Blessed are the Dead (10 page)

 

Chapter 18

T
HE MEN
I
'VE
dated—­even the man I almost married—­never heard Caterina's name come out of my mouth. But somehow I knew deep down inside from the minute I met Donovan I was going to tell him about Caterina. Maybe that's what I've been afraid of this whole time, why I've been so wary around him. Is it because I knew that one look from him would make me drop my guard and spill everything? Why him? Why now? I don't understand, but before I know it, I take a deep breath, and I'm telling him everything.

I tell him how Caterina was playing in our yard one minute and gone the next. I stare out the windows at Lake Merritt and the Oakland skyline as I speak.

“We were heading outside to play, but my mom told me to brush my teeth first,” I tell him, cringing inside at the memory. “By the time I got outside, it was too late. She was gone. They never arrested anyone. They found her body a week later. But my dad was already dead. They think the stress of the kidnapping caused his heart to fail.”

I push down the memory of the bottle I found near my dad's head.

“So, really, that bastard took away both my father and my sister.”

Donovan looks sad but doesn't act surprised, which sends off a little alarm in my head. Instead, he reaches over and gives me a big bear hug. When he squeezes me, I feel a little sob escape from my lips, but I quickly regain my composure.

He pulls back, looking thoughtful.

“I wonder what a shrink would say about your deciding to be a crime reporter after dealing with . . . what happened to your sister,” he says.

“You mean discovering that evil is real?”

When I was little, my mother used to tell me that the fiendish creatures in my nightmares were just my imagination. Well, after Caterina was kidnapped, she didn't say that anymore. Not only did she make it clear that the monsters were real, but she also made it apparent that she was afraid of them, too. A row of dead bolts appeared on all our doors overnight. My brothers and I could no longer leave our mother's sight, not even to play at the next-­door neighbor's house. All our friends had to come over to our house to play. My mother didn't let me go to the movies alone with friends until I was in high school.

“Yeah, her kidnapping probably has something to do with why I'm a crime reporter,” I finally say, looking at Donovan. “I don't know. I just know I'm good at my job. Most ­people claim to hate reporters, and yet, if you give them a chance, they'll spill their guts every time.”

I think about my uncanny knack in getting ­people to talk.

“Even if they've done something really awful, I can usually find something we have in common, something that makes them trust me.” At this point, I'm just voicing my thoughts aloud, not realizing what I'm saying until Donovan pulls back from me a bit.

“Really? I'm not sure that's a good thing—­finding something in common with these creeps. Are you saying you can relate to Johnson?”

I think about it before I answer. “No. I don't relate to him at all. But I can detach enough from myself to carry on a normal conversation with him and make him feel like we are friends.” I realize it is now or never and blurt it out. “My sister was taken twenty-­two years ago, when we lived in Livermore,” I say. “Johnson told me something happened to him in Livermore twenty-­two years ago that changed his life.”

Donovan turns toward me and looks me dead in the eyes. “I know.” Something in his face chills me. I watch him take a deep breath.

“Gabriella, everything you say in that jail is videotaped. They send over copies of the tapes and transcripts of your visits to Johnson. I don't need to—­or want to—­pump you for information. I know everything already. After you mentioned the name Caterina to Johnson, I did a little digging and found out she was your sister. We're looking hard to see if there is any connection between her and Johnson. If there is, I promise you, I'll get him. I'll nail him for it. He'll never see the light of day again. I'll make sure his life is hell. He'll be sorry he ever heard my name.”

His words send hot tears to the corners of my eyes.
Die before cry.
I hide my face in my hands until I regain control of my emotions. I feel his arm around me, his fingers lightly rubbing my shoulder. I lift my head, and my eyes are dry. We talk more about Caterina's abduction. I tell him about how I only have vague, blurry memories of it. I don't tell him that those memories are surfacing more now that I'm writing about Jasmine.

Instead, I share a memory I love, of Christmas morning. We both woke when it was still dark out.

“
Ella, are you awake?
”
she asked me.

I mumbled a yes.

“
Let's be quiet and see if we can hear the reindeer on the roof,
”
she said.

I smile at this memory. “We must have sat there for an hour straining our ears to hear Santa landing his sleigh on the roof. And then, right before the sunrise, we heard something. Now, I know it was probably just a squirrel running across the roof, but at the time, it sounded like little reindeer feet. I remember Caterina's eyes growing wide, and we darted for the window, but of course didn't see anything. My sister had a naive innocence about her and truly believed in everything magical. She believed in fairies and leprechauns and little ­people. She was so certain and excited about their existence, I couldn't help but believe in them, too.”

I don't say that when she died, I stopped believing in everything but monsters.

Donovan hugs me closer, and it feels like every muscle in my body has turned to mush as I ease my body into the crook of his arm. He softly trails a finger along my cheek. I find myself holding my breath. He pulls me toward him, putting his other arm around me, wrapping me in a strong, warm embrace. I can feel the hot breath from his mouth on my hair. Then he pulls back, meeting my eyes. “You're so sexy.” His voice is husky and his mouth millimeters from mine. He cups my chin and kisses me softly on the lips, then pulls back. It's not enough.

I curl my legs on the couch, pressing myself closer to him. He reaches for me again, this time gently caressing my head, then plunging his fingers through my hair. My scalp ripples with pleasure. His hand continues down through my hair, and his fingers softly follow the curves of my body, down my neck, along my shoulder, and then down my side. His touch sends flutters through my body as I feel his fingertips travel down the length of my torso.

He scares me and thrills me at the same time. Why am I still a little bit wary? Part of it was hearing about that other girl and the reaction it set off in me. I don't want to feel that way. Ever. I don't want to feel nearly ill with jealousy. I'm not the jealous type. Why does hearing about someone else he loved feel so awful? We barely know each other. It's an absurd reaction on my part.

But there is something about him that both draws me in and makes me want to run away. I sense something in him, something tense and fierce that makes me just the slightest bit afraid.

I brush these thoughts aside as he pulls me close to him and stares into my eyes, sending shivers down my back with the intensity of his look. His fingers still roam across my body, but his gaze never leaves mine. My breathing becomes erratic.

Then he pulls me to him. His lips are urgent, velvety, and warm. Nothing else in the world exists besides his mouth. I don't even notice at first that I have thrust my hands into his hair. He wraps an arm around my waist and easily pulls me to my feet. We stand with our hips pressed tightly together. I can't help it, I gasp underneath his mouth. My arms fall from his hair and wrap around his back at his waist.

He breaks the kiss and takes my hand, leading me out of the living room toward the hall. He stops once to kiss me, and I grab his hand and lead the way. Soft light pours into the hallway from an open door at the end. Holding his hand, I feel like a child on her way to the park. I feel like laughing and skipping. I'm smiling in the dark. I hesitate in the doorway, taking in the scene. A bed with a fluffy chocolate brown duvet dominates the room. Votive candles in black, leather-­covered holders are scattered on a dark wood dresser.

Donovan is behind me in the doorway. He wraps his arms around my waist from behind and dips his head, nuzzling the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. The friction from his unshaven face sends chills down my spine. I lean my head back, soaking in his sensual touch. Then I can't help it and turn around so I can meet his lips with my own. He backs me up gently until I feel the bed against the back of my knees. He pulls back, and there is a question in his eyes. Right then, I know there has never been a doubt—­not from the first moment I saw him. I have never been so sure of anything in my life.

Then he stops and pulls back, holding me at arm's length. I answer the unspoken question in his eyes by tugging his shirt over his head.

 

Chapter 19

A
CLOAK OF
gray clouds presses down from above as I leave Donovan's this morning, reluctantly dragging myself from his warm bed, the memory of his lips on mine still vivid. I blush remembering how he wouldn't let me go until I promised to return that evening. Thoughts of last night curl my lips into a smile and help lessen the anxiety of what awaits me at the paper.

Less than thirty minutes ago, Kellogg had called. On a Saturday. This can't be good, I thought. It wasn't. The
Trib
scooped me on a story. Apparently, an anonymous source said that Child Protective Ser­vices was investigating Kelly Baker.

“You better come into the office,” Kellogg told me.

“There is no way I'm going to get anything from CPS on a Saturday. I'm screwed.”

“I know. Evans wants you in anyway. You don't want to piss her off any more than she already is. I have scorch marks on my ear from her call.”

I feel guilty that Evans bitched at Kellogg. It would have been completely within his rights to pass the ass chewing on down to me, but he didn't. I really am grateful that Kellogg is my editor, but sometimes I wish he would stand up to Evans just once. He always defers to her idiotic wishes, even when I know he doesn't agree with them. Maybe he's desperate to keep his job so he can keep the hefty payments flowing to his Mercedes-­driving, Chanel-­wearing ex-­wife.

Before I get out of my car in the newspaper parking lot, I'm nervous, so I make the sign of the cross.

The newsroom is empty. But to my surprise, Evans is already in her office. She crooks a finger at me as I try to sneak by her doorway.

“Close the door and please sit down.”

With her fastidious pale blue suit and puffy, coiffed hair, she reminds me of Nancy Reagan. She is about as humorless as the former first lady, as well. She is one of those newspaper executives who made it up the ladder without having ever been a reporter. She has no idea what reporters go through to get a story or how long it takes to develop sources. In her eyes, it should happen overnight. Her story ideas often stem from something she has a personal interest in, so she will pull reporters off news stories to work on articles such as whether leaf-­guard gutters are really worth the investment. Crime doesn't usually fit into this category. Maybe that's why she has an inherent distaste for my beat—­and as a result—­me.

“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.