Blessed Are Those Who Mourn (4 page)

Instead, he gives me a kiss. It is chaste, but still it's in front of my family, so it makes me blush.

My mother is grinning when I pull back, which makes my face flush even warmer.

“Sean, we were just talking about you and Ella.”

“Oh yeah?” he says, completely oblivious. He obviously needs to spend more time with my family if he doesn't realize my mother is about to release a Scud missile in his direction.

“It would be nice if Gabriella could still fit into my wedding dress when you guys get married.”

His eyes widen. He looks at me, and his eyebrows draw together. I raise my own eyebrows and shrug as if to say,
You want in on this crazy family, be my guest
.

He jams his hands in his pockets and clears his throat as my mother gives him the eye. “Uh, I think she looks great. I mean, sure she's gained a little bit of weight, but it looks good on her. She's perfect to me.”

I freeze, a spoonful of Marco's panna cotta halfway up to my mouth. Good Lord, he thinks my mom is telling him she thinks I'm fat.

“I don't mean that,” my mother says and bursts into tinkling laughter. “I mean you guys should get married before your baby comes.”

Now Donovan draws back from me, eyes wide with a question. He thinks I'm pregnant and have told my family before I told him. Mother Mary.

“Ma!” I need to stop this nonsense right now. “When we decide to get married and have another baby, I promise you that you will be the first one to know. Swear to Christ.”

“Ella. Your language.”

“I work in a newsroom, Ma. That's the censored version of what I really want to say.” I'm done. I grab my wineglass, tip my head back, and gulp until not a drop remains. Then I grab the bottle off the table, pouring more wine in my glass, grab another cannoli, and head toward a stone bench in the garden, leaving everyone openmouthed, watching me.

Donovan remains behind, trying to make nice probably. He loves my family. He's crazy. He should run for the hills.

 

Chapter 7

Monday

“G
OT A FOLLOW
on the dead girl from Saturday?” Kellogg leans on the wall of my cubicle Monday morning, making the entire thing shake with his weight.

“Waiting for the morgue to ID her,” I say after I hurriedly swallow the last of the Italian sub I was scarfing down at my desk even though it's only eleven in the morning. “Cops say ‘it's under investigation.' ” I use air quotes and roll my eyes.

Kellogg strokes his beard. “Your boy isn't slipping you the skinny on this one?”

“Hardly.”

“You'd think there'd be some advantage to having a boyfriend on the force.”

“You'd think,” I say, making a face.

“Why don't you see what you can dig up off the record, because the
San Francisco Tribune
is kicking your ass on this one.” He throws the paper down on my desk and walks off.

Andy Fucking Black. I'm afraid to see what he's written. It's a rare day when I don't devour all the newspapers before leaving my house, but today was one of them. It was one of my less-­than-­ideal-­Italian-­Mama mothering moments. Grace spilled her chocolate milk down her dress and then her cereal all over the floor, so I spent my morning consoling her, getting her changed, and cleaning up a big mess. Then she decided to flop on the floor and refuse to put on the clean clothes, saying she didn't care if her Tinkerbell shirt was stained brown, that's all she wanted to wear. By the time I dropped her off at my mom's, I was already running late. Such a superfun way to start my morning. It was so crazy, I didn't even have time to eat breakfast so I had to eat the sub I brought for lunch early.

I stare at Kellogg's retreating form. Is he telling me to talk Donovan into giving me off-­the-­record info on the murder? I glance down at the
Trib
and scowl when I see Andy Black has IDd her—­Agnes Clark, 22, went to college in Santa Cruz—­before the morgue released it officially. Damn. I've had the ID since Saturday night, but I'm trying to play by the rules so her parents don't read about her in the paper before they are officially notified of her death.

I dial the morgue.

“Hey, Giovanni.” It's Brian, my best source at the coroner's office.

“You releasing the ID on the Roe Island vic?”

“Can't find next of kin. See that asswipe Black splashed it all over the front page.”

“Scum of the earth.”

“Last address for family was in Livermore, but that was no good. Will let you know as soon as we do death notification.”

For a second, my heart stops. Agnes Clark is originally from Livermore. Livermore was where we lived when my older sister, Caterina, was kidnapped.

I flash back to that day. Caterina and I were fighting over who could use the pink jump rope first. I had one foot out the door when my mom made me come back in to brush my teeth. While I brushed my teeth, I fumed at how unfair my life was. I was the youngest in our family of four kids, which meant last in line for everything. When I finished brushing my teeth, I ran into the front yard, but it was empty. Caterina was gone. I ran to the road and looked both ways. All I found was the pink jump rope in the gutter.

Shaking off the dark memory, I hang up and call Donovan.

“She was from Livermore.”

“I know. West is on it. Made Anderson his top priority.”

“Okay.” After I hang up, I dig deep into my file cabinet where I have a folder in a plastic bag. Looking around to make sure nobody is looking, I take out the picture of Frank Anderson—­a mug shot from his arrest. He looks like a drill instructor. Blond crew cut. Defined jaw. Square face. Dark, deep-­set eyes with an angry, threatening look, as if he wants to leap through the camera and attack.

The more I think about it, the angrier I become. Why hasn't Frank Anderson been at the top of West's priority list this entire time? My heart is racing as I dial.

“West.”

“Did Donovan tell you about the Bible verse?” I don't waste time on niceties.

“Yes. We're looking into it.”

“It's part of the same Bible verse that Anderson e-­mailed me.”

“Yes, I'm aware of that. But I don't want you to get your hopes up.” He fills the silence. “I know this looks like a lead on Anderson, but it is still a long shot.” He clears his throat.

I stare at the giant TV screen. It is showing footage of the Roe Island murder scene. The volume is down, so I don't know what they are saying. Nothing new, I'm sure.

“The profiler I spoke to this morning says that serial killers spouting Bible verses is about as common as redheads named Murphy,” West says. “I thought so but wanted to double-­check with her before I got back to you.”

I don't answer.

“Look at the Green River Killer,” he says. “Killed forty-­eight women. Was a bit of a church freak, read the Bible at work and talked about religion with his coworkers.

“Many serial killers will turn to religion right before they start their killing sprees. We think that because of strong religious upbringings, they might be sexually inhibited and turn to killing to compensate. As you probably know, it's never a sex thing, it's a power thing. Anderson is not the only serial killer obsessed with Bible verses; I can name three others off the top of my head who sent Bible verses to newspapers or whatnot before or during their killing sprees.”

“Does Donovan know this?”

“Just told him a few minutes ago.”

I hang up, not knowing whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

Later in the afternoon, I call my mother. She doesn't pick up at home and then doesn't answer her cell. I don't know why we even bothered getting my mother a mobile phone, because half the time she forgets it at home anyway.

Finally, I reach her at the flower shop and ask about Grace.

“She's watering the roses right now,” my mom says.

My mom often takes Grace to her flower shop on the days she doesn't have school and after her morning kindergarten classes. My daughter loves it. She knows more about flowers than I do. Her favorite is a type of peony called Red Grace, which my mother began carrying in her flower shop after Grace was born.

“Do you and Donovan want to stay for dinner tonight when you pick up Grace?”

“Thanks, but I think I better head straight home. I promised Grace I'd let her help me make lasagna tonight.”

I don't tell her that I'm looking forward to a quiet night at home, lounging around in my pajamas with my husband and daughter. After we put Grace to bed, we can open that bottle of wine I've been saving. It was what I had planned for Saturday night before Donovan got that call about a murder. He worked for a few hours last night after we left my mother's house but promised he'd be home for supper tonight.

“She's going to be as good a cook as your Nana at this rate,” my mom says with a laugh.

“I hope so. I'll call you when I'm done here and on my way.”

“Sounds good,” she says. “Don't forget to pack her bathing suit tomorrow morning. I promised her I'd take her to the beach. Might as well take advantage of this heat wave.”

Later, my cell rings at the same time I hear something about a dead body on the police scanner.

DOA—­dead on arrival. Found on the shores of Martinez nearly underneath the Benicia-­Martinez Bridge, a little more than two miles away from Roe Island, where the college student was found on Saturday.

I glance down at my cell. Lopez.

“I just heard,” I say without preamble. Standing up, I can see Lopez across the newsroom in the photo department, leaning down and gathering up his photo gear, his phone pressed to his ear.

“Meet you at my car in five,” he says. “Maybe we'll beat Pretty Boy to the scene.”

Donovan is going to another murder scene outside his jurisdiction, this time in Martinez? Lopez knows something I don't.

I gather up my jacket and bag and a notebook and head for the door.

“Another body in Suisun Bay,” I say as I pass Kellogg. “No official ID yet on Saturday's 187.” I'm not a slime reporter. I'll wait for official confirmation even if it means losing a scoop.

“We got room on A1,” he says.

 

Chapter 8

T
HE BODY WAS
found in the shadow of the Benicia-­Martinez Bridge.

The industrial road leading to the shore of Suisun Bay is lined with what looks like the exposed innards of a factory floor turned inside out. Big white holding tanks interconnected with hundreds of gray or rusted pipes of every size imaginable tangled together in a maze. The stark ugliness of the plant is made worse by the gray skies above. I can't see why anyone who didn't work at the plant would be out in this area voluntarily. Makes me wonder whether the dead body washed up out of the bay or was dumped.

“What is all this?” I ask Lopez, gesturing out the window at the factory we are passing.

“Chemical processing. They regenerate the leftover sulfuric acid from the refineries,” Lopez says. He is the paper's institutional memory. He's been working there longer than anyone else in the newsroom. A lot of ­people underestimate Lopez because he's smaller, but he's all sinewy muscle and ex–Green Beret. He's always packing heat, and the rumor is he saw some crazy shit in Vietnam.

The night I went after Jack Dean Johnson, Lopez was who I wanted at my side. At the time, I thought Johnson had killed Caterina. But she wasn't one of his twenty-­four victims. Johnson had kidnapped my niece, Sofia, I found Sofia and stabbed Johnson to death to stop him from shooting Donovan. I was too late. He fired his gun. Luckily, Donovan was wearing a bulletproof vest.

Andy Black is already there when we pull up. He's stalking that same buxom Channel 4 reporter. I'm surprised she hasn't wised up to him yet.

Lopez pulls his Honda in behind a line of cars that includes a few TV news vans parked on the curve at Mococo Road. On the drive, Lopez told me that Rosarito got another call from a tipster about this body, just like they did about the one on Roe Island.

“Why is a tipster calling Rosarito?”

“Don't know, man. It's some squirrely shit for sure.”

I look around but don't see Donovan's car yet.

As soon as I crack the car door I expect the rotten-­egg smell of sulfur but instead am engulfed in a breeze that brings with it the decaying stench of the swampy bog before us.

In the distance, the Phantom Fleet seems less threatening during the day than it did the other night. Across from that, on the far shore, lies the border of Rosarito and Benicia.

We can't see the body from where we park. But I can see a cluster of cops gathered around something down a brush-­covered hill and closer to the swampy shore area. Lopez and I make our way down the slight incline. There isn't anything to hang the crime-­scene tape on, so they have two community ser­vice officers holding it up, barring our way. Sort of ridiculous when you think about it. The CSOs holding the tape look embarrassed.

Lopez has taken off, skirting the crime scene, going closer to the water and snapping off shots. He's clearly hoping to get another interesting shot of the cops at the crime scene like he did Saturday.

I'm about to ask one of the CSOs if the Martinez Police Department's public information officer is around when he tells me to back up. He and his buddy on the other end of the crime-­scene tape are walking forward toward the road up above. Pretty soon all the reporters are herded back onto the road, most grumbling. The TV reporters are stooping down, wiping muck from the bottom inch of their heels that stuck in the mud. I know better. I'm wearing my ballet flats.

A few seconds later, two Martinez PD SUVs come around the bend. Without even braking, they head down the hill to the swampy marsh, parking in a way that blocks any view of the cops hovering around the body. Two more squad cars follow and park on the shoulder of the road next to the hill. The CSOs secure the crime-­scene tape on the cars and hop inside the vehicles. I'm looking around at the cars when I notice one is a Rosarito Police Department cop car. I whip my head around. Then I see him.

Donovan is heading my way. A few TV reporters are pushing microphones in his face. Behind him, Andy Black from the
Tribune
scowls. He knows better than to ask my boyfriend for information.

But the blond Channel 4 reporter in the low-­cut top and shellacked hair doesn't.

She keeps pace with Donovan. She grabs his arm when her stiletto heel catches on something. She loses her balance and partially falls into him. Her grating giggle travels across the marshy bog. Donovan, who hasn't noticed me watching yet, steadies her. He basically picks her up and moves her aside, freeing himself from her clinging grasp. He says something that wipes the smile right off her face. He turns back and walks away, leaving her looking after him.

Right then, he looks up, meets my eyes, and gives me a wry grin.

My heart swells with pride that he's mine.

As he grows closer, the merriment in his eyes fades and his eyebrows draw together as he looks at the crime scene. He runs his hand through his messy hair, which is always a sign he is upset or worried.

By crouching down a bit and glancing through the tinted windows of the SUVs parked to block my view, I look for anyone holding a piece of paper they got off the body. Is there another Bible verse? But all I can see is another cop taking Donovan aside. I'm on tiptoe, watching, as they both lean down out of my sight line.

Damn.

The Channel 5 cameraman is at my side.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says, not taking his eye off the camera viewfinder.

“You filming?” I try to stay out of the way and keep my mouth shut when TV cameras are rolling at crime scenes.

“Nah, just trying to see what the body looks like.”

“What do you got?”

“Couldn't see shit.” He puts the camera down and heads straight to the Channel 5 reporter. He gestures and points toward the shore.

We are both thinking the same thing —­ a serial killer is at work. Right now I think I'm the only reporter to know about the Bible verse. If it is a serial killer at work, there will most likely be another verse. The thought sends a ping of anxiety ricocheting through me. It still doesn't mean it is Anderson.

Lopez is at my side. “Kicked me off the beach, man.”

“What did you get?”

“Long blond hair. Youngish. Wet, but more like she was doused with water than drowned,” he says, chewing on a toothpick.

A commotion erupts behind us. It's the Martinez Police Department's public information officer, Lieutenant Ted Miller. Reporters gather around him. The PIO is a distinguished cop in his forties, with a thick head of black hair swept back from his forehead. He's wearing dark green pants and a matching polo shirt, as if he just stepped off the fairway. A glance at his shoes confirms this. He must've been pulled off the golf course to come to a murder scene. He faces the crime scene so the cameras are forced to turn their backs on the shore where the body lies. I unearth my reporter's notebook and a pen and gather with the other reporters.

“Thank you all for coming,” he says.

He talks for a few minutes but is keeping most of the murder information close to the chest, because by the time he is done, I only have four sentences written in my notebook. His information basically confirms what I heard on the scanner. When and where a body was found. Appears to be a woman in her twenties. Police are investigating.

I'm hoping no other reporters make the connection, but that would be too much to ask.

Black, who is the first reporter called on, brings it up immediately.

“Is there anything linking this body to the one found Saturday?” Black says.

Before Lieutenant Miller can answer, it becomes a free-­for-­all with reporters blurting out questions.

“Do you think a serial killer is at work?” the Channel 11 reporter asks.

“Are the two women connected in any way?”

“Is this the work of one person?”

Finally, when everyone shuts up for a second, Lieutenant Miller answers.

“We are not prepared to release that information at this time.” He scans the crowd for other questions.

“Can you confirm that this woman also has ties to Livermore?” Black asks.

My heart pounds in my throat. The cold from the ocean breeze shoots up my spine at the same time my heart pounds in my throat. Is this victim from Livermore? And how the fuck did Andy Black find this out before me? I can already hear Kellogg scolding me for letting Black get one up on me. But worse than that, why is a serial killer targeting women from Livermore? I feel like I'm going to vomit, and I lean over, my hands on my knees. Black shoots me a look, and I immediately straighten up, swallowing the bile that rose in my throat.

“We've only just learned about this death an hour ago,” Miller says. “So we are in no position to confirm anything about this victim.”

“When will you release the woman's identity?” Black pushes on.

Lieutenant Miller's face is deadpan for what he says next. “As God makes little green apples, I'm going to do everything I can to make sure no reporters receive the victim's name until her family is notified. So even if I had her name confirmed—­which I do not—­I'm in no hurry to release her name to a reporter who doesn't have enough respect to wait until a victim's family is notified before he prints it in the paper.”

A few reporters nudge each other and whisper. Black doesn't even have the dignity to blush or look away.

“But isn't it true that in the past week and a half, two women have gone missing who are originally from Livermore?” Black asks, undaunted by the scolding.

“That's all for now,” Lieutenant Miller says and turns his back on us.

I'm suddenly chilled and hustle back to the car. Inside the car, my phone buzzes with a text from Donovan who must have seen me leaving.

Have Grace stay at your mom's,
it says.
I won't be home. Patrol car watching our place tonight.

Is that necessary?
I text back.

Won't hurt,
he writes.

One reason we rented our condo is its secure underground parking, private elevator, and state-­of-­the-­art security system, but I won't mind a cop car outside my door if I'm there alone tonight, because I can tell that Donovan is worried.

What's going on?
I write back.

Later.

Bible verse?

My phone remains silent. I text the same question three times as Lopez and I drive back to the newsroom.

Donovan never responds.