“I’ve already warned you that we are extremely disappointed in your coverage of the Rosarito girl’s disappearance.”
She’s such a bitch. She doesn’t even say Jasmine’s name, just the “Rosarito girl.” I try not to show my disgust as she continues, pursing her thin lips, which are painted a jarring coral color.
“The publisher and I have discussed this, and we cannot understand how you could miss the story in today’s Tribune.”
Today’s Trib is spread out on the desk in front of her. Red ink circles several paragraphs. She doesn’t have one single plant, personal item, or photo in her office, I notice. There are only some framed newspaper pages and an old piece of a printing press, its hulk shoved into a corner.
Evans leans over to retrieve one of the papers that fluttered to the floor when I closed her door. As she does, I get a glimpse of hot pink satin peeking out of her neckline. When she straightens up, it doesn’t show, so I almost wonder if I imagined it.
I take a deep breath and figure I have nothing to lose at this point. “The CPS story is sketchy,” I start tentatively, but then my emotions kick in. “I honestly can’t believe the Trib even printed it in the first place. They used an anonymous source and didn’t get confirmation by Child Protective Services. It’s sloppy reporting. Frankly, if I had come to you guys with that story, you would have never run it without more proof. Not in a million years. It’s not news.”
Evans’s eyelids first widen at me, then narrow to slits. That’s probably another reason she’s out to get me. I think I’m the only reporter who ever questions the Dragon Lady. By the look in her eyes, I suspect I better learn to bite my tongue. She pronounces her words slowly, enunciating each letter.
“I expect you to get that story today. Unless you show a marked improvement in your coverage, you can expect not only to lose the Jasmine Baker story, but you will also be taken off the police beat. We’ll talk again at your performance review. I see it is coming up.”
I know my mouth is open. I close it and head toward the door. I walk out of her office shaking with anger. I knew she didn’t like me, but I had no idea my beat could be on the line so easily. I can’t help but think it must have something to do with May and her father—Evans’s not-so-secret lover. Her attitude makes me worry about my job. But that would be absurd, wouldn’t it? Nobody loses a job for getting scooped. Or do they?
I worked so hard to get this job. For so long, working for a newspaper this size seemed like a dream.
After graduating from college in San Diego, it took me two years working the night cops beat at small newspapers to prove I had the chops to work at a big daily. I first met Kellogg at a journalism conference, then spent the next year calling him every Friday to ask if he had any job openings. Eventually, he got sick of my pestering him and decided to give me a shot.
I spend Saturday in the newsroom trying to track down someone—anyone—from CPS. No luck. I’m bummed. Not even the thought of going back to Donovan’s later helps. Finally, close to deadline, I give up and write a three-inch brief saying that the Trib reported this and we can’t confirm it. Kellogg, who came in to work the night shift, is not happy. It’s the death knell to quote another newspaper.
Chapter 20
ONE GOLDEN SUNBEAM escapes through the crack in the drapes and shines right on my pillow. I turn my head. Donovan is eyeing me between half-closed eyes. After getting bitched out by Evans yesterday and failing to nail down the story, it was so nice to head straight to Donovan’s welcome arms. We made deli sandwiches, drank a bottle of wine, then spent the rest of the evening in bed. I don’t think we fell asleep until nearly dawn. I squint at the clock. It’s nearly noon.
“Must. Have. Coffee,” he says, throwing the covers back and yawning. “Get dressed. We’re going for a walk.”
While Donovan uses the bathroom, I start rummaging around his closet until I find a pair of his faded Levi’s. I’m not wearing my dress for a third day in a row.
I cuff the jeans, which are soft and comfy but falling off my hips. Digging around, I grab one of Donovan’s belts and cinch it tight. Then I rifle through a pile of clothes on the floor and retrieve the supersoft white button-up shirt he was wearing last night before I stripped him. I leave the top few buttons undone and tie the tails at my waist before I slip on my sandals. He laughs at me in the bathroom mirror as I splash water on my face, then use my finger as a toothbrush. I slick on some lipstick, run my fingers through my hair, and prop my sunglasses on my head as a makeshift headband.
Seeing my flushed cheeks and bright eyes in the mirror sends a tremor of anxiety through me. Everything is going so well. Almost too well. Nobody could be this perfect for me. Is he too good to be true? I brush away this thought even though deep down inside I’m vaguely aware that in some ways I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
In the bedroom, Donovan shoulders on his holster and picks up his gun. Seeing his smiling face dissolves all my doubts.
“Really?” I gesture to his gun. “Are we going somewhere dangerous because I can’t run very fast in these heels.”
He’s not amused. “I don’t go anywhere without my gun.”
“Okay then, Sheriff.” I give him a salute and grab my bag out of the living room. I eye the expensive coffeemaker on the counter and wonder why we can’t just have a small cup to get us started.
Donovan tugs at my hand. “Come on. It will be worth it.”
We clomp down his stairs and into the bright sunshine. I pull my sunglasses down over my eyes. We cross the street to get onto the walking path that circles the lake. Donovan grabs my hand and pulls me close as we walk. Occasionally, when I think he isn’t looking, I tuck my head into the collar of my shirt and inhale his scent—a mix of cologne and soap and something else.
The lake has a wide paved path for walkers, joggers, and bikers. There are two kiddie parks scattered along the way and benches placed sporadically. Within moments, we pass a pavilion with white Roman pillars. Nearby is a sandy beach. A toddler in a swim diaper and big floppy hat digs in the sand with a shovel as his dad watches from a bench. As we walk along the tree-lined path, I grab Donovan’s hand and stop him under a fragrant maple tree, closing my eyes to inhale deeply. Before I open my eyes again, Donovan grabs me and gives me a long kiss. I can feel the rush of air and hear the padding footsteps of joggers veering around us on the path. We walk past the boat launch with its docked gondolas and rowboats. An older man sits on a bench feeding the ducks that have come up out of the lake and surround him. I smile at him as we pass.
He gives us a huge grin, and yells after us, “Ain’t love grand?”
Donovan laughs, but the man’s words make me uneasy. Love? Is that what this is? I’m not sure I’m ready for that. I look up at Donovan’s smiling face and force myself to smile back, pushing my worry away.
Halfway around the lake, he pulls me into a little cafe on the lakeshore. The woman behind the counter smiles, her eyes encased in stylish red eyeglasses and her hair smoothed back behind her ears.
“Good morning. The usual?”
When our order comes up, I grab Donovan’s hand. “We’re sitting outside,” I say, and lead the way to tables facing the lake.
I smile and break off a piece of my beignet. I close my eyes as the flaky sweetness meets my tongue. The first bite is heavenly. I make a small, happy sound and wipe the sprinkling of powdered sugar off my lips with a napkin.
“You’re something else,” he says.
I open my eyes. He is not eating but is watching me. “Why’s that?” I say between bites.
“I like a woman who eats. I can’t stand it when women eat like birds—salads and mineral water. I just don’t get it.”
“Hmm. Must be the Italian thing. I can’t help it. I love food.”
“It’s very sensuous, you know.”
I just smile.
/> When we return to the house, his answering machine on the counter has a blinking red light. I plop contentedly on a stool as he presses PLAY, but then busies himself in the kitchen.
A sultry voice makes me freeze.
“Hi, darling. Sorry you weren’t feeling well. I hope you are better. I’ll give you a call later today. We can hit Saks Fifth Avenue. We still need to figure out what you are going to wear to the wedding. Oh my God, do you think we’ll get into as much trouble as we did last time? I still miss those panties! They were La Perla and cost a fortune. Can’t wait to see you.”
Halfway through the message, I grab my bag and am nearly out the door. I can’t catch my breath. My face flushes with anger and embarrassment.
“Ella?” he calls after me when I’m halfway down the stairs. The nickname pulls me up short. I stop and close my eyes for a second. He yells down from the top of the landing. “You can’t even bother to stick around, so I can explain?”
I don’t answer.
“Hey. Hey, I’ve got news for you,” he continues. “I’m not that guy.”
I open my eyes and walk away, turning the corner. I knew it—he is too good to be true. There it is. Proof. I know better than to ignore my gut.
I get in my car and start to pull away. As I do, I see him come around the corner. I watch him in my rearview mirror. He stands in the middle of the street with his hands folded across his chest.
I realize I’m being foolish. But I don’t care. This isn’t going to work. It’s moving way too fast. I’ve only spent two nights with him, and my feelings for him have already surpassed those I’ve had for long-term boyfriends. Calling me Ella—the nickname my family has for me—momentarily paralyzed me with fear. He’s getting too close.
Even if that woman isn’t his girlfriend, I realize I can’t see him anymore. I just can’t do it. I’ve just met him, and already my heart felt like it shattered in a million pieces when I heard another woman call him darling. I can’t do this. I might as well tell him now before we both have too much invested in this. I pull over and close my eyes. When I open them, I see my knuckles turning white from gripping the steering wheel. Suddenly, Donovan is at my window.
Rolling it down, I don’t look over.
“What the hell is going on?” He sounds furious.
I swallow hard and close my eyes again. Now or never.
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I just can’t.”
“Can’t do what? Talk to me like a normal person? Listen to an explanation? That’s absurd.”
I can’t argue with him. I know it’s not rational, but everything inside me is screaming for me to run away from him. To run away before I lose myself.
“No, it’s not just that. It’s . . . everything.” It’s all the things I can’t say out loud. It’s because he called me Ella. It’s because he’s too good to be true. It’s because he’s going to break my heart. It’s because I could fall for him. It’s because I’m worried I already have.
He waits. I don’t look up. I don’t say anything.
After a few seconds, I sense rather than see him leave.
Sitting in my car on the Bay Bridge, I realize I’m still wearing his shirt when I get a whiff of his boy smell. I fight back tears. I will not cry. Die before cry.
I can’t risk it. I can’t keep seeing him. Not when it hurts this bad this early on in the relationship. I know I’ve made the right decision, but it doesn’t help me fill that emptiness inside.
For once, even the San Francisco skyline fails to cheer me up.
Chapter 21
DEEP DOWN INSIDE, I’m horrified that there isn’t a reason people grow up to be serial killers. Maybe they are just born evil. Maybe sometimes the truth is that those frenetic, drooling, wild-eyed monsters I imagined as a child are real. They lurk in the darkest night, just waiting to snatch innocent children, like my sister, off the streets.
I’m not the only one who thinks this.
Jasmine’s disappearance has provoked sympathy and outrage from across the Bay Area. “Thanks for calling. Please feel free to write a letter to the editor,” I tell each caller.
Jasmine has been missing now for three weeks.
I’m having a hard time concentrating today. I can’t stop thinking about Donovan. Despite the lump in my stomach, I know I did the right thing by breaking it off. Things were moving way too fast between us. I felt out of control and couldn’t ignore the warning signs.
I shake away the memory of his hands on my body and focus on the computer screen in front of me. I’m writing a story about the date-rape drug, GHB. Some local high-school girls were slipped it during a school dance. Luckily, a chaperone noticed that the girls were falling down and incoherent and took them under her wing while she called 911.
Then I get a call from an 18-year-old woman who says her name is Jill.
“I was wondering if there is any more information on Jack Johnson.”
“Why do you ask?”
“About five years ago, I was picked up by a man named Jack,” she says.
As soon as she says this, I stop fidgeting and start typing, taking down every word she says.
“He picked me up at on my way home from middle school in Monterey. He took me to play miniature golf and to Burger King, where he bought me a cheeseburger. Then he put a bandanna around my eyes and took me to his house. He started to kiss me and wanted to have sex with me. I didn’t let him, and he eventually drove me home.
“But here’s the thing, the house he took me to—his house—it was weird. He didn’t have a key—made me wait in the front while he walked around to the back, then opened the front door for me. It was a long time ago, but when I saw his name in your story, I knew it was the same guy.”
“What was the house like?”
“It was the exact same as all the other houses in the neighborhood, kind of beige and really big, like fancy ones, but they were also kind of eerie—looked like nobody was home. I was a little impressed he lived in a house that nice but couldn’t figure out why he didn’t have a key. I figured he maybe was borrowing it from a friend or something weird.”
“What was it like inside? Did it have expensive-looking furniture?”
“No, that was the thing. It was totally—or almost empty. I really only saw the living room, and it was like a kid’s room. It had a bed and a bunch of video games and stuffed animals and other toys. I thought maybe he was house-sitting or something.”
“Do you think you could take police to that house again?” I hold my breath, waiting for her response.
“I don’t think so. I’ve tried to find it before. And even if I did find the neighborhood, I don’t think I could tell his exact house. Like I said, all of them looked alike, you know, one of those kinds of tract-home neighborhoods.”
“Do you remember anything about the terrain? Were you in the woods? Were you in a rural area?”
“It was foggy that day, so maybe by the beach. He kept me blindfolded until we got to his house, then he didn’t seem to care anymore and let me see and left me out front by myself. Don’t you think that’s weird? I mean, I could’ve run and knocked on the neighbor’s door. But he never acted like he was kidnapping me—and it didn’t feel like he was. It was more like we were on a date, and he just didn’t want me to know where he lived. He was never worried I was going to run away. And when I told him no, he just put the blindfold on me and took me back home. No sweat.”
I ask her if she’s called the police.
“I don’t know who to call. And what do I say? Some guy blindfolded me but when I said no, he just took me home? I don’t think that’s a crime.”
I hesitate before answering. “I understand, but something about it struck you as odd, and if you think it was Jack Dean Johnson, this could help the police. I mean maybe he . . . picked you up as an . . . e
xperiment. I think you are very lucky.”
Silence.
“Yeah. It was odd. You’re probably right. I was lucky.”
“Can I tell the police what you told me and give them your number? Maybe your information will help someone else to have that same luck.”
“I guess so.”
“Is there anything else you remember that you think might help?”
“No,” she said. “Wait. I don’t know if this means anything, but right before we got to the house, like only a minute before. He stopped and got out of the car for a second, then came back.”
“What do you think he was doing?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe he was moving something out of the road or something.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“I heard something that sounded a little bit like a creaky door.”
“Great. That does help. Thanks, Jill.”
I hung up after asking her to please call back if she remembered anything else.
Was the man who picked her up Jack Dean Johnson? Monterey was about two hours south of here. That seems far away, but who knows? If it was Johnson, why did he let her go? He never mentioned taking someone and letting her go. Why was she allowed to live?
Although there’s not much to go on—a nondescript house in a subdivision full of similar houses that might possibly be by the beach—I know I have to call Donovan and tell him what she’s said. I’m filled with relief when I get his voice mail and can just leave a message with Jill’s information. It was more than a week ago that I ran out of his apartment. He’s never called.
I spend the rest of the day fielding e-mails and calls from cranks. Like the one from the woman who says she had a vision that Jasmine was at the bottom of Jewel Lake.
Blessed are the Dead Page 11
