Blessed Are Those Who Weep

by Kristi Belcamino

  I end up parking six blocks away from the address Moretti gave me. Keeping to the opposite side of the street, I approach the building, eyeballing it to see if it will give me any clues about the murder. A sprawling, two-­story brick building, it doesn’t look like much. A wooden sign out front says THE WILLOWS. The building is set up a bit like a motel in a big U shape, with a walkway in front of all the second-­floor apartments. Bonus—­the apartment numbers are visible from the street.

  Moretti said the apartment was number 230. Standing by a big palm bush across the street, I sort of shrink back into the leaves and dig my mini binoculars out from my bag. No way to scope it out without being obvious. I count. It’s five doors in from the right and four from the left. I walk about half a block more before crossing the street. A few feet away is an opening to what appears to be an alley. I hurry down the passageway. Bingo. Ocean view.

  There is a road between the complex and the beach. Wooden walkways lead to the water. Within a minute, I’m behind the apartment building. By counting balconies on the back side, I find apartment 230. A woman holding an aluminum watering can comes out of the sliding-­glass door of the neighboring apartment. She holds it over a window box attached to the balcony railing. It’s filled with begonias. Her blond hair is neatly tied back above a string of pearls peeking out from her white blouse, which she’s paired with crisp black slacks.

  “Excuse me?” I say. She looks down at me, startled, and spills a little of the water down the side of the balcony. I jump out of the way. “I’m sorry to scare you. I’m with the Bay Herald. Do you have a moment? I’d like to ask you about your neighbor in number two thirty.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Can I come up?”

  “Apartment two twenty-­nine.”

  When I get back to the front of the apartment building, the door to 229 is ajar. When I pass 230, the curtains are closed in the big front window. No gap to peek through.

  “Hello?” I nudge the door open slightly.

  “Come on in. Shut the door behind you.”

  Inside is a spare, modern apartment with a big white sofa, abstract art, and a black laminated armoire. Across from the living room stretches a long bar and the kitchen. The woman points to a bottle of alcohol. “I’ve had a long day. I’m having scotch. Care for one?”

  “Sure.” At the counter, she hands me a drink.

  “I’m Sue.”

  “Gabriella Giovanni.”

  “You’re here about Javier?” She opens the sliding-­glass door to the balcony and gestures for me to go out first.

  I take a seat in a comfy chair with a red cushion, and she does the same, putting her drink on the table between us. I set my pen and reporter’s notebook innocently between us on the table.

  In front of us, beyond her flower boxes, the frolicking water in the Bay reflects the sunlight, like shards of glass, as the sun dips behind the San Francisco skyline.

  “Your view sucks,” I say, gesturing at the water with my tumbler.

  She darts a glance at me and smiles. “Yeah. Buying this place made my divorce all the sweeter. Eat your heart out in Stockton, you husband-­stealing bitch.”

  “Sorry.”

  She downs her drink in one gulp.

  “Don’t be. I’ve never been better . . . well, except for what happened with Javier.”

  I sit up straight. “So you do know him.” I’m perfectly aware that I’m using the present tense. God knows I never want to be the first person to use past tense about someone.

  “Know him? Not really. I mean, we never talked much. We were too busy doing other things.”

  My eyes widen, and I try to close my mouth, which has dropped open. She’s got to be in her late forties, maybe even early fifties.

  “Don’t judge me. I’m not a perv, just get lonely sometimes.”

  A small tint of pink has flushed her cheeks, and I notice that her eyes have some crow’s-­feet. She watches my reaction.

  I hold my tumbler up. “More power to you. Twenty is a consenting adult.”

  She squints her eyes shut tightly. “Goddamn it. Why did someone have to kill him? That kid didn’t deserve that. The cop I talked to said it was . . . bad.”

  Nobody deserves to be murdered. Well, very few ­people, at least. “Did you tell the cops about . . . you know . . . your relationship with Javier?”

  I try to pick up my notebook without making it too obvious.

  She scoffs. “Relationship? From the beginning, it’s been about the sex. We met at the pool one night. I’d been drinking. Divorce papers came in the mail that day. He got out of the pool with water dripping off him. God, what a specimen. I smiled at him—­the next thing we were in my bed. Now, whenever I have a hard day, I just knock on the wall between our places and he comes over. No strings attached. The perfect arrangement.” She holds her empty tumbler up to her lips, trying to get the last drop, and shrugs, putting it back on the table. “Boy, did I need that. Bad day at the J-­O-­B.”

  She stares into the setting sun for a moment and then turns to me. “He could make me forget any bad day I had.”

  “Did you ever go to his place?”

  Her eyebrows draw together. “No, never invited me over. And the one time I rang his doorbell, he stood in the doorway, sort of blocking my view.” She gasps. “Do you think he was hiding something? Or someone?” Her eyes widen.

  “I don’t know.” To my left is his balcony. “Did he ever come out on his balcony?”

  “No. Isn’t that funny. I mean, here I am trying to spend every waking moment out here, looking at the view. God knows I pay enough for it.”

  “Javier is pretty young to afford a place like this. Do you know what he did?”

  Her look grows sly. “He was a DJ at some sex club. You know one of those places where you have sex in different rooms and stuff? He wanted to take me there one day. He said it was totally hot. God, these young guys know about everything.”

  “Do you remember the name?” I scribble “sex club” in my notebook and circle it.

  “Don’t think he ever mentioned the name,” Sue said, eyes looking off into the distance. “It’s in Oakland, though, I think. A bad part, too.”

  “Anywhere else he liked to hang out?” I ask.

  “The only other place I think he went was his dojo over in Chinatown.”

  My scalp prickles. “Dojo? Do you know the name of it?”

  “He never said. But it’s only a block or two from the tube.”

  I mull that over. It has to be the connection. I try to hide my excitement. I have a few more things to do here before I head for the dojo again.

  “How did you hear about Javier?”

  “The cops said it happened on Saturday. I was in Napa over the weekend and then this morning went straight to work. When I came home, found a card on my door from a detective. I called and he told me a little about what happened. I guess the downstairs neighbor heard a racket Saturday night but didn’t call until this morning. When the cops got here, all they found was Javier.” A tear slips out.

  Eyeing the balcony rail, I turn toward Sue. “I got an idea.”

  I swing a leg and, with little grace, scramble onto Javier’s balcony, landing in a heap on my hands and knees. Sue giggles, waiting on her own balcony.

  Putting my hand on the handle of the sliding-­glass door, I make the sign of the cross. Sue raises her eyebrows. I tug. The door slides open. Pushing away the heavy drapes, I peer into the dark apartment. It smells like pizza.

  Sue is silent on her balcony behind me. Any and all giggling is over. Her face is pale, and she tightly crosses her arms across her chest.

  “Wait here.” My tone leaves no room for argument. Not that she would probably hop the balcony like I did, anyway. The heavy swoosh of the drapes closing behind me is the only sound as I step full
y into the apartment. My eyes adjust.

  I lean over to a table and switch on a light. The living room is as bare—­besides the bloodstain—­as a hotel room. No decorations. No books or magazines. A couch and love seat. No TV.

  The front door is across the way. A black trail of dried blood leads from the front door into the living room. The killer must have started attacking right when he opened the door. Javier probably backed up to try to get away and ended up in the living room, where the biggest pool of dried blood is.

  That’s one thing they never tell you. Cops don’t clean up the blood. They investigate the death and then—­good-­bye—­they leave the bloody gore for someone else to deal with. They do give family members resources to call—­­people like my friend who owns Crime Scene Cleanup and charges a pretty penny to scrape brains and guts off walls and ceilings.

  The bathroom and kitchen refuse to yield any clues. The refrigerator has some fresh fruit and vegetables and leftover pizza slices in a cardboard box. The cupboards have some rice and canned beans.

  In the hallway leading to the bedroom hangs a black-­and-­white photograph of a twenty-­something man with his shirt off, leaning against a wall in a dark room. His skin is smooth and perfect. He looks like a model for men’s underwear.

  In the bedroom, I see the same young man hugging two women in another photograph. Both are scantily clad, and he has his hands on both of their bottoms. Another picture shows him with yet another bombshell woman in a bikini.

  “Looks like you were quite the player, Javier,” I murmur.

  All the dresser drawers are open. Obviously the cops searched the room. Javier was apparently a minimalist. His closet has half a dozen dress shirts, identical except for the colors—­purple, navy, burgundy, black, gray, red—­and identical black pants. I peer at a label. Armani. Not bad for a kid.

  On the other side of the closet are martial-­arts looking duds.

  I check the pockets of all the shirts and pants. Nothing.

  On the top of the dresser in the bedroom, a polished metal tray holds a Rolex watch, a wad of cash in a silver clip, and a slim enamel cigarette case. I tuck my fingers into the long sleeve of my shirt so I don’t leave fingerprints, then pop open the cigarette case. It has a few sepia-­colored cigarettes and a matchbook slid into the other side. I slip the matchbook out.

  The cover features a picture of two men and a woman engaged in a ménage à trois. I squint at the man in the back, whose face is slightly obscured. Is it Javier? Could be. Inside the matchbook is the name of the joint—­Fellatio. No subtlety there. The address is in Oakland. It must be that sex club. Was he more than just a DJ? Maybe a high-­class prostitute? This apartment and designer duds make more sense.

  I slip out the front door, duck under the crime-­scene tape, and, without saying good-­bye to Sue, head for the dojo.

  Chapter 19

  THE SUN IS setting as I pull into Chinatown in Oakland. By the time I park, the windows of the dojo are lit up. Kocho Bujutsu Dojo is open for business. I’m tempted to buy another pork bun, but I head for the door to the dojo.

  Although my finger presses down on the white button, I can’t tell if it’s ringing inside or not. I wait to the beat of ten and try again. Nothing. After I press it for the third time, I run across the street to see if I can catch anyone peeking out the windows to see who is calling below. But I don’t see anything.

  That’s okay. I’m patient.

  After fifteen minutes of waiting by the door of the dojo, I’m growing sleepy and hungrier when the door swings open so quickly I jump back.

  A man in dark sunglasses, dressed all in black, flies by me on the stairs. A sliver of light shines down from a crack in the door. Trying not to step on every squeaky stair, I make my way up and knock on the door, which is partly ajar.

  “Hello? Anyone home?”

  I can hear heavy breathing. I nudge the door open a bit more. I take in a flash of someone in white flying across bare wood floors at the same moment a cold, hard piece of steel is lodged under my throat.

  “Don’t move.”

  The words are whispered in my ear, accompanied by warm breath. The man in white comes to a halt and smiles.

  “You were so focused on me, you didn’t see him behind you.”

  The blade is removed. I clutch at my throat, expecting it to be wet with dripping blood.

  Turning, I see a man all in black, with only his eyes showing.

  He’s dressed like the man who flew out the door downstairs, except this man’s face is covered. He bows to me and walks over to a table, where he lays the blade on a black velvet cloth among several other swords. My eyes widen as I spot other weapons—­ flat metal stars and kubatons laid out on the other side of the cloth in different types of metal and sizes. I try not to make it obvious I’m interested in them.

  The space is wide open, with bright lights high in the tall ceiling, illuminating polished floors. Besides a half dozen chairs against one wall and the small table with weapons, the room contains no other furniture.

  “Your first time.” It is not a question. The man in white takes a towel and wipes his brow before chugging on a bottle of water, keeping his eyes on me.

  “What’s up with the swords?” I say, trying to shake off my unease and sound confident.

  “Along with military-­style Budo, we also teach the art of samurai bujutsu—­the ancient art of swordplay.”

  “Gee, what a coincidence,” I say, walking over to the window and looking down at the Chinatown streets teeming with shoppers and ­people on their way home from work. “A few ­people have died from a sword in the past few days.”

  As I say this, I turn to see the man’s reaction. His smile has faded.

  “Yes. So I’ve been told.”

  “Any of your students gone missing?”

  “The police came to us to tell us about Javier. It is a shame. He was a promising student.”

  A promising student? Is that all he was?

  “Did you know him well?”

  The sensei shakes his head. “No, sadly. He kept to himself.”

  He said the detectives came to the dojo a few days ago—­Saturday—­when they found Javier’s body. I wonder if they connected his death to the Mission Massacre. I wander over to the table with the swords and stars and kubatons. “What are these?” I point at the star.

  “We are the only dojo in the state that fashions these ancient fighting stars.” The man in white fingers them lovingly and holds one out for me to take. “Careful. The blade is extraordinarily sharp. They are called shurikens. We are also the only dojo in the United States that teaches students how to use them. They are a ninja art.”

  I finger the blade lightly. “Do many of your students train in the use of these?”

  “No,” he frowns slightly. “It is a lost art. We only have maybe twelve students who use these.”

  “What about this?” My hand hovers over a pink kubaton.

  “A kubaton.”

  “May I?”

  The sensei nods his approval. I reach to pick it up.

  “You like that one? Would you like a demonstration? We sell more of that style than any other. Women attach it to their key ring. It is an extremely effective form of self-­defense if used properly.” He nods, and the man in black appears before us.

  Without explanation or conversation, the sensei and the man in black demonstrate how a well-­placed thrust of the kubaton can easily take down an assailant. At one point, the sensei uses it to split a chunk of concrete.

  “Impressive,” I say. “What about this one?” I finally point to the one with the dagger-­like tip that matches the one I handed over to Khoury. “This one would cause more injury, right?”

  His expression does not change. “Yes.” He says it in a low voice.

  My heart speeds up. How far should I p
ush this?

  “Have you sold any exactly like this one?”

  It is almost unnoticeable. His back stiffens and his eyes slightly narrow, but his voice remains flat. “Yes.” His words are careful and measured.

  “How much for this one?”

  “Twenty dollars.”

  I hand over a twenty and tuck it into my bag.

  “Do you keep a log of your sales?” I hold out another twenty.

  The doorbell interrupts us, and he leans over, pressing a small button. Within seconds, the sound of male voices and laughter drifts up the stairs. He remains silent.

  Feet pound up the stairs, and a group of men enters the room, greeting the sensei.

  “Here is my card.” I lay it directly on top of the twenty-­dollar bill and leave.

  Downstairs, the air is chilly as I emerge onto the sidewalk. I cross the street and look up at the window. A dark figure stands there, watching.

  I duck into the bakery and pick up a few pork buns. When I come out, there is a piece of paper under my windshield wiper. When I unfold it, I see a list of names under the words “Bought kubaton.” Sure enough, one name stands out: Joey Martin. I dart a glance up at the windows of the dojo but only see shadows flitting back and forth.

  Chapter 20

  THE ADDRESS FOR Fellatio, the sex club on the matchbook cover, is in an Oakland warehouse building near a back entrance to the Bay Bridge. This is the part of town that has given Oakland a bad rap over the years.

  I pull in front of the address and look around, wishing I had asked Lopez to come with me.

  Trash lines the gutters, and ­people cluster in groups in empty parking lots or gather around bus stop benches under billboards, staring down anyone who drives by. A group of young men across the street stops talking and watches me park. A few lean back on a small stone wall and smoke, talking and gesturing to my car. A fight breaks out nearby, and they turn their attention to that. One man punches another man, knocking him down and then kicking and spitting on him.