Find out more at the back of
Blessed are the Peacemakers
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS
First edition. July 27, 2017.
Copyright © 2017 Kristi Belcamino.
ISBN: 978-1386823308
Written by Kristi Belcamino.
Table of Contents
Title Page
BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS
A Gabriella Giovanni Mystery
By Kristi Belcamino
CHAPTER ONE
A sleek head encased in black rubber surfaced from the murky lake. The diver raised a gloved hand out of the water.
Another body.
Twelve bodies were already lined up on the beach, each encased in thick plastic that was not quite opaque enough to cloak their contents—bloated bodies and bulbous heads dotted with black holes where the eyes, mouth, and nose had once been. It was impossible to tell if the lumpy shapes were male or female.
The tipster who had called Gabriella Giovanni at her desk at the Bay Herald was right: Lake Josephine was a watery graveyard.
Gabriella had called the park police as soon as she began driving to the lake. Her call had paid off with a front row seat to the gruesome recovery effort. Sheriff’s officials studiously ignored her, but made damn sure all the other reporters remained far behind the crime scene tape cordoning off the beach, a small playground and a parking lot. The rest of the lakeshore was dotted with small docks that led to private homes. A TV news crew halfway across the lake was interviewing someone on the dock of his lakeside home.
This stretch of the lake, a public park, was scattered with forgotten remnants from a day at the beach—a yellow shovel, dirty sock, broken bucket, pink sippy cup. One of the deputies had kicked the items into a small pile to make room for the bodies.
Gabriella knew this popular swimming spot would normally be packed on a sweltering day like today. But police tape blocked the main road from visitors. Many families, like the foursome that arrived with beach towels, probably walked to the lakeside park from a nearby housing development. The family stopped at the crime scene tape cordoning off the entrance to the parking lot and stared. The woman, holding a little girl’s hand, stiffened as she caught sight of the rows of plastic-encased bodies on the beach.
Gabriella could stomach a lot. She’d seen her fair share of dead bodies—fresh ones at crime scenes and cold ones on steel slabs at the morgue. But the decomposing soggy messes encased in clear plastic bags were an entirely different story. As one diver flopped the new body on the sand, something on his wet suit got stuck on the plastic and it tore. Instantly, a brownish green foul mess seeped out onto the sand along with a smell that sent the diver keeling over, ripping at his mask so he could vomit.
The light breeze carried a whiff over to Gabriella. But unlike the decomposition smell that permeates a sanitary morgue, this scent was mixed with all sorts of horrors that had been festering under the plastic for God knows how long.
It was only the tiniest hint of scent, but it filled up her mouth and made Gabriella gag. She closed her eyes for a second, trying to regain her composure.
Several men in slacks and dress shirts huddled near the parking lot. One man, in sunglasses and a dark three-piece suit, kept shooting glances her way. She narrowed her eyes at him. Either he wanted to kick her out of the crime scene or he was waiting for her to realize she couldn’t handle it and leave on her own.
If you think I’m going to puke or scream just because I’m a woman, you’re wrong buddy.
She shot another glance at him. Not a cop. He was too refined. Too well-dressed. Too polished. Probably FBI. Only uptight government officials wore suits like that on an 80-degree day in California.
In a few minutes, the officials would give an official statement and then Gabriella could head back to the Bay Herald newsroom, and write up her story.
“Stai bene?” Are you okay?
It was the man in the dark suit. He stood right in front of the sun, which made his face a black mass without features. She squinted as he shifted and the sun struck her full in the eyes.
Although she looked stereotypically Italian—long dark hair, naturally full red lips, and ample curves—Gabriella was irritated. She was proud of her heritage, but something about this man automatically assuming she spoke Italian rubbed her wrong.
“I’m fine.” There was not an ounce of warmth to her voice. She’d learned years ago as a cub reporter that most men wouldn’t treat her like an equal unless she adopted their gruff seriousness.
A cloud went over the sun and Gabriella was able to see the man’s face. A long scar ran across one sculpted cheekbone and curved toward his mouth.
Gabriella ignored the man with the Italian accent and took off toward the group of reporters starting to form around a man in gray suit. She ducked under the crime scene tape and stood behind the TV cameras on tripods, balancing on one foot at a time while she dumped sand out of her sandals.
A slim man with a ruddy complexion and bushy eyebrows that matched the longish silver hair brushed back away from his forehead, adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. Gabriella rummaged in her bag and got her pen and notebook ready.
“I’m Lucrèce Winoc, from the state public safety department’s Division of Homeland Security and Emergency Management,” the man said.
Gabriella’s pen froze on the paper. She’d expected the sheriff or maybe even FBI.
“Good afternoon and thank you for coming
.” He didn’t smile. “In a minute, I’ll make a statement giving you what little information we have this early in the investigation. There are a lot of questions that remain unanswered, but we will tell you what we know that will not compromise this case. This is a very large operation, as you might have guessed, and we will not have many answers for you for some time.”
Winoc shuffled some papers, but began without glancing at them.
“At nine this morning, our office received word that a body had been found in Lake Josephine and that there might be more than just the one.”
A TV reporter leaned forward. “Is it true that a tipster called a newspaper reporter and that’s how you learned about the bodies?”
Gabriella narrowed her eyes. This guy, who looked like an underwear model you’d see in tighty whiteys on a New York City billboard, was somehow plugged in. Hmmm. She’d better keep her eye on him.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Winoc said. “But I can tell you that the Ramsey County Sheriff’s Office dive team has since recovered thirteen bodies.”
A reporter with red spiral curls gasped. Gabriella wanted to roll her eyes. Run along to your stories about celebrity scandals and leave the big kids to their work here please.
“We are not done with our recovery efforts yet so we won’t have a final count until probably sometime tomorrow. The divers will continue searching the lake through the night using spotlights that the Lake Josephine park police are providing.”
“Can you tell us how many divers are out here?” another reporter asked.
Winoc glanced at a sheriff’s deputy nearby.
“Eight on each team,” the man said.
Winoc looked down at his sheet now and began to read. “This is an unspeakably horrific crime. We have lots of questions and very few answers, but rest assured, working together with the cooperation of the Ramsey County Sheriff’s office and the Ramsey County Medical Examiner’s unit, we will get to the bottom of this. We are going to be doing everything in our power to identify these tragic victims and make sure the perpetrators are brought to justice. Thank you. Any questions?”
“Mob?” one reporter asked. That’s what Gabriella was going to ask, thinking of the man with the Italian accent. She glanced behind her. He was still on the beach, huddled with some other officials over one of the bodies. She watched him prod something on the sand with the toe of his expensive looking leather shoes. He glanced her way and she quickly turned back around. Something about the man made her uneasy.
“At this point,” Winoc continued. “This early in the investigation, we have no way of knowing who is behind this.”
The reporter with the good hair leaned over and whispered in Gabriella’s ear. “Cartel.”
So, that’s why Homeland Security was involved.
He drew back with a knowing look. Gabriella leaned over and pressed her lips nearly against his ear, her voice softer than a whisper. “Just who are you banging anyway? The head of the CIA?” She pulled back and raised an eyebrow, waiting.
The woman with the red ringlets scowled.
The boy gave an impish shrug. “I have my ways.”
She scribbled her cell phone number on the back of her card and handed it to him. “We should talk.”
“Over dinner?” He smiled.
“How about this: I’ll buy you a hot chocolate for your troubles,” Gabriella said. “I’m sure Little Bo Beep over there would be happy to have dinner with you.”
Stuffing her notebook in her bag, Gabriella turned to leave. He touched her arm, stopping her.
“Then I’m sure you have a lot to teach me.”
She walked away without answering.
As the TV reporters rushed to edit footage in their big white vans, Gabriella huddled under a tiny tree that offered a bit of shade and dialed her husband, Agent Sean Donovan. The scent of Jasmine drifted by, a welcome relief from the putrid smell down by the beach. Gabriella leaned back against the rough bark of the tree, suddenly tired after standing for the past three hours.
Gabriella spoke before Donovan said hello: “Cartel.”
“I know. I’m at the airport. I’m heading out. Your mom’s home with Grace.”
Gabriella’s heart clenched a little. She wished Donovan had never taken that job with the DEA last year. At least when he was a detective he’d been able to come home most nights.
“I don’t even get to kiss you goodbye?”
Donovan laughed. “You can make up for it next week when we’re in Jamaica.”
“God, I can’t wait. When’s the last time we took a vacation. Away from Grace that is?”
“That’d be never, Ella. That’s why there’ll be lots of kissing.”
This time she laughed, as well. But quickly sobered. “I already miss you. How long will you be gone this time?”
“I told them I needed to be back by Saturday. I said I had important plans with my wife.”
“You’ve said that before and they haven’t listened.”
“This time I’m dead serious and they know it. Nothing will stop me from my vacation alone with my wife. I’ll be home in time. I promise. I’ll be there.”
“You better be, Donovan.”
She clicked off and stared into the distance, not seeing anything.
CHAPTER TWO
Two months later ...
Gabriella squinted at the long bar of sunlight that somehow had seeped through her blinds to shine directly in her eyes. She reached behind her and chucked her pillow, sending the blinds clattering back into place, turning the room blissfully black again. Throwing the pillow had kicked up the unwashed scent that permeated her bedroom now. Half asleep, she lay back down on the bed sheets. She buried her face in the other pillow on the bed next to her and in a near dream state, repeated her unconscious ritual, the search for a familiar scent that had dissipated long ago. Instead, it smelled like her dirty greasy hair. As the fog lifted, it came to her—what she was trying so desperately to smell—any lingering remains of her husband’s scent.
Staring into the blackness, her fuzzy mind instantly cleared. A sob escaped her mouth as the cobwebs cleared and the harsh reality of her life returned.
Donovan was dead.
Every day it was the same thing. She woke in a haze created by the remnants of sleeping pills wearing off. And then she remembered. And the pain was like a blow that made it hard to breathe, hard to see, and hard to move.
The red flashing numbers on the clock told her that even if she were to fall back to sleep, she’d have to get up soon to get Grace ready for school. Might as well do it now.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, straightening out her white nightgown with her palms. She had to get ready for another day of pretending to be alive. For Grace.
That’s when she heard the little knock on her bedroom door, barely a tap, and an even smaller voice. “Mama?”
Closing her eyes, she swallowed back a sob before answering. She knew that Grace had been sitting outside her bedroom door for up to an hour, waiting for any sounds from inside.
“I’m awake, honey. I just have to use the bathroom and I’ll be right out.” Her attempt at chipper still sounded brittle and saccharine, but would have to do.
Gabriella waited until she heard the slow plodding footsteps of her seven-year-old daughter retreat into the other room before she headed into the master bathroom. Flicking on the light, she stared at her gaunt, gray face in the mirror. Sleeping pills and booze every night did not make for a vibrant complexion. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. She was doing everything she could do simply to get through her days. If she needed a tiny nudge in the form of a chemical and cocktail mix to make it through those last few hours of the day before she sunk into blessed oblivion, then so be it. At least she had managed not to down the whole prescription bottle at once. That was something.
Keeping it together all day long was as much as she’d been able to manage the past two months. If she didn’t hold her shit, ho
w could she expect Grace to survive?
For the seemingly millionth time, Gabriella felt a wave of admiration for her mother. Maria Giovanni had lost her young daughter and husband in one fell swoop so many years ago. Gabriella prayed every day she’d have the strength and grace her mother had shown for the past thirty years.
Splashing cold water on her face and then drying it off slowly, Gabriella stared at her own eyes in the mirror. Where was that strength? It was in her blood. Giovanni’s were survivors. She needed it now more than ever. Pulling on her robe, she headed out to the rest of the penthouse.
CHAPTER THREE
Gabriella plopped a frozen waffle, syrup, and a glass of orange juice down on the breakfast table in front of Grace.
Her daughter pushed the plate away with a grimace. The kid was a gourmand at age seven. It wasn’t her fault. Ever since she could put her thumb and forefinger together, she’d been eating San Francisco sourdough bread toasted and spread with local cheese and fresh preserves for breakfast. Or else homemade cardamom scones. Or Donovan’s French toast. But no more.
Now it was all Gabriella could do to stick some frozen rectangles in the toaster and remember to cart the syrup to the breakfast table. At this point, she was even considering buying fruit cocktail in bulk to serve for meals.
“Eat your breakfast,” she said, trying to hide the irritation in her voice. The kid was spoiled. When Gabriella was growing up, she and her two brothers fixed their own Pop Tart breakfasts. With a prickle of guilt, she remembered that’s because when Gabriella’s sister died, her mother hung up her apron and told them making breakfast was now their job. If they hadn’t made their own food, they knew they wouldn’t see any until they got to school and had lunch in the cafeteria.
“Mama, can I read The Hunger Games.” Grace was subtly pushing her plate away from her, millimeter by millimeter.
“No way.” Gabriella pushed the plate back in front of her.
“Why not?”
“You’re seven-years-old.”
“That counselor said I read at the level of a tenth grader.”
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