Blessed are the Meek

by Kristi Belcamino

  “Maybe your feelings for her are clouding your judgment.” I pour myself three fingers of vodka and take a large gulp that makes my lips tingle and sends a fiery trail of heat trickling down into my core. “She seems perfectly capable of killing someone to me.”

  “You don’t know her.” Wrong. Thing. To. Say. I storm into the bathroom and slam the door. It’s childish, but it’s the only place I can go to get away from him without leaving the apartment. Donovan knocks. I’m slumped on the floor near the door, staring at the chipped black, blue, and yellow mosaic floor. The 1940s tile is missing many pieces, but I refuse to replace it. I ignore Donovan’s knocks a few inches away on the other side of the door, draining the vodka in my glass.

  “Okay, that came out wrong,” he says through the door. “I know Annalisa seems cold at times, but I don’t really think she’s capable of putting a bullet through someone’s head. Don’t get me wrong. She’s no angel, but she’d rather manipulate the guy into doing it to himself. I just can’t see her pulling the trigger.”

  “That doesn’t mean she isn’t guilty,” I say to the door. “She could’ve paid someone. Did you know she stands to keep the multimillion-­dollar home, a Ferrari, and God knows how much of a life-­insurance policy?”

  “That’s why I think she might take the fall for it,” Donovan says. I can hear that he is sitting on the floor on the other side of the door. “No alibi. Claims she was home alone asleep. Nobody can verify that.”

  I don’t say a word.

  Donovan clears his throat. “Ella, you have nothing to worry about.” He slides something under the large gap under my bathroom door. I stare at it. But don’t pick it up. It’s a picture of us that my favorite photographer at the paper, Chris Lopez, took. Donovan and I are standing by some crime-­scene tape talking. It’s shortly after we got together, and it’s obvious in the way we’re looking at each other that we’re already in love. I made Lopez print out two wallet-­size copies. I kept one and gave the other to Donovan. I stare at the photo, my ear pressed against the door. Donovan stands, and I can hear his footsteps as he walks away.

  I pick the picture off the tile and stare at it. He had me from day one. From the first second I saw him, I knew. I do some deep-­breathing exercises my therapist taught me. Thinking of my therapy sessions makes me realize I’m overreacting.

  He doesn’t deserve my jealousy. That’s one thing I’ve been working on in therapy—­my flying off the handle. It’s a constant theme. Okay, screw it. I’ll try to handle this the “mature” way. I make the sign of the cross, crack open the door, take a deep breath, and try to sound as calm and rational as I can.

  “What else they got on her?”

  I don’t meet his eyes but head to the kitchen to start making pasta carbonara. I fill my big pot with water, dump a small palmful of salt in, and set it on a burner. The bacon-­and-­egg pasta is Donovan’s favorite. This morning before I left, I had promised to make it for dinner. He gets out the butcher-­cut bacon, eggs, and cheese, acknowledging my peace offering.

  “There’s a string of domestic-­violence calls to her address,” Donovan says, beginning to grate the big hunk of Parmigiano Reggiano. “The most recent one was last weekend, neighbors called 911. They said they heard a woman screaming, ‘Please don’t kill me.’ Annalisa told police Sebastian Laurent held a knife to her throat. He said she tried to push him off the balcony. He hung by his fingers but was able to haul himself back up while she hit his fingers with a fireplace poker. Annalisa’s got a bit of a temper.”

  I remember Sebastian’s Laurent’s bruised and scabbed-­over fingernails and knuckles.

  “You think?” I add some red-­pepper flakes to the bacon chunks sizzling in my skillet.

  Donovan continues. “Sebastian Laurent apparently has—­or had I should say—­some type of pull with the SFPD because neither one was arrested in the incident.”

  Domestic-­violence calls are a mandatory arrest in California with probable cause, and it sounds like cops had plenty of probable cause.

  I fish a spaghetti strand out of the pot with a fork and test it with my teeth. It’s almost al dente, so I nod at Donovan, and he starts beating the eggs with a whisk, adding in a ladleful of the hot pasta water.

  LATER, WE’RE ALMOST finished eating when I remember something.

  “Maybe it’s not Laurent. Maybe it’s her. Maybe the cops didn’t arrest them because Annalisa has the pull.” Twirling my last bite of pasta and taking a sip of my cabernet, I tell him what the news research department dug up this afternoon—­a gossip-­column photo showing San Francisco Mayor Adam Grant and Annalisa Cruz having dinner together a few months ago at a fancy Union Street restaurant.

  Grant is a hotshot thirty-­five-­year-­old lawyer who is being groomed for the White House.

  “Cheating on her dot.com-­millionaire boyfriend doesn’t help her case, either,” I say, hiding my smirk with my wineglass. “Or maybe it does. Let the mayor help her.”

  He ignores my comment.

  “Doesn’t look good,” Donovan says. “Lot of circumstantial evidence, but there is definitely motive.” He clears our plates. I head to the living room with the last of my wine. “She’s going to need more than his help,” he says. “I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but she needs my help, too. It’s something I have to do.”

  He means it.

  Heat rushes into my face. He’s drawn the line. Two can play that game.

  Perched on the edge of my couch, I rummage in my bag and retrieve a crumpled pack of old cigarettes.

  “I thought you quit,” Donovan says, his eyes narrowing.

  I pull Annalisa’s naked-­woman red ashtray out of my bag and plop it on the coffee table. That shuts him up. I put a match to my bent cigarette, shaking it out with a flick of my wrist and tossing it across the coffee table, where it lands smack in the ashtray.

  Donovan starts to say something. He stops when I lean back, put my feet on the coffee table, raise an eyebrow, and let out a long stream of smoke.

  Chapter 8

  THE NEWSROOM IS humming like a beehive this morning.

  A new report from Cal Trans came out reminding everyone that until construction on the eastern span is complete, the Bay Bridge could collapse in the next earthquake that registers more than 6.0.

  “Just great,” says Rich Olsen, who is hovering by my desk. “I already do a Hail Mary every time I go across that bad boy. That’s it. I’m moving to the East Bay. I’m not going to take my life into my hands getting to work every day.”

  He’s from Minnesota.

  I laugh. “I’ve been in about ten earthquakes, and I’m still breathing. You’ve got to play the odds, my friend.”

  “Screw that.”

  The replacement, which has been planned for decades, just started this year. Meanwhile, hundreds of thousands of commuters are driving across the span each day—­some as nervous as Rich. The mayors of both Oakland and San Francisco are still taking cheap shots against one other about who was to blame for the delay, mainly caused by arguments over design and whether the bridge should have a bike path. Finally, the governor stepped in, and said, “Bay Area, get on with it already!”

  But the mayors are still bickering. This time over some issues with the integrity of construction materials, whose fault it is, and how that might delay the project. Every television in the newsroom is tuned to the argument. San Francisco Mayor Adam Grant’s smile, broadcast on the newsroom’s wall-­size big screen, is so large it seems a bit sinister.

  Seeing Grant reminds me that I need to find out why he was having dinner with Annalisa. I’ll go talk to Lisa Shipley, our longtime political reporter. I’d rather do that than figure out how I’m going to juggle covering two robberies, a four-­car pileup on the 680, and a grass fire before deadline.

  I welcome the newsroom chaos today. Today is the twenty-­third anniversary
of Caterina’s little body’s being found. It’s horrifying that we don’t even know the exact day of her death. Only the day some off-­road bicyclists found her little body under a bush.

  I ignore the tears forming at the corners of my eyes. I muted my cell phone when I woke this morning to avoid my mother’s calls. As an added bonus, I won’t know if Donovan calls, either. Good. I’m still irritated with him.

  It’s eleven thirty. My mom wanted me to meet her at the cemetery at noon. Well, I’m too busy to go. But I know I’m lying to myself. The truth is, I’m afraid. I pick up Caterina’s picture from my desk. For years it was hidden in a desk drawer. Now it reminds me every day why I make those difficult phone calls to make sure every victim I write about is more than just a name in the paper. I kiss my fingers and gently touch the picture. With her dark hair and small pink lips, she looks like an angel.

  “LISA, WHAT CAN you tell me about Mayor Grant?”

  She’s eating lunch at her desk. My stomach grumbles when a whiff of a half-­eaten cheeseburger and French fries drifts up to me.

  She answers in a staccato voice, still typing, without taking her eyes off her computer.

  “From big money. Mother’s family is East Coast, blue-­blood royalty. Father’s family descended from a San Francisco railroad tycoon. Think the Kennedys, but conservatives. Republican Party loves him. On fast track to the White House. Against gay marriage. But appointed several gay staffers. Walks right down the middle, which makes him a very viable presidential candidate for the GOP. Only thing holding him back is being single, but I heard that the plan is before the election, he’ll find his dream girl. The spin doctors will use it to conjure a romance and engagement the likes of this country hasn’t seen since Grace Kelly married the Prince of Monaco. He’ll be like our own royalty—­Princess Di will have nothing on him.” She takes a breath and looks up. “How come?”

  “Think he’s capable of murder?”

  She stops, shoves a fry in her mouth, and gives me a look over her huge round glasses. “He’s a politician.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Politicians will do nearly anything to get what they want,” she says. “With that said, Grant is probably too smart to murder someone. You talking about Sebastian Laurent?”

  I nod. “Maybe Grant wanted boyfriend out of the way? Maybe Annalisa Cruz is the girl he’s going to woo and marry in front of the world. She’s got the looks for it.” I hand Lisa the photo of the ­couple having dinner.

  Annalisa Cruz’s hair is pulled back in a chignon, and she’s wearing a slinky red dress—­big diamond earrings dangle from her small earlobes. Grant is in a dark suit. The pair sits at a restaurant table bathed in candlelight.

  Lisa gives the photo a fleeting look. “I heard about that, too, but that’s par for the course in politics. And, trust me, Grant wouldn’t have to resort to murder to steal another guy’s girlfriend. You’ve obviously never met him. Want to?”

  Lisa takes another bite of her cheeseburger, dips her frizzy black-­and-­gray hair, and flips through a stack of papers. Unearthing one, she hands me a letter on fine parchment paper with the seal of the mayor’s office at the top.

  She holds a finger up, asking me to wait as she finishes chewing her bite. Finally, I see her swallow. “I can’t make it to the annual press-­club dinner tomorrow night. Kellogg wants someone from the paper there. Call Grant’s assistant and confirm. You’ll get to see the mayor in action, and, at the very least, you’ll get a good meal out of it.”

  I thank her and walk away.

  “Giovanni,” she calls after me. “Like I said, Grant has no problem with the women. Watch yourself. He’s partial to brunettes.”

  Chapter 9

  THE PRESS-­CLUB DINNER is black tie. Crap.

  “The women will be wearing formal, floor-­length gowns and the men tuxedos,” the mayor’s press assistant says when I call to confirm.

  “Gotcha.” I hang up, thinking, what kind of ­people actually own “floor-­length gowns” for crying out loud? Not reporters, that’s for sure.

  On Saturday morning, with the dinner in T minus ten hours, I realize I need help. I pick up the phone.

  “Mama, want to go shopping?”

  “I’m on the next BART train.”

  Just like I expected, she doesn’t even mention the anniversary at the cemetery yesterday or that I’ve avoided her calls for the past week. I barely slept last night thinking of Caterina. I still wonder what triggered my mother’s change of heart. It makes me uneasy, but I’m afraid to ask.

  Today, as we shop at Union Square, my mother has slight dark circles under her eyes, and I wonder if she spent a sleepless night, as well. If so, only someone who knows her well would notice. She looks as stylish as ever in pressed jeans and a silky turquoise blouse. Her black hair is either in a tidy bun, or like today, a sleek ponytail. Her dark eyelashes seem even blacker with the slash of her signature red lipstick. She taught me la bella figura—­the Italian philosophy to present your best self always—­but I’ve always managed to bungle it. She’s always had men flocking to her, but never remarried after my dad died. It was only after we kids moved out that she began dating another widower she’s known since childhood.

  Three hours of shopping later, I have a massive headache from trying on a variety of “floor-­length gowns” in silver, gold, and black. I kept getting sidetracked by the frothy chiffon sundresses in pretty oranges, turquoises, and pinks that would go great with my new strappy stiletto sandals. Finally, I settle on a black velvet halter dress. It’s modest in front but has a plunging back side and is formfitting without being clingy or revealing. I fork over a month’s salary at my mother’s encouragement.

  “You look like an angel in that dress,” my mother says over lunch at Scala’s Bistro.

  “Since when do angels wear black?”

  “You know what I mean,” she says in exasperation. “Donovan will drop to one knee for sure when he sees you wearing it.”

  I close my eyes and count to ten, so I don’t explode. “Mama, please! Can you get off the marriage kick,” I say, holding my hand up to my throbbing head and waving away the waiter who is trying to refill my wine. “Plus, he’s not going to see me in this anyway.”

  “What? I don’t understand.” My mother’s hand freezes, with a forkful of expertly twirled linguine-­and-­clam pasta halfway to her mouth.

  “The mayor’s dinner is for reporters, not cops. Donovan’s not invited. Besides, he’s up at his sister’s house in Sacramento this weekend for his nephew’s christening.”

  “He didn’t invite you?” Her brow furrows. “Are you two having problems?”

  “Mama, he did invite me, but I have to attend this dinner, so I couldn’t go.” A blatant lie, which fills me with guilt.

  I ignore her question about us having problems. I don’t know if we are or not. I do know I haven’t invited him to stay the night at my apartment since I caught him swooping in to rescue his old girlfriend from a murder rap. I look away, pushing around my shrimp risotto so it looks like I ate more than I did. I’m not hungry. For a girl with an appetite like mine, that’s saying something.

  “I pray every day that someday you realize work is not as important as love,” my mother says. “When you are on your deathbed, are you going to remember some horrible story you covered or the love you had with someone else?” She raises one eyebrow. I keep my face deadpan. “You have to be careful you don’t lose this one because you put your job first.”

  “Donovan’s different,” I say, but flash back to the string of boyfriends who called it quits because of the demands of my job, including the one who did so on the morning of our wedding. Or rather, I broke it off but only because he told me he didn’t want his wife to be a reporter.

  “I hope so. He’s a good man,” she says, dabbing her lips with the big linen napkin. She waits un
til she has my full attention before she says what she does next. “And Ella, you are . . . getting older. If you want to have children, you may not want to wait too long.”

  I bite my lower lip and look away. What can I say? In a corner of the restaurant, several small children run and squeal, chasing one another around as their parents finish their meal. I can feel my mother’s eyes on me like searchlights. I dip my head and rummage in my handbag for my lipstick. It’s better than admitting what I feel deep down inside—­that lately, I can’t bear the thought of becoming a mother.

  After lunch, I drive my mother back to her home in Livermore, in the East Bay south of Contra Costa County, where my newspaper is located. We pass by the cemetery. I sneak a glance at my mother out of the corner of my eye. She is sitting ramrod straight, staring straight ahead.

  Chapter 10

  THE FAIRMONT HOTEL was the first place Tony Bennett sang, “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” and is possibly the nicest hotel in the city. The beaux-­arts-­style massive white building sits atop Nob Hill. Tonight it is lit up in all its magnificence. I pull up to the valet stand in my beat-­up old Volvo sedan. At least it’s clean. I spent an hour vacuuming and waxing it.

  Normally, I would’ve walked or taken the bus from my place. But I knew my dress would’ve provoked whispering from the older women on the bus. Tromping up the hills of San Francisco in black velvet and stilettos would’ve been absurd.

  The valet, a boy with freckles and close-­cropped hair, opens my door for me. As I get out, my sandal’s spiky heel catches the hem of my dress, and I trip, falling right into the valet’s arms. His face is as red as his uniform as he helps me regain my footing.

  When I look up, it’s my turn to blush. The mayor is a few feet away on the sidewalk, smoking. By the amused look on his face, he obviously saw the whole thing. Figures. Heading toward the door, I hold up the torn hem on my dress so it doesn’t drag on the ground. I’ll find a bathroom and assess the damage.