I went to grab coffee for us in the cafeteria downstairs, trying to give Darling a moment alone with George. When I came back, Darling had pulled up a chair beside his bed and was holding his hand. A nurse came in holding the leather jacket that I’d put under George’s head. Darling gave her a look and the nurse handed the jacket to me.
I shrugged it on and walked out. In the waiting room, I sat with some of Darling’s fan club members or whoever they were. Her posse. They regarded me warily. They didn’t like that some dumb white girl was their mentor’s closest ally right now. I didn’t blame them. But Darling and I shared a bond that transcended everything else that made us different. That’s why I knew I would do anything to find Sasha.
We all sat there in silence until Darling came out.
“Any change?”
She shook her head. I sighed.
“I’m staying the night,” she said.
“I’m going home. Think Django will be okay at your place tonight?” Hopefully he was still in her back room.
“Mmm Hmm.” Darling was distracted. “I had Shelley feed him and take him for a walk while we were at Katrina’s.” Shelley was her manager at the salon and her assistant in all things.
I was about to leave when Darling grabbed my arm. Hard. She leaned over and whispered in my ear. “You find my grandbaby, you hear?”
I didn’t answer, just stared at her until she let go of my arm.
As the elevator door closed with me inside, I kicked the wall. I was one hundred percent royally, truly, and thoroughly fucked.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE NEXT MORNING, I woke early and left my apartment while the fog was still thick on the ground. I needed to go get Django, but first I wanted to check out the plaza again in case there were any clues.
As I crossed Bush Street I made my way quickly through Tenderloin Heights. Before long, I was in the Sit/Lie neighborhood. Homeless people tucked into old sleeping bags or sat propped on cardboard boxes despite the mayor’s new “Sit/Lie” city law prohibiting people from sitting or lying down on sidewalks or other public spaces.
Most people in the Tenderloin saw the law for what it was: a way to discriminate against the homeless. In Berkeley, the city was friendlier to the homeless and allowed them to sit or lie between seven in the morning and ten at night.
As I walked, the fog grew thicker, making me feel disoriented. By now I should’ve been to Market Street, but instead was on a street that was eerily deserted. No shops. No apartments. Only buildings that seemed abandoned. I jumped when a man stumbled out of the fog before me. He mumbled something incoherent before stumbling off in another direction.
A patch of fog cleared and a massive building loomed before me. A twelve-foot-high chain link fence capped with barbed wire surrounded the building’s adjacent parking lot. All the windows were boarded up. Despite the desolation, I got the feeling I was being watched. I hurried away, without looking back.
Maybe it was my upbringing—my nana had been extraordinarily suspicious—but I believed that some places emanated evil. That a building could be infused with dark things. Even abandoned and empty like the one I’d just passed.
All my life I’d been able to sense this darkness in places. As a little kid, I thought that everybody could.
Sometimes when I was really little we would go into an old restaurant and I would kick and scream and say I wasn’t going to eat there. Over the years my parents grew to expect my odd sensory reaction to certain places and tolerated it, even indulged it, by not making me go places that I said made me feel uncomfortable. As I grew older, I realized others didn’t share my feelings about places.
One day, my mother took me shopping on Melrose Avenue in Los Angeles. I was thirteen, gangly and awkward and desperate to be cool and accepted by my classmates in Monterey. After growing up watching Melrose Place, I knew this was where all the cool kids shopped.
I spotted a small store on the second floor of a building that had a cool T-shirt in the window. My mother was talking on the phone to my dad so she waited on the sidewalk while I went upstairs.
The minute I opened the door, a clammy oppressive feeling overcame me and I was suddenly ice cold. The only sound was the chimes on the door echoing behind me. The store was darker than I expected and jam packed. While there were a few clothing items hanging up here and there, most of the store was taken up by candles, vials of oils, and small boxes and books all displayed on antique dressers with mirrors. The air smelled dank but also like some heady perfume that seemed to overtake every other sense.
“Hello?”
Nobody answered. I saw a light coming from a doorway at the back. Every fiber of my being told me to get out of there, but I really wanted to see the turquoise T-shirt in the window. As I made my way over to it, I passed a small display on a black-painted dresser.
I glanced over and my heart stopped. A petrified hand lay in a red satin-lined box in the center of the dresser. I stood staring at it. Confused.
Then with the smallest movement of air I felt something. The dresser’s mirror showed a woman in a turban standing at my shoulder. I screamed and ran out of the store, her laughter trailing behind me
Down on the sidewalk, I breathlessly told my mother about the hand.
“Let’s go see about that.” I loved that about my mother. She took me seriously. And wasn’t afraid of anything.
Reluctantly, I trailed behind her up the stairs. When we walked in, it was as if I had entered a different store. It was bright and cheery. The woman in the turban was whistling and there was something pleasant playing on a radio.
“Bon jour!” the woman said. “Welcome to my shop. Are you looking for something in particular?”
I stared at her dumbfounded.
My mother smiled. “Oh, my daughter was just in here and saw something she wanted to show me.”
“Yes. She ran out before I had a chance to help her.”
I glared at the woman.
“Over there,” I said, nudging my mother.
My mother casually walked over to the black-painted dresser. As we drew closer, I saw a sign that I either hadn’t noticed or that hadn’t been there before “Check out our new Halloween decorations.”
I scrunched up my face. The sign was new. I would’ve noticed it before. I was sure.
As we got closer, I looked at the red satin-lined box. There was a hand in it. A fake, pink plastic hand with red-painted nails. My mother picked it up, holding it in her palm for a few seconds before putting it back.
I turned and ran out the door.
A few seconds later, my mother joined me on the sidewalk.
“She changed it.” I said, anger surging through me. “Mama, it was a real hand. It was like a mummy, all shriveled up. She must have switched it when I left.”
A strange look crossed my mother’s face. One I’d never seen before.
“Gia, back in the old country, there were things that some of the women could see. It was a gift. It was something that helped keep people safe. You have that gift. You always have. I want you to always, always listen to that feeling. It is real. Even if—” she glanced up at the second story. “Even if, someone tries to trick you and make you believe that what you see or feel is not real. It is. It is as real as me and you. Don’t ever doubt.”
I hugged her so tight I couldn’t breathe. I might have sniffled a little.
“Let’s go now and find you some tres chic clothing.” She grabbed my hand. I usually was embarrassed by her affection in public, but right then I held on tightly.
As we walked away, I cast one last glance back at the store. The turbaned woman was standing in the window, stock-still, staring.
The building in the Tenderloin was the first time in a long while that I’d had that ominous feeling of pervasive dread and danger. I knew without a doubt that people had died there and died terribly. It wasn’t too much of a stretch. The Tenderloin—along with a storied history of speakeasies, burlesque houses, jazz clubs, an
d brothels—was also renowned for its high crime rate. Today, the crime, the bars, strip clubs, and single-occupancy hotel rooms all remained, along with an entire small village of homeless people.
As I emerged from the fog onto Market Street, I spotted Jack-O pushing his shopping cart along and whistling. He had on painter’s pants and about three flannel plaid shirts layered upon one another. His whiskers were gray and only a few tufts of brown hair behind his ears remained on his head.
“Oh, Gia!” He doffed an imaginary hat at me.
“Jack-O, just the man I’m looking for.” I hadn’t realized it until the words came out of my mouth, but it was true.
“Oh, what can I do for you on this fine morning?” He gave me a missing-tooth grin.
“Fine morning?”
He laughed. “Okay, it’s cold, but I woke up this morning and I’m still alive, so it’s a fine day.”
“I’ll give you that,” I said and then my smile disappeared. “I need your help. I need you to spread the word on the streets. I’m looking for a girl. She’s about five-foot-two, black straight hair, wearing a pink sweatshirt.”
“White girl?”
“Nah. Black.”
Jack-O grew serious, listening and nodding.
“Men in masks grabbed her last night at the protest.”
“Oh, boy,” Jack-O said and shook his head.
“If you can find anyone who saw anything, I’d be very grateful. Tell them I’ll make it worth their while if the info is good. The men put her in the back of an SUV over on Leavenworth near Market Street. I only caught a partial plate: 6LIK. If they can find me that vehicle, same deal, I’ll make it worthwhile.”
“Oh. 6LIK?” Jack-O said. “Got it. I’m on it, Gia.”
“Thanks. You can always get messages to me at Darling’s.”
“You sure you don’t want to move into Swanson Place?” I’d tried to talk him into it before. Many of the homeless people I spoke to in the Tenderloin wanted to remain on the streets for reasons I couldn’t fathom, talking about freedom and so on. But others told me they were waiting for that one break that would lift them off the streets. Swanson Place was my plan to give them that break. I already had a clipboard with ten names on it and had promised all ten of them a spot in the new building along with employment downstairs.
“Oh. Nah, I appreciate the offer, but this is my home. I don’t want to go to the Sunset.”
“It’s not that far away ...”
He turned to leave.
“You need money for breakfast or something?” It was a dumb question and I immediately regretted saying it.
He didn’t answer, only swallowed and looked away.
I leaned over and handed him two twenties. “This is for helping me spread the word about the girl. I appreciate it.”
He didn’t say anything but the money disappeared up his long sleeve.
I turned and walked away before I embarrassed either one of us any more than I already had.
CHAPTER NINE
DJANGO PRACTICALLY knocked me down in his excitement to see me.
“Good boy.” I laughed and patted him. The damn dog acted like I’d been gone a year instead of only overnight. He kept jumping on my nice jeans and slobbering all over me.
Darling smiled at me, but I could tell the fight had gone out of her.
“Nothing from Sasha?”
“Not a word.” For the first time, Darling actually looked like someone who could have a granddaughter. She had slight bags under her eyes and there were other small signs that something was off. There was something about the set of her mouth. Her thick black curls were a masterpiece, as usual, but her silk shirt was a little bit wrinkled and there was a slight unevenness in her application of lip liner. But overall, she still looked pretty damn put together. Something I couldn’t manage on my best day.
“George?”
“Same.”
I shook my head. Then I walked over to Darling’s galley kitchen, poured us some coffee and dumped a shot of Bailey’s Irish Cream into each one. “Sit down a second. I’ve got an idea I need to run by you.”
We both settled into the leather couches and sipped our coffees. On the walk over, I had thought carefully about how I was going to approach this one.
Gingerly.
Darling probably distrusted police for good reason. I knew nothing about that, but I did know at least one San Francisco police officer I thought we could trust. James.
Okay. Truth is, I slept with him. A few times. For a while I was sort of freaking out about him because I knew there was a chance I could fall for him and that was the last thing I had in mind. Of course, as usual, I single-handedly destroyed any chance of a normal, healthy relationship when I did my “thing” around him. My fucked-up “thing” to keep people away.
Being distant. Drinking too much. Smoking pot. Mouthy AF.
The first time I lit up, when we walked outside a North Beach restaurant after dinner, he looked like I’d slapped him.
“Gia! I’m a cop!”
“I know!” I said smiling. One reason he was so damn sexy. Body toned to perfection. Smooth and sexy mocha skin. Cheekbones for days. Add a uniform and gun belt? Mama mia!
“You’re smoking pot.” He ran a hand across his head and scowled.
“So?” I said, waving my joint around in front of him. “Hello! Prop 64 passed!”
“You’re standing on the sidewalk.”
I lifted my eyebrow. “I just want a little toke after that amazing linguine.”
“It’s against the law to smoke on the sidewalk.”
“Against the law like go to jail or against the law like slap on the wrist?” I exhaled over his head and then regretted it when I saw a flash of anger in his eyes.
“Either way, I’m a cop. Have a little respect.”
“Hmmm.” I thought about it. I wasn’t sure it was disrespectful to smoke marijuana in front of a police officer. He turned away, but I could tell by the set of his shoulders he was pissed. He whirled around, started to say something, and then swore.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, looking over my shoulder. “Is that a school right there? Oh, shit. It is. Put that out, right now, Gia. You could really get me in trouble. What if one of my supervisors drove by right now?”
“School’s out, James.” I couldn’t hide the annoyance in my voice. What a buzz kill. I dropped the joint on the sidewalk and stepped on it with the toe of my boot as I walked away. He followed me in silence.
When we got back to my place, he didn’t come in.
“Is it that bad that I like to smoke pot?” I asked. Staring at his mouth, I realized I could give up marijuana for that.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s all of it.”
“All of what?” I picked at some leftover red fingernail polish on my thumb. “I don’t get it.”
“I think you do get it and that’s the problem.” The way he looked at me made me squirm. I could see the writing on the wall. He was dumping me. Frankly, it was a first for me. I usually beat them to the punch. I glared at the doorman lingering nearby, a little too interested in our driveway conversation. I turned back, but James had already walked away. He slammed the door of his Saab and drove off. He drove so slowly I wondered if he was going to turn around and come back, but his tail lights soon disappeared. It wouldn’t have hurt so much if he had peeled out. At least then I would’ve know there was some emotion and passion involved.
It felt like he’d made a very logical and rational decision to dump me.
Which is what it was.
This was before I met my sort-of-boyfriend Bobby. Bobby made me forget all about James. Bobby was the opposite of James physically—less G.I. Joe and more surfer-slash-skater boy with molten hazel eyes and tawny hair that fell nearly to his shoulders.
I’d pushed all thoughts of James out of my life when I started seeing Bobby a few months ago. But every once in a while, my body remembered. It happened when I caught a
glimpse of a guy from behind with the same physique or spotted a profile with a similar jawline to James. I must admit, though, I did binge watch a few episodes of “Criminal Minds” the other night because James reminds me of Shemar Moore.
Now, with Darling’s strong anti-cop stance, I figured James was the only upstanding guy I could vouch for in the San Francisco Police Department. I just needed to convince Darling.
I spilled it all to Darling and poured us more spiked coffee.
She downed hers before she spoke.
“I don’t know, Gia.”
“Darling, I know police have done you wrong, but you know better than to stereotype an entire population of people. There are good and bad people in every group. You said so yourself.”
We sat there in awkward silence.
Finally, I said something. “Django! You’re putting my foot to sleep!” He was sitting on my foot like I was going to leave him again, which I was.
Then, she gave in.
“Okay, Gia.” She said it with a big sigh. “You can talk to him. It’s against my better judgement. I hope you aren’t making a mistake.”
“I’m not,” I said. But I didn’t quite believe it.
“And Gia? I don’t want him nosing around up in my business. Tell him all that is off limits. You understand?”
“Absolutely.” I said it, but a flicker of doubt ran through me. James was upstanding and a good guy, which made me worry that he wouldn’t let anything illegal slide. I’d have to make the ground rules clear when I went begging for help.
“I’ll be back for this big baby in about an hour.” I jutted my chin at Django, trying to avoid looking at his sad, accusing eyes as I walked out.
A small part of me was nervous when I got to the precinct steps. We hadn’t parted on the best terms and for some reason I felt like by talking to James I was betraying Bobby, which was absurd.
Bobby and I had no commitment to one another. Besides that, I was turning to James for help, not awesomely mind-blowing sex. Well, good, then. This would be a test. It would prove whether I was a heartless slut like I feared or whether I was capable of being a good, sort-of-part-time, long-distance girlfriend to Bobby. I’d had plenty of opportunities to sleep around since Bobby and I started regularly seeing each other a few months ago, but so far, I hadn’t even been tempted. Not for a second. But ... in this case, with James, I knew what was under the hood. Oh boy, did I know.
Gia Santella Crime Thriller Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (Gia Santella Crime Thrillers) Page 21
