Instead of answering, I rinse out my coffee cup. I know why she’s telling me. She needs someone on her side. But I don’t say this. Instead, I make light of it.
“I’m not the media. Do I have big hair, stilettos, and a truckload of makeup on? No? Those are the TV reporters. I’m newspaper. We have ethics. Haven’t you heard about reporters going to jail to protect their sources? Well, you’re one of my sources. You’re good.”
“Still.” She is quiet for a second, probably mentally kicking herself for talking to me at all. “And I’m not telling you all this because I want some glory in the paper when I’m proven right. I’m trusting you because of Sean.”
I’ll take it.
“And you should know Sean called me. Whoever pulled you over that day wasn’t one of ours. Somebody has something to prove with you. So why don’t you let us do our job?” She doesn’t say it in a mean way, either.
But I don’t need her advice.
“Thank you for your concern, but I can handle myself.” I change the subject. “What next?”
There is silence for a few seconds.
“Arrest the real killer.”
MY FIRST STOP in the newsroom is Liz, who usually works Saturdays. Donovan is working today, and there’s no way I can stay home when I know Joey Martin is going to take custody of Lucy in six days unless I do something about it.
“Hi, sugar,” she says, peering at me over her glasses. “So, got this hit on what might be Frank Anderson. It was in L.A.—woman and her boyfriend came home early from a trip, dropped off their luggage, and went out to dinner. When they came home, saw someone standing in their kitchen window. Her boyfriend freaked out, screaming, and the man slipped out the back door. But in the bedroom, they found a bunch of her underwear missing. Here’s a copy of the police report. He didn’t leave any prints, either, which makes it seem like he’s done this before, so it might be Anderson even though the victim wasn’t a child and he didn’t do his . . . you know . . . usual thing.”
Masturbating on the panties.
“Thanks, Liz.”
“Not so fast,” she says. “I couldn’t find a damn thing on that Carol Abequero, though. It would help if we knew her maiden name. Looks like she married in Mexico, but there’s no record of her under her married or maiden name.”
Damn.
My next stop is Kellogg, who doesn’t usually work Saturdays but is busy overseeing coverage of game six of the World Series while the sports editor is at the ballpark. If the San Francisco Giants win today against the Anaheim Angels, it’s all over.
“Got a sec?”
It takes him a minute to look up from his green screen. “Yeah, sure.”
“Can we talk in the conference room?” He reluctantly eyes the big-screen TV. It’s only pregame coverage. He has another hour before the first pitch.
The desk creaks as he pushes his chair back and stands, grabbing his cup of coffee and some papers. My heart is pounding for no reason, and I sense eyes boring into my back as we walk.
I shut the door. He relaxes into a swiveling chair at the head of the table and starts pivoting in his seat. He’s anxious to get this over with, I can tell.
“Sorry for the dramatics, but I don’t want anyone else to overhear.”
“They can’t help it. Reporters are naturally nosy.” He raises an eyebrow. “Not excluding present company.”
Fair enough.
“I might have a lead on the Mission Massacre killer.”
He stops swiveling. “Go on.”
“I think it’s the husband.”
“They made an arrest, Giovanni.” He gives a big sigh but hasn’t stood up yet. He strokes his beard and continues. “Let me get this straight. We’re talking about the same husband, right? The one alibied by the military?” Anyone else would have said it with a heavy dose of doubt and sarcasm, but Kellogg says it plainly, and this encourages me to go on.
“Even the lead detective says this might be the tip of the iceberg. That the military is lying for some bigger reason.” Khoury didn’t say that exactly, but that’s where she was going. He waits without fidgeting. “And there is evidence. I found this thing, this military weapon, called a kubaton. She ran it for prints and blood. His prints. His wife, nephew, and father’s blood.”
“This is good stuff, Giovanni. What’s next?” He takes a sip of his coffee and glances at the clock on the wall.
“We wait to see what Khoury does with this evidence. Meanwhile, how will I go after the military?”
He squints and frowns. Finally, he shakes his head. “I don’t know. But I think your instincts are right. If they are lying for this guy, there is probably a reason, a reason that could get you killed. Didn’t the sheriff grant you a permit to carry and conceal last year?”
“Yes.” But I’m not carrying a gun ever again if I can help it. If you have a gun, it means you’re willing to kill someone.
“Well, you probably want to be packing,” he says. “I don’t like any of this, and I don’t know exactly what to do about it right now.”
I was afraid he’d say that. I was hoping he could give me some direction. Unlike some editors, Kellogg rose up from the trenches of cops reporting after years of covering corruption in South Central L.A., where he grew up. If anyone could come up with a good idea to prove the military wrong, it’d be him. But he has nothing.
“And really, when you think about it, going after the military on this will be the cops’ job, as well,” he finally says. “The most you can hope for is to be on the inside, to be the first reporter to get the scoop.”
“Yeah,” I say, but I’m disappointed. I want more than just the scoop. I want to prove the military lied to the police, and I want to know why.
Chapter 34
THROUGHOUT SUNDAY DINNER at Nana’s, I catch my mother looking at me across the crowded table. Her forehead is crinkled with worry. There are about twenty of us sprawled at the tables stretched under the grape arbor and nestled along the patio. My mom and I are at different tables, and despite the uproarious laughter and conversation, I can tell she is not happy. Every time our eyes meet, I smile and look away and take a bite of my pasta or bread. But I’m not fooling anyone.
By the time the tiramisu and cannoli have made the rounds, I’m a bundle of nerves, anxious for the showdown with my mother. I pick at my mom’s chocolate chip cannoli, something I normally eat with relish. When we’re in the kitchen cleaning up after the meal, Donovan darts a glance at me and catches me sliding the cannoli into the trash.
Most of the afternoon is spent huddled around the TV watching game seven of the World Series. When the Giants lose, the mood grows somber, and the men all gather to inspect Nana’s house.
Every year, my uncles and brothers and cousins weatherproof Nana’s house for the winter. Nana has lived alone here for years and does quite well on her own in the sprawling stone house surrounded by vineyards. She spends her days tending her flowers and giant backyard vegetable garden. Every fall, family members show up on a certain Sunday to rake leaves, clean her gutters, and do any necessary upkeep and handiwork. It’s an annual October tradition.
After most people have gone home, my sister-in-law Sally and I finish washing and drying the dishes. Nana hovers so she can oversee where everything goes. Giving her a supervisory role is the only way we can stop her from doing the dishes herself. She already spends every Saturday making giant vats of sauce. It was only a few months ago that we finally talked her out of making the meatballs herself.
Now, several of us grandchildren take turns spending Saturday afternoons forming ten pounds of beef into dozens of meatballs to feed the family. It has quickly become a tradition that the kids in the family love. Not only do they get to spend a few precious hours alone with Nana but she always saves a half pound of the meat to make the kids polpettines—mini meatballs that are salted
right out of the frying pan and popped into mouths for a delicious treat.
When it’s time to leave, my mother follows me out to my car. “Do you have a second?” she asks. I was silly to think I could avoid this conversation. “I’m worried about you.” She presses her lips tightly together.
“Mama, I’m fine.” I lean back against my car, feeling the warmth of sun-warmed metal against my back.
“That clearly is not true.” She flings her arms toward me in frustration. “Have you taken a good look at yourself lately?”
I look past her over her shoulder at some vines creeping up the side of my grandmother’s house. She’s right. I was in the bathroom a few minutes ago and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My brown hair is lank and lackluster. My skin’s sallow, my eyes sunken, with purple bags. My clothes are droopy and ill-fitting. Yeah. I look like shit. What does she expect?
“I’m fine, Mama. I’m just dealing with some stuff.” Donovan and I agreed to not tell my mother about the miscarriage. And I’m glad. Her heartbreak over it would have made everything that much worse.
“Dealing with what stuff? If this is what your job does to you, you need to seriously consider changing careers. It’s not just about you anymore. You have a man who loves you now, and you need to take his feelings into consideration.”
He talked to her about me, didn’t he? The heat creeps across my cheeks. I catch a glimpse of Donovan trying to make his way outside Nana’s house—one foot inside, one out. When I left, he was politely trying to say good-bye to one of my uncles who was telling a tale about the San Francisco Giants.
“Mama, I’m fine.” If I say it enough times, will she believe me?
“I think you need to see a doctor.”
“I’m going to see Marsha. Soon.”
“I mean a physical doctor. A physician. I’m worried about you. We all are.”
Donovan did talk to her.
“Mama”—I turn to her and hold her hands—“I haven’t felt like myself lately. But as soon as I find the man who killed that family, I’ll be fine. I just need to find who killed them. I just need to make sure that he’s punished.”
I’ve said something wrong. My mother draws back with a frightened look on her face.
“Listen to yourself, you—”
“Ma,” I interrupt.
“Let me finish.” Her voice is firm, and I close my mouth. “Take a minute and listen to yourself. Donovan was right. You are obsessed with this case. You need to take a vacation. If I have to, I’ll call your boss.”
“Editor.”
“Editor. Whatever.” She throws her hands in the air. “I’ll call him and tell him you need some time off.”
A smile grows wider on her face as she warms to the idea. “In fact, that’s exactly what you need. I’ll call Dina at the travel agency first thing tomorrow. I’m sending you and Donovan on a vacation together. That’s what you need. That will do wonders for you. When is the last time you took a vacation?”
I shrug. I know it’s useless to try to resist her plans now, when she’s on a roll. I’ll just let her talk, let her think she has it all figured out, and then be too busy to take the vacation. A small part of me worries that she can convince Kellogg, but I’ll try to get to him first.
Chapter 35
MY MOOD MATCHES the gray skies seeping out of San Francisco this morning. And not simply because it’s a Monday. The wind is whipping and howling and moaning when I wake, filling me with unease. Even Dusty is acting freaky, sort of like he does before an earthquake, winding himself around my legs and then hiding under my bed.
It’s almost as if something evil is nearby. Something isn’t right, and some sixth sense is telling me to watch out, be wary. Logically, I know there’s nothing tangible behind it, but I’ve been filled with unease since I woke. It’s more than just knowing I have less than five days to keep Lucy out of her father’s hands. It’s something more—a simmering level of anxiety or foreboding I can’t shed. I burn my toast and spill my coffee all over my front this morning and have to change clothes at the last minute.
It doesn’t help that Donovan seems like he’s avoiding me. We’ve eased into a truce since we had it out the other night, but things are still a little prickly. He picked up a shift last night and is planning on working another one tonight.
I’m heading toward the Caldecott Tunnel when I notice a helicopter above the freeway. Another one. The thudding of the helicopter sends a surge of anxiety through me. Some of Lopez’s paranoia is rubbing off on me. I’m peering out my windshield, trying to see if the helicopter has any identifying information, when my cell rings. C-Lo.
Relief floods me when I see the helicopter has the emblem for the California Highway Patrol, probably monitoring traffic from an accident I passed a ways back.
“Lopez?”
“Yo badness. Where you at?” he asks.
“About to enter the third bore.”
“Flip a bitch and head to the city. Got a one eighty-seven.”
I frown. San Francisco isn’t my beat. But Lopez wouldn’t call if it weren’t important. A wave of adrenaline hits me as I slam on my brakes and cut off several cars to make the last exit in Berkeley before the tunnel.
“What’s the skinny?”
“Vic is five-o.” He says it somberly.
A cop. Donovan. My heart leaps into my throat. I pull over on the side of the road as fear spurts through me, causing a wave of cold and dizziness. I press my forehead down on the steering wheel, but at his next word, my heart starts up again.
“SFPD.”
San Francisco Police Department. I open my eyes. “What you got?”
“Inner Sunset. Twenty-first Street.” In the Aves. “Walking her dog. Might have been a robbery gone bad. Bullet to the temple.”
We haven’t had an officer killed in the line of duty for about a year. And it’s rare for a cop to die violently off the job, but it’s still a major deal. I can already see the giant police funeral that will take place. What a shame. Now I know why Lopez called; any cop killed is a big story. Especially one who dies as a victim of a crime.
I exit and get back on Highway 24, headed toward San Francisco. The city lies before me. Rays of sunshine shoot up through a low haze of fog that hasn’t yet burned off.
The Inner Sunset is an area of San Francisco that is almost always thickly cloaked in fog. It is not uncommon to go days there without seeing the sun. The address Lopez gives me is between Santiago and Rivera streets. I don’t know a lot of female cops in San Francisco. Only Khoury. I don’t even know if she lives in the city. A ripple of anxiety surges through me. Don’t be ridiculous. There are dozens of women cops in the city.
THE CRIME-SCENE TAPE blocks off the entire block on both sides. When one of their own falls, the last thing cops want to do is talk to the press, but that doesn’t stop at least six news trucks from parking at one end, their satellite antennas extended up into the fog.
As I pass for the fourth time, looking for a parking spot, I see Detective Jack Sullivan’s red hair. That guy hates me. The feeling is mutual. He couldn’t pin the mayor’s murder on Donovan or me last year, and I know it drives him crazy. It made him look bad when we found the real killer, and I’m sure he hasn’t forgotten that. I scan the cops for Khoury’s petite frame and boyish hair but don’t spot her. My mouth grows dry and a wave of anxiety floods me, but I reassure myself. I’m being paranoid.
Finally, I park a block away, near Abraham Lincoln High School. I pull on my gloves while I walk and wind my new turquoise scarf around my neck as the wind whips my hair around my face, stinging my cheeks.
Isn’t this supposed to be the best time of year in San Francisco? The air is biting today, and the Inner Sunset, only three miles from the Pacific Ocean, is the worst for bitter cold and chill.
Most of the first f
loors of the houses contain storefronts, like the ones on this block—a Thai restaurant, a boutique, and an old-fashioned drugstore. The bay windows above are for the second-story flats. All the buildings are painted lemon and sky blue and peach. On the road closed off by crime-scene tape, waist-high wooden flower boxes line the sidewalks near the street, and several European scooters are parked on sidewalks. Despite the gray and cold, this neighborhood seems so friendly, cheery even. So why is there a knot in my stomach?
HOVERING AT THE edge of the crime-scene tape, I ignore all the TV reporters. Some are in their vans, staying warm. One extremely coiffed reporter in stilettos and a pencil skirt is ordering her photographer around, treating him like a lackey. No respect. I see Andy Black, my competition at the Tribune, but look away before he meets my eyes. Every time I see him, I regret our one-night stand with all my heart and wish I had been the one who’d given him a black eye that day instead of Donovan.
My cell vibrates in my bag. When I finally fish it out, I see it is Lopez.
“Where are you?” I ask.
“Look up and over at the third apartment building in from the corner.”
I squint. Right at the edge of the lingering fog that hovers at the top of the building, I see a lithe figure dressed in black. He gives me a little wave.
“Sweet,” I say. I clear my throat. “Can you see the vic?”
“I’ve got eyes on her.” At these words, my heart catches in my throat. She’s covered with a tarp, he says.
He keeps talking. “Some pissed-off cops down there. As soon as one notices me, I’m outta here. Today is one day you don’t want to be on their bad side.”
“No kidding. Have you figured out which place is hers?” I brush off my fear. The body could belong to any of a dozen female cops.
“Yeah. They’ve been going in and out. It’s the dark green three-story.”
“ ’Kay. Call you back in two.”
I hang up and dial Liz, reading off the house address. “Can you run this house number and tell me who lives there?”
Blessed Are Those Who Weep Page 15
