Blessed are the Dead (9 page)

“Did you tip off one of our reporters, a girl named May, about the arrest?”

“Who? What? Are you crazy? Don't worry, if I ever decide to go over to the dark side, you'll be the first to know.”

I smile and hang up, holding the phone close for a moment.

 

Chapter 15

R
IGHT ON TIME,
I pull into the parking lot of the Pinole Gun Range. Before I get out, I fix my lipstick in the visor's mirror. It took me about four changes of clothing to settle on some dark jeans, high-­heeled boots, and a black cotton blouse with an extra button undone.

Donovan is leaning against a small wooden fence. He has on jeans and a tight-­fitting black T-­shirt. His gaze makes me self-­conscious as I walk toward him from the parking lot. I'm trying to look seductive, but then right when I reach him, I stumble. I regain my balance, but my aplomb flies the coop.

He starts laughing.

“Yuck it up,” I say.

“Sorry. It's just that you remind me of a cat. Graceful. Until you're not.”

“I hate cats.”

“ ‘Hate' is a pretty strong word,” he says.

“Okay. I extremely dislike cats.”

“Fair enough.” His smile lights up his expressive, toffee-­colored eyes. I'd been wondering what color they were and what he looked like up close without his sunglasses. Now, I know. He is even more dangerously attractive than I imagined. Lord, help me.

He hands me hard red earphones and some orange safety glasses. I spend the next two hours learning how to shoot his black pistol. He tells me it is called a SIG .40 caliber duty weapon—­the gun the police department requires him to carry. I also learn that the FBI, DEA, and Secret Ser­vice members carry this same weapon. At first, the gun feels surprisingly light, but before too long, it's like I'm trying to hold a bowling ball in front of me. My arms begin to quiver with fatigue. It also doesn't take long for my fingers to get sore from squeezing the trigger and my wrist to ache from absorbing the gun's kickback. “The recoil on this weapon isn't too bad,” Donovan tells me when he sees me trying to surreptitiously massage my fingers. “That's why I didn't bring my Glock. You wouldn't have been able to handle it. You think your hand hurts now?”

He's a bit patronizing, I think, ignoring his comment. But I can't help but get chills whenever he touches my hand or arm to demonstrate the right grip. At one point, I think he might be feeling the same way.

“Here, put your fingers like this.”

He's by my side, positioning my fingers, and our cheeks nearly touch. His warm breath on my cheek and the scent of his cologne make me want to lean back and press my body against his. But I don't. I just want his hand to stay on mine, but he takes it away and orders me to pull the trigger. Who knew learning to shoot a gun could be so much work?

I laugh and pretend to blow on the end of the gun when I make three deadeye shots in a row on the paper target.

“I'm not surprised,” Donovan says. “Women are actually better shots than men though you won't hear most men admit it.”

In between instructions, we make idle small talk. We both grew up in big families centered on food and faith. Both our families are loud and boisterous.

I learn that his father, who worked as a civilian contractor at the Alameda Naval Shipyard, died when he was little. His mother still lives in the small Alameda house where she single-­handedly raised him and his six sisters. I like imagining him as a boy. I bet he was adorable and that all the women in his house doted on him.

It's lunchtime when we finish. My arms ache, my throat is dry, and I'm hungry.

Donovan leans on my car and fiddles with his keys.

“So, did Jack Dean Johnson have anything interesting to say?” Donovan looks away as he asks the question.

So, there it is. Is that the reason for our “date”?

I wait until he meets my eyes. “Are you pumping me for information on Johnson? Is that why you offered to teach me to shoot?”

He looks embarrassed. “That wasn't why I called.”

I continue to stare him down.

“Okay,” he says. “I confess I'm a bit curious about what this guy has to say. I wouldn't be a good detective if I spent half the day with you and didn't ask about him.”

I glare at him.

“I should have just asked you up front,” he says.

My face is like stone.

“Can I prove that wasn't the only reason I called? Are you free for dinner tomorrow? I know I'm not Italian, but I do know my way around the kitchen a bit.”

“Okay, if you promise you won't try to pump me for information.” I'm only half joking. “Besides, that's
my
job.”

He nods and turns to leave but then turns back.

“By the way,” he says. “Funny you asked me before about tipping off that reporter at your paper because she called me this morning. Asking about Jack Dean Johnson.”

“What? You didn't talk to her, did you?”

He just gives me a look. “She called me on my cell phone. As far as I know, you're the only reporter in the world who has that number.”

“Are you serious? I haven't given anyone your number. Nobody. Especially not her.”

“I just thought it was a little odd. Don't worry, I told her to call Roberge. See you Friday.”

Driving back to the office, I can't stop thinking about Donovan and how he was trying to pump me for information. I guess I would do the same thing in his shoes. But I'm still uncomfortable about how much we have in common. I agreed to dinner at his place because, despite my unease, I can't resist seeing him again. When I think about him, I'm overwhelmed by contrasting emotions—­vague alarm, slight irritation, and desire.

As soon as I get into the office, I remember what Donovan told me about May's calling him. Ever since she snooped in my notebook and found out the details about the dad in drag, I've kept my notebooks locked up. Now I wonder if May got Donovan's number by snooping through electronic files on my computer at work. I have one file with all my sources' phone numbers in it. I had never worried about security in the past. But now I had better watch my back. I have to watch what I say in front of her and keep all my files and phone numbers out of her reach. I immediately transfer all my electronic files on Jasmine and my sources' numbers to my laptop and delete them from my desktop computer, worrying that it's too late.

 

Chapter 16

“C
OLLECT CALL FROM
the Rosarito County Jail. Will you accept the charges?” the automated voice says. The warm feeling I have from spending the morning with Donovan instantly evaporates, replaced by a cold chill. It's Johnson. I can hear my blood pumping madly in my ears.

I don't give him time to talk. “I need you to tell me if Jasmine is alive somewhere. Maybe you can help save her. A kidnapping charge is a heck of a lot better than a murder rap.”

“You know I can't say anything about that,” he says. “And here I thought you'd want to ask me about Caterina? Who is she? Was she a classmate? A friend of yours? A family member, a cousin, a . . .”

I interrupt, not wanting to hear the word “sister” come out of his mouth. I'm not ready to tell him who Cat is. I quickly grab a list of questions I scribbled the other day.

“You said your first time was about twenty years ago. I've been wondering what made you do it.”

“Because I felt like it. We were partying, having sex. I got tired of it, killed her, and got up to go. I guess there is no way to make it not sound callous. It was something that popped into my head at the time. I remember there was a lot of blood.”

“How did you kill her?”

May has just arrived and is booting up her computer. When I ask this, her head swivels toward me, and her eyes widen.

“Buck knife.”

“Did she die right away?”

“No, I don't think so,” he says. “It was pretty loud for a while.”

With my headphones on, I'm hands free, and so I type as fast as I can, trying to capture our conversation word for word. My adrenaline races. My heart skips a beat, and my face is flushed, but I don't stop to think how I feel. I only have a few minutes before we are disconnected. It's like playing blitz chess. Every move has to be fast and has to count.

“How long until your next one?”

“Not too long. Maybe a month or two. It's not like when you kill once, you get out your calendar and plan the next one. Not everything revolves around that. It revolves around having to go to work, pay the rent, pay the bills. It's just an activity brought into it. A lot of it is spur-­of-­the-­moment. It's an urge just sitting there for days, but it wasn't driving me daily.

“And sometimes, once you open the floodgates to satisfy that urge, you can't get enough and want to do it again as soon as possible. And if the opportunity presents itself, it can happen again . . . sooner than expected.”

My heart starts beating up in my throat. Good God. He's talking about the short period of time between when Jasmine disappeared and the kidnapping of the other little girl who escaped his clutches.

“So, someone who gets another opportunity right away after another . . . uh situation, might take that opportunity?”

“Exactly. You're a lot smarter than you let on, Gabriella.” He draws out my name, lingering on it. I swallow the bile that has risen in the back of my throat, but my mind keeps rationally looking for ways to win this game—­to outsmart my opponent and find out what I need to know. Just like when I'm sitting down on Market Street playing chess. Except the stakes are a lot higher here. Instead of walking away with twenty bucks in my pocket, I may be able to find Jasmine still alive somewhere.

“Why children?”

“It's just what tickles my fancy at the time,” he says. “There's not a label or category that fits neatly into it. Yes, I do prefer short females. All of my relationships have been younger than me. For some reason lately, I have gotten seriously interested in small, blond women. But, yes, there are still full-­grown women who sexually turn me on.”

My skin is crawling. I need to keep him talking.

“How do you choose . . . the ­people you kidnap? Do you know ahead of time, then figure out exactly how it is going to take place?”

“It's not like in the morning when you wake up, you open the closet, and say, ‘What am I going to wear today?' There's not a plan. When you have a plan, things will go wrong. It's not that neat.”

I know we're running out of time on this call, so I speak fast. “I need to know. Is Jasmine tied up or trapped somewhere. If she's still alive, you can tell me. I can save her. Please tell me.”

“Can't.”

The phone gives a warning beep. It actually seems to disconnect us for a minute.

“Jack? I thought you hung up on me.”

“Don't think I would ever hang up on you. Even if I got mad at you, I wouldn't do that.”

“Okay.” Yuck. His familiar tone creeps me out. We are not friends. Just like when he says my name, it sends a chill down my spine. He does that so often, it almost seems like he knows this.

“By the way, Gabriella, do you want me to tell you about Caterina,” he says, and pauses. “Your sister?”

The word hits me like a punch in the gut. Good God, he knows. How in the hell does he know? A shudder runs through my body. Suddenly, I realize something, and it makes my muscles weak. I slump in my chair. He's been toying with me. Playing with me. He's known all along. I've been a fool.

“Gabriella.” His voice sends a wave of fear over me, and I close my eyes. I hate how much he uses my name. “Why do you think I agreed to see you that first time in jail? Why did I say no to all the other reporters? Think about it. You know why.”

I remain silent.

“But I've got a question for you. One I want you to really think about. Does it really matter who took your sister? Me or someone else? Is that going to make a difference to you? I'll let you in on a little secret—­there are hundreds more ­people just like me out there. In fact, if I'm sent to the big house, I'm gonna make it my job—­my sacred duty—­to teach others everything I know. And if I ever get out . . . well, then I continue on my merry way, business as usual. I get bored a lot faster than I did in the old days. I need a little more . . . uh . . . stimulation than I used to. Let's just say lately I'm more into quantity over quality.”

I hang up without answering. My face is flushed, and my insides are in turmoil. I want to vomit. I put my head down on the cool surface of the desk until the wave of nausea passes. I push away thoughts of that skull-­like face anywhere near Caterina and concentrate on the story I need to write for tomorrow's edition.

 

Chapter 17

C
ONCRETE
B
LONDE'S SONG,
“God is a Bullet,” is blaring from my car speakers as I park along Lake Merritt near Donovan's apartment Friday night. The song talks about ­people who become cops because they were picked on as kids.

I've never dated a cop. Most cops are hard-­asses with something to prove. When I became a police reporter, I vowed that it was one thing I wouldn't do. So much for that, I think as I knock on Donovan's door.

I'm a bit nervous, so I thrust my bottle of red wine and a small box of cannoli at him as he kisses me on both cheeks.

“Come on into the kitchen, I'm just finishing up.” He wipes his hand on a towel, then throws it over his shoulder.

I follow him, pausing to peer out the windows. Donovan's fourth-­floor apartment boasts floor-­to-­ceiling windows overlooking Lake Merritt right across the street. Gondoliers paddle lovers around the lake in long boats lit with candles. A walkway around the lake is dotted with white lights, creating a fairy-­tale effect. The Oakland skyline rears up in the distance across the lake.

His apartment is tiny—­slightly bigger than my place because he has a separate bedroom—­but with a stunning view. Two wall sconces softly light the living room along with votive candles scattered on tables and shelves. The soft strains of George Winston's “Autumn” float throughout the space.

He uncorks the wine, pours me a glass, and explains he was lucky to get into his place eight years ago. Now the neighborhood is trendy, and the subsequent soaring rents reflect that. He tells me the manager keeps his rent low because she likes having a cop in the building.

Eight years ago? I wonder if that is when he got divorced. I'm not going to bring it up unless he does.

I grab my wineglass and sit on a stool at the bar counter that separates the living room from the kitchen, watching him work.

“It smells heavenly.” I inhale deeply as he opens the oven and pulls out pork tenderloin wrapped in prosciutto and drizzled with honey. He lets it rest on a platter while he finishes chopping tomatoes and avocados for the salad.

In a corner near the kitchen, against two walls of windows, a small bistro table is set with a white cloth, white china, and candles. He dishes up our plates and places them on the table. I smile and raise my wineglass to him.

“Well, dig in.
Salut,
” he says, and we clink glasses.

The pork dissolves into sweetness on my tongue. Roasted red pears and sweet potatoes melt in my mouth. The bread is still warm, and I smother it with butter. I savor each bite, making small sounds of pleasure, despite myself.

The conversation is easy, and I find myself wanting to know everything I can about this Detective Donovan. Like what possessed him to choose law enforcement for a career.

“Did you always want to be a cop? You know, ever since you were a kid.”

“Not exactly,” he says, laughing. “I had another plan, but it didn't work out.”

I raise my eyebrows so he'll go on. He hesitates. It's just for a second, but I catch it, and become alert, my wineglass poised in midair, waiting for his next words.

“When I was a kid,” he says, “I wanted to be a monk. In fact, when I was sixteen, I dropped out of high school and joined a monastery. I lived at Holy Cross Fathers in Berkeley. For three years, I was Brother Sean Cecilia Donovan.”

“What?” I sit up straight and almost spit out my wine. “Are you serious? A monk? As in a bare-­cell and no-­sex-­for-­the-­rest-­of-­your-­life monk?”

“I took permanent vows of obedience, poverty, and chastity.”

I'm trying to wrap my mind around this. “So, what made you change your mind?”

Suddenly, he looks embarrassed. I make a guess based on his hesitation. “It was a girl, wasn't it?”

He presses his lips tight together and nods.

“It was Brother Don Maria Cruz's sister,” he says, leaning back and running his hand through his hair, making it stick up even more than it normally does. “On Sundays, we could invite ­people to come eat pancakes with us after Mass. He invited her. She was an art student at UC Berkeley. She sat by me. Somehow, we started talking about art. I invited her into the study to look at some art books after breakfast. From the first minute I saw her, I was a goner.”

When he says this, I'm filled with overwhelming jealousy. My chest hurts, and I suddenly, irrationally hate this girl he's talking about. He's grown silent, lost in his memories. I want him back here now with me, not daydreaming about some girl from his past. “So, you fell for her and left the monastery?”

“In a nutshell? Yes. I left because she made me realize I wasn't cut out to be a monk. I don't have the self-­discipline to live that life. I thought I did. I was wrong.”

I relax now that we're off the subject of his former love.

“So, you decided that if you couldn't be a monk, you'd be a cop? Go figure,” I say. “You gave up a world filled with light and love and ­people doing good things and turned to a world filled with darkness and despair and ­people doing bad things.”

“Yep.”

“And you're still Catholic?”

He shrugs and quickly changes the subject, asking me about why I became a reporter.

I give him a lame answer about choosing journalism because I was too intimidated to become a novelist. I know better than to talk about ex-­boyfriends and deep psychological wounds on the first date, but for some reason I spill it and end up telling him a bit about my ex-­fiancé and how I called off the wedding the night before when he confessed he didn't want his wife to be a reporter.

Although we talk easily through dinner, I'm a little wary. I don't know why, but I feel like I need to have my guard up around him a little bit, almost as if I can't trust myself around him.

Maybe I'm afraid he's going to grill me for information on Johnson. I take the last bite of my cannoli and use my fork to scrape up any remaining filling from my plate.

“Hey, Irish Boy, 'fess up, how does someone who is not even Italian learn to cook like this?” I push my chair back as Donovan refills my wineglass.

He smiles a slow smile and sits back. “My mother always told me, don't let them know all your tricks.”

We leave the dishes on the table and take our wine into the candlelit living room overlooking the lake. I slip off my sandals so I can curl up on the couch. As I do, I notice I'm wearing two different black strappy sandals. What the hell? At least they are the same height, so I'm not wobbling around off balance. I give up.

And then Donovan says, “Tell me about your family.”