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

by Kristi Belcamino

  So far, all twelve of them had gone through two weeks of training for their jobs at the businesses on the street level. There was nothing requiring them to work at Swanson Place, but most had been eager to apply for the jobs offered. They’d interviewed the same as everybody else for jobs in the hair salon, the market, the flower shop, the rooftop garden, and the restaurant.

  The newspaper had already dubbed the restaurant, named Lorenzo’s after my father, the latest hottest sensation. After failing to convince Dante to move to San Francisco, I’d lured a chef away from Chez Panisse in Berkeley and told her to go to town, creating the restaurant of her dreams. Her creation was a luminous, blue-lit underwater-feeling, sensation. In the two weeks, the restaurant had been open, I’d already made back my investment.

  When I stepped inside, Kato rushed over and tried to hand me a glass of champagne. I ignored it and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “Where’s Suzie?” I asked.

  “Over there,” he said. I’d hired his wife, Suzie to manage the restaurant. She was with Dante. He’d agreed to help oversee the first month of the restaurant’s opening. They were talking to a crew of wait staff and looking like a rock star in her sleek silver dress. She saw me watching and winked.

  I’d hired Danny to be the DJ and he was in the corner spinning music that I’d never even heard of, but knew was just right.

  “How’s it going?” Bobby stepped up to Kato and the two shook hands. As they caught up on sports news or whatever dudes talk about, I scanned the restaurant, looking for the twelve residents. As I picked them out of the crowd, one by one, I smiled.

  Everything was in place.

  Tonight, after the celebration at the restaurant, the twelve would go spend the first night in their new apartments. I had fresh flower bouquets and fruit and chocolate waiting for them in their new homes. Each resident had signed a lease for a year. It would be up to them whether to renew the lease. I didn’t want them to feel trapped. I only wanted them to have a leg up. I’d handpicked all twelve and knew that this opportunity was what they needed to turn their lives around.

  Swanson Place had turned into a pilot program. Cities across the country were carefully monitoring the success of our project. It was starting out small, with only twelve residents, but it would be possible with future projects to go bigger, and house even more people.

  The board, now back up to seven members, had agreed that if the development was a success—financially, but also in helping homeless get off the streets permanently—that we would replicate the project, constructing similar developments in other parts of San Francisco and eventually in other cities.

  The other cities who had expressed interest—Los Angeles, Phoenix, Atlanta, New York, Chicago, Minneapolis, Miami—had also talked about partnering with us so that some of the costs could be offset with municipal funds. The developments were something I was excited about. But they were also a way for me to honor Ethel.

  And maybe if enough people were helped during my lifetime, I could let go of some of the guilt I felt about all the homeless murders.

  Because even though her body hadn’t been in one of those barrels, if what King had said was true, Ethel had been the first one they’d gone after. She was the experiment before they refined their technique. If I’d taken time to properly investigate her death, maybe, just maybe I’d have been able to stop the rest of the murders.

  I gave Bobby a kiss and told him I’d be right back. I headed for the restaurant’s bar, which was surrounded by four nearly room-sized aquariums containing exotic fish. I saw a few of the building’s residents: Ron and Serena and Joey and Matt. They were talking to City Council member Julie Kragen who had taken over the mayor’s duties until the next election. Off in a dark corner I saw something that made me pause. Darling and George, with a white bandage on his head, looked pretty cozy together. She leaned in as he brought his lips close to her ear and he had his arm on her lower back. Who knew?

  I never did find the blond woman who saw the men kidnap Sasha, but when George had been released from the hospital, James had showed him mug shots of a few of King’s cronies and he’d been able to identify two of them. Better than nothing.

  A waiter with a tray of champagne passed by and I plucked a glass off with a wink. Then I raised the glass, high above my head. “Ethel, this is for you.”

  I took a sip and standing in the doorway of the restaurant, closed my eyes until I was sure the urge to bawl had passed.

  Then I felt Bobby’s hand on my back.

  “Gia, you did something good here.” He jutted his chin at the room.

  Watching the smiling faces shining under the sparkling lights, the mingling of people from different stratospheres of the city, I could almost feel the hope permeating the room. It was only one small corner of the world.

  But it was a start.

  <<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>

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  GIA AND THE DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL

  November 13, 2017

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  CHAPTER ONE

  I WAS IN MY HAPPY PLACE.

  La Bella Rossini in North Beach. The best Italian food in California.

  My first bourbon had warmed my insides and flushed my cheeks. My second glass of liquid gold sat sparkling in the candle light. A man I was crazy about was smiling at me like I was the best birthday present he’d ever received. The food was obscenely delicious.

  Bobby agreed. He reached his fork over the table trying to spear the massive scallop bathing in butter on my plate. I swatted him away. “Back off if you want to keep that hand.”

  I chiseled off the tiniest of pieces from the hockey puck-sized scallop. I closed my eyes, letting out a small groan as it melted on my tongue.

  When I opened my eyes, Bobby was smiling and shaking his head.

  “Don’t do that in public. Please.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” It was the truth.

  “If you want to stay long enough for dessert, you’re going to have to stop doing that.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Moaning as you eat. Every dude in this restaurant is watching.”

  “Oops.”

  I swung my head looking around. The restaurant around us bustled with people celebrating this glorious late fall weather. The wall-sized windows were open, extending the dining room onto the bustling North Beach sidewalk. Diners sat at the sidewalk café tables. I could hear strains of Italian filtering inside. A large group of chicly dressed diners was at a table near the door. Italians for sure. They had la bella figura down pat. From the women’s glossy hair to the men’s polished, custom made shoes. Italians.

  Most San Franciscans who came to eat in the Italian section of town donned the city’s unofficial laid back utilitarian uniform: skinny jeans, environmentally friendly slip on canvas shoes, flannel shirts, and fitted down jackets.

  I wore my nicest leather pants and a blazer with high-heeled boots. It was my dress-up uniform. We were celebrating Bobby’s birthday, so I ditched my motorcycle boots and faded jeans just for him.

  Taking in the rest of the restaurant, I had to admit he might have a point. A few men were giving me the side-eye at nearby tables.

  “I can’t help it if I enjoy my food.” I gestured at my plate. “I mean it’s practically orgasmic.”

  “Exactly.”

  We both burst into laughter.

  Over our pistachio dotted cannoli’s, I pushed an envelope toward Bobby.

  “Happy birthday.”

  He slid one finger into the envelope and withdrew a stack of papers, reading the top sheet. It that listed our airline reservations to Italy the following day.

  “You bought the tickets.” He gave me a look.

  He’d told me he couldn’t afford to go to Dante’s wedding in Italy. He’d thought I was goi
ng solo.

  “When I told you that I couldn’t afford it, I didn’t mean you should buy my ticket.” He looked a little pained, instead of happy. Damn it.

  “Shut up, it’s your birthday. Dante’s my best friend and I want you to be my date for his wedding so my treat. It’s actually more of a present for me.”

  He rolled his eyes, but seemed less distressed.

  “There’s something else in there.”

  He turned to the next page.

  It was a printout with color photos.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “It’s where we’re staying.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  I couldn’t stop grinning. “No joke.”

  He shook his head. “It’s a freaking castle.”

  “It’s actually a villa.”

  “It’s incredible.” He flipped through the papers. “Is there a picture of our room?”

  “Bobby, the entire place is ours.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Not shitting.”

  “For three weeks?”

  “Yep. Happy birthday.”

  He put the papers down. “It’s too much.”

  “It’s not.”

  He pressed his lips together. I reached over and grabbed his hand. “Please. I really want you to come with me.”

  “I don’t even have the time off work.”

  “I already talked to your boss. He was down for the surprise.”

  Bobby leaned back and let out a big breath and then smiled. “Thank you.”

  That smile that made me melt made everything perfect in my world again.

  My heart was full to bursting. If I could purr, I would.

  I snaked my foot under the table and rubbed it against his leg.

  “Should we blow this joint? I can think of something I’d rather be doing right now.” I gave him my sexiest smile.

  “Check please.” He raised his arm.

  We were curled around each other as we walked out onto the sidewalk. As we stepped out of the doorway, I felt the impulse to kiss Bobby. I turned and went up on tiptoe to give him a kiss just as a horrific screeching noise and blaring horn sent me into his arms. At the same time, I saw a look of horror on Bobby’s face. He threw me against the building. I was slammed against the wall, stunned by the impact and blinded by a vehicle’s headlights coming toward my spot on the ground. I put up my arm to shield myself stupefied and shocked. The air was filled with blood-curdling screams and then the shuddering crunch of crumpling metal echoed in my head as the headlights stopped a few feet away.

  But the endless shrieking didn’t stop.

  I realized that Bobby had thrown himself on top of me just inside the alcove of the door. “Are you hurt?” Bobby said, lifting himself up.

  I couldn’t speak. Only shook my head. He held out a hand and pulled me up.

  “You sure, you’re okay?” His voice was shaking. But I didn’t answer. I was staggered by what lay a few feet away. The silver fender of a car. Limbs stuck out, helter-skelter from beneath the vehicle, along with the mangled frame of a café table.

  “Good God.” Bobby was instantly at the bumper. Several other men joined him. They lifted the car and set it off to one side. A man miraculously scrambled out from under it. He had a tire mark on his chest. He took a few steps and collapsed. Two other people were still under the car. A man leaned over and checked the man’s pulse and then shook his head. But one man was gasping, holding his leg. A small crowd gathered. The dead man’s eyes were open and seemed to stare straight at me. I looked away.

  That’s when I noticed off to one side, a woman, who had apparently been thrown by the impact. Nobody had noticed her. As I met her eyes, she reached out her arm toward me.

  She gave me a look of such pleading. I’ll never forget it to my dying day.

  I rushed over and cupped her head in my hands. As I did, I felt something sticky. The other side of her head, the one near the wall, was laid open bare. A huge chunk of her scalp and brain were gone. I swallowed my revulsion as she spoke to me in Italian.

  “Mia madre è malata e sola.” It sounded like she was saying her mother was dead and alone. She kept murmuring it, looking at me in desperation.

  “Shhh, I said, smoothing the side of her head that was still intact. “A chi bene crede, Dio provvede.” It was something my own mother had whispered to me as a child when I was upset. I didn’t know what it meant exactly.

  “Mia madre è malata e sola.”

  I nodded not sure how to answer, so I repeated my own, hopefully comforting, words: “A chi bene crede, Dio provvede.”

  It seemed to calm her. She had been straining against me to lift her head, her neck muscles flexed, but now she relaxed in my arms. A nasty taste filled my mouth. I tried not to look at the other side of her head that was in my lap, instead concentrating on her face. Her lovely brown eyes, lined thickly with black eyeliner. Her perfectly shaped eyebrows and lips with red lipstick, forming an “O” as she spoke.

  A cacophony of sirens grew closer. Looking into the woman’s eyes I knew they would be too late. She stopped talking then. Just stared at me intently and as I cradled her head, the light left her eyes as the life seeped out of her.

  Bobby came over and tried to move me, but I shook his arm away. I sat there on the cold sidewalk until the paramedics came and gently lifted the woman out of my arms.

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  DID YOU LIKE THIS BOOK?

  Reviews are the lifeblood of this author business. Reviews, honest reviews, mean the world to me. They don’t have to be fancy, either. Nobody is critiquing you on your review. And they don’t always have to be five-star, either. What matters is that people are reading and have opinions on my books. I am a fairly new writer and don’t have the marketing push that many other writers do that gets their books out in front of other readers.

  What I do have is you.

  I am unbelievably lucky to have very passionate and loyal readers who take the time to let me know what they think of my books (and sometimes even where they think I could improve).

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  As I said, it doesn’t need to be long or involved, anything will help. Thank you!

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  In the beginning of this book is a fictional obituary for a fictional character: Ethel Swanson. In 1999, a newspaper, The Central City Extra, was founded to report on the Tenderloin’s improvement efforts. Some years later, at the request of Rev. Glenda Hope, a longtime mover and shaker in the neighborhood, the paper began including obituaries.

  “The obits were a way to put a face on the neighborhood that is populated by ordinary, low-income folks who never got their name in the newspaper while alive and the respectful farewell our obits provided were welcomed by the family and friends left behind,” said Geoff Link, Executive Director of the San Francisco Study Center.

  Many of the obituaries were published in Death in the Tenderloin: A slice of life from the heart of San Francisco

  In the book’s foreword, Link writes, “This book celebrates the Tenderloin at its most tender. It was inspired by the obituaries published in the Central City Extra—monthly newspaper for the neighborhood’s fixed-income and no-income population. This is a hardscrabble script.

  “The Tenderloin is San Francisco’s poorest neighborhood, a high-density, human services ghetto where hundreds of nonprofit and public providers serve a citywide caseload of homeless people in addition to treating the tribulations of the area’s 30,000 residents.

  “Our hood is a mere few dozen square blocks cemented between downtown and Civic Center. Nob Hill is above. Skid Row below. Death in the Tenderloin is our eulogy this historic, notorious neighbor and its medley of people, absolutely t
he most diverse community San Francisco, the heart of the city in more ways than one. We want you to come away with a sense of how difficult life is out here on the edge.”

  To put a face to “fixed-income” and “no-income” residents of the Tenderloin who are memorialized in this book, Link and the Study Center Press has agreed to allow me to publish a few excerpts from the book. I include them here in the hopes that you will consider donating to the Study Center.

  Or buy the book HERE: https://www.amazon.com/Death-Tenderloin-slice-heart-Francisco/dp/1888956186/

  Obituary Excerpts from Death in in the Tenderloin

  TERESA OF THE TENDERLOIN

  HANK WILSON There’s a job that can’t wait, Hank Wilson told the volunteer from Network Ministries. Upstairs, in the Ambassador Hotel that Wilson managed, George was in bad shape, deathly sick, incontinent. He needed a bath. They went upstairs. George had gotten out of his filthy room and was crawling down the hallway naked, covered in his excrement.

  They got him into the bathroom. Wilson drew the bath and with effort pulled George into the tub and started cleaning the tenant who always gave him a hard time.

  “That’s who Hank was at the core,” Rev. Glenda Hope said. She recalled the story in her Network Ministries office, sniffling and dabbing her eyes, not long after Wilson’s death. The incident was more than 20 years ago, and the volunteer was one of hers.

  “That’s what we saw in him. This guy who has so ripped him off—and was screaming obscenities and cursing him—and Hank was tenderly washing the shit out of his hair like a mother with a baby, and then drying him off with fluffy towels. ...

  Hope paused as memories from 28 years of knowing Wilson, often working side by side with him in the Tenderloin’s deepest trenches, flooded her mind. ...