again for meeting me.”

“Like I said, I ain't no saint, but I can't abide ­people who hurt children.”

I nod. My head is throbbing now, and I keep thinking about the big bottle of aspirin in the car. I try to focus. This guy knows something about Caterina's killer.

“Well, I won't waste your time,” he says, gripping the railing beside me and looking out at the Bay. “Here's what I know. I was serving a rap for robbery. I was locked up and down this coast since I was eighteen. I never knew any better, couldn't keep my nose out of trouble. I'm over all that now. I don't have much longer on this Earth, and I aim to make the most of it. I finally figured out, money isn't what I need. It's family. I'm going to move down south to be around my kids. That way I get to know my grandkids. Those little ones love me. God knows why. They don't care that I screwed up and wasn't the best dad. They are my chance to do it all over again. Know what I mean?”

I already like this guy.

“Well, as I was saying, I have been in many a jail cell. Not nothing against any ­people, mind you. Stupid stuff, like passing bad checks and so on. But there was one time, only last year. I was housed with this guy, Mickey. He was a good guy. A little goofy—­he was a head case, you know, a little mental. But not violent. Serving time for burglary, nothing violent. At least that's the ways he told it to me.

“Anyways, he was a good storyteller. Made the time pass fast in the joint with all his yarns. One day he told me that before me, he'd been locked up once with a really bad dude. And this guy, name Frank, was about the worst of the worst if you know what I mean. He was bragging to Mickey that he liked to take little girls and do bad things to them, then—­kill them.”

Frank.

My stomach does a flip-­flop, but I nod at Red to continue.

“So Mickey says one day he was reading the
Bay Herald
—­he's from Pleasanton, like me, and liked to keep up on the hometown news. There was a story he was reading out loud to Frank. He read the title, then your name—­Gabriella Giovanni.

“Well, when he says your name, Mickey said Frank jumped up off his bunk and ripped the paper out of his hands. He laughs and laughs. Then tells Mickey he was the one grabbed your sister all them years ago. He said, and I'm sorry to tell you this, but he said too bad you were all grown-­up because he wouldn't mind meeting you one day, too. Sorry, but you ought to know that part, too.”

I nod grimly. My knuckles are turning white from gripping the rail on the pier. “Go on. I can take it.”

“Well, when Mickey tells me this story, I immediately recognized your name. Since I grew up here, I always read the
Bay Herald
even when I was in the can. You do a good job. I've even got myself a little choked up once or twice reading one of your stories.”

“Thanks.” I'm not sure what else to say to that. I look down at the water below, watching a seagull hovering right above the waves.

“Anyhoo, this Frank scumbag was laughing, saying that you or the cops would never figure out who took the little girl—­your sister. He talked about all the horrible things he did, but I'll spare you those details.” Red sighs and looks off into the distance. “Mickey didn't know anything else. He'd bunked with Frank maybe three years ago or something. He didn't know whether Frank was still locked up or what. I seen last year that you killed that guy—­that serial-­killer guy—­cause you thought he had taken your sister. But he wasn't the one, was he? He killed all them other young innocents, though. Hope he's rotting in hell.”

“I hope so, too,” I say, watching as other seagulls swooped down to join their friends. They keep getting closer and closer, hovering right in front of us, so close I feel like I can reach out and touch them even though I know they are actually several feet away. Then, I notice. It looks like they are all watching me out of the corner of their eyes. A shiver runs down my spine.

“That's all I know,” Red says in the silence. “But I needed to tell you all of this.” He clamps his lips together and nods. I turn to face him. His eyes are kind and tired.

“Did your friend ever mention Frank's last name?”

“Nope.”

“Know how I can get ahold of Mickey?”

“All's I know is that he's from Pleasanton, and his last name's Menendez.”

“Where was Mickey when he met this Frank guy.”

“Napa.”
The state psychiatric hospital.
“Told you he was a little goofy in the head.”

The hospital admits severely mentally ill ­people who cannot make it in society, but also houses mentally ill criminals, including sexually violent predators who the court believes will attack others if they aren't locked up. Convicts are sometimes sentenced to the hospital as part of their parole.

“Were they in the MDO program?”

“Huh?”

“The mentally disordered offenders program.”

“Probably.”

“Did Mickey say what Frank's deal was?”

Red looks off into the distance, trying to remember.

“It was a burglary rap. I remember 'cause it was the same thing as Mickey. But it was more than that. It was something like him breaking into women's houses when they weren't home and doing nasty stuff with their underwear and leaving a mess for the women when they got back home.”

“Lovely.”

“I told you he was a piece of work. Well, there you go, then, you got a name—­or part of a name. What you do with it now is your business. I have done my job.”

I turn and gaze into the thrashing gray-­and-­white-­flecked waves. The seagulls have left, swooping down to where a fisherman has dumped his bait bucket.

After twenty-­three years, a new lead. A wave of excitement rushes through me, making me anxious to leave and go try to find this Frank fuck. I wonder if I'm foolish to get my hopes up. Jack Dean Johnson spent months taunting me—­saying he had taken Caterina. It was all a lie. It's true that he kidnapped and killed twenty other girls, just not my sister.

“Well, I really appreciate your meeting me and telling me this, Red,” I say, and stick out my hand. “And good luck with your new life in L.A.”

“Thanks. I'll be packing up and leaving in the morning. You were the last thing on my list of things to do around here. I made some amends, and talking to you has helped clear my conscience. I hope you get that son of a bitch.”

“Me, too.”

Walking back to the parking lot, I feel spent, exhausted, as if I have cried my eyes dry. But at the same time, adrenaline is shooting through my limbs. I lean in the car window and give Lopez the abbreviated version.

Back in my car, I dial the newsroom, so I can catch the news researchers before they leave for the night. Now that I'm armed with my information, I'm eager, even though my so-­called information essentially consists of one name: Frank. I know it's not much, but it's something.

On the phone, I tell the head librarian, Liz, everything Red told me. I ask if she can track down anything about Frank and his bunkmate, Mickey Menendez, who now lives in Pleasanton. Liz is the best news librarian west of the Mississippi. That's why I am crushed when she gives a big sigh.

“Menendez should be easy as pie, but that Frank . . . no last name, huh? Oh honey, that's like finding an honest man at a political convention. There are a lot of burglary convictions out there. I'll see if I can track anything down that has to do with women's underwear, though.”

“Liz? This is personal.”

Ever since I killed Jack Dean Johnson, everyone at the newspaper and probably everyone in the entire county knows about my sister. For years, I kept it to myself. It's a relief not to have to do that anymore.

“Figured,” she says. “Don't want you to get your hopes up too high.”

I'm stuck in traffic out of downtown Oakland. I see Lopez's car behind me. She's right. It's a long shot. But I won't give up. “Doesn't it help that we know a bit about his conviction and the fact that he was in Napa sometime over the past five years?”

“Sugar, you better believe I'll do anything to find this guy for you. You know I will,” she says. “What about your boyfriend? Cops have access to all sorts of criminal databases, you know.”

I'm thrown by her question. Heat flares across my cheeks. How can she not know that Donovan is in jail? It was splashed all over the front page of every paper in the state, including ours. Then she remembers. “Oh, that's right. Geez, I'm sorry. Let me get on this right now. I'll do my best,” she says. I can hear the remorse in her voice.

I hang up, feeling low. I realize I may be no closer to finding Caterina's killer than before. And Donovan is in jail. Even though I know he didn't kill anyone, how am I going to prove he didn't? I don't know.