I dragged Darling by the arm and pulled her several feet away from the angry mob and blood spatter, where she crumpled softly onto the lawn bordering the plaza.
“Oh, my Lord. Jesus help us.” She was quivering.
I stood and she grabbed my hand. “Stay with me, Gia.”
Sitting back down I threw my arm around her. I’d never seen Darling afraid of anything. The biggest, baddest drug dealer in the Tenderloin had held a gun to her head and she had laughed in his face.
But Sasha was her Achilles heel.
More popping noises erupted and more screams. Smoke filled the air.
At the end of the plaza, a line of police officers stood with their arms crossed. Some held shields. All wore tactical gear and masks. They were not moving. They were keeping the fight contained so it wouldn’t spill out onto Polk Street. But they were doing nothing to intervene. I was outraged.
If those in power fail to protect the weak, it is up to the warrior to step in and see that the vulnerable are protected.
I glared at the police and then patted Darling’s arm. “It’s okay. George is probably with her right now.”
I glanced over at the roiling mass and hoped I was right.
AFTER A FEW MINUTES of sitting with Darling, another friend of hers came over, panting.
“Miss Darling, you okay?”
“I’m fine, honey. It’s Sasha. You seen her?” She pressed her lips tightly together.
“No, ma’am.” The woman who had her hair pulled back tightly in braids and wore a tank top and shorts flopped down on the grass. “Hope she got out of there. Those people are crazy.”
“Mmmm hmmm,” Darling said.
Any trace of the terror she had showed me earlier was gone. The big bad strong woman was back. I was relieved. I didn’t know how to handle Darling falling apart.
Now that someone was there to sit with her, I couldn’t wait any longer. I leaned down. “You sit here with Darling until I come back, or else take her to Katrina’s and buy her a stiff drink.” I peeled off a one-hundred-dollar bill. “And some food.” I peeled off another bill. “And buy yourself something, too.”
Without waiting for an answer, I slipped into the crowd. I was shoved here and there and had to hop over a body or two on the ground, but I kept my elbows out and headed toward where I’d last seen George’s bald head.
My gun felt like it was alive in my shoulder holster, but I knew taking it out would be a game changer in a game I wasn’t even playing.
CHAPTER SIX
I WAS NEARLY ACROSS the plaza when I saw a group crouched down around a man. My heart raced. George. I pushed and shoved my way through. “Get out of my way!” I shouted.
With terror streaking through me, I knelt down by George’s head. A huge gash sliced through his temple. He was unconscious, his long black eyelashes closed. “Call 911. Get an ambulance here now. Call 911. Now. What are you waiting for?” I shouted to the knot of people surrounding us.
When I finally looked up, I saw they were all staring at me. One man in Elvis Costello glasses cleared his throat. “We already did.”
I stood and looked around.
“We need a doctor! Is there a doctor anywhere? Help, we need a doctor!”
The crowd in the plaza had thinned. A large mass of people streamed toward Market Street, a roiling group of anger and hatred and frustration. The only people who remained in the plaza were straggling groups nursing the injured.
I ripped off my leather jacket and folded it up, gently sliding it under George’s head.
He groaned. I took that as a good sign. I leaned down and murmured in his ear, “It’s going to be okay, George, you hang in there. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay.”
A man in a blazer and glasses leaned down beside me.
“I’m a doctor. An ambulance is on the way.”
That’s when I remembered. Sasha. I turned to the group surrounding George.
“There was a girl. He was trying to get to her. She is about five-foot-two and was wearing a pink sweatshirt.”
Blank faces.
“I saw her.” A woman stepped forward. She had shoulder-length curly blond hair and a beauty mark above her full lips. She wore a faded T-shirt with Bob Marley’s smiling face on it, baggy jeans, and purple Converse high tops. “They took her. A few minutes ago.”
“What? Who took her?”
“A group of men. Those ones that wear masks.”
“The group Anonymous? The ones who wear Guy Fawkes’ masks?”
Another man in a goatee stepped forward. “No, these guys were dressed all in black and had black masks on.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Terror streaked through me.
“They were dragging her by the arms. She was crying and screaming. Your friend here tried to stop them and they hit him in the head,” the woman said.
“With a Billy club,” someone added.
“Jesus.”
The man in the goatee looked down. “When they took this fellow down, we were too afraid to try to stop them. There were too many of them.”
“It’s okay.” Inside, though, I was thinking it was not okay. Not at all. “Why did they grab her? I don’t understand.”
The woman with the curly hair spoke again. “Because she was a reporter. They walked up to her and she showed them some badge or something around her neck and I heard her say she was a reporter. And she was holding a notebook and pen.”
That sounded about right.
“Fuck me.”
In the distance, the wail of ambulances sounded closer. I tried to squash the panic rising in my throat. “Where did you last see them? Where were they taking her?”
“Down Fulton. About five minutes ago.”
Right before I arrived.
Two paramedics raced up and knelt by George. There was nothing I could do for him now. I turned and sprinted toward Fulton Street.
As I passed the Pioneer Monument—a life-size statue of Minerva, the goddess of war—I murmured a plea to her. “I could use some of your help right about now.”
With the San Francisco Library on my right and the Asian Art Museum on my left, I crossed Hyde Street and ended up in another plaza, the United Nations Plaza. My breath was ragged and I wheezed a little. I needed to quit smoking pot. And cigarettes.
This plaza was eerily deserted.
But at the far end, where the plaza met the end of Leavenworth Street by the Art Institute, I saw something. A dark huddled mass. It parted and I caught a glimpse of pink.
Sasha.
I darted toward them, keeping to the shadows cast by trees lining the plaza. As I got closer, an SUV pulled up near the group. Two of the dark figures holding Sasha dragged her toward the vehicle. She struggled, but wasn’t screaming. I saw a strip of white across her mouth.
Reaching under my sweatshirt into the holster inside my waistband attached to my belt, I lifted out my Beretta Nano 9mm. I kept it by my side as I ran. I was only a half block away when someone opened the SUV door. Then all of them piled into the vehicle, hauling Sasha with them.
“Sasha!” I screamed. For one second, it seemed as if something would happen and then the SUV screeched away.
I chased it toward Market Street, getting a glimpse of part of its license plate. 6LIK. It crossed Market Street at probably thirty miles an hour. There was no way I could keep up on foot. A man in a silver Mercedes pulled up beside me, oblivious to what was going on. He had his window down and was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, singing along to some Caribbean music.
I leaned over and stuck the muzzle of my Beretta in the window.
“Get out. Now. I won’t hurt you. This is an emergency. A life or death situation.” I said hoarsely, out of breath from running.
He refused to look at me, the whites of his eyes staring straight ahead, hands clutching the steering wheel.
“Did you hear me?” I said. “I need your car. Now. A girl’s life is in danger. Get out.�
��
A BART train drowned out my words as it screeched by in front of me, blocking my way and making sure I had zero chance of following the SUV.
I lowered my gun. “Never mind,” I said. “Sorry to bother you.”
The man kept staring straight ahead.
I put my gun back in its holster and turned back toward the plaza.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN I GOT BACK TO the plaza only a few stragglers roamed in the dark. George was gone. The police had left. The spot where I’d left Darling on the lawn was empty.
A group of people my age huddled at the edge on the lawn, passing around a bottle and a joint.
“Do you mind?” I held out my hand.
A guy with a man bun handed me the bottle. I chugged some, handed it back and wiped my mouth with the back of my palm. A girl offered me the joint, but I shook my head and walked away.
When I got to Polk Street, I took out my cell phone. When I’d been running, it had been vibrating in my pocket nonstop. Twelve missed calls from Darling.
“Thank God,” she said when she picked up. “I can’t get ahold of anybody. They said it was over but Sasha’s not answering her phone. George isn’t either.”
“You somewhere safe?”
“What aren’t you telling me?” Her voice was suddenly low and dangerous. “You talk to me right now.”
I was worried about her heart, but I couldn’t lie.
“They took her, Darling.”
“What?” She gasped. “My grandbaby? They took my grandbaby?”
“I tried to stop them. They took her because she was a reporter. They left in a black SUV. They knocked George out to get to her. He’s at the hospital. We need to call the police.”
Silence.
“Meet me at Katrina’s,” she said and hung up.
WHEN I WALKED INTO Katrina’s, the entire place glowed. White candles covered every surface. An elaborately ornate metal trellis covered one wall, designed purely to hold dozens of candles.
My motorcycle boots were silent on the black marble floors. I passed the blue velvet booth with the engraved metal plate that said “Gia Santella.” Darling sat, surrounded, at a circular table in the corner. Her reflection multiplied into infinity by gigantic silver-framed mirrors covering two walls.
As I got to the table, everybody but Darling moved to another table.
“Sit.” Her voice was deadly. I swallowed and obeyed. A man in black pulled heavy purple satin curtains around the table, closing the two of us off from the rest of the world.
As soon as the curtains closed, Darling’s shoulders slumped and she put her head down.
“They kidnapped Sasha. We need to call the police.”
She lifted her head, tossing her curls.
“The PO-lice? We aren’t bringing in the PO-lice. You think they give a shit about a little black girl gone missing in a protest? Nuh uh. They don’t care.”
I wanted to argue with her, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know if she was right or wrong. I hadn’t grown up black in the Bay Area. I thought about it for a second.
“I’ll pay for the best private investigator in the country.”
“Nope.”
Raising an eyebrow, I waited. She clamped her lips together, her huge Egyptian eyes staring me down. She wasn’t budging.
“What?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“You find Sasha.”
It took me a second to absorb that. “Darling, you know I’d do anything to help you, but I’m not a detective. I’m not a P.I. We need experts to help us find her.”
“You found out who killed your mama and pop, didn’t you?”
“That’s different.”
Darling crossed her arms across her large bust. “Is it?”
“Yes! They were dead! If I messed up, they would still be dead!”
Darling stared me down again.
I kept trying. “Sasha is out there somewhere. If the police know she’s missing, they can spread the word, put it on the news, do all sorts of things to help find her.”
“I don’t trust the police. I don’t trust nobody else getting in my business. You know my business, Gia.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “But they are our best bet to find Sasha.”
I waited for her to argue. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, her gaze was pure steel.
“Gia, you know me. You know how I love my grandbaby. If I thought there was a snowball’s chance in hell of the police finding my baby I would do anything, give up everything to make sure she was safe.” She threw back her shoulders. “Sure, there are good police. I know that. Probably more good ones than bad. But when it comes to my grandbaby, my life, I can’t afford to take a chance that one of the other ones is in charge.”
She leaned over and grabbed my hand.
“I need you to find her.”
A mixture of despair, helplessness, and fury shot through me. Mother fucker. I was going to have to agree, but it didn’t mean I had to pretend to be happy about it.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” I shook my head. She stared. “Fine. Are you happy? Fine.”
“Just promise me, you’ll try.” She sat back, relaxed now. Of course, she was. She’d gotten her goddamn way. As usual.
“I still think it’s a mistake. Just so you know.” I glared at her. What gave her such confidence in a fuck up like me, I’d never know.
Darling sat back and snapped her fingers.
The curtains pulled open.
Within seconds, the booth was filled again with Darling’s friends and platters of Katrina’s famous comfort food arrived: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, roast beef slices, gravy, biscuits, creamed corn, even tater tot hot dish. Katrina’s catered to all the transplants to San Francisco who missed down home cooking and wanted a break from the city’s latest trendy fusion cuisine.
I picked at the tater tots and sipped my whiskey. I was still pissed off at Darling and nearly sick to my stomach with the thought that it was up to me to find Sasha. My mind raced, trying to latch on to a starting point. I wanted to race back to the plaza to find the woman with the curly blond hair who saw Sasha’s kidnappers, but I knew she wasn’t there anymore. The TV screen hanging above the bar, showed the mayor addressing reporters in the empty plaza. Even so, I searched the crowd around him for a blond. I was kicking myself for not getting her name or contact information. She was the only lead I had.
Except one. I had the partial license plate number: 6LIK.
Mayor John Evans was flanked by a bunch of cops in tactical gear.
Figures he was there. His re-election platform focused on making the city safer, specifically the Tenderloin. His slogan was “Our city can kick crime’s ass.” A riff on Rudy Giuliani’s “Our city can kick your city’s ass” or something. Not quite as obnoxious. Almost, though.
However, tonight’s violence wasn’t good for his mayoral run. The only ass kicking was going to be his. The news ticker at the bottom of the screen said, “At least a dozen injured in conflict at Civic Center Plaza.”
The broadcast cut to aerial footage of the square. I sat up straight. Maybe it would show the men who took Sasha. But I didn’t see anything during the brief clip. It was Channel 5. I was sure they had more footage than just what they aired.
Lost deep in thought, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Across the room, a man with startling pale skin was watching me. A fedora was pulled low on his forehead. Something about him seemed otherworldly, like he was a vampire, even though I didn’t believe in that sort of crap. He was thin and too tall somehow. Too big for the space, like he needed to duck even though the ceilings at Katrina’s were ten-feet tall. Something was odd about his eyes. At the same time, he seemed familiar. It was right there on the edge of my memory why that was, but the knowledge slipped away at the same time he stepped out the side door.
Instinctively, I rose to follow him, but then sat back down. He hadn’t done anything. Being a weirdo wasn�
�t a good enough reason for me to chase after a stranger. If that were my criteria, I’d be chasing after nut jobs all the live long day.
Darling nudged me. “We’re going to the hospital to see George.”
I stood. When our group reached the door, we found ourselves facing Mayor Evans and his entourage. The mayor wore an overcoat, cashmere blazer, and jeans that looked like they had been ironed. His graying hair was slightly mussed and one bushy gray eyebrow was askew. I’d never seen him look anything but perfectly coiffed. Like he’d been yanked out of bed for the press conference.
Standing in front of Darling, the mayor dipped his head, a stray gray lock bobbing. “Ms. Fitzgerald.”
“Mayor Evans.” Darling raised an eyebrow and the mayor stepped aside, letting us pass.
Outside, a line of black cars waited for us. I shivered. Fog was rolling down the street. It was headed our way. People piled into the black cars until I was alone on the sidewalk. I was still pissed off at Darling. How dare her turn to me in something so serious? I knew I was being childish. What else was knew?
Darling poked her head out of the back seat of the first car and gestured for me to join her.
Once we were alone inside the dark interior, she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. After a few seconds, I did the same. My anger seeped out of me, replaced by anxiety and fear. It was too much pressure. I leaned forward and put my head in my hands. Darling was making a mistake counting on me.
AT THE HOSPITAL, DARLING and I stood over George’s hospital bed. He was still unconscious and had so many damn tubes stuck in him I wanted to punch something. I barely knew the dude, but nobody, nobody, deserved to be beaten like this. His face was a swollen mess and a huge bandage took up most of his once regal bald head.
Gia Santella Crime Thriller Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (Gia Santella Crime Thrillers) Page 20
