Gia and the Forgotten Island (Gia Santella Crime Thriller Book 2)

by Kristi Belcamino

  “I don’t trust the police. I don’t trust nobody else getting in my business. You know my business, Gia.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. “But they are our best bet to find Sasha.”

  I waited for her to argue. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, her gaze was pure steel.

  “Gia, you know me. You know how I love my grandbaby. If I thought there was a snowball’s chance in hell of the police finding my baby I would do anything, give up everything to make sure she was safe.” She threw back her shoulders. “Sure, there are good police. I know that. Probably more good ones than bad. But when it comes to my grandbaby, my life, I can’t afford to take a chance that one of the other ones is in charge.”

  She leaned over and grabbed my hand.

  “I need you to find her.”

  A mixture of despair, helplessness, and fury shot through me. Mother fucker. I was going to have to agree, but it didn’t mean I had to pretend to be happy about it.

  “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” I shook my head. She stared. “Fine. Are you happy? Fine.”

  “Just promise me, you’ll try.” She sat back, relaxed now. Of course, she was. She’d gotten her goddamn way. As usual.

  “I still think it’s a mistake. Just so you know.” I glared at her. What gave her such confidence in a fuck up like me, I’d never know.

  Darling sat back and snapped her fingers.

  The curtains pulled open.

  Within seconds, the booth was filled again with Darling’s friends and platters of Katrina’s famous comfort food arrived: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, roast beef slices, gravy, biscuits, creamed corn, even tater tot hot dish. Katrina’s catered to all the transplants to San Francisco who missed down home cooking and wanted a break from the city’s latest trendy fusion cuisine.

  I picked at the tater tots and sipped my whiskey. I was still pissed off at Darling and nearly sick to my stomach with the thought that it was up to me to find Sasha. My mind raced, trying to latch on to a starting point. I wanted to race back to the plaza to find the woman with the curly blond hair who saw Sasha’s kidnappers, but I knew she wasn’t there anymore. The TV screen hanging above the bar, showed the mayor addressing reporters in the empty plaza. Even so, I searched the crowd around him for a blond. I was kicking myself for not getting her name or contact information. She was the only lead I had.

  Except one. I had the partial license plate number: 6LIK.

  Mayor John Evans was flanked by a bunch of cops in tactical gear.

  Figures he was there. His re-election platform focused on making the city safer, specifically the Tenderloin. His slogan was “Our city can kick crime’s ass.” A riff on Rudy Giuliani’s “Our city can kick your city’s ass” or something. Not quite as obnoxious. Almost, though.

  However, tonight’s violence wasn’t good for his mayoral run. The only ass kicking was going to be his. The news ticker at the bottom of the screen said, “At least a dozen injured in conflict at Civic Center Plaza.”

  The broadcast cut to aerial footage of the square. I sat up straight. Maybe it would show the men who took Sasha. But I didn’t see anything during the brief clip. It was Channel 5. I was sure they had more footage than just what they aired.

  Lost deep in thought, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Across the room, a man with startling pale skin was watching me. A fedora was pulled low on his forehead. Something about him seemed otherworldly, like he was a vampire, even though I didn’t believe in that sort of crap. He was thin and too tall somehow. Too big for the space, like he needed to duck even though the ceilings at Katrina’s were ten-feet tall. Something was odd about his eyes. At the same time, he seemed familiar. It was right there on the edge of my memory why that was, but the knowledge slipped away at the same time he stepped out the side door.

  Instinctively, I rose to follow him, but then sat back down. He hadn’t done anything. Being a weirdo wasn’t a good enough reason for me to chase after a stranger. If that were my criteria, I’d be chasing after nut jobs all the live long day.

  Darling nudged me. “We’re going to the hospital to see George.”

  I stood. When our group reached the door, we found ourselves facing Mayor Evans and his entourage. The mayor wore an overcoat, cashmere blazer, and jeans that looked like they had been ironed. His graying hair was slightly mussed and one bushy gray eyebrow was askew. I’d never seen him look anything but perfectly coiffed. Like he’d been yanked out of bed for the press conference.

  Standing in front of Darling, the mayor dipped his head, a stray gray lock bobbing. “Ms. Fitzgerald.”

  “Mayor Evans.” Darling raised an eyebrow and the mayor stepped aside, letting us pass.

  Outside, a line of black cars waited for us. I shivered. Fog was rolling down the street. It was headed our way. People piled into the black cars until I was alone on the sidewalk. I was still pissed off at Darling. How dare her turn to me in something so serious? I knew I was being childish. What else was knew?

  Darling poked her head out of the back seat of the first car and gestured for me to join her.

  Once we were alone inside the dark interior, she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. After a few seconds, I did the same. My anger seeped out of me, replaced by anxiety and fear. It was too much pressure. I leaned forward and put my head in my hands. Darling was making a mistake counting on me.

  AT THE HOSPITAL, DARLING and I stood over George’s hospital bed. He was still unconscious and had so many damn tubes stuck in him I wanted to punch something. I barely knew the dude, but nobody, nobody, deserved to be beaten like this. His face was a swollen mess and a huge bandage took up most of his once regal bald head.

  I went to grab coffee for us in the cafeteria downstairs, trying to give Darling a moment alone with George. When I came back, Darling had pulled up a chair beside his bed and was holding his hand. A nurse came in holding the leather jacket that I’d put under George’s head. Darling gave her a look and the nurse handed the jacket to me.

  I shrugged it on and walked out. In the waiting room, I sat with some of Darling’s fan club members or whoever they were. Her posse. They regarded me warily. They didn’t like that some dumb white girl was their mentor’s closest ally right now. I didn’t blame them. But Darling and I shared a bond that transcended everything else that made us different. That’s why I knew I would do anything to find Sasha.

  We all sat there in silence until Darling came out.

  “Any change?”

  She shook her head. I sighed.

  “I’m staying the night,” she said.

  “I’m going home. Think Django will be okay at your place tonight?” Hopefully he was still in her back room.

  “Mmm Hmm.” Darling was distracted. “I had Shelley feed him and take him for a walk while we were at Katrina’s.” Shelley was her manager at the salon and her assistant in all things.

  I was about to leave when Darling grabbed my arm. Hard. She leaned over and whispered in my ear. “You find my grandbaby, you hear?”

  I didn’t answer, just stared at her until she let go of my arm.

  As the elevator door closed with me inside, I kicked the wall. I was one hundred percent royally, truly, and thoroughly fucked.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next morning, I woke early and left my apartment while the fog was still thick on the ground. I needed to go get Django, but first I wanted to check out the plaza again in case there were any clues.

  As I crossed Bush Street I made my way quickly through Tenderloin Heights. Before long, I was in the Sit/Lie neighborhood. Homeless people tucked into old sleeping bags or sat propped on cardboard boxes despite the mayor’s new “Sit/Lie” city law prohibiting people from sitting or lying down on sidewalks or other public spaces.

  Most people in the Tenderloin saw the law for what it was: a way to discriminate against the homeless. In Berkeley, the city was friendlier to the homeless and allowed them to sit or lie between seven in the morning and ten at night.
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  As I walked, the fog grew thicker, making me feel disoriented. By now I should’ve been to Market Street, but instead was on a street that was eerily deserted. No shops. No apartments. Only buildings that seemed abandoned. I jumped when a man stumbled out of the fog before me. He mumbled something incoherent before stumbling off in another direction.

  A patch of fog cleared and a massive building loomed before me. A twelve-foot-high chain link fence capped with barbed wire surrounded the building’s adjacent parking lot. All the windows were boarded up. Despite the desolation, I got the feeling I was being watched. I hurried away, without looking back.

  Maybe it was my upbringing—my nana had been extraordinarily suspicious—but I believed that some places emanated evil. That a building could be infused with dark things. Even abandoned and empty like the one I’d just passed.

  All my life I’d been able to sense this darkness in places. As a little kid, I thought that everybody could.

  Sometimes when I was really little we would go into an old restaurant and I would kick and scream and say I wasn’t going to eat there. Over the years my parents grew to expect my odd sensory reaction to certain places and tolerated it, even indulged it, by not making me go places that I said made me feel uncomfortable. As I grew older, I realized others didn’t share my feelings about places.

  One day, my mother took me shopping on Melrose Avenue in Los Angeles. I was thirteen, gangly and awkward and desperate to be cool and accepted by my classmates in Monterey. After growing up watching Melrose Place, I knew this was where all the cool kids shopped.

  I spotted a small store on the second floor of a building that had a cool T-shirt in the window. My mother was talking on the phone to my dad so she waited on the sidewalk while I went upstairs.

  The minute I opened the door, a clammy oppressive feeling overcame me and I was suddenly ice cold. The only sound was the chimes on the door echoing behind me. The store was darker than I expected and jam packed. While there were a few clothing items hanging up here and there, most of the store was taken up by candles, vials of oils, and small boxes and books all displayed on antique dressers with mirrors. The air smelled dank but also like some heady perfume that seemed to overtake every other sense.

  “Hello?”

  Nobody answered. I saw a light coming from a doorway at the back. Every fiber of my being told me to get out of there, but I really wanted to see the turquoise T-shirt in the window. As I made my way over to it, I passed a small display on a black-painted dresser.

  I glanced over and my heart stopped. A petrified hand lay in a red satin-lined box in the center of the dresser. I stood staring at it. Confused.

  Then with the smallest movement of air I felt something. The dresser’s mirror showed a woman in a turban standing at my shoulder. I screamed and ran out of the store, her laughter trailing behind me

  Down on the sidewalk, I breathlessly told my mother about the hand.

  “Let’s go see about that.” I loved that about my mother. She took me seriously. And wasn’t afraid of anything.

  Reluctantly, I trailed behind her up the stairs. When we walked in, it was as if I had entered a different store. It was bright and cheery. The woman in the turban was whistling and there was something pleasant playing on a radio.

  “Bon jour!” the woman said. “Welcome to my shop. Are you looking for something in particular?”

  I stared at her dumbfounded.

  My mother smiled. “Oh, my daughter was just in here and saw something she wanted to show me.”

  “Yes. She ran out before I had a chance to help her.”

  I glared at the woman.

  “Over there,” I said, nudging my mother.

  My mother casually walked over to the black-painted dresser. As we drew closer, I saw a sign that I either hadn’t noticed or that hadn’t been there before “Check out our new Halloween decorations.”

  I scrunched up my face. The sign was new. I would’ve noticed it before. I was sure.

  As we got closer, I looked at the red satin-lined box. There was a hand in it. A fake, pink plastic hand with red-painted nails. My mother picked it up, holding it in her palm for a few seconds before putting it back.

  I turned and ran out the door.

  A few seconds later, my mother joined me on the sidewalk.

  “She changed it.” I said, anger surging through me. “Mama, it was a real hand. It was like a mummy, all shriveled up. She must have switched it when I left.”

  A strange look crossed my mother’s face. One I’d never seen before.

  “Gia, back in the old country, there were things that some of the women could see. It was a gift. It was something that helped keep people safe. You have that gift. You always have. I want you to always, always listen to that feeling. It is real. Even if—” she glanced up at the second story. “Even if, someone tries to trick you and make you believe that what you see or feel is not real. It is. It is as real as me and you. Don’t ever doubt.”

  I hugged her so tight I couldn’t breathe. I might have sniffled a little.

  “Let’s go now and find you some tres chic clothing.” She grabbed my hand. I usually was embarrassed by her affection in public, but right then I held on tightly.

  As we walked away, I cast one last glance back at the store. The turbaned woman was standing in the window, stock-still, staring.

  The building in the Tenderloin was the first time in a long while that I’d had that ominous feeling of pervasive dread and danger. I knew without a doubt that people had died there and died terribly. It wasn’t too much of a stretch. The Tenderloin—along with a storied history of speakeasies, burlesque houses, jazz clubs, and brothels—was also renowned for its high crime rate. Today, the crime, the bars, strip clubs, and single-occupancy hotel rooms all remained, along with an entire small village of homeless people.

  As I emerged from the fog onto Market Street, I spotted Jack-O pushing his shopping cart along and whistling. He had on painter’s pants and about three flannel plaid shirts layered upon one another. His whiskers were gray and only a few tufts of brown hair behind his ears remained on his head.

  “Oh, Gia!” He doffed an imaginary hat at me.

  “Jack-O, just the man I’m looking for.” I hadn’t realized it until the words came out of my mouth, but it was true.

  “Oh, what can I do for you on this fine morning?” He gave me a missing-tooth grin.

  “Fine morning?”

  He laughed. “Okay, it’s cold, but I woke up this morning and I’m still alive, so it’s a fine day.”

  “I’ll give you that,” I said and then my smile disappeared. “I need your help. I need you to spread the word on the streets. I’m looking for a girl. She’s about five-foot-two, black straight hair, wearing a pink sweatshirt.”

  “White girl?”

  “Nah. Black.”

  Jack-O grew serious, listening and nodding.

  “Men in masks grabbed her last night at the protest.”

  “Oh, boy,” Jack-O said and shook his head.

  “If you can find anyone who saw anything, I’d be very grateful. Tell them I’ll make it worth their while if the info is good. The men put her in the back of an SUV over on Leavenworth near Market Street. I only caught a partial plate: 6LIK. If they can find me that vehicle, same deal, I’ll make it worthwhile.”

  “Oh. 6LIK?” Jack-O said. “Got it. I’m on it, Gia.”

  “Thanks. You can always get messages to me at Darling’s.”

  “You sure you don’t want to move into Swanson Place?” I’d tried to talk him into it before. Many of the homeless people I spoke to in the Tenderloin wanted to remain on the streets for reasons I couldn’t fathom, talking about freedom and so on. But others told me they were waiting for that one break that would lift them off the streets. Swanson Place was my plan to give them that break. I already had a clipboard with ten names on it and had promised all ten of them a spot in the new building along with employment downstairs.

>   “Oh. Nah, I appreciate the offer, but this is my home. I don’t want to go to the Sunset.”

  “It’s not that far away ...”

  He turned to leave.

  “You need money for breakfast or something?” It was a dumb question and I immediately regretted saying it.

  He didn’t answer, only swallowed and looked away.

  I leaned over and handed him two twenties. “This is for helping me spread the word about the girl. I appreciate it.”

  He didn’t say anything but the money disappeared up his long sleeve.

  I turned and walked away before I embarrassed either one of us any more than I already had.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Django practically knocked me down in his excitement to see me.

  “Good boy.” I laughed and patted him. The damn dog acted like I’d been gone a year instead of only overnight. He kept jumping on my nice jeans and slobbering all over me.

  Darling smiled at me, but I could tell the fight had gone out of her.

  “Nothing from Sasha?”

  “Not a word.” For the first time, Darling actually looked like someone who could have a granddaughter. She had slight bags under her eyes and there were other small signs that something was off. There was something about the set of her mouth. Her thick black curls were a masterpiece, as usual, but her silk shirt was a little bit wrinkled and there was a slight unevenness in her application of lip liner. But overall, she still looked pretty damn put together. Something I couldn’t manage on my best day.

  “George?”

  “Same.”

  I shook my head. Then I walked over to Darling’s galley kitchen, poured us some coffee and dumped a shot of Bailey’s Irish Cream into each one. “Sit down a second. I’ve got an idea I need to run by you.”

  We both settled into the leather couches and sipped our coffees. On the walk over, I had thought carefully about how I was going to approach this one.