Blessed are the Meek

by Kristi Belcamino

  “Yeah, well, it looks like he was trying to show you what happened to Caterina. In person like. You know?”

  “But it ends up the real guy—­the one who called and wanted to give me the information—­that’s a whole different man,” I say. “And when he calls back—­if he calls back—­I’m going to meet with him. In a safer place, yes, but I am going to meet with him. No matter what.”

  Dante walks over and grabs my hand, rubbing my fingers in his. “Listen, I’m not going to chew your ass for this in front of everyone, but you need to promise me you’ll be more careful. Okay?” His voice grows soft on the last word.

  “Yes.” My voice is firm. “I know. I promise I’ll be more careful.”

  He smiles and starts to turn away, but then I add, “But I can’t turn my back on information about Caterina. You understand this, don’t you, Dante? You of all ­people—­you understand this, right?”

  His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard and nods. He knows what I mean. I won’t be foolish, but I’m no longer putting my head in the sand, either. He turns away. We have an understanding.

  Moretti leans in toward me. “Gabriella, do you feel up to talking about this yet?”

  “Yeah, let’s get it over with.” Lopez reaches down and grabs my hand. “Stay out of trouble, man. You had me worried.”

  I gratefully squeeze his fingers good-­bye.

  Before he leaves, Dante leans down and whispers in my ear. “That guy better hope me and Marco never find him because we will fuck his shit up.”

  AFTER MORETTI LEAVES, a nurse and doctor come in. They tell me they are going to keep me here a day for observation and say I’m lucky there doesn’t appear to be any permanent damage.

  “We’ll do another MRI tomorrow, and if everything looks good, you’ll go home then,” the doctor says. She walks out before I can protest. I need to leave this morning. Donovan’s arraignment is today. I’m going to get dressed and get the hell out of here. I have to be there for Donovan. I pull myself up to a sitting position and realize I’m not going anywhere. The pounding in my head makes me lie back down.

  I hate to admit it, but I know another day of drugs for this incredible pain in my head will be welcome. And I’m so tired I feel like I could sleep until tomorrow.

  I CALL TROUTMAN and get his voice mail. I explain what is going on. I hate asking him to tell Donovan why I can’t be there.

  “I’m totally fine, really. Will you please tell him not to worry?” I say. “And tell him when he gets out that I’m in room 507 at the Pleasant Valley Medical Center.”

  I’m asleep later when my phone rings. It’s Troutman. I blink looking at the clock, wondering why he’s calling and why Donovan isn’t here yet.

  Donovan was arraigned. He pleaded not guilty. The judge denied bail. He was charged with first-­degree murder. My hand involuntarily flies to my mouth when I hear this. Denied bail and charged?

  It doesn’t seem real. How could Donovan be charged with murder? It’s a mistake. He’s being framed. His preliminary hearing has been set for next month. It makes my stomach flip-­flop to imagine him in jail that long. I can’t understand why he was denied bail—­he’s a police officer, for Christ’s sake. But Troutman says that is exactly why the judge thought he might be a flight risk. That doesn’t make sense to me.

  “What evidence do they have against him? I can’t imagine they have a single thing on him besides their idiotic theory and that batty old blind lady witness.”

  “They got something else,” Troutman says in a quiet voice. “They served search warrants at Sean’s apartment and his locker at work.”

  “And?”

  “They found a vial of sodium pentothal and a needle in his locker.”

  A cold chill races through me.

  “Detectives asked to rush tox on the victim in your apartment. But there was a needle on the floor by your bed. Came back positive for the drug.”

  Heat races up my neck at the same time I shiver with cold. It’s suddenly hard to breathe. I close my eyes. No. No. No.

  Sebastian Laurent. Carl Brooke. Me. And maybe Adam Grant.

  All of us injected with sodium pentothal. It points to the work of one man—­or woman. The investigators have to see this. They have to realize my attack was connected to all these deaths and that Donovan is innocent.

  Troutman quietly hangs up. I hold my hands over my ears, but I can’t quiet the screaming in my head.

  Pull it together.

  Finally, I fall back asleep, freeing me from my tormented thoughts. I sleep all day, and the next morning, the doctor says my MRI isn’t until nine, the earliest she could get me in. I need to see Donovan. I plead with the doctor, but she refuses to release me until they do an MRI.

  As soon as the MRI is over, and I’m brought back to my room, I immediately strip off the hospital gown and throw on my jeans and sweater. I perch on the edge of a chair, waiting for the doctor or a nurse to arrive with my release papers. I feel a bit dizzy, but the nurse had given me some painkillers, and my head is only a little achy right now. The back of my skull feels like a gigantic bruise when I touch it. After a few minutes, I grow even more impatient, throw open the door to my room, and peek out in the hall. A few nurses are busy at their station. I look the other way. Nobody. I’m outta here. They can send me the release papers in the mail.

  VISITING HOURS AT the jail don’t start for another hour today. I don’t know when—­or if—­I’ll be able to sleep at my place again, but I should probably grab some necessities while I’m in the city. The thought fills me with dread. My apartment has turned into a place I fear. I hate that so much. Slowly, I push open the door to my apartment and peer in, listening for any movement. Nothing.

  The place is spotless. Scott’s right. No trace of a dead body. A new mattress, and he even made my bed with fresh sheets he must have found in the cupboard. Even so, my own apartment gives me the creeps. It’s as if an invisible darkness lingers over it. I leave my door open to the hall and rush into my bathroom, grabbing my perfume, birth-­control pills, deodorant, and a big jar of aspirin. My head is starting to hurt again. Locking my door, my heart is pounding as I race down the stairs.

  “ARE YOU OKAY?” Donovan’s eyes search my face.

  His concern sends a surge of guilt through me. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you yesterday,” I say. “The last thing I want is for you to worry about me. You have enough to deal with.”

  “I’m the one who’s sorry. What kind of boyfriend am I? Can’t even protect you?” He grits his teeth and his eyes flash in anger. I want to tell him this isn’t the Dark Ages. It’s not his job to protect his “woman,” but I bite my tongue. He feels helpless, and hearing that I was attacked must make him feel even more so.

  Even so, I figure it’s time to come clean and tell him about my slashed tires and the badge left on my windshield. I briefly fill him in. His eyes narrow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that look in them before. Another ribbon of fear snakes through my insides.

  “What? Why do you have that look? Do you know something?”

  I want to let him know I saw him take a badge off the dead body. But I’m too worried about the possibility that our conversation is being recorded. Plus, I’m afraid to ask.

  Maybe that is why we are together—­I’m the type of person whose job is to tease every single personal detail out of a perfect stranger, yet in my own personal relationships, I live and let live. I never push and never prod or pry. Which, apparently, is the perfect match for Donovan, who will only reluctantly share the most mundane details of his life. Is that what the attraction is? We are both terrible at sharing details of our lives.

  I’m going to call my shrink as soon as I leave here and tell her I want her next available appointment. I’m foundering here and have no idea what to say or do. Is it my paranoia and insecurity, or is there really something
for me to worry about? I haven’t a clue. So, I clam up.

  He chews on the inside of his lip for a second. “Can you do me one small favor?”

  I nod.

  “No more meeting strange men by yourself,” he says. “Chris Lopez has promised that he’ll be with you every time you leave the office on assignment. I’ve cleared it with Kellogg.”

  What? “I’m not a child,” I protest. I’m a little bit stunned he has made arrangements with Lopez, whom he barely likes, and Kellogg. I try to interrupt to ask about it, but he keeps on talking. My anger dissipates when I see how wan he looks in that orange jumpsuit. Fine. I’ll put up with a babysitter. If it makes him feel better, worry less, then I’ll go along with it. The last thing I want is Donovan sitting in a jail cell fretting about me.

  “At night, I’ve arranged for you to stay in one of the guest bedrooms at the rectory. Father Liam is going to give you the garage door opener, so you can pull right into the rectory garage every night.”

  For some reason, the image of having a priest as my bodyguard makes me do a half roll of my eyes. It doesn’t get past Donovan.

  “Don’t underestimate Father Liam. Remember, he’s from Ireland. He not only knows how to dance, he knows how to kick some serious ass if he needs to. He’s going to loan you a gun.”

  That shuts me up. I’ve been taking shooting lessons ever since I found myself face-­to-­face with Jack Dean Johnson last year and had my gun knocked out of my hands by him, not once, but twice. It’s not my having a gun that surprises me. What doesn’t make sense is why the priest would have one to loan me.

  The guard is standing behind him, and I’m about to leave when Donovan’s voice makes me turn back around.

  “There’s something else—­the way the cops are talking, I get the feeling they think you were in on it with me. They’re after you. Watch yourself.”

  Chapter 34

  “GABRIELLA?”

  I slouch in the chair and avoid meeting Marsha’s eyes. I look past her at the sunny plot of trees in the office courtyard. A small bird tugs at a berry. I called Marsha as soon I left the jail, and she told me to come straight in.

  I drag my eyes back to Marsha. My shrink seems distracted, as usual, tucking her plaid skirt under her legs and glancing into her mirrored wall, running her pinky over an unruly eyebrow to put it in its place. But she is listening. And waiting for my response.

  “I know,” I say, looking up. “You’re right. Every single thing you said.”

  I had spilled the beans about my jealousy about Annalisa and my irrational reaction to Donovan’s possible proposal.

  “You’re never going to find true love or happiness in life unless you make yourself vulnerable,” she says with a bright smile.

  “I know.” It’s not the first time she’s told me this. Maybe she figures if she says it enough, it will finally sink in.

  “When you allow yourself to be jealous of another woman, you are essentially telling yourself that you are worthless and not worthy of love.”

  “Yup.” I nod. She’s the expert. Who am I to argue with her logic?

  But I think about what she is saying. Is my self-­esteem that low? I’ve never been jealous in any of my previous relationships. But then again, I’ve never cared as much as I do now. Dating Donovan is a game changer.

  In my rambling about my jealousy, I’ve completely ignored the, volcano-­size issues in my life. Better fess up.

  “Um, by the way, Donovan’s in jail for murder.”

  Marsha stops her grooming and sits up straighter. She begins lightly tapping her pencil on her desk and peers at me over her cat’s-­eye glasses.

  “Why don’t we talk about that for the rest of your time.”

  “He didn’t do it,” I say. “But there’s something else I should probably tell you.”

  She raises an eyebrow waiting.

  “I got a call. From a guy who says he knows something about Caterina.”

  I tell her how I missed the meeting, but how nothing on this Earth will stop me from meeting with him if he calls back. I don’t mention, however, that I got hit in the head meeting with someone I thought was that guy.

  She nods, listening, then says, “Let’s go back to your boyfriend.”

  “But . . . I just told you that after twenty-­three years, I might find out what happened to my sister.” I’m baffled until she responds.

  “I do want to talk about how that makes you feel. Can you come in later this week?”

  “But I want to talk about it. Now.” I’m getting mad.

  “Gabriella, we can talk about whatever you like. It’s your dime, but I think it is only fair for me to remind you of something . . . will you indulge me?”

  The hostility rising in my throat fades away. “Yes, I’m sorry.”

  She takes a deep breath and slowly exhales, enunciating her words carefully. “One of the issues we have been talking about is how sometimes in your life you have used the past—­an awful, difficult, terrible past, yes, but the past—­to avoid dealing with the present. I don’t know if you realize what you did just then, but as soon as you brought up your boyfriend—­the present—­you immediately wanted to switch topics and talk about your past—­your sister.”

  I open my mouth to respond. And then slowly close it and nod.

  “Gabriella, I think you are avoiding what is happening in your life right now. I don’t mean to be harsh, but you just told me your partner, the man you love, is in jail under arrest for murder. You said it like you were telling me the temperature outside.”

  My mouth crumples. She’s right.

  “Oh shoot!” she says, glancing up at the clock, “Our time is up for today, but I want you to think about what I said, and I’d like to see you back here sooner than later. Either this week or next week.”

  I nod and flee the room before I start to cry.

  WHEN I GET to the newsroom, Nicole calls.

  “Are you okay?”

  She must have heard about the attack in the park. She’s called me several times since Donovan’s arrest on my cell phone, and I haven’t had the heart to pick up. If I talk about it with my best friend, then it is all real.

  “Yeah. Guess I got lucky. Again.”

  “Are you sure you’re not Irish? You’re awfully lucky for an Italian girl.” She gets the laugh she was going for.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about Donovan.” Her voice is subdued.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t pick up your calls.”

  “No problem, as long as you know I’m always here for you, no matter what.”

  I gulp back another sob trying to escape.

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, anyway, don’t worry. They won’t be able to make the charges stick. They can’t possibly have anything on him.”

  I bite my lip. But then I spill it, telling her about the eyewitness and the sodium pentothal. I also tell her how the drug was found in Sebastian Laurent’s body.

  She’s quiet for a long moment. “Someone might be setting him up,” she finally says. “What about Grant? Have you checked the autopsy?”

  The mayor’s death was only a little over ten days ago. “Morgue in Napa said they won’t release the autopsy report until tox is back—­six to eight weeks.”

  “That’s total bullshit. You know they rushed tox on Grant.”

  “What do your sources say?”

  “They’ve clammed up. Not a peep. Nobody will say anything now.”

  I think about that for a second in silence.

  Nicole clears her throat, and her voice grows louder. “By the way, I did some research on Annalisa Cruz for you, like you asked.”

  “What’s the skinny?” I stop twiddling the phone cord and wait. I’ve been wondering how Annalisa got the red phone to our publisher.

  “Jordan in the D.A’s
Office told me that Annalisa has something over Coleman.”

  Nicole pauses dramatically.

  “What?” I bite.

  “Photographs of Coleman’s new wife in a compromising position. Hear it’s something involving handcuffs and restraints and Annalisa in a garter belt.”

  “Seriously?” Not Coleman. His wife? And Annalisa? I shake my head to dispel the image of Coleman’s Chanel-­ wearing trophy wife in bondage gear with Annalisa looking on.

  “God’s truth. Probably before they were married, but still.”

  “Fuck an A.”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth,” Nicole says.

  That’s why our paper hasn’t printed one word about Annalisa.

  Not long after I hang up, Lopez swings by my desk.

  “I’m on your tail. Like white on rice, man. Donovan told me you’re my responsibility.”

  I sigh. “I thought you guys didn’t even like each other, and now you’re taking orders from him?”

  Lopez scoffs. “He’s okay, but nobody gives me orders. It’s a collaboration-­type deal. We both want something in common—­ making sure that weirdo stays the hell away from you. He had duct tape and rope, man. I didn’t think you were coming back home again.”

  “Well, I’m touched,” I say, maybe a bit sarcastically, “but I still think you’re both treating me like a child.”

  I probably would protest even more, but right then, my phone rings.

  “Giovanni.”

  “It’s Red, the guy who has some info on your sister? I heard you got hurt. I called your office when the line disconnected. Glad to hear you’re okay.”

  The informant I thought I was meeting at the park. So, he’s decided to give me his name. My palms grow damp, and I can feel my heart thumping in my neck.

  “I was in a bit of trouble, but I’m fine now. Um, did you tell anyone that you were getting ahold of me?”

  “Hell, no. You think I want to get labeled a snitch?”

  There goes that theory. “When can we meet?” I look over at Lopez, who raises his eyebrows when he hears my voice quavering.