Blessed are the Meek

by Kristi Belcamino

  At the cop-­reporter station, May is on the phone and barely glances my way. Her voice drops to a whisper. I’m sure she’s talking about Donovan.

  Kellogg is the only one who has any balls in this operation. He immediately comes over to my desk and engulfs me in a big bear hug. It’s awkward and embarrassing, but I’m grateful.

  “Giovanni. You let me know what I can do to help.” He leans in and lowers his voice. “I told everyone—­you’re off-­limits on this. The other reporters are on their own finding out info about Detective Donovan.”

  Reporters? I was right. He’s assigned more than one to this story. I swallow hard and blink even harder. He notices. “You sure you want to be here? Maybe this is a good time for you to take a few days off? Some personal days, huh?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t. I can’t sit around at home.”

  “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  He gives me a light punch on the shoulder and walks away.

  May gets off the phone and gives me a look. “It’s not my fault I have to cover this, so I hope you’re not going to be a royal bitch to me about it.”

  “Fuck you, May,” I say. “It wouldn’t have hurt to say something compassionate, like you’re sorry I have to go through this or how about this: ‘I’m sure your boyfriend is innocent, and I’ll try to prove that.’ ”

  “I don’t know what your definition of the cops reporter beat is, but mine doesn’t involve proving a suspect’s innocence. I report what the cops tell me.”

  “Fine.” I jump out of my chair so violently, it tips over, making a loud crash. I stomp out of the newsroom glaring, daring ­people to look at me. They all keep their noses to their desks. Cowards.

  OUTSIDE, MY HANDS are shaking so badly, one of the press guys lights the cigarette I bum from him.

  “Bad day?”

  “If you only knew.”

  I start pacing underneath a tree, restraining myself from punching the bark. That would be dumb. I’m on my second smoke and feeling dizzy. I slump down onto the picnic-­table bench right when Lopez comes flying out the back door.

  “Saw your car in the lot. Thought you might be out here.”

  I shake my head.

  “I’m sorry, man.” He stands there for a minute with his hands shoved in his jeans pocket. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” I nod and bite my lip. He goes back inside, giving me one last glance before the door closes. It’s not the first time I’ve fought back tears today. Die before cry.

  I grab a crumpled reporter’s notebook out of my bag and start writing down possible suspects. Annalisa, I scribble. Then, I close my eyes. I have zero suspects. Who else would kill these three men? A dot.com billionaire. The mayor of San Francisco. A former cop. What is the connection? Nothing I can see besides Annalisa. She was seen with the cop the day before? I need to talk to her a.s.a.p.

  How does that task force figure into this? I don’t care what Donovan says—­if the task-­force members are dropping like flies, maybe that’s the connection. It started out years ago with six cops, and now half of them are dead? Something is going on. I rush back to my desk and dial Troutman, glad that May is away from her desk.

  “I think someone is targeting Rosarito cops.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize it’s true. There is something to my theory. I just know it. “Can you get extra security on Donovan in the jail? Just in case.”

  Troutman clears his throat. “Gabriella, I’ve already got him in protective custody.”

  “You do?”

  “He’s a police officer. Cops are more at risk in jail than child molesters.”

  “Oh.”

  He clears his throat again, and I know I don’t want to hear what he has to say next.

  “You should probably know that when they booked him, they did a lineup.” He pauses. I hold my breath. “That witness identified him as the man she saw at the scene.”

  “That’s impossible.” I shriek it so loudly, ­people stop what they are doing and stare. I lower my head, hiding behind the wall of my cubicle. I lower my voice, “Plus, everyone knows eyewitnesses are completely unreliable.”

  Pulitzer Prize-­winning reporter Edna Buchanan once demonstrated this to a class of journalism students. She paid a friend to run into the class, snatch her handbag, and run out. As the students panicked, she yelled something like, “Freeze. Write a description of the suspect.” When students’ descriptions ranged from tall to short to blond to brunette, she told them this is why eyewitnesses are so unreliable.

  “We’ll figure this out,” Troutman says, and hangs up.

  On top of my worry about Donovan, I’m disappointed my anonymous source hasn’t called again. Maybe that was my one shot, and now he’ll disappear without my finding out what he knows about Caterina.

  It was probably another dead end anyway. Still, my heart leaps every time my phone rings. It’s always a false alarm. I try to lose myself in my work, ignoring everyone around me. I work on a short story about the dead body they found in the Delta—­homeless guy died of exposure—­and then start on an evergreen story. Evergreens are stories that aren’t timely and can run anytime space needs to be filled in the paper. My story about scam artists targeting the elderly keeps me busy most of the day.

  One seventy-­five-­year-­old woman tells me how she lost her life savings after turning over her bank-­account information to a “nice young man” who told her she had won $250,000 and he needed her account number to deposit the winnings. There’s a special place in hell for ­people like that.

  I haven’t been able to eat at all, but around three my stomach starts making embarrassing noises, so I hit the newsroom cafeteria. Greasy pizza and a small salad fit the bill, and I bring it back to my desk. I only manage a few bites before I push it aside.

  At seven, my phone rings, and I yawn, taking my time before I pick up. I’ve left several messages about my scam-­artist story. But now that the story’s done, I don’t really have room for any more comments.

  “Giovanni.”

  “Do you know who this is?” It’s a deep voice. My heart starts thumping up in my throat. It must be the man with the information on Caterina.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t show up for our meeting on Wednesday. I was . . . well, I was detained. Can we try again?”

  The man is silent.

  “Hello? Are you there? I won’t bring the cops. Just you and me, okay? I really need to meet with you. Please. I need to know what you know about Caterina.”

  Again, there is a long pause before he answers. “Okay.”

  “Do you want to meet at the same place?”

  “No.” The quickness of his answer startles me.

  I wait.

  “Oakland Hills Park. Tonight. Nine.”

  My stomach gurgles at the thought of meeting in such a remote area at night, but it’s my fault for blowing our first rendezvous. Or rather, it’s the cops’ fault.

  He must sense my hesitation and says this before he hangs up. “If you want to know about . . . Caterina, you’ll be there.”

  Chapter 32

  THE ROILING CLOUDS whipping in from the Pacific Ocean turn a clear, starry night into darkness in an instant. I nearly miss the entrance to the park. My headlights catch a small wooden sign in time for me to sharply make the left turn. The road winds steeply up the hillside, flanked by tall pines and redwoods. Every once in a while, the moon peeks out from the clouds, bathing the looming trees in light, but for the most part, the forested area is coated a deep black full of even darker shadows.

  On the freeway, I called C-­Lo but he didn’t pick up. I left a message telling him to meet me at the park as soon as he could. I’ve realized this past year that I need to be more careful and let ­people know when and where I’m going. I owe that to Donovan and my family.

  As my old Vo
lvo chugs up the steep road, I dial Lopez again. When his voice mail picks up, I leave him another message asking him to call.

  My nerves are on edge tonight. And it’s not because I’m worried about meeting this guy. He seems harmless. Sort of grandfatherly. And although I don’t like his choice of meeting spots, I’m learning to trust my gut instinct—­he wants to help me—­not hurt me. I’m certain of it. Besides, this might be my last chance. If I don’t show tonight, he might be scared off and never call back, disappearing forever with his information. I wish Donovan could be here with me. He’d drop everything. I know it.

  Thinking of Donovan in jail makes my stomach hurt, so I push those thoughts aside. A thrill of fear and excitement makes me press my foot down hard on the accelerator. I’m about to get the answers I’ve been waiting for my whole life.

  At the top of the windy road is a parking lot. My headlights illuminate one other vehicle in the parking lot, a Jeep Cherokee. I pull up beside it and peer into the driver’s seat. It’s hard to see much in the dark, but it’s obvious the vehicle is empty. A water bottle and what looks like a jacket is on a picnic table a few feet away near the head of a hiking trail. A small wooden structure with bathrooms is to the right of the table. He’s probably in there. I wait a few minutes. Nothing. Then, I roll down my window. The air is warm, still, without even the slightest breeze.

  “Hello?” My voice echoes in the silence. A flicker of apprehension runs through me. I’m a few minutes early. Maybe he’s not here yet and that Cherokee belongs to someone taking a night hike. It’s been known to happen around here although I’ve never understood the appeal.

  Keeping my gaze on the empty lot in front of me, I rummage in my glove box, hunting for a crumpled pack of old cigarettes. Bingo. They’re probably stale, but I’ll take it. A cigarette might subdue the butterflies in my stomach. What is this guy going to tell me about Caterina? I light my cigarette and get out of my car, closing the door softly behind me. I’ll sit at the picnic table, smoke, and wait for my source.

  For some reason, the eerie silence makes me hesitant to make any noise. My footsteps are inaudible as I make my way over to the picnic table. I’m almost there when my phone, in my jacket pocket, rings, startling me so much I jump. It must be C-­Lo.

  “Giovanni.” I don’t know why, but I whisper.

  “Why didn’t you show up the other day? I got better things to do than sit around a fishing pier waiting for you.”

  “What? Then who —­?”

  A hand clamps down over my mouth. I struggle and try to scream, but the sound dies in my throat as sharp pain overtakes me, and the world grows black.

  Chapter 33

  I WAKE IN a hospital bed. I can tell by the smell before I even open my eyes. The back of my head feels as if someone is using it as a conga drum.

  “Giovanni?” A man’s voice sounds like it is coming from far away.

  I blink and try to focus. Why is Donovan calling me by my last name? As I focus, I realize the blurry shape in front of my face is not my boyfriend. It’s Lopez. He’s so close, it startles me for a second. He jerks back.

  “Sorry, man. Wasn’t sure if you were awake.”

  “C-­Lo?” The word comes out thickly as my fuzzy brain tries to piece together what’s going on.

  Then I remember. Donovan is behind bars. I’m in the hospital. I came in an ambulance last night. Or was it yesterday?

  “What happened? I was at the park to meet that man about Caterina—­“

  “You got a little whack across the back of the head. Lucky some hot-­blooded teenagers were looking for a place to neck.”

  “Huh?”

  “Some Orinda kids. Pulled into the parking lot in time to see dude standing over you. Man, he was up to no good. He had rope and duct tape. Jumped into his car and peeled out of there like a bat out of hell. The teenage girl is a sharp one. She tried to copy down his license-­plate number, but there was mud smeared all over it. It was so dark, she couldn’t even give the cop shop enough description for a composite. There’s an APB out for the dude now, but they aren’t working with much.”

  I vaguely remember two kids kneeling down over me when I came to. The girl covered me with her coat. I wonder if I can get her name to thank her. I remember her soothing voice and smoothing my hair back from my face so sweetly, telling me the ambulance was on its way.

  “It was a Jeep Cherokee,” I say, and try to sit up. A black fuzzy circle begins to close in around my vision. I lean back and close my eyes. “When can I leave?”

  Lopez shrugs, then punches the chair beside him.

  “I should’ve been there. I was hanging with my lady friend. Didn’t answer my phone.” A blush creeps up his cheeks, something I’ve never seen.

  “Lady friend?” I say with a big smile. He grimaces, so I give him a break and change the subject. “What time is it?”

  “Midnight. You got a concussion. They want to keep you overnight for observation.”

  “How could I be out for so long?”

  “Dude injected you with some shit in a needle—­docs say sodium pentothal.”

  The name makes me sit up straight, which sends a wave of dizziness through me.

  “Didn’t have a chance to give you all of it, those kids pulled up. Needle was sticking out of your arm. Only a little bit was in you. The girl yanked the hypo out, or you’d probably be in worse shape. Maybe dead.”

  I close my eyes for a minute. Sodium pentothal? Lopez doesn’t say a word. I crack one eye to look at him. “What is it? What aren’t you telling me, C-­Lo?”

  “Nothing, man.” He looks away for a minute, chewing his lip, then turns to me. Here it is. What he was going to say. “It’s just that it’s too bad your boy’s in the clink. I’m sure he’s going to go ape shit when he finds out what happened to you.”

  There’s not a lot of love lost between Lopez and Donovan, but I’m touched he feels bad Donovan’s been arrested.

  “He didn’t do it, you know,” I say.

  Lopez shrugs. “Hey, man it’s none of my business. Want me to call your ma or something?”

  “Mother Mary, no. That’s the last thing I need. You go on home to your lady friend. I’m going back to sleep. I’ll be fine.”

  I’d already ignored calls from my mother yesterday. I’m not ready to talk to her about Donovan’s arrest. Not yet.

  “Sorry, chica, but I’m sticking around. I’m going down to get a refill on this black sludge they call coffee, then I’m going to sit right here reading my new Vince Flynn novel. You better call someone in your family.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “That’s not right. They need to know. If you don’t, I will.”

  I can tell he means it. “Fine.” My phone is on the table near my bed. It shows I have a message from last night. I press the phone to my ear and lean back into my pillow. It’s a news clerk at the paper.

  “Are you okay?” she says. “I got a really weird call. This man called and said he was talking to you on the phone, and it disconnected. He was worried about you. Told me to call 911.”

  At her words, more about what happened in the park comes back to me. The man who had information about Caterina wasn’t the one who called and told me to meet him at the park. I wince, replaying our conversation. I made it so easy my attacker: assuming he was the informant and even going so far as offering to meet with him. So, who the hell was it? The killer? They found a needle with the same drug found in Laurent’s blood. A wave of exhaustion hits me, and I close my eyes. “Let me take a little nap,” I say to Lopez. “Then I’ll call my brother.”

  The next time I open my eyes, the sun is streaming through the blinds. Lopez is beside me in the chair, tapping his fingers. “Morning.”

  It’s a regular party in my hospital room. Moretti is here, probably on police business, and good Lord, my brother, Dante, is, also,
here.

  “Hey, kiddo,” Moretti says. “How’s the noggin? When you feel up to it, I’m here to get your statement. Hope you’re not planning on making this a habit. This is round two for us.”

  He was the one who took my statement at the hospital last year after Jack Dean Johnson attacked me at the Oakland harbor.

  Moretti is in his trademark Armani suit. And even though he wears his expensive black shoes with the built-­in platform heels, my brother still towers over him.

  Dante is glowering and pacing. He’s wearing slacks and a blazer, but he looks like he’s warming up for a boxing match, taking shots. Dante is a lawyer, but also an amateur boxer.

  We’ve had a rough year. Last year, before beating me up, Jack Dean Johnson kidnapped Dante’s daughter, my niece, Sofia, to try to get back at me. I found Sofia and stabbed Johnson to death to stop him from shooting Donovan. I was too late. Luckily, Donovan was wearing a bulletproof vest.

  Sofia has always reminded me of my sister, Caterina, but in looks only. Sofia is fierce and stubborn and strong. Caterina was quiet and shy and meek. I always wonder if that difference is what kept Sofia alive until I could find her, but I’ll never know.

  Dante continues pacing. An unlit cigarette dangles between his lips. He’s swearing in Italian. I guess I’m lucky my brother Marco isn’t here, too. As if reading my mind, Dante brings up our oldest brother. “As soon as Marco and I get ahold of that putano, he’s going to regret ever fucking with the Giovanni family.”

  “Dante?” I say. He ignores me. “Did you forget that Lieutenant Moretti is a cop? You better watch what you say.”

  “He’s only saying what I’m thinking,” Moretti says. Dante gives him an appraising look, then turns his attention back to me.

  “Ella, going up to meet that guy was a knuckle-­headed move on your part.” His eyes narrow as he says this. Guilt instantly floods through me.

  “I got caught up in the thought that he might be able to tell me something about what happened to Caterina.”