SASHA’S STORY RAN TOP of the fold, in the main San Francisco paper, and then was picked up by every paper in the world, it seemed. The first TV station to have it, however, was Channel 5. I’d called Jimmy the photographer and told him all the details so he came out with the full, detailed story at noon the day the paper had it. The other news stations had tried to hobble something together by their five o’clock news, but ended up quoting Sasha’s story in the San Francisco paper that first day.
King’s group had fractured into ineffectual subsets that tried to rally in protest of his arrest, holding signs that said, “We are the power. You cannot stop us.”
Antifa put out a reward for information on King’s whereabouts. The information didn’t say “Dead or Alive,” but that’s pretty much what they meant. They were pissed beyond belief that King’s goons pretended to be Antifa.
Within a week, the protests by the few follower’s King still had—at least those who admitted it publicly—only drew a few dozen people. Counter protesters apparently decided that even showing up was giving the small hate group credence and attention they didn’t deserve, so they stayed home
As details of King’s ethnic cleansing operation spread, people stopped defending him at all. The protests died out completely within two weeks.
But Sasha’s story of corruption prompted investigations throughout the country, sending any other hate groups underground.
Baumann was interviewed on CNN, the BBC, and the Today Show, about his young star reporter because Sasha refused to go on the air and she begged Baumann to step in for her. She didn’t want the attention. And didn’t want people to know what she looked like. She worried fame would hurt her chances of investigative pieces when she graduated in two years and accepted the position waiting for her in the Paris bureau of the Associated Press.
Every time there was a show about Sasha and her story, I bought champagne and cheese and crackers and huddled in the back room of the salon with Darling to watch. Sasha refused to join us. After one 60 Minutes episode featuring Sasha’s investigation, I stood and paced Darling’s small back room. I balled my hands into fists. I wanted to punch something.
“Baby girl, you brought her home. She stopped that King. It’s all good. What on earth are you all bothered about. You look like you want to punch somebody in the nose.”
“I didn’t bring her home soon enough.”
“You hush now.”
I’d turned the pinky toe over to the police, but it would haunt me forever.
“My Sasha is one tough cookie,” Darling said, her chest puffing out in pride. “She doesn’t even want to go to counseling any more. She wants to find King and make him pay.”
“I bet,” I said, shrugging on my leather jacket and striding toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, right?”
“With bells on.”
“Who is your date Miss Darling?” I knew many men were in love with her, but she hardly gave any of them the time of day.
“Surprise.”
“Must be the governor, then.”
“Ha!” She snorted.
“Sasha coming?”
“She’s on deadline.”
“See you tomorrow then.” I stumbled a little pulling on the door.
Darling gave me a look. “You okay to get home?”
“Yeah.” For once, I was stone cold sober. Plus, it was a short walk home. My place had finally been finished. I’d moved in last weekend. Before my things were even packed, I’d sold my Russian Hill apartment to the neighbor next door. He said he was going to bust down the walls and double the size of his place. More power to him.
“You give my dog a big fat smooch from his mama, you hear?”
“Fine.”
Django had moved back in with me when I got my new place. He seemed to have forgiven me or else he was a really good actor, wiggling all over the place and putting his paws up on my shoulders to kiss my face when I came home.
Walking out into the crisp, cool night air, I pulled up the collar of my jacket and tucked my fingers inside my sleeves. Fall was in the air. Halloween was in a few weeks. The night sky glowed orange above me. In the distance, the tall buildings of the financial district were dotted with lights in the windows. Overachieving accountants burning the midnight oil or janitors busy cleaning.
Here in the Tenderloin, the buildings were dark. With only an occasional night owl, like Danny, still awake. Most of the homeless had tucked into their ratty blankets and cardboard boxes or curled up in a pew in St. Boniface church.
The streets were mine.
As I got closer to my building, I could see the hulking darkness of the building in the Forgotten Island. The creep factor of the building had not diminished for me.
Even though the police had finally removed the barrels of bodies, faded yellow police tape was still strung across the fence and garage door. The whole place still loomed dark and forbidding—a place where death had been welcome.
Shortly after Sasha had been found, I’d happened to drive by the building on my way to check on the construction progress at my new place. I’d involuntarily shivered as the building’s bulk cast a shadow over my car.
Later that day, I’d gone to the city to search the property tax records. I wanted to know who had owned it before the mayor. For some reason, the most recent property tax files were missing. The next most recent file dated back to 1956. A man named Donald Jamison had sold the building to a group called SF Industries. About as generic sounding as you could get.
Before that, a lumber company had built the building after the San Francisco fire.
What had been there before was lost to the ages.
A small part of me wanted to buy the building, tear it down and construct something new. But I also knew that some evil cannot be removed. Some places just exude darkness and are best avoided.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I TWIRLED IN FRONT of the mirrored wall in the penthouse lobby. The Armani suit fit like a dream. Even so, I didn’t want to completely give in, so I didn’t wear a shirt or bra underneath it. From the front, it was completely modest. Everything that should not be seen in public was covered.
However —if I turned a certain way—well, it would give those old codgers on the board something to think about at night.
And I’d had the pants hemmed so my favorite Jimmy Choo stilettos peeked out at the bottom. To finish off the look, I wore earrings that were shimmery silver strings that flowed like a waterfall to my shoulder pads.
When Dante stepped out of the elevator I puckered my fire engine red lips at him. “So?”
He smiled. “Looking good, G.”
Gingerly he touched the jagged line running from my cheekbone into my hairline.
“This is sexy.”
“Ha.” I rolled my eyes at him.
The raised slash on my cheek ached a little and felt odd when I smiled, but for the most part I’d forgotten about it.
I winked and looped my arm through his. “Let’s go crack some fucking heads.”
After the door into the boardroom closed with a heavy whoosh behind me, I stood with my legs spread and my arms across my chest. “Gentlemen.”
There was an uncomfortable murmuring around the table.
“My associate Dante Marino has been hard at work since our last board meeting and has uncovered some interesting findings I’d like to share with you.”
The men shifted uncomfortably. I smiled, flashing my white teeth at each one of them in turn.
Then I pouted. “Wait? You don’t seem happy about this?”
I walked over to the large floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the Golden Gate bridge, keeping my back to them. “You couldn’t possibly be worried about what he found, could you?”
I whirled back around.
“You see, the so-called research involved taking a look, a deep, penetrating look into your expense accounts. Wow, was it fascinating. It sounds like you all have been having an absolute ball si
nce my father’s death. Trips to Bali. A fleet of new cars for each of you. A vacation home in Steamboat Springs. Even the rental of the penthouse at the Top of the Mark here in the city, for well, geez, Dante, what was it? A year straight?”
Dante nodded, his eyes deadly calm.
“Yeah. That was a doozy. I’m sure there was lots of illicit sex in that room. Your poor wives. It was probably the most egregious use of the money my modest and upstanding father earned working sixty hours a week until the day he died.” I scrunched up my face. “Especially since our private investigator found that Mr. Henley liked to use the penthouse to host underage parties where he drugged young women, stripped them and photographed them for his private collection. So, Mr. Henley, why don’t you get your saggy old ass out of here before I call the police and hand over the video footage we have of you.”
A blue-haired man with a bad comb over and a red face looked as if he might choke, but managed to push back his chair and rush out of the room past me.
“Now, which one of you is Tad Carrillo?”
A man in his sixties with neatly trimmed short hair and Elvis Costello glasses stood. “Ma’am?”
I could see his Adam’s apple bob.
“And who is Ed Alford?”
“Here.” A man with a deep, husky voice answered and stood. His mane of gray flecked hair swept back from his face above his stylish glasses.
“And one more,” I said, smiling. “Who is Shawn Long?”
A man with brushed back brown hair stood. “I’m Shawn.”
I clapped my hands together. “Wonderful!”
“You three are the only board members who didn’t screw this company over. You are all welcome to stay and help me turn this place around.” I smiled at them. Tad Carrillo’s shoulders sagged in relief. Then my smiled faded.
“The rest of you get the fuck out of my boardroom before I call the police and have each and every one of you arrested.”
Startled looks were exchanged. Eyes wide. People froze.
“Now!” I screamed. They scuttled like cockroaches out the door.
Once the door closed I let out a big sigh. Dante walked around and handed the three men envelopes.
“Please open your envelopes.”
I watched gleefully as they each extracted the check inside. The stunned looks were sweet.
“Gentlemen, thank you for your loyalty to this company and to my father’s memory. I’ve given each one of you a token of my appreciation.”
“Excuse me?” I turned. It was Ed Alford. “This is really unnecessary. Extremely generous, but unnecessary. I know you want what’s best for the company and this is possibly not the wisest use of the funds we are working with. Especially in light of some of the misappropriation you’ve uncovered.”
“That’s sweet of you to say, Mr. Alford, but that isn’t from the company. That’s from my own account.”
The three men exchanged looks.
“And don’t worry. You’ll earn that. I’m going to rely on you and turn to you heavily in the next few months so we can salvage what’s left of this company. I’ll be here working along beside you every minute for the next six months, but then I’m hoping to turn it over to you three. You’ll be in charge of finding new board members and so on.
Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you still have a life, too. I’m not going to take you away from your families. My father always said family first and that is a value we need to make sure we keep. But when you are here, I expect the best of you, agreed?”
The men murmured agreement.
I gestured at the chairs. “Let’s get down to business.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
IT TOOK TWO ATTEMPTS for Bobby and I to get out the door to the grand opening party. I blame it on the dress.
When Bobby ran one finger down my hips and discovered I had nothing on underneath, it was impossible to resist his kisses.
As I stepped onto the sidewalk in front of Swanson Place, the black velvet slithered across my thighs and felt delicious against my skin. Going commando had definitely been the way to go. The dress itself was pretty modest, down to my ankles and a modest neckline, but it plunged to my lower spine in the back. I wasn’t a nun.
I was eager to see the twelve residents. I’d sent them to the Esalen Hot Springs in Big Sur where they’d soaked in the hot springs, and had massages, facials, manicures, pedicures and a chance to relax. On the drive back, I’d had their drivers stop at Sak’s Fifth Avenue in Carmel where personal shoppers had helped them pick out modest wardrobes.
So far, all twelve of them had gone through two weeks of training for their jobs at the businesses on the street level. There was nothing requiring them to work at Swanson Place, but most had been eager to apply for the jobs offered. They’d interviewed the same as everybody else for jobs in the hair salon, the market, the flower shop, the rooftop garden, and the restaurant.
The newspaper had already dubbed the restaurant, named Lorenzo’s after my father, the latest hottest sensation. After failing to convince Dante to move to San Francisco, I’d lured a chef away from Chez Panisse in Berkeley and told her to go to town, creating the restaurant of her dreams. Her creation was a luminous, blue-lit underwater-feeling, sensation. In the two weeks, the restaurant had been open, I’d already made back my investment.
When I stepped inside, Kato rushed over and tried to hand me a glass of champagne. I ignored it and kissed him on both cheeks.
“Where’s Suzie?” I asked.
“Over there,” he said. I’d hired his wife, Suzie to manage the restaurant. She was with Dante. He’d agreed to help oversee the first month of the restaurant’s opening. They were talking to a crew of wait staff and looking like a rock star in her sleek silver dress. She saw me watching and winked.
I’d hired Danny to be the DJ and he was in the corner spinning music that I’d never even heard of, but knew was just right.
“How’s it going?” Bobby stepped up to Kato and the two shook hands. As they caught up on sports news or whatever dudes talk about, I scanned the restaurant, looking for the twelve residents. As I picked them out of the crowd, one by one, I smiled.
Everything was in place.
Tonight, after the celebration at the restaurant, the twelve would go spend the first night in their new apartments. I had fresh flower bouquets and fruit and chocolate waiting for them in their new homes. Each resident had signed a lease for a year. It would be up to them whether to renew the lease. I didn’t want them to feel trapped. I only wanted them to have a leg up. I’d handpicked all twelve and knew that this opportunity was what they needed to turn their lives around.
Swanson Place had turned into a pilot program. Cities across the country were carefully monitoring the success of our project. It was starting out small, with only twelve residents, but it would be possible with future projects to go bigger, and house even more people.
The board, now back up to seven members, had agreed that if the development was a success—financially, but also in helping homeless get off the streets permanently—that we would replicate the project, constructing similar developments in other parts of San Francisco and eventually in other cities.
The other cities who had expressed interest—Los Angeles, Phoenix, Atlanta, New York, Chicago, Minneapolis, Miami—had also talked about partnering with us so that some of the costs could be offset with municipal funds. The developments were something I was excited about. But they were also a way for me to honor Ethel.
And maybe if enough people were helped during my lifetime, I could let go of some of the guilt I felt about all the homeless murders.
Because even though her body hadn’t been in one of those barrels, if what King had said was true, Ethel had been the first one they’d gone after. She was the experiment before they refined their technique. If I’d taken time to properly investigate her death, maybe, just maybe I’d have been able to stop the rest of the murders.
I gave Bobby a kiss and told him I’d be right
back. I headed for the restaurant’s bar, which was surrounded by four nearly room-sized aquariums containing exotic fish. I saw a few of the building’s residents: Ron and Serena and Joey and Matt. They were talking to City Council member Julie Kragen who had taken over the mayor’s duties until the next election. Off in a dark corner I saw something that made me pause. Darling and George, with a white bandage on his head, looked pretty cozy together. She leaned in as he brought his lips close to her ear and he had his arm on her lower back. Who knew?
I never did find the blond woman who saw the men kidnap Sasha, but when George had been released from the hospital, James had showed him mug shots of a few of King’s cronies and he’d been able to identify two of them. Better than nothing.
A waiter with a tray of champagne passed by and I plucked a glass off with a wink. Then I raised the glass, high above my head. “Ethel, this is for you.”
I took a sip and standing in the doorway of the restaurant, closed my eyes until I was sure the urge to bawl had passed.
Then I felt Bobby’s hand on my back.
“Gia, you did something good here.” He jutted his chin at the room.
Watching the smiling faces shining under the sparkling lights, the mingling of people from different stratospheres of the city, I could almost feel the hope permeating the room. It was only one small corner of the world.
But it was a start.
GIA AND THE DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL
By Kristi Belcamino
CHAPTER ONE
I WAS IN MY HAPPY PLACE.
La Bella Rossini in North Beach. The best Italian food in San Francisco.
The first bourbon had warmed my insides and flushed my cheeks. My second glass of liquid gold sat sparkling in the candle light. A man I was crazy about was smiling at me like I was the best birthday present he’d ever received. The food was obscenely delicious.
Bobby reached his fork over the table to spear the massive scallop bathing in butter on my plate. I swatted him away. “Back off if you want to keep that hand.”
Gia Santella Crime Thriller Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (Gia Santella Crime Thrillers) Page 32
