“George?”
“Same.”
I shook my head. Then I walked over to Darling’s galley kitchen, poured us some coffee and dumped a shot of Bailey’s Irish Cream into each one. “Sit down a second. I’ve got an idea I need to run by you.”
We both settled into the leather couches and sipped our coffees. On the walk over, I had thought carefully about how I was going to approach this one.
Gingerly.
Darling probably distrusted police for good reason. I knew nothing about that, but I did know at least one San Francisco police officer I thought we could trust. James.
Okay. Truth is, I slept with him. A few times. For a while I was sort of freaking out about him because I knew there was a chance I could fall for him and that was the last thing I had in mind. Of course, as usual, I single-handedly destroyed any chance of a normal, healthy relationship when I did my “thing” around him. My fucked-up “thing” to keep people away.
Being distant. Drinking too much. Smoking pot. Mouthy AF.
The first time I lit up, when we walked outside a North Beach restaurant after dinner, he looked like I’d slapped him.
“Gia! I’m a cop!”
“I know!” I said smiling. One reason he was so damn sexy. Body toned to perfection. Smooth and sexy mocha skin. Cheekbones for days. Add a uniform and gun belt? Mama mia!
“You’re smoking pot.” He ran a hand across his head and scowled.
“So?” I said, waving my joint around in front of him. “Hello! Prop 64 passed!”
“You’re standing on the sidewalk.”
I lifted my eyebrow. “I just want a little toke after that amazing linguine.”
“It’s against the law to smoke on the sidewalk.”
“Against the law like go to jail or against the law like slap on the wrist?” I exhaled over his head and then regretted it when I saw a flash of anger in his eyes.
“Either way, I’m a cop. Have a little respect.”
“Hmmm.” I thought about it. I wasn’t sure it was disrespectful to smoke marijuana in front of a police officer. He turned away, but I could tell by the set of his shoulders he was pissed. He whirled around, started to say something, and then swore.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, looking over my shoulder. “Is that a school right there? Oh, shit. It is. Put that out, right now, Gia. You could really get me in trouble. What if one of my supervisors drove by right now?”
“School’s out, James.” I couldn’t hide the annoyance in my voice. What a buzz kill. I dropped the joint on the sidewalk and stepped on it with the toe of my boot as I walked away. He followed me in silence.
When we got back to my place, he didn’t come in.
“Is it that bad that I like to smoke pot?” I asked. Staring at his mouth, I realized I could give up marijuana for that.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s all of it.”
“All of what?” I picked at some leftover red fingernail polish on my thumb. “I don’t get it.”
“I think you do get it and that’s the problem.” The way he looked at me made me squirm. I could see the writing on the wall. He was dumping me. Frankly, it was a first for me. I usually beat them to the punch. I glared at the doorman lingering nearby, a little too interested in our driveway conversation. I turned back, but James had already walked away. He slammed the door of his Saab and drove off. He drove so slowly I wondered if he was going to turn around and come back, but his tail lights soon disappeared. It wouldn’t have hurt so much if he had peeled out. At least then I would’ve know there was some emotion and passion involved.
It felt like he’d made a very logical and rational decision to dump me.
Which is what it was.
This was before I met my sort-of-boyfriend Bobby. Bobby made me forget all about James. Bobby was the opposite of James physically—less G.I. Joe and more surfer-slash-skater boy with molten hazel eyes and tawny hair that fell nearly to his shoulders.
I’d pushed all thoughts of James out of my life when I started seeing Bobby a few months ago. But every once in a while, my body remembered. It happened when I caught a glimpse of a guy from behind with the same physique or spotted a profile with a similar jawline to James. I must admit, though, I did binge watch a few episodes of “Criminal Minds” the other night because James reminds me of Shemar Moore.
Now, with Darling’s strong anti-cop stance, I figured James was the only upstanding guy I could vouch for in the San Francisco Police Department. I just needed to convince Darling.
I spilled it all to Darling and poured us more spiked coffee.
She downed hers before she spoke.
“I don’t know, Gia.”
“Darling, I know police have done you wrong, but you know better than to stereotype an entire population of people. There are good and bad people in every group. You said so yourself.”
We sat there in awkward silence.
Finally, I said something. “Django! You’re putting my foot to sleep!” He was sitting on my foot like I was going to leave him again, which I was.
Then, she gave in.
“Okay, Gia.” She said it with a big sigh. “You can talk to him. It’s against my better judgement. I hope you aren’t making a mistake.”
“I’m not,” I said. But I didn’t quite believe it.
“And Gia? I don’t want him nosing around up in my business. Tell him all that is off limits. You understand?”
“Absolutely.” I said it, but a flicker of doubt ran through me. James was upstanding and a good guy, which made me worry that he wouldn’t let anything illegal slide. I’d have to make the ground rules clear when I went begging for help.
“I’ll be back for this big baby in about an hour.” I jutted my chin at Django, trying to avoid looking at his sad, accusing eyes as I walked out.
A small part of me was nervous when I got to the precinct steps. We hadn’t parted on the best terms and for some reason I felt like by talking to James I was betraying Bobby, which was absurd.
Bobby and I had no commitment to one another. Besides that, I was turning to James for help, not awesomely mind-blowing sex. Well, good, then. This would be a test. It would prove whether I was a heartless slut like I feared or whether I was capable of being a good, sort-of-part-time, long-distance girlfriend to Bobby. I’d had plenty of opportunities to sleep around since Bobby and I started regularly seeing each other a few months ago, but so far, I hadn’t even been tempted. Not for a second. But … in this case, with James, I knew what was under the hood. Oh boy, did I know.
I took a deep breath and tugged on the glass door of the police substation.
The receptionist at the precinct said James would be out in a few minutes and I could take a seat. But it took him thirty. By the time he opened the door, I was half asleep. But as soon as I saw him, my heart beat double time. He had on his police uniform: tight blue pants and a blue shirt. Ever since I first met him, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t ditch the image of him in that uniform dancing to something throbbing and low, twirling his handcuffs, slowly, tantalizing, unbuttoning his clothes …
When we were together, he’d been more than willing to experiment in the bedroom. But to my everlasting chagrin, he’d always refused to play bad cop with me.
“Gia?” His forehead scrunched. I guess I’d been staring.
He really was a specimen. All that time in the gym sure paid off. I stood quickly, rubbing my palms on my pants. “Do you have a second?”
“Sure. Come on back.” He seemed wary, guarded, and distant. Not like someone whose tongue had traced a path across every inch of my body.
The door to the lobby slammed closed behind us, making me feel claustrophobic. He headed down a long hallway and didn’t wait to see if I was keeping up. Fine by me. It gave me a good view of his remarkably firm ass.
He turned into a doorway so quickly I nearly stumbled. He flicked on the lights and waited by the door for me to come into the windo
wless room.
“Have a seat.” His voice was clinical. Not a trace of warmth.
When I pulled up a chair at the small table, he shut the door and pulled out a chair across from me.
“Is this where you interrogate the crooks?” I said. I smiled, trying to lighten the tension.
He waited a few seconds chewing his inner lip before he answered in a dull voice. “Yes.”
I swallowed. Nobody acted like this unless they’d been hurt. It was obvious now.
“I’m really sorry about the way things ended,” I said, wincing a little. “Sometimes I do stupid things like that. Act badly when I start to care about someone. I’d like to apologize. I’m really sorry. Not just that night, but that whole week.” I clamped my lips together. It was way more than I intended to spill when I opened my mouth and it was so raw and revealing I felt like I was going to vomit. But it felt right. I knew I needed to say it. Every word.
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Thank you.”
We both sat there in silence. I felt like an asshole.
Finally, he stood and headed toward the door. He turned to me. “Is that all?”
I shook my head.
“Did you come here simply to apologize?”
“I should’ve come solely to apologize, you’re right.” God, I was such a jerk. “And I should’ve come a lot sooner. But the truth is I came because I need your help. You’re the only cop I can trust.”
He sat back down and folded his hands together. He wasn’t giving me an inch.
I launched into it: Darling and Sasha and the protesters and the partial license plate number. He sat silent.
“I’m hoping you might help. Discreetly,” I added at the end. “As I mentioned, my friend, she’s good people, James. Really, really good people. She takes care of those in need. She would do anything for anyone. But some of what she does to finance that isn’t all aboveboard. She would never be involved in anything illegal that would hurt someone else, like distributing drugs or prostitution or anything like that. But she’s got this business, involving, let’s just say paperwork and documents that really, actually helps people. She won’t just give stuff to anyone. If you’re a thug or a low life, forget about it. But if you are down and out and need help, like say, you’re an abused woman with a husband who is going to kill you … she can help you disappear. She’s like Robin Hood. Like Mrs. Robin Hood.”
I spilled it all in one big rush, my words falling over themselves.
He was chewing on the inside of his lip and his eyes were narrowed. He still hadn’t said word one. I was waiting, holding my breath.
Finally, he nodded.
“What does that mean?” I asked. “Yes? You’ll help?”
“Gia, you do realize I’m a beat cop. A street cop. I’m not a detective.”
“Not yet,” I said, playing my card. He’d talked about working his way up to detective. “Maybe this can be your big break?”
“More like it would get me kicked off the force.”
I raised an eyebrow and frowned.
“I can’t operate without my supervisors knowing about this,” he said. “I’m not the type of dude who goes rogue, Gia. You know that. Unlike you, I’m a rule follower.”
I let the dig go. Besides it was the truth.
“You can’t go to your supervisor with this.” I remembered how firm Darling was on this. “We just need a little help. Not much. Just a little search of the DMV database. Believe me if I could search that license plate on my own I would’ve left you out of this.”
James bit his lip and looked off over my shoulder.
“Please,” I was begging now. “It’s a young woman’s life possibly in danger.”
“Possibly? Now I really think I should go to my sergeant.”
“You can’t. Please.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. He was clearly frustrated. I waited and watched. Then he sighed.
“Give me the partial plate number.”
I slid a small scrap of paper over to him.
He stood and opened the door. “You have forty-eight hours.”
“What?”
“If she’s not back by six p.m. on Sunday, I’m taking this to my sergeant.”
“No, you can’t.” I stood.
He handed the paper back to me. “Those are my terms.”
I crossed my arms and refused to take it back. “Fine.” I glared at him and he left, the door closing behind him.
Chapter Ten
Purple Rain
The drive across the Bay Bridge was surprisingly painless. Most of the traffic was heading into the city while I was heading out. I called Darling on my way.
“I’m heading to Sasha’s to ask some questions. You okay keeping Django for a while?”
“He my dog now. He loves me more than you. I’m gonna keep him.”
“Ha ha,” I said, but a part of me worried. He did love Darling. A lot.
Then Darling grew serious.
“You find my grandbaby, Gia.”
Sasha’s apartment in Berkeley was tucked up in the hills near a cool old movie theater that was showing Wings of Desire. Sasha’s small bungalow was tucked off the street and down a small path crowded with bushes and trees.
The door was painted blue. I knocked until a girl with long stringy hair wearing big flannel pants and a U.C. T-shirt opened the door. Her eyes were barely open behind thick glasses.
“Are you Raya?”
“You Sasha’s grandma’s friend?”
“Yes.” I was relieved. Darling must have warned the girl I was coming.
“Did you find Sasha?” Her voice cracked. It was then I noticed her eyes were red and puffy from crying.
“Not yet.”
She stood there dazed.
“Can I come in?”
The living room was the size of my closet and was crowded with a couch, TV, and one armchair. Books were piled on the coffee table and a tall palm stood in one corner. Everything was neat and tidy. I followed the girl down the hall into the kitchen where a small table with three chairs was also piled with books.
She flopped into one of the chairs. A doorway off the kitchen showed a small hall with three doors.
“Sasha’s room is the one on the right.”
A small twin bed took up most of the room. The bed was made with a flowered duvet. Filmy lavender curtains covered the window. A “Purple Rain” poster was taped above the bed. Across from the bed was a small desk that looked like command central. It had bookshelves above it and filing cabinets on each side.
On the desk was a picture of Sasha and her mother, Meredith, who died a few years ago of breast cancer. I stared at it. I’d only met Sasha once at the salon, but remembered she had the most mesmerizing eyes. It felt like she could see right through you.
She had her grandmother’s regal nose and cheekbones and burnished bronze skin. But now that I saw her beside her mother in the photo, I knew where Sasha got her black flashing eyes.
I picked up the picture. Her mother was already fighting cancer at the time the picture was taken, but her eyes sparkled with life from underneath the stylish fisherman’s cap she wore with long dangly earrings. Her full red lips pulled back into a brilliant smile. I’d never had the pleasure of meeting her. I met Darling shortly after when I first moved to San Francisco. Darling and I became fast friends, bonded in our grief. Mine over my mother and father. Hers over her daughter.
I took a picture of the photo so I could show it to people around the Tenderloin.
Sasha’s bookshelves revealed her passions and intelligence: Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward’s “All the President’s Men” sat between Stephen Hawking’s “A Brief History of Time” and Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.”
The desk had a big empty spot in the middle. A small U.C. coffee mug held pencils and pens. A tiny upright dresser no wider than me held her lingerie, underwear, socks, and pajamas. No diary or journal tucked into
the folds of clothes.
The small closet was jam-packed with clothes. A stack of shoeboxes was on the floor. I flipped each lid to see if they contained anything but shoes, but struck out.
Then I tackled the bookshelves, idly flipping through books looking for scraps of paper to fall out. Nothing. Then, the filing cabinets.
Sasha, a sophomore at school, was extremely organized. She had files labeled for stories she wanted to write for the campus newspaper, files labeled for her classes, her assignments, her resumes, newspapers she wanted to work for when she graduated, a file for bills to be paid, one for bills paid, and one for fashion. I was relieved to see at least one file that showed she did something else besides obsess about journalism.
I spent the most time on the files for the newspaper.
She had several thick files on hate groups. I flipped through them. Most were online newspaper articles she had printed out.
Nothing personal.
“Raya?” I hollered. She came and lifted her coffee mug to her mouth, which instantly steamed her glasses. I gestured toward the empty spot on the desk.
“Did Sasha have a laptop?”
She scrunched her face together. “Yes. It’s not there?”
I shook my head.
She bit her lip, thinking. “She didn’t take it to the city with her.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I met her for coffee near the BART station in Oakland before the protest. She only had on her little cross body bag. Her laptop doesn’t fit in that. When she carries her laptop, she has a special bag with padding and stuff.”
“Where’s her laptop bag?”
Raya went to the side of the desk near the window. “It’s usually right here if she’s home.”
“Any idea where it could be?”
“The only place I could think of is the newspaper office. She might have stopped there on her way to the BART station. It’s on the way.”
“One more question,” I said as I walked toward the door. “Did Sasha keep a journal or diary?”
Forgotten Island Page 5
