Blessed Are Those Who Mourn (14 page)

“Can you tell me more about him? Do you have a picture?”

She licks her lips. “No, but I can tell you he was a nice young man. He told me he never even knew about me until he got in touch with his father. I guess his mother kicked Frank out when Anders was just a boy. It wasn't until she died a few years ago that he went looking for his dad.”

“Did he say where his dad was living?” I hold my breath, waiting for her to answer.

“No. He said something about his dad hiding out. That's why Frank couldn't come see me, too.”

Hiding out. From the law.

“Do you have any idea where I could find him now?”

She shakes her head.

“Did Anders ever mention any city names?”

“No. I'm sorry. No.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” I lean forward. When she pulls her hand away from me, I realize I'm clutching it too tightly. “Anything about Anders? Anything at all? Did he drive very far to come see you? Does he live close?”

I don't realize how intense I'm acting until I see a tear roll down her face.

“I'm sorry. I don't know. I don't know. I'm sorry.”

“Mrs. Anderson, you have been very, very helpful,” I say, taking her hand gently again. She pats my hand with her other one. “If you remember anything, maybe you can tell the nurse and she can tell me. I'm so glad I came to visit you. I think you really helped us.”

“I did?” she sort of sniffs.

“Yes. Thank you. Maybe I will come back to see you one day. Would that be okay?”

She nods and smiles, showing that gap. “Yes, I'd like that.”

I turn to leave and meet Donovan's eyes. He's whispering on his phone as we leave the care center, but he gives me a big smile.

Frank Anderson has a son.

As Donovan and I head to the parking lot, he raises his voice, and I catch some of his conversation. “Birth records and all other database searches for the past twenty-­five years. Anders Frank.”

We have a lead.

 

Chapter 25

I
T IS FIVE
o'clock. Grace has been gone for twenty-­six hours.

Donovan has texted West about Frank Anderson's son. While we wait for more information, Donovan says he wants to visit the murder scene of the third victim. Finn is busy with paperwork on the first body, so another detective, David Chilimidos, is going to meet us there. Chilimidos has been with the department for fifteen years, Donovan said. Apparently, he could've been promoted ages ago, but, like Donovan, he wants to remain a murder cop.

I glance out the window as we cross the Benicia-­Martinez Bridge. To the right lies the Phantom Fleet ship graveyard. It seems like so long ago that I wanted to write about it for the newspaper. It feels like another lifetime. Why did I even care about something so unimportant? When it comes to life and death, why do we bother with so many things that don't matter one bit? For some reason my reporter job seems like a distant memory, a life I once lived or read about. At this moment, I can't fathom going back to work ever again. It's as if my life was paused, frozen, when Grace was taken.

A
BLACK
C
ROWN
Vic is the only car parked down the dirt road in Benicia in a small, now muddy, parking lot of a small refinery. A few white tanks are connected with pipes that lead back to a bigger area with tall smokestacks.

“I thought you said she was another floater,” I say, instantly cringing at my callous cop reporter term for a drowning victim.

“She was found in one of those holding tanks.”

As we park, I eye the small white tanks, which are about ten feet tall. Donovan's Saab has kicked up the dust, and we wait a minute for it to settle before we open our car doors.

The other detective gets out of his car at the same time.

Chilimidos is about forty and lithe, with a frame like someone who studies martial arts. And the way he moves, with little effort yet coiled with tension, shows his relaxed posture could change in a heartbeat. He has on standard detective fare—­black slacks, black blazer and tie, and shiny shoes that are going to be splashed with muddy dirt soon. “Hey, Chili,” Donovan says.

The other detective just shakes his head and presses his lips together, suddenly serious. “We're going to get this guy,” he says, turning to me. “We won't stop until we find her.”

“Thanks, man,” Donovan says and introduces me.

Then Chilimidos leads us over to one of the tanks. “This is why I wanted you to see.” He points, and as I round the corner, I see it—­a Bible verse written in blood on the side of the tank. When Donovan said they found another verse, I assumed it was on a damp piece of paper in the victim's pocket, like the other two. “We probably would've never found her inside the tank if it wasn't for this. He made sure someone found her.”

“Whose blood is it?” It takes all I have to ask the question. I back away from the Bible verse, staring at the rust-­colored letters that seem to drip off the tank.

“We think it is hers. Haven't confirmed it yet, but that's what we're assuming right now.” Chilimidos glances at Donovan to make sure it's okay to share all this with me. Donovan gives him a slight nod and lights a cigarette.

“Did you ever get cause of death on the other two?” I ask.

“Both strangulations.”

“And this one?” I walk around the tank, looking for anything that might prove it was Anderson. Of course, there is nothing except the Bible verse.

“Appears to be a straight stabbing.”

A shiver races across my scalp even though the sun is beating down on my head.

“Got an ID on her yet?” I say.

“Medical examiner hasn't confirmed yet, but we've got her as Dawn Powers.” I'm grateful he is answering my questions even though I'm not a police officer.

“What color was her hair?”

“Dark brown,” Chilimidos says.

The other two victims were blondes. Why was this one different? Donovan is wondering the same thing. He moves closer to the tank, examining the writing.

“Is she a college student?” he says, taking a long puff of his cigarette and exhaling with squinted eyes.

“No.” Chilimidos flips through his notebook. “An accountant.”

“From Livermore?”

“San Francisco native.”

I turn to Donovan. “What if this one is a copycat?”

He shakes his head. “I thought that for a second, too, but the fact remains that the killer has left his signature at all three murder scenes. A signature that only has meaning to me and you. A copycat killer wouldn't know about the third verse.”

He's right. It's Anderson, alright. But why is this victim so different from the others? Maybe he couldn't find a college student from Livermore and got desperate?

From the Benicia hillside, we can see the puffing smokestacks from the Martinez refineries across the bridge, the Phantom Fleet, Roe Island—­where the first body was found—­and the swampy marshland under the bridge where the second body was found.

We follow the detective around the refinery as he points out places where possible evidence was found. He shows us some tire marks he photographed, the place where a small piece of plastic with blood on it was found, and the spot where they found a cigarette butt.

“Have they determined whether the DNA on the first vic matches Anderson?” I ask.

Chilimidos clamps his lips together and shakes his head. “Nope. It's a rush job, though. We are probably at the front of the line at the lab, now that the governor has spoken out about it.”

“What?” I knew the governor had offered a reward.

“News conference this morning,” the detective says. “Asked the ­people of California to keep their eyes out for Frank Anderson. They are distributing Anderson's picture and asked ­people to call the tip line if they know him or his whereabouts.”

We tread through overgrown weeds that line the parking lot. Chilimidos pokes and prods them with a long walking stick he took out of his trunk.

Before we leave, I once more circle the tank where the woman's body was found. Donovan and Chilimidos stand and lean against the car, smoking and talking in low voices. I feel like I'm missing something. I don't know what I'm searching for, but I have the strongest feeling that this nightmare is all part of a game to him. A game I'm terrified to lose.

 

Chapter 26

T
HE DRIVE BACK
to San Francisco seems to take an eternity. I stare out the window at the San Francisco Bay until we get on the Bay Bridge. The sun is setting behind the skyline and the Golden Gate Bridge.

It is seven o'clock. Grace has been gone for twenty-­eight hours.

The closer we get to the city, the more anxious I feel. This feeling of claustrophobia makes me want to claw at the windows and escape from this car. Grace is not here.

I don't know where she is, but she's not here. Every fiber of my being tells me that she's not in San Francisco.

When Grace first disappeared, I was terrified to leave San Francisco, convinced she was somewhere nearby. I thought for sure I'd feel closest to her at Ocean Beach, where she was last seen. But that isn't the case. As we cross the Bay Bridge and drive over Terminal Island below us, my desperation grows stronger.

“She's not here,” I mumble staring out the passenger window.

Donovan is in his own world and looks over. “Huh?”

“Grace isn't in the city anymore.”

He bites his inner cheek. He doesn't answer me.

B
ACK AT OUR
condo, we settle onto the couch. I doubt I'll ever sleep again. Instead, I will sit on this couch staring at the phone. When we arrived and Officer Craig handed me the phone log, I ignored it. I figured he would've told us about anything important.

Now I pick up the yellow legal pad and scan it. The list of ­people who called when we were gone is a mixture of our friends and coworkers—­Lopez, Nicole, Kellogg, Liz the librarian—­but nobody who had any information on Grace's whereabouts.

Last night flew by because our apartment was filled with ­people. Tonight, sitting alone, the time seems to stretch and warp. Every time I check the clock, only minutes have passed. I can't decide if this is bad or good. In a way, it seems like the faster time passes, the quicker Grace will return home to us, but that's completely illogical.

At least every half hour Donovan goes out on the back deck to smoke. I'm tempted to join him, but getting off the couch seems like it will take more energy than I have.

At ten o'clock, when Grace has been gone for thirty-­one hours, I finally break the silence.

“Donovan,” I say. He looks up from a stack of paper. He's been going over all the details of the three slayings, looking for clues that might help us find Grace. “There's only been three murders tied to the three Bible verses Anderson sent me, right?”

“Yes, we've checked the NCIC. There aren't any other recent murders with Bible verses anywhere in the U.S.”

He stops and looks at me. My mouth is parched, sucked of any moisture, but I need to say it.

“Frank Anderson sent me four Bible verses.”

Donovan closes his eyes for a second, then opens them and nods without saying a word. He's thinking the same thing I am—­will there be a victim for each Bible verse?

I'm floored by guilt. I sit here in my warm, cozy apartment, when my daughter is somewhere out there, maybe cold and hurt and crying for me. I can't believe that I felt relief that Grace was staying the night at my mom's so I didn't have to deal with another potential temper tantrum getting ready the next morning.

Maybe I don't deserve to be a mother.

 

Chapter 27

Thursday

I
T IS ONLY
when my phone rings that I realize it's morning and that I drifted off into a torturous sleep filled with nightmare after nightmare tangled together. Instead of a few seconds of bliss forgetting that Grace is gone, I sit up instantly, fumbling for my phone on the coffee table. My heart skips into my throat. The number is unfamiliar.

“Giovanni.” My voice cracks.

“I don't know if you remember me, but this is Michael Dillman. We met at the fire. I work for the
Pleasant Valley Weekly
.”

“Of course I remember you.” I sit up on the couch and try to sound friendly, but I can't hide the disappointment in my voice. I was hoping it was news about Grace. I practically begged him to call me about talking to my editor, but he was at the news conference, so he must know this is the worst possible time to call me. I squint, trying to focus on the clock in my dining room. It is 6:00 a.m. Grace has been gone for thirty-­nine hours.

“I'm sorry to call you so early, but I just discovered something I thought you'd want to know right away.”

I sit up and wait, too weary to even grunt.

“That guy. Frank Anderson. I know where he is.”

T
HERE ARE MORE
dead ­people than live ones in the City of the Dead.

Today, Donovan and I drive south to the City of Colma, aka the “City of the Dead,” as the sun rises above the hills to the west. We check with the caretaker at the visitor center, then drive to one of the smallest of the seventeen cemeteries in Colma strung together across two square miles.

After we park, Donovan walks ahead, stomping, really, holding the guide. I drag my feet, hoping that the weekly reporter is wrong.

My mother took me here once when I was in elementary school.

I
HELD MY
mother's hand as we went to put flowers on her father's grave. Walking from the BART platform to the cemetery, we passed a small plaque that read,
IT
'
S GREAT TO B
E ALIVE IN
C
OLMA.

I asked my mother what that meant, and she explained.

“More than two million bodies are buried here,” she said, pointing to a population sign. “And only twelve hundred ­people live here.”

“Yuck,” I said and scowled.

As we walked, headed for a giant cemetery on the hill, my mother explained that at one time, ­people were not allowed to bury the dead within the San Francisco city limits. Colma, which lies on the outskirts of the city, was founded as a necropolis in 1924.

I didn't know what that meant, but she told me that it meant the entire town was created just to be a big cemetery. We wandered the rolling green hills through Jewish, Chinese, and Catholic cemeteries. We passed modest gravestones with only small markers and elaborate headstones with soaring angels or Virgin Mary statues. There was even a pet cemetery.

She pointed out the gravestones for Levi Strauss and William Randolph Hearst, but never could find Wyatt Earp or Joe DiMaggio's graves. I tried not to listen to anything she said or be interested in any of the famous gravestones. The only thing a cemetery meant to me was a place where my sister and father lay underground, never to be seen again.

T
ODAY IN THE
Holy Cross Cemetery in Colma the last name I expected to see on a marker practically bites my ankles.

Donovan stands beside me and we dip our heads, silently reading the words that seem unreal. Seeing the small and unassuming grave marker, a simple rectangular slab of concrete, sends a wave of fury through me.

Anders Frank

“
Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord
.”

Dec. 5, 1955 to May 12, 2006

The man who killed my sister has been dead for two years. He changed his name. Frank Anderson—­Anders Frank. What he named his son.

When Michael Dillman called, he said that he'd recognized Anderson's picture. Apparently, Anderson had come into the weekly shortly before he died, wanting coverage about some Veteran's Day event at the Colma Cemetery. He'd said a group of veterans was putting American flags on all the graves of fallen soldiers.

Dillman had written a small story about it to be nice, even though the San Francisco cemetery wasn't in his coverage area.

After the story had run, the man, Anders Frank, had called him, complaining about the coverage, saying the story really needed a photo. He'd been such an ass to Dillman that when Anders Frank's obituary had come across his desk not long after that, the young reporter had wadded it up and tossed it in the trash.

But after seeing Anderson's picture on the news, Dillman had called the funeral home and asked for burial information for Anders Frank. I stare at the grave marker. It looks recently weeded. A small United States flag is pushed into the dirt in front of the grave.

Using an assumed name, Anderson had been living underground in the Bay Area since 2002. He lived for three years within miles of me. Holy fuck.

I
WAS WRONG.

Anderson doesn't have Grace.

Donovan is no longer at my side. He has wandered off near a huge mausoleum and is on his phone. I know without his saying it that he's calling the FBI, Rosarito and San Francisco detectives, basically everyone—­and telling them to call off the search for Anderson.

Thanks to Michael Dillman, we've found Frank Anderson.

I feel numb. If Anderson doesn't have Grace,
who does
?

I stare at the grave marker. The last rays of the rising sun move over the slab, which has been in shadows until now. For the past half hour, as we walked through the cemetery, my phone has been ringing with calls from my brothers and sisters-­in-­law. I've ignored them all, knowing that if they found Grace, the police would call. My vision loses focus as I stare down at the grave marker. The words blur into one another. When I blink to clear the fuzziness, the rays of the sun that had spread across the gray stone slab disappear, leaving the marker once more in shadow.

Instead of being grateful to Dillman, Donovan is suspicious.

“Tell me more about this guy from the weekly,” Donovan says after he gets off the phone.

“He's just a kid.”

I don't know why I'm defensive. Maybe because I know how shitty it is to work at a weekly for years, dreaming of being hired by the daily newspaper. Dillman seems like a nice kid. Not a killer.

But Donovan is right, we need to find out more. I grab my phone and scan calls received, but when I dial the number Dillman called me from, an automated message says, “This subscriber is unavailable.”

This sends a tiny alarm through me. I'm sure it's nothing. Goose bumps rise on my arms. They could be from the breeze that just picked up. Huge roiling clouds from the west have swept in, blotting the sun, just as this visit to the cemetery has obliterated much of the hope I had of finding Grace alive.

I was convinced down in the bottom of my heart that Anderson had taken my daughter. I was wrong. Which means everything I was clinging to is wrong. My entire theory on her still being alive was that Anderson had taken her and was holding her for the same six days he held Caterina and these murdered women before killing them. If it's not him, then who is it? I have wasted precious time and valuable resources on a bunk theory that has just been blown to smithereens.

The truth is I don't know who took my daughter. I have no leads, no clues, nothing.

A heavy pall falls over me. The winged shadows that have hovered in the periphery of my vision since I was a child are now closing in, and I don't have it in me to stop them this time.