Blessed are the Meek

by Kristi Belcamino

  “Facciamoci un aperitivo!” Gino says, gesturing to a plate of appetizers and inviting me to join them. “Sit down and eat. Maybe you need a Negroni! Scusi, cameriere,” he starts to call the waiter over despite my protests. “Eat! Mangia! Mangia! Look at her”—­he gestures to me, looking at his friends—­“nobody likes a skinny Italian girl.”

  They grunt in agreement.

  I laugh and lean down, kissing Gino on both cheeks. “Perché no?” Why not? I’ve got time. I shrug and pull out a chair. And I need something to take my mind off my meeting tomorrow about Caterina.

  BY THE TIME I leave Gino’s table, I scratch the idea of making dinner. I’m full drinking beer and munching antipasti. It was fun talking to the old neighborhood guys, and it’s always good to brush up on my Italian. It helped me push back thoughts about my meeting in the morning with the man who might have something to tell me about Caterina. I look at my watch. Still early. It’s going to be a long night. I realize now that I will go crazy sitting on my couch reading. I’m too restless and anxious about the meeting tomorrow morning.

  I need a distraction. Maybe a game of chess? Although I play a long-­distance game with Tomas, sometimes I need a fast-­paced game. Market Street is just the place for it.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m down on Market and Powell Streets in my baggiest jeans, a hoodie, and a stocking cap pulled low over my eyebrows. It’s my uniform for the game. Trash litters the sidewalk, and noisy buses, vehicles, and streetcars are the sound system for the line of tables flanking Market Street. Nearby, a man wearing a Sherlock-­Holmes-­style hat is playing the saxophone. I drop a few quarters in his case as I pass. Even though it’s warm out tonight, another man stands against a pole wearing a puffy down jacket down to his ankles. He’s sporting a fur-­lined cap. I don’t make eye contact.

  A red-­and-­orange streetcar screeches to a halt nearby as I take a seat at one of the dozen rickety blue tables painted with green-­and-­white chessboards. My back is to the street. I face the big window of an old-­fashioned beauty shop. Women sit under hairdryers talking animatedly. To my right, another row of tables has canvas chessboards duct taped to them. I dig in my jeans pocket for two dollars.

  “Natasha!” says Georges, the Bulgarian who runs the games. “I’ve got the perfect opponent for you. New guy.” Georges leans in and lowers his voice. “I don’t think I like him. I wouldn’t mind seeing him lose.”

  I nod. Down on Market Street, other than saying, “check” or “checkmate,” I don’t speak. When Caterina was murdered, I didn’t talk for six months. My uncle tried to coax me out of it by teaching me chess. It worked. After clamming up for months, the first word out of my six-­year-­old mouth was “check” one day when I lost myself in the game.

  Georges started calling me Natasha after I’d been playing down there for a year without talking or volunteering my name. I like the anonymity of being a chess player on Market Street. It’s the place I go when I don’t want to think anymore and need an escape. Right now, all I can think about is my meeting in the morning. It even overshadows Adam Grant’s murder and the fact that the cops are questioning me about it. But I have to relax. I’m not meeting the man until tomorrow. Twelve hours away.

  Three games later, I’ve won fifty bucks from the new guy, a New York stockbroker who just transferred to his company’s San Francisco office. The sun has dipped behind the business district’s skyscrapers, and the shadows have brought a chill with them. I nod my good-­byes. I’m tired, so I hop the bus at Chinatown instead of walk. A little girl, around four, sits across from me. Her big black eyes are round with mischief, and she sings a little song to herself. I can’t help but smile at her, but she ignores me—­singing and swinging her little legs in their ankle socks. She isn’t paying attention and nearly misses her stop. Her grandmother has to reach back and grab her, scolding her in Chinese.

  I’m walking up the stairs in my apartment building when Nicole calls to fill me in on the Grant story.

  “The D.A. told me off the record that he heard Napa isn’t even close to identifying a suspect in Grant’s murder.”

  A wave of relief sweeps over me. I knew they couldn’t possibly be looking at me seriously.

  “What about Annalisa? Did you ever find anything on her?”

  “Not much. Her trail goes cold before she started dating Sebastian two years ago. As far as the mayor’s murder, yeah, her name came up, but they’ve got nothing solid on her. She’s one of several ­people they’re looking at.”

  “Nothing on her except the fact that Grant died the same way her boyfriend did—­single bullet to the head.”

  “Gabriella?” Uh-­oh. Something in her tone makes my mouth suddenly dry. “The real reason I called is to warn you. Apparently, your name came up, too. The D.A. said he would bet his last dollar you had nothing to do with it, but some San Francisco detective’s got a hard-­on for you.”

  Donovan told me it was standard procedure to question me? Must be that arrogant little redheaded putz. He’s obviously got something to prove. But I’m a dead end. It’s natural for some cops to hate reporters, but that doesn’t mean he would seriously try to pin a murder rap on me. That’d be stupid. And a waste of time. I remember what Nicole said first—­no suspects—­nothing solid on anyone.

  “They questioned me at the newsroom and called me again today.”

  A trickle of anxiety surges through me as I say these words. I close my eyes. Ever since Annalisa entered the picture, things have gone from bad to worse. “Why would they even consider me a suspect?” I finally manage to ask.

  “Someone told the cops you were acting jealous at the party,” Nicole says. “They said there was some kind of argument between you and Annalisa, and it was over the mayor.”

  “What?’ My stomach sinks. There was no argument, but I was feeling irrationally jealous. That sliver of truth sends a shiver of apprehension through me.

  Nicole went on. “The theory is that you and Grant were an item, and when you found out he was seeing Annalisa on the side, you offed him.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I have a boyfriend.”

  “No shit.”

  “I just met him Saturday, for Christ’s sakes.”

  “Uh-­huh.”

  “That theory won’t hold water.”

  Nicole doesn’t answer. I wait. The silence stretches on for several seconds. My stomach roils with fear. I ignore it. There is nothing a cop—­even one who was out to get me—­could find that would pin Grant’s murder on me. Nicole clears her throat.

  “Gabriella, they’re looking at someone else, too—­Donovan.”

  Her words make my breath catch in my throat.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It doesn’t make any sense to me, either,” she says. “I’ll try to dig up more on that. They really clamped down because he’s a cop, though.”

  “Thanks.”

  They are looking at Donovan? Isn’t it absurd for detectives to nonchalantly look at another cop for the murder? There’s no evidence whatsoever. I mean, isn’t there some unspoken code to protect the blue line or something? Why would they so quickly look at him? It doesn’t make sense.

  I brush away these thoughts and fall asleep thinking about the meeting the next morning. That man might have the answers I’ve waited for my entire life. Surprisingly, instead of dreaming about Caterina, like I so often do, I dream of a whale—­a big gray one that keeps flipping its tail out of the water. I’m chasing it. In my dream, I’m on an air mattress, of all things, and no matter how hard I paddle, until I’m panting with exhaustion, I can never catch up. It always remains out of reach.

  A few hours later, pounding on my door awakens me. I glimpse at the clock—­5 A.M.

  “San Francisco PD.”

  I throw a robe over my s
ilk chemise before opening the door, squinting at the two men in uniforms before me.

  “I don’t understand. I already talked to some detectives today—­yesterday.”

  “Don’t know nothing about that, ma’am,” the one cop, who has a crew cut and bulging muscles, says. “We were told to escort you down to the station.”

  Nicole’s info was good. Some dickhead detective does have it out for me. Well, good luck with that. I’m not some naïve young woman who is going to be intimidated by some punk cop.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  I think about that for a second. I’ve got nothing to hide. I’ll go. If something I saw, or know, helps them find Adam Grant’s killer, I’m willing to talk to the cops again. But I’m calling a lawyer first—­just in case.

  Chapter 19

  RUSSELL TROUTMAN MEETS me at the station. I only called Donovan’s cell phone twenty minutes ago, but somehow the defense attorney beat me to the cop shop. Donovan sounded distracted, saying the attorney would be waiting at the police station. He seemed in a hurry to hang up, saying he was in the middle of something and that he’d meet me at the station. With the cops eyeballing me from my doorway, I didn’t realize until later that Donovan didn’t seem surprised by my call.

  Troutman, who, with his bushy white beard and square-­framed glasses, looks like a mall Santa Claus on a diet, gives me a friendly smile when he introduces himself. His pin-­striped suit is rumpled. When he sits, I spot one brown and one black sock.

  I look around, but Donovan is nowhere in sight.

  Even though Troutman is friends with Donovan’s family, I’m a little surprised that Donovan called in such a heavy hitter to sit with me. Troutman is a top-­notch defense attorney who gained a reputation after he got a famous Bay Area restaurant owner acquitted for first-­degree murder despite the man’s having confessed under oath to killing his business partner. I don’t remember what Troutman’s argument was, but I do remember ­people were shocked when he won the case. Since then, he’s had several other victories in the courtroom that have made the record books.

  “Nice obit on Rodriguez today,” he says, shaking my hand. “He was a lawyer’s lawyer, that’s for sure.” His other hand has a rolled-­up copy of our newspaper. He’s not only been awake, he’s had time to read the early edition. Huh.

  “Thanks.”

  He leads me into what looks like a boardroom. Inside, a long table and several chairs fill up the room. The only window is a long one next to the door that leads into the hallway. At least it doesn’t look like the sterile rooms that suspects are questioned in on TV, and there’s no big mirror with cops on the other side watching. It smells like coffee, making me instantly crave a cup. I grab the chair farthest away from the door and plop down in it. Troutman sits a few chairs down and turns his chair toward me.

  “We have a few minutes to talk before the detectives come in. Why don’t you tell me when you first met Adam Grant?”

  “Is this place bugged?” I eye the walls and ceiling.

  “This isn’t one of those rooms where they can record you. You’re good.”

  If there was a big wall of black glass, I wouldn’t say a word, but there’s not.

  I lean back and tell Troutman everything I know—­even before I met the mayor, in case any of it helps. I begin with Sebastian Laurent’s body being found and how it led me to Annalisa, and how the picture of her and the mayor led me to Adam Grant.

  Troutman takes notes, doing a lot of grunting but not saying much, except asking a few questions to clarify, such as “What time was that? What day was that?” and so on.

  Finally, we are done, and we still sit, waiting. Silent. Troutman leans back and opens his mouth wide, cracking his jaw. I shoot him a startled glance, and he immediately closes it.

  “Sorry. It’s been a long night,” he says with a grimace.

  I yawn widely, forgetting to cover my mouth.

  “Want some coffee?” he asks, and stands. I nod eagerly. His hand is on the door when I ask the question that has been nagging at me.

  “Do you think they have anything on me? I mean, I didn’t do anything, so how can they call me in for questioning like this? Isn’t it against the law or something?”

  “They’re grasping for straws. It’s best just to cooperate. Tell them what you told me, and you’ll be fine.”

  “I already did. Apparently it wasn’t good enough.”

  Troutman nods and leaves.

  A few minutes later, he’s back with two cups of coffee.

  “Donovan’s waiting for you in the lobby.”

  I start to stand.

  “We better stick here in case they come in. He said he’s going to run an errand and will be back in a bit. Sooner we talk to them, the sooner we can all go home.”

  “Can Donovan be in here when they talk to me?”

  Troutman shakes his head.

  Later, we’ve both made headway on our coffee and are still waiting for the detectives. Is this some form of torture? A form of interrogation? Making a suspect wait until they are so crazy they’ll confess to anything?

  Troutman taps his fingers on the desk, then rifles through his notepad.

  It is now seven in the morning. I am fidgety and anxious. I’m supposed to meet my source—­the guy with info on Caterina—­in two hours. I cross and uncross my legs. I adjust the cuffs of my shirt. I chew my lip. I start nibbling on the Styrofoam coffee cup, leaving a circle of little bite marks around the edges.

  I didn’t do anything, but just being here makes me feel guilty. Of what I don’t know. At this point, I’m ready to confess to the lip gloss I shoplifted in third grade. I turn to Troutman, who seems calm and patient. I guess I would feel the same way if I were being paid by the hour to sit and wait.

  Finally, at seven thirty, I can’t help it and say something. “What the hell are they doing?”

  “Not sure,” Troutman says, flipping through a yellow legal pad. “I told them we needed time alone since we hadn’t spoken yet. I think that didn’t sit well with them, so now they are going to retaliate by making us wait. By the way, when they question you, if you’re not sure whether to answer or not, look at me, and I’ll step in. Since we have time, why don’t you go ahead and tell me everything you told me before. Tell me again. I’ll refer to my notes as you are speaking”

  So I repeat it. For the fourth time in as many days.

  When I finish, I’m tired, irritable, and frustrated. I get up and start pacing. “They can’t seriously think I had anything to do with Adam Grant’s death? This is ludicrous.”

  Finally, the door opens. Sure enough, it’s the same two detectives who questioned me at the newspaper. That punk, redhead, Jack Sullivan, and the older one from Napa—­Harry Gold.

  “Miss Giovanni,” Sullivan says as if he’s being polite, but it comes out sounding like an insult. Detective Gold gives me a nod, which somehow seems so respectful in comparison.

  “I guess my story was so scintillating you wanted to hear it again?” I say, kicking my feet onto the table. Troutman gives me a horrified look, so I immediately swing my legs to the floor and feel my face flush. Lack of sleep is getting to me. I better pull it together. This is a homicide investigation. Those two words sober me up.

  “I didn’t mean to be flippant. I’m just really tired and have a meeting in a few hours, so if we can get this started, I’d be happy to answer your questions.”

  Harry Gold whips out a small tape recorder and plops it on the table. “Don’t mind if I record our conversation, do you? My memory isn’t as good as it used to be.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Troutman give a nearly imperceptible nod of approval.

  “Fine.”

  Gold presses record and begins, giving the time and date and names of everyone in the room before clearing his t
hroat.

  “Okay, Ms. Giovanni, sorry to keep you waiting. If you could, please start again when you first met the mayor on Saturday night.”

  I go into the whole embarrassing story of how I met the mayor after ripping my dress and end with me driving away from the mayor’s Napa house. Again, I avoid anything personal about Donovan.

  They stop me a few times to ask clarifying questions, much the same way that Troutman did. I try to stifle a yawn and slump farther down into my seat.

  When I finish the part about leaving Grant’s house, Sullivan asks me where I went from there.

  “Home.”

  “Did you see anyone when you got home?”

  “I live alone.”

  “Did anyone in your building see you that night or did you go out later?”

  I shake my head no. Sullivan stares at me for a long moment. I stare back.

  Are they baiting me with the silence? Hoping I’ll be uncomfortable and blab that I killed the mayor? I probably have as much interview experience as they do. I can wait them out. Or better, I’ll steer the conversation the direction I want, like asking them about the real suspects.

  “So, did your partner here tell you what I said about the woman in the black bikini?” I direct my question to Sullivan. He stares at me like he’s trying to figure me out. Then he shoots Gold a look.

  The Napa detective clears his throat. “I’d like to ask you a bit about your boyfriend, Sean Donovan.”

  “What does he have to do with any of this?” I sit up straight. I saw the look Sullivan gave Gold. They did the handoff. Bad cop, good cop. Sullivan is the bad cop. Gold is the good cop, the one who is supposed to be “my friend,” the one who I “want” to talk to. It’s utter bullshit.

  “How did you meet Mr. Donovan?”

  “Detective.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He’s a detective. Detective Donovan.”

  Sullivan actually rolls his eyes. I cross my arms across my chest. Now, he’s starting to piss me off.