Blessed Are Those Who Weep (8 page)

 

Chapter 17

E
VERY
TIME
MY
cell phone rings, I jump, hoping it's Brian with info on that DOA, but the first time, it's my mom, and the second time, it's my therapist's office reminding me of my appointment. I let both calls go to voice mail.

The afternoon is spent working on a story about a school principal arrested for stalking. Cops are playing coy about telling me who he was stalking. I work with the education reporter, Brent, on the story.

Finally, we reach a parent who tells us off the record that the principal was stalking another school employee—­the school librarian. It's not a student, which was what we feared, but still not good for the fool. He can kiss his career in education good-­bye even if he gets off.

I hand over my portion of the story to Brent and decide to visit the Oakland dojo on my way home.

Right before I pack up, my desk phone rings.

It's Brian from the morgue. He's dropped the
Star Wars
shtick, thank the angels and saints. “Alameda.”

“That's where the DOA is?” I pause, shrugging my bag onto my shoulder.

“Yup. Sliced and diced. Maybe samurai sword.”

“Mother Mary.”

“She had nothing to do with it.”

“Male? Female?”

“Male. Twenty something. Lived alone. No sign of forced entry.”

“Got an address?”

“That is negative.”

“Thanks, Brian. I owe you.”

“So, what do you think? You think a princess and a guy like me
. . .”

And just when I thought he was over the
Star Wars
stuff. He's about to hang up, when the big-­screen TV across the newsroom shows some footage of the Iraq War.

“One more thing. Can you give me a heads-­up if you guys get any soldiers on ice? I'm looking specifically for active duty. Maybe home on leave from Iraq.”

“I suggest you let the wookie win.”

“Thanks.”

I hope Brian's
Star Wars
obsession doesn't last as long as his Abba music phase did. For about six months, every time I called I had to listen to practically an entire Abba song before he would let me talk.

I rack my brains. Do I have any sources with the Alameda Police Department? Nope. Moretti works Oakland, which is just on the other side of the tunnel from the island. I make arrangements to meet him after I visit the dojo.

When I get there, the dojo's door is still locked tight, and nobody answers the doorbell. The woman in the bakery shrugs when I mention this.

W
HEN
M
ORETTI
PULLS
up in the parking lot of Children's Fairyland, which lies on the side of Lake Merritt opposite the bakery, I hand him a hot cup of coffee and the bag full of pork buns as I slip into the passenger door of his unmarked Crown Vic. Nearby, kids are squealing with delight as they play on the rides at Fairyland.

“What's happening, kiddo,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee and digging into the bag. “Pork buns! From See Yee Yum?”

“Seems everyone in the world knew about this place except me.”

“That's affirmative.” He mumbles around his first bite. He doesn't come up for air until the entire pork bun is gone. He flips down his mirror and checks for crumbs in his moustache before he rummages in the bag for his second one. “Love these things. Kate only lets me have about one a year. She says they're pure heart attack MSG food, but I don't care. If I'm going to go, I want to go out eating pork buns and manicotti!”

Moretti is small, slim, and fit, but he's already had one heart attack.

“Uh-­oh. Give me that bag,” I joke, reaching for it. “I don't want Kate mad at me.”

“Won't happen, kiddo. She loves you like a daughter.” He nods vehemently. His slicked-­back black hair doesn't move when he nods.

I can't help it, but my cheeks grow warm. I'm so lucky to be friends with the Morettis. They've invited me to every big family event they've had in the past five years I've known them —­baptisms, kids' birthday parties, first communions.

“So what's up, kiddo? This anything to do with that Mission deal? Saw you on TV.”

Who didn't? Thanks, KXYZ.

As he scarfs down four pork buns, I fill him in on the last few days and include the part about the Alameda body. Steely Dan is playing on his radio, interspersed with police scanner traffic.

Every time I lean over to lower the volume on the music, he immediately turns it back up with the controls on the steering wheel.

“Wait a sec,” he says when I finally finish getting him up to speed. He extracts his cell phone from his blazer pocket, turns down the volume on Steely Dan, and dials.

“Moretti here.” The voice on the other end of the line comes across as a deep rumble. I can't make out the words.

“Yeah, yeah. We're all busy. That's why I called. Think it's connected to the Mission Massacre? Where was it? Okay. Yeah. Thanks.” He clicks his phone shut.

“They think it's the same perp, don't they?” I say.

“Yep. Cut up the kid same way that family in the Mission was killed. This guy knew his victim. He opened the door for him.”

“Address?”

He rattles it off.

I leap out of his car before he's done. “Thanks, Moretti. I owe you.”

He waves his hand at me and cranks up Steely Dan.

“Pork buns,” he says. “I now accept all repayment of favors in pork buns.”

 

Chapter 18

C
HINATOWN
IN
O
AKLAND
is the only way you can get to and from Alameda Island from the northwest. I take the Webster Tube, a tunnel that goes underneath the Alameda-­Oakland Estuary to the island. It was the tunnel used in a scene of
The Matrix.
Driving through the lighted tunnel under God knows how many bazillion pounds of water above doesn't bug me—­in fact, I find it exhilarating—­but it gives my best friend Nicole hives. She refuses to take BART from the East Bay into the city because it goes 135 feet under the Bay for more than three miles.

Once I emerge, I drive through the quaint downtown area to get to the address Moretti gave me. ­People are window-­shopping at the antique stores and boutiques, and a few classic pastel-­colored cars are parked early for a car show advertised for the next day. Passing a parked squad car, I ease up on the gas pedal. With twenty-­five-­mile-­per-­hour speed limits, the entire island is a speed trap.

I had to do a report on Alameda when I was in grade school. It's fine, as long as you don't have to visit any place on the island in a hurry. Out of its twenty-­three square miles, ten are underwater. Even as a fifth-­grader, I found this annoying. Why do you count the ten miles underwater, anyway? What's the point? And besides, the island is really two islands, with a lot of one of them taken up by the former Naval Air Station, which was important during the Cold War.

The apartment building I'm looking for isn't far from the former naval base. In fact, it looks like the back side might even have ocean views. Not too shabby for a twenty-­something kid. Dead kid, but still. How can a kid afford a place in the Bay Area with water views?

I pass the building three or four times before I find a parking spot. I remember why I actually dislike the little island of Alameda so much—­not only the ridiculous speed limit but also because the island is so crowded it's impossible to park. I have to deal with hellish parking in my own neighborhood in North Beach. I should be used to it, but it makes me hate parking problems during my workday even more.

I end up parking six blocks away from the address Moretti gave me. Keeping to the opposite side of the street, I approach the building, eyeballing it to see if it will give me any clues about the murder. A sprawling, two-­story brick building, it doesn't look like much. A wooden sign out front says
THE
WILLOWS
. The building is set up a bit like a motel in a big U shape, with a walkway in front of all the second-­floor apartments. Bonus—­the apartment numbers are visible from the street.

Moretti said the apartment was number 230. Standing by a big palm bush across the street, I sort of shrink back into the leaves and dig my mini binoculars out from my bag. No way to scope it out without being obvious. I count. It's five doors in from the right and four from the left. I walk about half a block more before crossing the street. A few feet away is an opening to what appears to be an alley. I hurry down the passageway. Bingo. Ocean view.

There is a road between the complex and the beach. Wooden walkways lead to the water. Within a minute, I'm behind the apartment building. By counting balconies on the back side, I find apartment 230. A woman holding an aluminum watering can comes out of the sliding-­glass door of the neighboring apartment. She holds it over a window box attached to the balcony railing. It's filled with begonias. Her blond hair is neatly tied back above a string of pearls peeking out from her white blouse, which she's paired with crisp black slacks.

“Excuse me?” I say. She looks down at me, startled, and spills a little of the water down the side of the balcony. I jump out of the way. “I'm sorry to scare you. I'm with the
Bay Herald
. Do you have a moment? I'd like to ask you about your neighbor in number two thirty.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Can I come up?”

“Apartment two twenty-­nine.”

When I get back to the front of the apartment building, the door to 229 is ajar. When I pass 230, the curtains are closed in the big front window. No gap to peek through.

“Hello?” I nudge the door open slightly.

“Come on in. Shut the door behind you.”

Inside is a spare, modern apartment with a big white sofa, abstract art, and a black laminated armoire. Across from the living room stretches a long bar and the kitchen. The woman points to a bottle of alcohol. “I've had a long day. I'm having scotch. Care for one?”

“Sure.” At the counter, she hands me a drink.

“I'm Sue.”

“Gabriella Giovanni.”

“You're here about Javier?” She opens the sliding-­glass door to the balcony and gestures for me to go out first.

I take a seat in a comfy chair with a red cushion, and she does the same, putting her drink on the table between us. I set my pen and reporter's notebook innocently between us on the table.

In front of us, beyond her flower boxes, the frolicking water in the Bay reflects the sunlight, like shards of glass, as the sun dips behind the San Francisco skyline.

“Your view sucks,” I say, gesturing at the water with my tumbler.

She darts a glance at me and smiles. “Yeah. Buying this place made my divorce all the sweeter. Eat your heart out in Stockton, you husband-­stealing bitch.”

“Sorry.”

She downs her drink in one gulp.

“Don't be. I've never been better . . . well, except for what happened with Javier.”

I sit up straight. “So you do know him.” I'm perfectly aware that I'm using the present tense. God knows I never want to be the first person to use past tense about someone.

“Know him? Not really. I mean, we never talked much. We were too busy doing other things.”

My eyes widen, and I try to close my mouth, which has dropped open. She's got to be in her late forties, maybe even early fifties.

“Don't judge me. I'm not a perv, just get lonely sometimes.”

A small tint of pink has flushed her cheeks, and I notice that her eyes have some crow's-­feet. She watches my reaction.

I hold my tumbler up. “More power to you. Twenty is a consenting adult.”

She squints her eyes shut tightly. “Goddamn it. Why did someone have to kill him? That kid didn't deserve that. The cop I talked to said it was . . . bad.”

Nobody deserves to be murdered. Well, very few ­people, at least. “Did you tell the cops about . . . you know . . . your relationship with Javier?”

I try to pick up my notebook without making it too obvious.

She scoffs. “Relationship? From the beginning, it's been about the sex. We met at the pool one night. I'd been drinking. Divorce papers came in the mail that day. He got out of the pool with water dripping off him. God, what a specimen. I smiled at him—­the next thing we were in my bed. Now, whenever I have a hard day, I just knock on the wall between our places and he comes over. No strings attached. The perfect arrangement.” She holds her empty tumbler up to her lips, trying to get the last drop, and shrugs, putting it back on the table. “Boy, did I need that. Bad day at the J-­O-­B.”

She stares into the setting sun for a moment and then turns to me. “He could make me forget any bad day I had.”

“Did you ever go to his place?”

Her eyebrows draw together. “No, never invited me over. And the one time I rang his doorbell, he stood in the doorway, sort of blocking my view.” She gasps. “Do you think he was hiding something? Or someone?” Her eyes widen.

“I don't know.” To my left is his balcony. “Did he ever come out on his balcony?”

“No. Isn't that funny. I mean, here I am trying to spend every waking moment out here, looking at the view. God knows I pay enough for it.”

“Javier is pretty young to afford a place like this. Do you know what he did?”

Her look grows sly. “He was a DJ at some sex club. You know one of those places where you have sex in different rooms and stuff? He wanted to take me there one day. He said it was totally hot. God, these young guys know about everything.”

“Do you remember the name?” I scribble “sex club” in my notebook and circle it.

“Don't think he ever mentioned the name,” Sue said, eyes looking off into the distance. “It's in Oakland, though, I think. A bad part, too.”

“Anywhere else he liked to hang out?” I ask.

“The only other place I think he went was his dojo over in Chinatown.”

My scalp prickles. “Dojo? Do you know the name of it?”

“He never said. But it's only a block or two from the tube.”

I mull that over. It has to be the connection. I try to hide my excitement. I have a few more things to do here before I head for the dojo again.

“How did you hear about Javier?”

“The cops said it happened on Saturday. I was in Napa over the weekend and then this morning went straight to work. When I came home, found a card on my door from a detective. I called and he told me a little about what happened. I guess the downstairs neighbor heard a racket Saturday night but didn't call until this morning. When the cops got here, all they found was Javier.” A tear slips out.

Eyeing the balcony rail, I turn toward Sue. “I got an idea.”

I swing a leg and, with little grace, scramble onto Javier's balcony, landing in a heap on my hands and knees. Sue giggles, waiting on her own balcony.

Putting my hand on the handle of the sliding-­glass door, I make the sign of the cross. Sue raises her eyebrows. I tug. The door slides open. Pushing away the heavy drapes, I peer into the dark apartment. It smells like pizza.

Sue is silent on her balcony behind me. Any and all giggling is over. Her face is pale, and she tightly crosses her arms across her chest.

“Wait here.” My tone leaves no room for argument. Not that she would probably hop the balcony like I did, anyway. The heavy swoosh of the drapes closing behind me is the only sound as I step fully into the apartment. My eyes adjust.

I lean over to a table and switch on a light. The living room is as bare—­besides the bloodstain—­as a hotel room. No decorations. No books or magazines. A couch and love seat. No TV.

The front door is across the way. A black trail of dried blood leads from the front door into the living room. The killer must have started attacking right when he opened the door. Javier probably backed up to try to get away and ended up in the living room, where the biggest pool of dried blood is.

That's one thing they never tell you. Cops don't clean up the blood. They investigate the death and then—­good-­bye—­they leave the bloody gore for someone else to deal with. They do give family members resources to call—­­people like my friend who owns Crime Scene Cleanup and charges a pretty penny to scrape brains and guts off walls and ceilings.

The bathroom and kitchen refuse to yield any clues. The refrigerator has some fresh fruit and vegetables and leftover pizza slices in a cardboard box. The cupboards have some rice and canned beans.

In the hallway leading to the bedroom hangs a black-­and-­white photograph of a twenty-­something man with his shirt off, leaning against a wall in a dark room. His skin is smooth and perfect. He looks like a model for men's underwear.

In the bedroom, I see the same young man hugging two women in another photograph. Both are scantily clad, and he has his hands on both of their bottoms. Another picture shows him with yet another bombshell woman in a bikini.

“Looks like you were quite the player, Javier,” I murmur.

All the dresser drawers are open. Obviously the cops searched the room. Javier was apparently a minimalist. His closet has half a dozen dress shirts, identical except for the colors—­purple, navy, burgundy, black, gray, red—­and identical black pants. I peer at a label. Armani. Not bad for a kid.

On the other side of the closet are martial-­arts looking duds.

I check the pockets of all the shirts and pants. Nothing.

On the top of the dresser in the bedroom, a polished metal tray holds a Rolex watch, a wad of cash in a silver clip, and a slim enamel cigarette case. I tuck my fingers into the long sleeve of my shirt so I don't leave fingerprints, then pop open the cigarette case. It has a few sepia-­colored cigarettes and a matchbook slid into the other side. I slip the matchbook out.

The cover features a picture of two men and a woman engaged in a ménage à trois. I squint at the man in the back, whose face is slightly obscured. Is it Javier? Could be. Inside the matchbook is the name of the joint—­Fellatio. No subtlety there. The address is in Oakland. It must be that sex club. Was he more than just a DJ? Maybe a high-­class prostitute? This apartment and designer duds make more sense.

I slip out the front door, duck under the crime-­scene tape, and, without saying good-­bye to Sue, head for the dojo.