Blessed are the Meek

by Kristi Belcamino

  I freeze, pressing my ear against the wall, ready to bolt and hide in the closet. But the only sound I hear is the squeaking of bedsprings. I grab my clothes and sneak out to my car.

  Chapter 13

  THE NEXT MORNING, I’m the first reporter in the metro section. Kellogg’s computer is on, so he must be here somewhere. My desk phone rings across the room, and I hurry toward it. As I pick up my phone, something catches my eye on the small television set suspended from the ceiling above my desk. Police cars and news vans in front of a familiar house—­Adam Grant’s Napa Valley home. Seeing the house sends a small shock through me.

  The sound is muted. Every TV in the newsroom shows the same thing. Even the big screen, tuned to CNN, is broadcasting aerial footage of Grant’s house.

  The phone is up to my ear, but I forget to say anything. I’m reading the words scrolling across the bottom of the smaller TV hanging above the cop reporter’s station. “Body found in Mayor Grant’s home . . . police are scheduled to hold a press conference . . .”

  It doesn’t say if it was a man or woman. Annalisa? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Maybe she was telling the truth. I think of the woman in the black bikini who disappeared right before Annalisa and Grant went into the house. And I heard Annalisa practically beg the mayor not to make her go back outside. She’d seen the killer, hadn’t she?

  I distantly register a voice calling my name from the phone at my ear. In the background, I hear the crackle of the police scanners on the desk nearby. I focus on the voice on the phone, which is becoming shrill. “Hello? Is anyone there? Gabriella?” It’s the receptionist at the front desk.

  “Sorry. I’m here.”

  “There are some police officers here to see you.”

  At her words, my face feels tingly, and a ripple of dread rolls across my scalp.

  Chapter 14

  MY VOICE IS wobbly and my hands are shaking as I lead the officers into the big conference room off the reception area. They introduce themselves. Harry Gold, an older man with a stain on his checked blazer and his belt pulled up over his belly, is a detective from Napa. Jack Sullivan, a wiry man with thick lips and close-­cropped red hair, is a San Francisco Police Department investigator.

  “Is this about Adam Grant’s house?” I’m so nervous I spit out the words without thinking. They are here because they knew I was at his house yesterday. How did they know?

  “Who’s dead? What’s going on?” I ask.

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” the redheaded cop says as he pulls out a chair at the big conference table. “Why don’t you start by telling us about your visit there yesterday.”

  Of course, I think. They want my help. I sink into a chair across from him.

  “Can you tell me who . . . the body is?”

  “We’ll get to that,” the older detective from Napa takes out a small pocketknife and starts cleaning under his nails. “First, tell us about your visit yesterday.”

  I briefly summarize how I met Grant at the press dinner and was invited to his party. I get more detailed when I start talking about my time at his house. I stammer when I get to the part about eavesdropping. The redheaded detective who is leaning forward with his elbows on the table and his fingers steepled in the “power position” gives the other cop a look. It’s subtle, but I realize my hesitation is sending up a red flag with him. At the same time, I realize they aren’t talking to me because they think I’m on their side. I try to explain.

  “I was trying to find out something about Annalisa Cruz and Adam Grant and maybe”—­I decide just to spill it—­“figure out whether they had anything to do with Sebastian Laurent’s death—­the guy found dead last week, the dot.com millionaire?”

  They give me blank looks. The older cop is now pushing his cuticles back without looking up, just nodding at what I’m saying every once in a while.

  “Keep going,” the redheaded one says, tapping a finger on the table. Don’t these guys take notes? Their offhand demeanor makes me flustered. I wonder if that’s their intention?

  “I was in that bedroom, and I was kind of . . . well, I was trying to listen in to their conversation.”

  “What did you hear?” the older cop asks without looking up from his grooming.

  “The mayor seemed angry that Annalisa had brought a detective to the party. That’s my boyfriend, Sean Donovan, he’s a Rosarito cop —­” I trail off.

  “Is that it?” The redheaded cop lifts an eyebrow. His fingers stop tapping.

  “Well, actually, they started, um, doing some more private stuff, so I, um, left.”

  “You left?”

  “Went home.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Probably six o’clock.”

  “Did anyone see you leave?”

  “No, I sort of snuck out,” I say. “Now, can you tell me what’s going on?”

  The older cop tucks his pocketknife away and stands.

  “We’re going to need you to stay in town for a while,” the redhead says casually and locks his gaze on me.

  Need you to stay in town for a while.

  The redhead stands and holds the door for me. I start to walk away and turn back.

  “You haven’t told me who the victim is.”

  He gives the other cop a meaningful look.

  “Who is it?” I nearly whisper the words. I wait for him to say Annalisa’s name.

  “Adam Grant.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face, and my entire body is bathed in a chill that sends tremors down my spine. Adam Grant? He was so charismatic and vibrant, it is hard to imagine his body lifeless. The cops walk past me and turn without saying good-­bye, leaving me standing in the doorway watching their backs.

  And then the realization strikes me—­the police think I murdered the mayor of San Francisco.

  Chapter 15

  BACK IN THE newsroom, everything seems surreal, as if I’m dreaming or hearing everything from underwater. Reporters are filtering into the newsroom. The volumes on the smaller televisions have all been turned up. Pictures of Adam Grant flash over the screen—­pictures of him with Annalisa. Also, pictures of Annalisa with Sebastian Laurent.

  The TV coverage cuts to a blond woman spilling out of her low-­cut top. A diamond pendant dangles in her cleavage. She’s standing in the doorway of a home with giant pillars. TV reporter: “Candace Davenport was at the pool party yesterday.”

  That’s where I recognize her. Although we didn’t talk, she was hard to miss, falling out of her strapless swimsuit top and giggling, always with a big froufrou drink in her hand.

  “My husband, Jeffrey, and I left around five thirty so we could get home and get ready for our dinner party. We had the board of the San Francisco Opera over for our annual planning meeting . . . my maid gets fresh scallops, oh sorry, well anyway. It’s such a shame. The mayor is such a nice man.” She starts to get teary. “I mean he was. What is our city going to do without him? I don’t know why he was hanging out with that woman, anyway. I mean, it’s like she’s a Black Widow. Her boyfriend died last week, now she comes to the mayor’s house, and he ends up dead, too.”

  The reporter cuts back to the newsroom.

  “That is an odd coincidence,” the anchor says to the reporter.

  Hell yeah it is. The cops are wasting their time with me. They better be questioning Annalisa. Black Widow is right. I can’t figure out why Annalisa would kill both Sebastian Laurent and Adam Grant, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t do it. What would she gain from Adam’s death? She practically gave motive for Sebastian’s death at her house, showing me how she didn’t want to give up her luxurious lifestyle. My thoughts are interrupted by the reporter’s voice on the TV.

  “We’ll stay on top of this story and let you know what else we find out. The police are holding a press conference at the Napa ho
use at ten, and we’ll be sure to get all the details for our viewers.”

  I stare up at the TV hanging from the ceiling, frozen, unable to move.

  “Until then,” the anchor says, “we’ll be cutting to national news. Our correspondent is at the White House interviewing the president about the death of San Francisco Mayor Adam Grant. As many ­people know, this is not only a sad day for San Francisco, but it is a sad day for the Republican Party. Mayor Adam Grant has long been thought of as the Republican Party’s next hopeful. He’s even been dubbed “President-­in-­Training.” It’s going to be a political blow for them to lose this promising candidate.”

  Small groups of reporters are gathering in front of the big-­screen TV that takes up one wall over by the photo department. When the news cuts to something about the Bay Bridge, I make my way over to my desk, trying to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. My phone rings again.

  “Holy shit!” It’s Nicole, the courts reporter for the newspaper, based in our Martinez office. She’s my best friend.

  “Yeah.” My voice sounds like it is coming from a long way away.

  “I can’t believe the mayor of San Francisco was whacked! It’s on every station, CNN, BBC, everywhere. The judge called a recess because nobody in the courtroom would shut up. He kept banging his gavel, and ­people kept talking. I’m sure he’s back there in chambers watching it himself. Oh, gotta go, it’s Phil on my other line.”

  Phil is her editor. She hangs up before I can tell her what happened—­that police just questioned me. When I place the phone back in its cradle, her words finally sink in. She’s right. This story is huge. International news. And I was there. Right at the heart of this huge story. I can’t help it, but as a reporter, it sends a thrill through me. At the same time, I’m chilled that the charismatic man who rubbed my arm yesterday is now dead. I barely knew him but was intrigued by him. It stung to hear Nicole use the word “whacked,” but that’s what we do in this business—­gallows humor, I guess. Something that helps us deal with the horrors we cover, making light of death at times, using words like “offed” and “decomp” and “stiffs” like we aren’t talking about someone’s husband or son or father. Or sister.

  I remember with a jolt that the cops actually think I might be involved. I shake it off. I must have imagined the way that one redheaded cop looked at me. Me? A suspect? That’s just plain crazy and a waste of time. They must be crossing their t’s and dotting their i’s. But why did they tell me to stay in town? Maybe they say that to everyone they talk to on a case? I’m not sure. That’s something I should ask Donovan.

  My heart sinks, realizing we are still in a tiff. He hasn’t called since I saw him at Grant’s house. I rummage through my bag until I find my cell phone. I haven’t missed any calls. He was so intent on defending Annalisa Cruz. What does he think now? Can he defend her now?

  Maybe the police will tell us more at the press conference. I look at the clock—­it’s only eight thirty. I can make it to the press conference in Napa if I speed. I grab my bag, a new notebook, and my jacket before someone touches my elbow. Kellogg.

  “Gabriella, you can’t cover this one.”

  “What?”

  “You were there. You can’t cover this. Especially since the police questioned you this morning.”

  He knows I was there? He knows they talked to me—­and he called it “questioning.” Mother Mary. But still. That doesn’t mean I can’t do my job. “You’re kidding, right?” I say, digging for my keys. “This is the biggest story the paper has seen in a year, if not longer.”

  “I realize that, but you can’t cover it. I’m sorry. I’m sending May.”

  May is the night police reporter. We used to be sworn enemies—­she was after my job. We patched things up after she got moved to the education beat. Even though I don’t particularly like her, she’s a good cops reporter, so I went to bat for her, and Kellogg moved her back to night cops.

  I stand still. Keys in my hand. “But I was there . . . you said it yourself,” I say. “We’d be foolish not to use what I saw yesterday. I was at the house.” I think fast. “I can write a first-­person account of the party and everyone and everything I saw until I left. Nobody—­nobody else—­will have that.”

  Kellogg scratches his beard, and his eyes narrow to slits. He nods slowly. “You’re right. But you’re still not going to Napa. Let’s talk to Coleman.”

  AN HOUR LATER, Greg Coleman—­the publisher—­and the newspaper’s attorney have given the okay for my story although the attorney is going to review it before it runs.

  I write up a first-­person account of my time spent with Adam Grant, much like what I told the cops this morning, but I leave out the part about my eavesdropping and the details about Donovan. I begin with meeting Grant at the press dinner and end with my leaving the Napa party without being able to say good-­bye to him because he had gone into the house. I don’t say he went into a bedroom with Annalisa Cruz.

  When Greg Coleman reads it, he orders Kellogg to edit all but one small mention of Annalisa Cruz—­that it was a party to unveil her art piece. I had forgotten about Sara Stephens’s telling me Cruz had the red phone to our publisher. What the hell? Kellogg argues that he can’t censor the story like that. Coleman won’t back down. Kellogg huffs and puffs and mutters threats to quit under his breath, but then calms down and settles into his desk. In the end, Kellogg makes me do the changes. Lame. I’m furious. Annalisa’s name is all over the TV news, but we can only say one small sentence about her. I don’t get it.

  MAY COMES BACK from the press conference with a few new details. Grant died from a single gunshot wound to the head. Same as Sebastian Laurent.

  Because it was such a high-­profile murder and Napa is a small, sleepy-­wine country jurisdiction, San Francisco Police offered mutual aid, making the murder a joint investigation, May says. That explains why detectives from two different agencies visited me this morning. I was so stunned I didn’t even realize how odd it was that they were from different cop shops.

  Police were questioning all ten of the guests who were still at the party that afternoon when Grant disappeared into a bedroom, May said. That fills me with a tiny bit of relief. I wonder if they told everyone else to stay in town, as well? Or just me?

  According to the public-­information officer at the press conference, most guests left after a maid told them the mayor wasn’t feeling well and had gone to his room. Annalisa left not long after, the maid said. I quickly figure out that besides Annalisa, I might have been the last person to see Grant alive.

  I try calling Annalisa’s house. No answer.

  Hearing about the cops questioning all the remaining guests reminds me that I forgot to mention the woman in the black bikini to the cops. She was giving Annalisa looks to kill. But now that I think about it, how do I know she was looking at Annalisa? She could as easily have been shooting daggers at the mayor. Plus, she disappeared right before Annalisa went into the house. I rummage around in my bag looking for the business cards those detectives had given me, telling me to call if I remembered anything.

  Before I can find them, my desk phone rings.

  “Giovanni.”

  “Is this the Gabriella Giovanni who had a sister taken?” a gruff voice asks.

  My vision closes in, and my heart begins pounding in my throat. I hit the RECORD button on the tape-­recording machine hooked up to my phone.

  “Yes.”

  “I got some information about that.”

  “What do you mean?” I grit my teeth.

  “Just got out of the can and heard some stuff, you know,” he says. “I’m no saint myself, but it ain’t right to do something to a kid.”

  “What’s your name?” My hand, holding a pen and hovering over a scrap of paper, is frozen.

  “That’s not important, but if you want to meet, I can maybe tell you more.”
/>   “Where? When?” Nothing will stop me from meeting this man.

  “Berkeley Pier. Wednesday morning. Nine o’clock.”

  “Fine. I’ll be there. How will I know you?” A surge of excitement courses through me. This man might know something about Caterina’s kidnapping.

  “I’ll find you.”

  I’M ABOUT TO log off my computer later when my cell rings.

  It’s Donovan. I’d been so busy writing my first-­person story, I hadn’t had time to worry about him. Seeing his number sends a wave of relief flooding through me, but I’m still nervous when I answer, saying a meek, “Hi.”

  “I would’ve called earlier,” he says. “But I’ve been tied up. Was at SFPD. Detectives wanted to find out if I saw anything when I was at Grant’s house yesterday. Hear they asked you the same thing. I guess Annalisa told them we were there.”

  I don’t even question how he knows this. We both are pretending like we didn’t have a tiff yesterday even though I kept my cell phone nearby all night last night waiting for him to call. “They told me not to leave town. What does that mean?”

  “Several witnesses said last time they saw Grant, he disappeared into the house with Annalisa.” He pauses. “And that you disappeared close to the same time. You two were the last ones to see him alive.”

  “I know. That’s bad, isn’t it?” I don’t wait for him to answer. “Donovan, I got a call. From a guy who says he knows something about Caterina.”

  “Does he sound legit?” Over the past year, once it became public knowledge I was hunting for my sister’s killer, I’ve received my fair share of crank calls about her. Some freaks. Some psychics. All dead ends. But nobody who has asked to meet me in person.

  “He sounds sane if that’s what you mean. I’m meeting him at nine Wednesday morning at the Berkeley Pier.”

  “I’ll drive,” Donovan says.

  There is a long silence.

  “Working late?” he asks.

  “No.”