He takes a long gulp of hot coffee that would burn anyone else’s throat and drums his fingers on the back of the metal bench.
“What’s up, man? Let’s see it?” The foot in his steel-toed combat boot taps the ground.
I sigh with frustration. “I turned it over to the cops.” I describe what it looked like. “Seen anything like that before?”
Lopez lights up. “Kubaton.”
“God bless you,” I say.
“It’s a weapon. A martial-arts weapon. You can jab it in the neck or rib cage, but you also can take a little fold of skin between the metal and your thumb at the armpit or throat or inner thigh, and it feels like a little electric shock. Bring a big dude to his knees.”
“Nice.” I have new respect for that tiny scrap of metal I found. “Where can you get one of these?”
“A dojo.” A martial-arts studio.
“Know any dojos around here that might carry one like this?”
“Sure, man.”
He reels off the names of several dojos in Oakland and San Francisco.
“Think it’s worth checking every one?” I ask.
He grabs his phone. “Stand by.”
Within about ten minutes, he’s narrowed it down to four in Oakland and two in San Francisco that might sell kubatons.
We split up. He has to shoot the San Francisco Giant’s game this afternoon, so he offers to take the San Francisco dojos. My job is Oakland.
Before he leaves, he hands me a key. A bump key he made for me by carefully sanding down the grooves. Now I really am a burglar.
The first dojo is on fancy, yuppie Piedmont Avenue, across the street from the famous Fentons Creamery. The woman who runs this dojo knows exactly what I’m looking for, but she says she hasn’t seen one for years, not since she was in Japan.
The next stop is on the border of Berkeley and Oakland. The kid inside takes my card and says he’ll have his father call me. The third dojo has a FOR LEASE sign in its window.
My fourth stop is at the dojo in Oakland’s Chinatown. A small door has the dojo’s name on it—Kocho Bujutsu Dojo—but the door is locked, and nobody answers when I punch the doorbell ringer a few times. The street is busy with people chattering as they go about shopping and taking lunch breaks.
On the sidewalk out front, an odd-looking chair on wheels sits next to a pile of trash. It smells like rotten produce from the shop next door. And stale beer. On the other side, braids of bread hang in the front window of a bakery called See Yee Yum.
The screen door clangs shut behind me as I enter. The ripe smell of the street is replaced by something sweet and fresh. A long, narrow walkway borders bakery cases that almost extend the length of the shop. At the far end sits a single bistro table and a refrigerator full of American sodas. Inside the bakery cases are all sorts of unidentifiable pastries. Even though I’m not hungry, the bakery smells amazing—a combination of fresh baked bread and barbecue.
A small woman in a crisp white shirt with rolled-up sleeves looks up at me without smiling.
“Can I help you?”
“What do you recommend?” I ask, while the woman busies herself rearranging pastries with a pair of tongs.
“Pork bun,” she says matter-of-factly without looking up.
“I’ll take two.”
While she packages them up, I ask about Kocho Bujutsu Dojo. She tells me the dojo is on the second story, above her bakery.
“Do you know what time it opens?”
The woman looks over my shoulder, as if she is thinking. “Sometimes not till five, but most of time, they are open by two.”
It’s noon. I’ll come back later.
“One dollar.” She hands me a white bag with the top neatly folded shut.
I rummage around in my bag and extract a wrinkled dollar, which I try to smooth out before I hand it to her. “Best deal in town,” I say.
Finally she cracks a smile. “You try first.”
Outside, I cross the street and eye the bank of windows above the bakery. It could be my imagination, but for a split second, I think I see a shadow move in front of the window.
I stare for a few seconds longer before I head to my car.
Chapter 16
I’M FINISHING UP my profile story about Maria Martin when Liz, the news researcher, comes over to my desk. In my story, based on what Mrs. Castillo told me, I’ve painted a portrait of a sweet woman who studied nursing in the hopes of living a life devoted to helping others. Now she’s dead.
Liz watches as I swallow my last bite of pork bun. A small paper bag holds another pork bun. I was crazy to think I could eat two of them. Last year, I would’ve been able to scarf six of these puppies down in the blink of an eye. Now, I’m forcing myself to eat.
Liz smiles. Her soft brown eyes twinkle behind her purple eyeglass frames. She wears her signature long flowing skirt and Birkenstocks, like a real Berkeley hippie should.
“You kill me,” she says. “The way you love food is practically pornographic.”
Guilt streaks through me. She doesn’t know my appetite flew the coop after my miscarriage. I hold up the paper bag. “You’re in luck. I was saving this pork bun for the best news researcher west of the Mississippi.”
Her smile fades. “I haven’t found anything recently on Frank Anderson. I know you told me not to look anymore, but I can’t help it. I can’t give up. I have to check at least once a week.”
“Thanks, Liz.” I grow quiet for a moment. The pity and warmth in her big brown eyes make me slightly weepy. I change the subject. “You’re going to love this!” I wave the bag.
“Sugar, you know me. I never pass up pork buns.” She takes the bag from me with a smile.
“That’s because you’re my type of woman.”
I start to open my e-mail in-box. She remains standing there, so I look up. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought you were just coming by to say hello.”
“This probably doesn’t mean anything . . .”
I wait.
“I heard something on the scanner this morning when I was walking by. I couldn’t tell what department it was, but it was talking about a DOA, and I’m pretty sure they said something like it might be connected to the Mission deal.”
“Thanks. I’ll try to track it down.”
She walks away. Another body connected to the massacre four days later? And it might be connected? Maybe the killer committed suicide? Or did the killer knock off someone else? And is it Joey Martin? Is he the killer?
Before she turns to leave, I dial the cell phone number for Brian, my source at the morgue.
“May the force be with you.”
“You working the morgue?”
“You will find that it is you who are mistaken . . . about a great many things.”
“What? Is that another Star Wars quote? I told you I don’t remember that movie. So you’re not at the morgue?”
“Search your feelings.”
“Heard something about a DOA that might be connected to Mission Massacre? Is it in your county?”
“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.”
“I’m going to assume that means no. Can you find where it is? Will you try to help me?”
“Try not. Do . . . or do not. There is no try.”
I say thanks and hang up.
A few seconds later, my cell phone rings. I rummage around in my bag. It’s Donovan.
“Hey.” His voice is low and warm and comforting.
“Hey yourself,” I say in a whisper. “I never got a chance to thank you for the medal.”
He waits a moment before answering. “Sorry. This murder has been brutal.”
I don’t answer.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“It’s beautiful.”
; “I think we got a lead on the killer. I know we’re close.” he says. “My sister, Mary Jo, said she wore a medal like that after her . . . you know. And that it comforted her and she wore it the whole time she was pregnant with Ben.”
I press my lips together. “Thanks.”
“Listen, I’ve got to run. I’ll try to be home early tonight.”
“Wait,” I say, before he hangs up. “Have you heard anything about a DOA that might be connected to . . . the Mission slayings?”
“Sorry, I’ve been feet on the street tracking leads. I can ask around.”
I disconnect, but hug the phone to my chest for a few seconds before placing it in its cradle.
Glancing at the photograph of my sister on my desk, I feel guilty that I’ve been thinking more about that black-eyed baby than her.
I was only six when Caterina, older than me by fourteen months, was kidnapped out of our front yard. Her body was found eight days later, in a rural area, by off-road bicyclists. My father never got a chance to learn this—he dropped dead of a heart attack three days after she disappeared. The doctor blamed it on the stress of my sister’s kidnapping.
My world dimmed the day my sister was kidnapped. I’ve fought my entire life to press back the dark shadows that have hovered around me ever since. It has only been in the past few years that I’ve faced my sister’s death head-on and tried to move past it. Donovan has helped. In so many ways. Not only by being a solid presence in my life, supporting me at every turn, but also by investigating her murder.
Last year we got a lead on Caterina’s killer that pointed us to a man named Frank Anderson. This man bragged to another inmate in prison that he had killed my sister. By the time we found out, he’d been paroled. We found him by searching the property records of his girlfriend. Both him and his girlfriend were on the lam, but when we arrived at the house, traces of him squatting there were obvious. It is so frustrating to think I was within a hairsbreadth of finding him—I walked into an empty house seconds after he escaped out a window. He’s been underground ever since.
Now that he’s loose on the streets, he’s in my sights. I’m not done with him yet. Even though I told Donovan I’d let go of actively investigating him, I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m relieved that Liz hasn’t stopped, either.
Losing the baby sent me plunging back into the despair that has haunted me every so often in this life. I’m often able to set it aside, but there have been a few times I’ve been immersed in the darkness and barely escaped with my life.
The last few nights were the first in months that I didn’t fall asleep thinking about Caterina.
Now all I can think about is Lucy in the arms of a killer.
Chapter 17
EVERY TIME MY cell phone rings, I jump, hoping it’s Brian with info on that DOA, but the first time, it’s my mom, and the second time, it’s my therapist’s office reminding me of my appointment. I let both calls go to voice mail.
The afternoon is spent working on a story about a school principal arrested for stalking. Cops are playing coy about telling me who he was stalking. I work with the education reporter, Brent, on the story.
Finally, we reach a parent who tells us off the record that the principal was stalking another school employee—the school librarian. It’s not a student, which was what we feared, but still not good for the fool. He can kiss his career in education good-bye even if he gets off.
I hand over my portion of the story to Brent and decide to visit the Oakland dojo on my way home.
Right before I pack up, my desk phone rings.
It’s Brian from the morgue. He’s dropped the Star Wars shtick, thank the angels and saints. “Alameda.”
“That’s where the DOA is?” I pause, shrugging my bag onto my shoulder.
“Yup. Sliced and diced. Maybe samurai sword.”
“Mother Mary.”
“She had nothing to do with it.”
“Male? Female?”
“Male. Twenty something. Lived alone. No sign of forced entry.”
“Got an address?”
“That is negative.”
“Thanks, Brian. I owe you.”
“So, what do you think? You think a princess and a guy like me . . .”
And just when I thought he was over the Star Wars stuff. He’s about to hang up, when the big-screen TV across the newsroom shows some footage of the Iraq War.
“One more thing. Can you give me a heads-up if you guys get any soldiers on ice? I’m looking specifically for active duty. Maybe home on leave from Iraq.”
“I suggest you let the wookie win.”
“Thanks.”
I hope Brian’s Star Wars obsession doesn’t last as long as his Abba music phase did. For about six months, every time I called I had to listen to practically an entire Abba song before he would let me talk.
I rack my brains. Do I have any sources with the Alameda Police Department? Nope. Moretti works Oakland, which is just on the other side of the tunnel from the island. I make arrangements to meet him after I visit the dojo.
When I get there, the dojo’s door is still locked tight, and nobody answers the doorbell. The woman in the bakery shrugs when I mention this.
WHEN MORETTI PULLS up in the parking lot of Children’s Fairyland, which lies on the side of Lake Merritt opposite the bakery, I hand him a hot cup of coffee and the bag full of pork buns as I slip into the passenger door of his unmarked Crown Vic. Nearby, kids are squealing with delight as they play on the rides at Fairyland.
“What’s happening, kiddo,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee and digging into the bag. “Pork buns! From See Yee Yum?”
“Seems everyone in the world knew about this place except me.”
“That’s affirmative.” He mumbles around his first bite. He doesn’t come up for air until the entire pork bun is gone. He flips down his mirror and checks for crumbs in his moustache before he rummages in the bag for his second one. “Love these things. Kate only lets me have about one a year. She says they’re pure heart attack MSG food, but I don’t care. If I’m going to go, I want to go out eating pork buns and manicotti!”
Moretti is small, slim, and fit, but he’s already had one heart attack.
“Uh-oh. Give me that bag,” I joke, reaching for it. “I don’t want Kate mad at me.”
“Won’t happen, kiddo. She loves you like a daughter.” He nods vehemently. His slicked-back black hair doesn’t move when he nods.
I can’t help it, but my cheeks grow warm. I’m so lucky to be friends with the Morettis. They’ve invited me to every big family event they’ve had in the past five years I’ve known them —baptisms, kids’ birthday parties, first communions.
“So what’s up, kiddo? This anything to do with that Mission deal? Saw you on TV.”
Who didn’t? Thanks, KXYZ.
As he scarfs down four pork buns, I fill him in on the last few days and include the part about the Alameda body. Steely Dan is playing on his radio, interspersed with police scanner traffic.
Every time I lean over to lower the volume on the music, he immediately turns it back up with the controls on the steering wheel.
“Wait a sec,” he says when I finally finish getting him up to speed. He extracts his cell phone from his blazer pocket, turns down the volume on Steely Dan, and dials.
“Moretti here.” The voice on the other end of the line comes across as a deep rumble. I can’t make out the words.
“Yeah, yeah. We’re all busy. That’s why I called. Think it’s connected to the Mission Massacre? Where was it? Okay. Yeah. Thanks.” He clicks his phone shut.
“They think it’s the same perp, don’t they?” I say.
“Yep. Cut up the kid same way that family in the Mission was killed. This guy knew his victim. He opened the door for him.”
“Address?”
He rattles it off.
I leap out of his car before he’s done. “Thanks, Moretti. I owe you.”
He waves his hand at me and cranks up Steely Dan.
“Pork buns,” he says. “I now accept all repayment of favors in pork buns.”
Chapter 18
CHINATOWN IN OAKLAND is the only way you can get to and from Alameda Island from the northwest. I take the Webster Tube, a tunnel that goes underneath the Alameda-Oakland Estuary to the island. It was the tunnel used in a scene of The Matrix. Driving through the lighted tunnel under God knows how many bazillion pounds of water above doesn’t bug me—in fact, I find it exhilarating—but it gives my best friend Nicole hives. She refuses to take BART from the East Bay into the city because it goes 135 feet under the Bay for more than three miles.
Once I emerge, I drive through the quaint downtown area to get to the address Moretti gave me. People are window-shopping at the antique stores and boutiques, and a few classic pastel-colored cars are parked early for a car show advertised for the next day. Passing a parked squad car, I ease up on the gas pedal. With twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limits, the entire island is a speed trap.
I had to do a report on Alameda when I was in grade school. It’s fine, as long as you don’t have to visit any place on the island in a hurry. Out of its twenty-three square miles, ten are underwater. Even as a fifth-grader, I found this annoying. Why do you count the ten miles underwater, anyway? What’s the point? And besides, the island is really two islands, with a lot of one of them taken up by the former Naval Air Station, which was important during the Cold War.
The apartment building I’m looking for isn’t far from the former naval base. In fact, it looks like the back side might even have ocean views. Not too shabby for a twenty-something kid. Dead kid, but still. How can a kid afford a place in the Bay Area with water views?
I pass the building three or four times before I find a parking spot. I remember why I actually dislike the little island of Alameda so much—not only the ridiculous speed limit but also because the island is so crowded it’s impossible to park. I have to deal with hellish parking in my own neighborhood in North Beach. I should be used to it, but it makes me hate parking problems during my workday even more.
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