“Sure thing, sugar. Hold the line.” I hear her click-clacking on the keyboard and close my eyes. Please don’t let it be her.
“Here we go,” Liz says. “Amanda Khoury, thirty-five, bought it last month for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
As soon as I hear the name, I close my eyes, and my stomach hurts like someone just sucker-punched me. And I know. It wasn’t a robbery gone bad. My fingers are shaking as I thank Liz and click off. A wave of vertigo hits me, and I slump against the wall of an apartment building for a few seconds. My fingers are tingly, and the hair on my arms is sticking straight up. Khoury is dead.
What if she’s dead because of what I told her? What I gave her? The kubaton? What if the killer is here watching me? Instinctively, I duck behind a TV van and lean back against it. After a few seconds, I peek out, watching the cops circling the crime scene, trying to see if any are paying attention to me. I freeze when I see one cop standing motionless, watching me. He holds my gaze for a few seconds, and a chill races across my scalp.
Finally, another cop is at his elbow, saying something. The first one waits another second before he turns. As soon as I’m released from his stare, I bolt around the corner and press my back against the cold wall of an apartment building.
My phone rings.
“What the fuck is going on?” Lopez says.
“Did you see that?”
“Yeah, man. Lieutenant Stick-Up-His-Ass was staring you down. But what I don’t get is why you ran?”
I fill him in.
“Motherfucker. That’s some seriously fucked-up shit.”
“I know.”
“Hold the phone. Two cops just went inside. Let me use my zoom lens. I’ll call you back.”
After a few minutes, he calls back. “Your boyfriend Sully and the lieutenant are the only ones in the place.”
I try to let go of my anger and listen to Lopez. “ . . . throwing shit around like they’re looking for something they can’t find. They’ve trashed her place completely. I got a bunch of shots of them doing it. Why would they do that, when it was a robbery gone bad? Doesn’t jive.”
“What else can you see?” I ask.
“Crime-scene investigators just showed up. Hold on. Dude is kneeling down. Okay. He lifted the tarp. Not pretty. Closed casket for sure.”
My heart sinks, and I close my eyes. I was just starting to really like Detective Khoury. She didn’t deserve to die. Something else occurs to me: the case she was building against Martin—now what? She was the only cop who believed me. Now he’ll grab Lucy and disappear, getting away with mass murder. There’s no way I can trust Sullivan with what I know. He’d just as soon throw me in jail if I tell him I was in the apartment and found the kubaton.
Lopez’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Okay. Another dude heading over to the body.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Six feet something. Good head of hair, brushed back, cop hair. More Ponch than John, though. Close-cut beard. Wire-rimmed glasses. Tall. Lean. Jeans and cowboy boots. Blazer. Got a detective badge clipped to his belt. Talking to the crime-scene guys now. Leaning over. Lifted tarp again. Oh fuck. He’s broken up. He knew her. For sure, man. I’d bet ten to one he’s the partner. Just closed his eyes for a second. He’s pulling it together.”
“Let me know when he heads back toward the tape. I’m making my way over there.” I start to run, heading down the parallel street, hoping to make it around the block before Khoury’s partner is kicked out. Because I’m sure that’s what will happen. They will boot his ass out of there. They won’t let him stick around and investigate the death of his partner. They’ll throw him in counseling or something.
I round the corner, panting. I can see the crime-scene tape a few cars away.
Lopez calls. “He’s ten feet from the tape.”
“Thanks. I’m here.”
The detective ducks his tall frame under the tape. I hear a shout. Someone must have called his name, because he pauses for a second without turning around and then keeps walking. I make my way to the opposite sidewalk and follow him, keeping a few cars behind.
When he stops at a small black sports car that he can’t possibly fold his tall frame into, I make my move. I dart across the street.
“Detective?” His face is wary. I wonder what he looks like when he smiles. I speak fast, knowing I only have about thirty seconds to convince him to talk to me. “I’m the one who gave Khoury the kubaton.”
“You’re that reporter.”
I meet his eyes and nod.
Now I will tell if he was on Khoury’s side or Sullivan’s.
He juts his chin toward his passenger door. I don’t hesitate and hop in, slamming the door behind me. It smells like stale cigarette smoke and cologne. He closes the door and leans his forehead on the steering wheel. He grits out the words. “Goddamn it.” He lifts his head and squints one eye at me.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” He acknowledges my words with a nod. The pain in his face makes me look away. When I can meet his eyes again, I stick out my hand. “Gabriella Giovanni.”
“Scott Strohmayer.”
“Thanks for talking to me, Detective Strohmayer.”
“None of this adds up.” He’s tapping his fingers on his steering wheel, staring out the front window. “Why Amanda? No reason to kill her for her cash. She would’ve just handed over her bag. It’d be no great shakes to her. She’s smart—she knows no amount of money is worth losing your life.” He shakes his head.
This may be harder than I thought. I’ll have to lay my cards on the table.
“Did Detective Khoury tell you she was still working the Mission Massacre? That she didn’t think Carol Abequero did it?”
He looks over at me, surprised. “I’ve been out of town. Annual family vacation to Hawaii. Got back last night. She left a few messages, but we got back so late . . .”
I fill him in quickly, trusting my gut instincts that he’s one of the good guys and not part of whatever landed Khoury under that tarp.
Staring out his windshield, he listens without moving. He takes off his glasses and rubs the ridge between his eyes.
I tell him what she told me the other day—that the kubaton had blood spatter from the victims and Martin’s fingerprints.
He strokes his beard. “That’s good, but that might not be enough. This whole thing is a screwy deal. Now I know why she wanted to meet with me today—away from the station.”
He punches the steering wheel. My eyes sting, and I blink back tears. Pull it together.
I have one last question for him. “Why do you think Sullivan and the lieutenant are tossing her apartment right now? What are they trying to find?”
His eyes narrow. “Could be her notes on the case. Most of the time if she’s working a big one, she carts everything around in that big bag of hers. She’s only been here a short time, but everyone knows that Amanda takes her work home with her. It’s her whole life. That’s the kind of cop she is.”
Was.
“If everyone knows she carries the files around, is that why she’s dead?” I ask.
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” His mouth is set in a grim, determined line, and I can tell by the furrow across his brow he’s not kidding.
He turns the key in the ignition. That’s my cue.
“Need a ride to your car?”
I shake my head no. I open the door and duck down to say good-bye.
He reaches over to his glove box, pops it open, and extracts a small gun, which he sticks in an ankle holster as I watch.
“I’m going to find out what the hell is going on,” he says, as if that is an explanation.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Hey, my dad always said you get more with a kind word
and a gun than with a kind word alone.” He winks and peels out.
Chapter 36
BACK IN THE newsroom, I have a hard time writing the story about Khoury’s murder. I want to do her justice, but that’s going to have to be in another story. This one is just the facts. And there are so few of them. I didn’t stick around for the press conference, but Lopez did and took notes for me. I have so many questions. Eventually I write a story, leaving out everything I suspect about her murder and can’t prove.
The military is lying for Martin, and the cops are in on it. Khoury is dead because she was on to them. She must’ve found something incriminating, and that’s why she’s dead. Maybe the only thing saving me is my ignorance—the fact that I don’t have any proof about Joey Martin or the military lying.
Because the truth is I have no way of proving anything. Khoury might have had a way to prove it, and now she’s dead. If they think I know anything, I’m probably their next target.
Donovan asks me to stay the night at his Oakland apartment, saying he’s worried that whoever killed Khoury might come after me. For once I don’t think he’s being overprotective. If the cover-up extends to the cop shop, to the detective who already has it out for me—Jack Sullivan—then I’m also a little apprehensive.
A few hours later, after I finally turn in my story about Khoury’s murder and leave work, we are hunched over tzatsiki, baba ghanoush, and tabouli that Donovan brought home from the Holy Land deli. I know he is worried, so I gulp down most of my pita bread, but it tastes like cardboard. He’s on his third beer, while I’m still sipping my first.
“If you’re right and they took out a cop to protect this Martin guy, there’s nothing to stop them from getting rid of you, too.” He looks at me over his beer as he takes a long pull. “I didn’t think your life was in danger until now. But now I’m not so sure. Whatever the military is hiding must be a pretty big deal for them to take out a detective in the middle of a big case.”
“She was taken off the case.”
“Gives me more reason to worry.”
When Donovan hears about the cops searching Khoury’s apartment, the muscle along his jawline starts pulsing, and his eyes narrow.
“Sullivan, huh?”
There is no love lost between him and the San Francisco detective. But I probably despise the man even more.
“That man is like a dog with a bone. He won’t let go until he wreaks revenge on you.”
I nod. He’s right. I make a mental note to ask Liz if she can find out more about the redheaded cop. He’s got to have some vulnerability, some Achilles’ heel we can find and use to our advantage.
“So, what’s this Strohmayer guy like?”
That was out of left field. “Nice guy.” I shrug. “He said that everyone knows Khoury took her work home with her. There’s motive right there.”
“What’s Khoury’s lieutenant’s name again?” Donovan asks.
“I don’t know. I think Khoury said Alexander. Does that sound right?”
Donovan nods. “Dennis Alexander. I don’t know much about him, only his name.”
I’ll ask Liz about him, too.
Donovan clears the dishes as I stand and gaze out at Lake Merritt before me. The downtown Oakland skyscrapers soar up into the crisp black sky beyond the lake. The walking path around the lake is strung with lights like a necklace, giving it a fairylike feel from my third-floor perch. I sense Donovan behind me before he wraps his arms around my waist and nuzzles his lips into my collarbone.
I remember what he said about sex being so clinical lately. I close my eyes and try to let my body respond to his touch, but I’m numb. My mind is racing with so many things: Lucy. Her father. Khoury. Sullivan. And underneath it all, lying like a big lump of mud, is the resentment I feel against Donovan for not wanting to get pregnant as badly as I do.
I can’t get past it. He must sense my resistance, because soon the warmth of his body leaves mine and footsteps sound along the wood floor as he heads toward the bedroom.
The view of the lake strung with lights is blurry now, just streaks of smeared white.
Chapter 37
DETECTIVE STROHMAYER CALLS me while I’m in the newsroom Wednesday.
“I’m in the East Bay,” he says. “Got the day off, and I took the twins to Waterworld in Concord. Can you meet me here in a half hour?”
“You’re brave.”
“Hell, this is the safest waterslide park in the world. Now.”
“Right. Now.”
A few years ago, a group of graduating seniors from Napa ignored a lifeguard’s warning and stormed the seventy-five-foot-tall slide. When they tried to ride down together in a massive pack, the slide collapsed, sending people plunging to the ground below. A seventeen-year-old girl died, and thirty other people were injured. Witnesses said the pool below became red with the blood of those injured.
I agree to meet him and log off my computer. I stop by Liz’s desk on my way out of the newsroom. I owe her way more than a box of biscotti. As soon as I have time, I’m taking her out to dinner at Chez Panisse or something.
It’s been two days since Khoury’s death. Liz did some digging on Khoury’s lieutenant.
Unfortunately, Dennis Alexander is pretty boring on paper. Lives in San Mateo. Owns a small house there. Has a wife and two teenage boys. Nothing interesting on him whatsoever.
The paper trail for Jack Sullivan is cold. There is nothing on file for him. Nada. Not even the usual paper trail of a birth certificate, driver’s license information, or voter registration. It’s like he’s a ghost.
For some reason, that makes me worry.
But I’m more worried that Joey Martin is going to pick up Lucy in two days, and right now I don’t see any cops trying to stop him.
STROHMAYER IS ON his cell phone by the bottom of the Dragon Tails body slide, a smaller, twisty slide for families. It’s ninety degrees out. Unusually warm for October, plus it’s a release day for Bay Area schools, so the waterpark is packed. Kids scream and shout, and lifeguards are blowing whistles, reminding people to behave and not run.
Strohmayer is wearing shorts and a bright blue shirt that makes his eyes light up when he sees me and smiles.
He finishes his conversation and clicks off his phone. “Sorry about that. The wife. She’s got a roller derby bout tonight and is making sure I’m able to watch the kids.”
I don’t know why this makes me jealous. That he’s married, or that he has kids? Or both?
Two towheaded boys run up. “Dad! Dad! Can we go to Treasure Island now?”
“Yep. Head on over,” he says, patting one of them on the head. “I’ll follow.”
“So your wife does roller derby?” I say as we walk to a picnic table near the Treasure Island pool, a watery playground with tunnels and fountains. “She sounds awesome. Roller derby isn’t for sissies. ”
“Let’s sit here, that way I can keep an eye on the kids. Can’t go home tonight and tell Mary one of them drowned, you know. My wife is understanding and all, but that probably wouldn’t go over well.” He settles in at a table facing the pool. “You’re right, roller derby isn’t for wimps. The last time I put on skates, it was ass over teakettle. Which, of course, Mary thought was hilarious. Sometimes it’s hard to keep up with her. Every year it’s something new—this year it’ll be jumping out of airplanes.”
“That’s always been my dream.” Of course I don’t tell him that I planned on skydiving for my birthday this past summer but put that aside as I sank into a deep funk from my miscarriage.
“Hey, Toby,” he says. “Quit splashing your brother.” He turns his attention back to me. “Well, she’s looking for a pal to skydive with her, but all her friends are chicken. Maybe I should introduce you two.”
“That would be amazing.” I watch as the two boys wrestle and dunk each
other. He turns to me, and I’m afraid to take my eyes off his twins in case one of them drowns or hits his head or something when he’s not looking.
He takes out a small wallet-size picture of his smiling wife and twin boys. “Here she is.”
I hand it back to him. “I already like her,” I say and mean it.
He pockets the photo and grows serious as we settle in. “I called you because I think you’re right,” he says, taking a sip from a bottle of water.
“About what?” My cell phone rings. I glance down. Donovan. I mute my phone and ignore the call. There is no way I could hear him over the screams, shouts, and laughter at this waterpark.
“Amanda,” he says. “That wasn’t a robbery gone bad.”
“What changed your mind?” I squint at the pool. For a second I couldn’t see one of the boys, but then his head bobs up, like a seal’s.
“The evidence is gone.”
“What?” My mind goes blank. What is he talking about? I forget about keeping an eye on his twins and turn to face him.
“The kubaton.”
Strohmayer explains that when he confronted Sullivan and Lieutenant Alexander, they brushed him off and told him that if he didn’t mind his own business, he’d be back to working the patrol shift, nights.
“It’s not an empty threat, either.” He turns toward the pool and stands. “Matt, get over here and take a time out. I told you not to sit on your brother’s head in the water.”
Matt gets out and his brother follows. Both boys are crying. They sit on the cement near our feet, both pouting. “Six minutes starting now,” Strohmayer tells them and turns to me. “A minute for each year of their life.” I don’t point out he doesn’t have on a watch.
“So, after they threatened me, I figured it’d be smartest to just play their game. Play dumb. I told them I wanted them to find Khoury’s killer and to let me know if I could help. Meanwhile, I’ve been doing some poking around myself. Found copies of most of Amanda’s investigation. She must’ve known something was up, because she stashed a bunch of copies in a file we share for Fantasy Football. Smart lady. I got all the goods on the case except the results of the blood-spatter analysis and fingerprints.”
Blessed Are Those Who Weep Page 16
