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

by Kristi Belcamino

  But the fire escape also signified a way for someone to get to me. A danger, as well, as a safety feature. A double-edged sword. If I were a prospective tenant for this building, I would’ve immediately been concerned that someone could get up the fire escape and into my building. It wasn’t an idle worry. It was exactly what I was going to do.

  The alley was full of overflowing trash cans and Dumpsters. The closest Dumpster had wheels. Perfect. I peeked inside. It was empty. Trash pick-up must’ve been this morning. I got on one side of it and pushed with my entire body. It moved. I pushed it until it was right underneath the fire escape. Then I closed the lid gently so it wouldn’t make a loud bang and pulled myself on top. If I stood on tiptoe, I could reach the small railing that surrounded the platform at the bottom of the fire escape. I clung to the rails and thanked Kato for making me start a push-up and pull-up regime over the past year.

  Grunting and groaning, I pulled myself up but my feet lost traction and I slipped back to the top of the Dumpster. I could reach the platform but it was surrounded by a railing. I couldn’t get enough of a grip to pull myself over the railing.

  You can do it, Gia.

  I heard my father’s voice in my head. Every time I’d attempted a physical feat just a little beyond my ability, he had urged me on. You can do it, Giada! You are a Santella.

  A sob caught in my throat. Not very long ago, I’d doubted that. I’d worried that a sadistic murderer was actually the one whose DNA I carried. Luckily, it wasn’t true.

  I was a Santella through and through. I stepped back and examined the fire escape and the building. There was a slight architectural groove on the building where a brick stuck out. If I pulled myself up, managed to get a foot onto the brick, and gave myself a boost, I could potentially pull myself up and over the railing.

  I gave a huge grunt, hoisted myself up to my chest and found a foothold on the brick. But then I slipped.

  One more time.

  This time, the toe of my motorcycle boot gripped the brick and I was able to pull myself up so my stomach was at the edge of the small railing around the platform. From there, I tumbled over the railing onto the platform.

  And just in time. I heard voices below and scooted back against the brick wall, holding my breath. When the voices passed, I began to climb. The first window showed a hallway. Good. All the entrances would be to the hallway and not into people’s apartments. I climbed cautiously, peeking into the bottom of each window before I clambered past it.

  When I reached the tenth floor, I tried the window. Too easy. It was unlocked. I opened it and listened. It was silent. I ducked inside, leaving the window open behind me in case I needed a quick escape. I was turned around, so it took me a few minutes to figure out which doorway would lead to the drone operator’s apartment I’d seen from below. I counted the doorways. Then I figured it out. 10 D.

  Before knocking, I pressed my ear to the door and heard a TV. I rapped on the door with my ear still against it. There was no peephole. The TV suddenly went quiet. I rapped again and listened. This time I heard movement.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Gia.”

  Silence. I backed up.

  Then the door cracked. I saw a huge face. Like the biggest face I’d ever seen on a person. The boy or man, or whatever he was, also had long red hair with floppy bangs. He towered over me and peered through the two-inch gap the chain allowed.

  “I don’t know you,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “Yeah. I know. I need your help.”

  He frowned. “Why me?”

  His bulk took up the entire space where the door had opened but I made an educated guess. “I need your expertise. Your tech savvy. You know, your technological know-how.”

  He scrunched up his face, taking all that in.

  “You gonna let me in?” I said with a scowl. “I doubt I’m any threat, right?”

  Maybe he realized he was acting like a wuss because he undid the chain opening the door. But still hesitated.

  “I don’t know. Who are you?”

  He drew back as I took a step into his place. The solid weight of my gun in the holster on my back reassured me. I slid past him, patting his chest. “I told you, I’m Gia.”

  He was a big boy. Enormous. He wore jeans and a flannel shirt over a faded Green Day T-shirt.

  “I saw them in Vegas. 2012,” I said, nodding at his shirt. “You know the show where Billie Joe Armstrong lost his shit.”

  His eyes widened. “You saw that show?”

  “Hell, yeah, I did.”

  His arms circled as if he were playing guitar and his voice rose and took on an English accent. “You’re giving me one minute? You’re fucking kidding me. I’m not Justin Bieber, you fucks!” Then he mimicked smashing his guitar.

  “Yeah, that show. Did you know he’s from California, even though he sings with a British accent?”

  I didn’t think his eyes could get any wider. I’d blown his mind, apparently. With the ice now broken, I strode past his ratty couch to the window. “Right here. This is where you fly her, isn’t it? Will you show me?”

  I turned and smiled. He seemed confused. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a huge desk that held three keyboards attached to three giant computer screens.

  “Listen, sailor. I got a problem I need your help with. My friend was kidnapped from the protest and I know your drone recorded it. If you can show me that footage, I will make it worth your while.” I dug a hundred dollar bill out of my front jeans pocket. “Here’s something to start—for your trouble, for letting me in.” I threw the bill on the coffee table. “We have a deal?”

  He grunted but sat down at a keyboard in front of the bank of computers. “What was the actual date of the protest.” Hook, line, and motherfucking sinker.

  “No clue. It was two days ago.”

  He rolled his eyes and flipped a big calendar. Then he scrolled through elaborately timed and dated files that appeared on all three screens. I decided right then that he’d be a good person to be friends with once I moved back into the Tenderloin. He probably had recorded every resident in the neighborhood at some point. Good intel.

  Then he clicked on one of the files and video of the protest appeared. It was much closer than the Channel 5 news footage. I could even see Sasha in her pink sweatshirt during one pass. She was on her phone. She looked confused. Then it swung over to another group in the crowd.

  “Brilliant! This is good stuff.” I crouched beside him with admiration. “How long you been doing this?”

  He shrugged. After a few seconds, I asked if he could slow it down.

  “Okay, can you fast forward a little.” I saw some people in black with masks in the middle of the screen. “Stop!”

  I leaned in. They all wore black hooded sweatshirts, black bandannas over their mouth and nose and dark sunglasses. The bandannas and shirts had the words, “Bay Area Antifa” in white.

  “That’s them.” We watched as they confronted another group. I could see Sasha’s pink sweatshirt in the corner of the screen. Any minute the Antifa group would grab her. But then, the Antifa group took off in another direction off the screen.

  That’s when I saw them, a group that was not part of the protest crowd flitted out of the shadows nearby and surrounded Sasha. This group of six wore black clothes and wore black masks. They grabbed Sasha and yanked her off her feet. She tried to fight back but one of them held something to her mouth. She slumped but wasn’t knocked out. Her eyes were blinking. They picked her up and carried her away, her feet dragging.

  “Pause!”

  I studied the masked people. There were six of them. I looked for signs of gender. I didn’t see any breasts. They wore black jeans, not tight. Black boots. Black long-sleeve T-shirts and masks. I counted heads. Four of the six had blond hair. The other two had light brown hair. All short military-style cuts. I was fairly certain they were all men.

  Unfortunately, there was nothing that would identify them
in any way except the two having a different hair color.

  “Can you play it again?”

  The guy clicked the mouse.

  The drone followed the group until they left the plaza.

  I turned and he paused the video.

  “You knew exactly what I was talking about when I walked in, didn’t you? You knew this was fucked up?”

  He gave me a look that basically said, “no, duh.”

  I gave him an appraising look and smiled. “How far did you follow them?”

  “Long enough to see you.”

  He pressed play.

  The group made their way to the edge of the plaza and stood waiting. The SUV wasn’t there yet. That must have been the delay that allowed me to catch up.

  The SUV pulled up as I appeared on the edge of the screen. Running. All the masked people looked my way. A few scrambled for the SUV’s doors. I could see my mouth yell. But then the SUV took off with me chasing it.

  I made him back up and pause. There it was. The rest of the license plate number: 6LIK723.

  Grabbing a notepad on his desk, I jotted it down, ripped off the paper and stuffed it in my pocket. He pressed play again and, bloody hell, there was the footage of me trying to carjack some poor innocent soul. I’d forgotten all about that part of the night. Then the train blocked my way and I walked off.

  “Whew. You did get it all.”

  “Yup.” He grinned.

  I peeled another three hundred dollars off a wad in my pocket. “You deserve this, but I’m going to need a copy of this to give to the police.”

  He drew back.

  “What?”

  “You want to give it to the police?”

  “Well, sort of. Why, is that a problem?”

  He shrugged, but looked uncomfortable. “They get really weird about drones recording things in public. You’re not really supposed to ... privacy stuff.”

  I pried open his fingers, slapped the money into his palm and closed his fingers over it, holding my hand over his and meeting his eyes. “I protect my sources. I’ll go to jail rather than give you up. Besides, the cop I’m working with, he’s an old friend. He’s cool. He’ll do whatever I say.” A little tiny white lie.

  The guy shook his head.

  “Please?”

  He sat back down and fiddled with one of the computers. After a few seconds, he handed me a thumb drive. I could tell he wasn’t very happy about it. Didn’t really trust me. Yet.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Danny.”

  “I owe you.” I leaned over and scribbled my name and number on a piece of paper. “If you need help with something, I’m your girl.”

  It looked like he was about to say something but then he exhaled so much his bangs lifted an inch off his forehead then flopped back down. I headed toward the door.

  “Pleasure doing business with you.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I’d hardly stepped out of Danny’s building before I dialed James.

  “Something new?”

  “I’ve got the plate.” I knew I sounded smug.

  Silence.

  “How?” His voice was full of suspicion.

  “Long story. Guy with drone recorded Sasha’s abduction. Got a copy of the video, too.”

  James let out a low whistle. That’s right, underestimate me, now be impressed.

  “You at the police station?”

  “Uh, my place. I’m home for the night.”

  A vivid memory of his overheated, spice-smelling manly apartment with him naked in the shower came roaring back to me. I swallowed.

  “Gia?”

  “Be there in ten.”

  My Uber driver was there in two. He was a Somalian with a ready smile.

  “Howdy,” I said as I hopped in.

  “You live in Tenderloin?”

  “Yes. I mean, no.” I stuttered. “I’m moving here. Hopefully next month.”

  “Why?”

  I looked out the window. There was a homeless guy I recognized walking by: a former boxer who owned an ancient golden lab named Max. He made sure Max was always fed, even before he ate. There was Chien Veit, my favorite place to grab Phở. On the corner, Larry, the manager of the Edgemont residential hotel, was out front sweeping the sidewalk. The next block over there was a monk in a long orange robe and bald head waiting for a bus. Across the street, a scruffy teenager with a Mohawk was playing his beat-up acoustic guitar and singing his heart out.

  “Because,” I finally told the driver. “I love it here.”

  I stood on the sidewalk in front of James’ building for about five minutes before I got up the nerve to ring the buzzer. After the door clicked open, I crammed myself into the tiny elevator and hit the button for the fifth floor. When I stepped out, I saw that, like old times, the front door was propped open for me. An easel was set up against the window in his main room, displaying a half-finished painting of a beautiful woman in sunglasses, hair blowing back with the Golden Gate bridge looming behind her. A stab of jealousy zinged through me. Absurd.

  Down the hall, in the tiny kitchen I could hear James puttering around. I closed and locked the front door and headed toward the smell of food.

  “I’m sorry I’ve got to eat,” he said over his shoulder. He was making scrambled eggs. Some sourdough toast popped out of the toaster. I started buttering them. The kitchen was so small he brushed up against me as he worked.

  “You hungry?”

  “I could eat.”

  A few minutes later we were sitting at the small café table on his tiny balcony, eating toast, scrambled eggs with cheese, and drinking white wine. He lived over by the ballpark in an obnoxiously expensive studio apartment with a view of the stadium and Bay Bridge.

  Finally, he pushed his empty plate back.

  “Sorry, I was starting to go brain dead. Hadn’t eaten all day. I wasn’t sure I could have a coherent conversation until I had some food.”

  “I get it.” My plate was clean, too. “What’s for dessert?”

  He grinned, his dimple showing. “I’m glad to see that hasn’t changed.”

  I shrugged.

  He stood and gathered our plates, using his hip to open the sliding glass door.

  “I’m gonna need more wine, too,” I hollered after him.

  Sitting on his balcony, I thought about how nice it was to have James for a friend. We got along great. It was only when he wanted to get serious with me that I had a problem. I could see us being friends for a long time. He really was a good guy. It was so much better this way, without any pressure.

  After a dessert of chocolate chip cookies, we moved inside. Because it was a studio, his bedroom was his living room and vice versa. I tried to ignore the twin bed pushed up against the wall and faced the desk near his loveseat and took out the thumb drive.

  He was silent as he watched the video on his computer monitor. Then swore under his breath.

  “Okay. I need to make this official. I have to go to my sergeant.”

  Anger surged through me. “You promised me until Sunday.”

  His shoulders remained rigid.

  “You promised.”

  I held my breath. He was a man of his word. That’s why I had turned to him.

  He let out an angry sound. But I knew I’d won. “I’m dead serious. Tomorrow night at six, I take this to my sergeant,” he said. “It goes against everything I believe, but you’re right—I promised you.”

  “Thank you.” I leaned down and moved to give him a kiss on the cheek at the same time he turned his head and my lips met his.

  I didn’t come up for air again for quite a while, finding a nice spot on his lap. Pretty soon my top was unbuttoned and I had straddled him.

  But then, thank God, his phone rang.

  He glanced over at the desk and swore. “I have to take this.”

  I leaped off him. Bobby. Bobby. Bobby.

  I held my shirt closed with one hand and watched James as he listened to whomever was
speaking to him on the phone. He was smiling at me with those dimples and I can’t lie—my heart melted a little.

  But Bobby.

  In reality, I thought Bobby had dumped me. But I wasn’t quite sure. And wasn’t that the entire point of our beef in the first place? That I wouldn’t commit and become exclusive? That I refused to agree to avoid situations like the one I was in right now? So, why did I feel nearly sick with guilt?

  Meanwhile, James gave me a look that would have melted me into a puddle before Bobby. Pre-Bobby. Before Bobby. BB.

  James scooted his office chair over as he spoke into the phone. “Mmm hmmm. Yes. Sure.”

  I moved out of his reach and he raised his eyebrow.

  “I’m so sorry,” I mouthed, feeling even worse. I kissed my fingers and placed them on his cheek.

  Grabbing my bag, I refused to look at him as I slunk down the hall to the front door. Part of me—a small petty part—noted that he didn’t get off the phone to try to stop me.

  Taking the stairs instead of the elevator, I felt increasingly lighter as the distance between us grew.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Instead of taking an Uber, I hopped the bus back to my place and walked up the steep hill from Columbus Avenue. I wanted to clear my head. The last tiny burst of the setting sun cast a smoky orange glow throughout my place and then darkness fell. I kicked off my shoes, flung open the doors to the balcony and leaned on the edge of my small wall, looking down at the city bustling below me on a Saturday night. The Golden Gate was lit up before me, making my heart clench with joy. For a girl who grew up in small town Monterey, living in the city had always been my dream. Unfortunately, it took my parents’ murders to get me up here.

  Padding into my kitchen in my socks, I poured some bourbon. The buzz of the wine at James’ house had worn thin. There was no Django there to greet me and no Bobby on the other end of the phone line. I propped my feet up on my wall and sank into my cushioned chair on the balcony. I reached for my cigarettes but then threw them back down. Sitting in the dark, I went over everything I knew about Sasha’s disappearance.