Blessed are the Meek (20 page)

 

Chapter 42

W
HEN
I
GET
to the newsroom, I return a message from Nicole.

“Hey, mama, how are you?”

“Sick as a dog,” she says with a moan. She doesn't sound good. “I want to yak all the time. I don't think I can hack this. I've got a prelim, an arraignment, and the Andrews murder trial to cover today, and all I want to do is lie down on the courtroom floor. Maybe I'll do that and lift my head occasionally to vomit. Actually, that's the problem, if I were able to throw up, instead of feeling like I wanted to, I would probably feel a hell of a lot better.”

“Can't they get someone to fill in for you?”

She moans again. “Oh no, gotta go, my other line is ringing.”

I hang up. Poor Nicole.

I scroll through the newspaper archives on my computer, looking for information on the special-­task-­force team that Carl Brooke was on. The news researchers have spent the past year trying to put the old newspaper articles online, in many cases tediously scanning them in.

Unlike microfiche, this method allows me to search for particular names. There's only one mention of Carl Brooke, where he is quoted about a traffic accident that tied up commuters for two hours. Nothing about his serving on the special task force.

So, I type in Donovan's old partner, Sgt. Will Flora. I've never known much about Flora. Only that he sometimes acted as the public information officer for the Rosarito Police Department and that he was a mentor and a father figure to Donovan, really only what my boyfriend has chosen to tell me.

About a dozen articles come up naming Flora as department spokesman for about a six-­month period. I wonder what he was like and if he was cool to the reporters who turned to him for information. The department must have had him doing double duty—­serving on the special task force and occasionally being called in to deal with the press.

Someone up high in the cop shop either loved him or hated him to assign him this extra duty.

I skim the articles. In one, the reporter—­a name from years ago I don't recognize—­quotes Sgt. Will Flora about a bank-­robbery team that took a hostage.

Usually, bank robbers are bumbling thugs—­amateurs who get their money and run. I read on. I start scrolling back to previous stories. Apparently, the bank robbers had been targeting banks in the East Bay at closing time, getting away with six robberies in as many weeks. Then, for some reason, they changed their M.O. and took a hostage. Obviously, something went wrong.

I find a story that explains it: Apparently, an off-­duty cop was doing business at the bank and drew down on them. There was a standoff, and one of the masked robbers held a gun to a teller's throat so they could escape. The article included pleas from the teller's family for her return.

I search for articles on the bank robbers and the teller's fate. The only article I can find quotes some other cop saying police are investigating the possibility that the teller was actually an accomplice. It appears she recently divorced, had a string of DUI arrests, had lost custody of her kids, and was about to be evicted.

After he is quoted in the bank robbery article, the next one I find with Flora's name is his obituary. I'm puzzled. There aren't any articles about the special-­task-­force team. Maybe it was hush-­hush, like Donovan said, under the radar. For fun, I search under Donovan's name for that same year. His name comes up, along with about ten others in a brief piece naming new cadets who graduated from the police academy. I was hoping to find a picture of him as a fresh-­faced rookie.

Nothing in the archives gives me a clue as to what Carl Brooke, Donovan, and Annalisa have in common. I feel like there is something I'm missing. Something right in front of me, but I can't see it.

I'm staring off into space thinking when Liz from news research taps my shoulder. She wears what I consider fitting for a longtime Berkeley hippie—­a flowing skirt and Birkenstock sandals. I have no idea how long she's been standing there.

“Got something for you sweetie.” Her soft brown eyes widen behind funky purple glasses as she says this. Like me, she likes the thrill of the hunt. She hands me a phone number for Mickey Menendez, the man Red told me about, the man who shared a jail cell with Frank Anderson, saying it was unlisted. My heart races.

“Nothing on Frank Anderson or his girlfriend, Delilah Jones, yet,” she says. “Coleman has kept me busy searching for information on duct systems for houses. Guess his new bride wants one. Why not have old Liz waste her time searching every blasted article under the sun that's been written about it.” Liz rolls her eyes.

I wince and push back the image of the publisher's wife with Annalisa in bondage gear. “Sorry. That sucks.”

Liz smiles. “No worries.” Then her smile fades. She pushes her glasses back on her nose, and I see the pity in her eyes. I can't bear it right now. I look away. Liz lingers. I can tell she is wondering if I want to talk about it. I don't. She leaves, giving me a glance over her shoulder.

Once I'm alone, I hold the phone number for Mickey Menendez up to Caterina's picture. “See? We're making progress, sweetie.”

Mickey Menendez picks up on the first ring.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I already have a subscription, so you're wasting your time, good-­bye.” Crap. He must have caller ID and saw I was calling from the
Bay Herald.

I talk fast before he can hang up. “I don't want to sell you the newspaper. I need to talk to you about Frank Anderson.”

Silence.

“Who gave you my name?”

“I'm sorry, I can't tell you that. But I do know you shared a jail cell with Frank Anderson a few years back. I'm trying to find him.”

“Why the hell do you think I would talk to you?”

“Because I protect my sources. I'd rather go to jail than reveal who gives me information for a story. But this isn't for the newspaper. This is personal. My name is Gabriella Giovanni.”

That changes everything.

“Bet it was Red you talked to. Don't worry, your secret's safe with me, toots.”

Mickey says he reads me every day and that he's always felt bad for me because of what happened to my sister.

“That man you are trying to find is the incarnation of evil,” he says. “Don't know if he was telling me the truth or not 'cause, let's face it—­we were in Napa together, aka, the loony bin—­but I'm on the right meds now, and I don't think he was ever interested in getting his head straightened out. I don't think there was anything medicine could do. This dude was born bad.”

“Have you heard anything about him or seen him since you got out?”

“Saw him once a few months ago. At this one bar I sometimes go to in the afternoons before my night shift. Down by the Alameda shipyard. I pretended like I didn't know him and got the hell out of there. I want nothing to do with him, understand?”

He tells me the name of the bar: the Salty Sailor. It doesn't sound very tough, more like a Disneyland ride.

“You probably shouldn't visit that bar alone, nice girl like you. But if you want, I'll make a point to drop in there every once in a while and see if I can find out more about him for you.”

I give Mickey my cell-­phone number and thank him, looking at the clock. It's only three in the afternoon. I hang up the phone and immediately punch more numbers. “C-­Lo! Want a drink?”

The Salty Sailor has giant fishing nets hanging from the ceiling and has a tilted floor, even when you are sitting at the bar, which makes me feel a little off balance. I've felt a little woozy off and on since my thunk on the head.

Lopez orders a beer and my Absolut. When our drinks come, we settle back, letting our eyes adjust to the dark interior. I wait until my second drink to ask the bartender if he knows a guy named Frank Anderson.

“Nope.”

His fast response and the way he won't look right at me when he answers makes me pretty sure he's lying. I wish I had a photo of Frank Anderson to show the handful of customers at the bar, but they'd probably all deny knowing him anyway. It's that type of joint.

Lopez talks to a few of the rougher-­looking characters and comes back, downing his second beer. “
Nada,
man. They aren't going to tell us shit. Let's get out of here.”

I decide not to leave my card. If the bartender is lying, I don't want him to hand my card to the man who killed Caterina. The thought of that man's holding my card, with my name on it and laughing, makes me want to vomit.

 

Chapter 43

I
'M RESTLESS AND
don't feel like going back to work. I need to do something, find something to clear Donovan. Maybe there are answers or a clue at his place. When I pull up in front of Donovan's apartment on the shores of Lake Merritt, I almost expect to see his face peering out the third-­floor windows. But, of course, the apartment is dark and the windows empty. I still can't believe he's behind bars. I haven't been back here since that first night he was arrested. Looking up at the windows, a twinge of guilt runs through me, but I ignore it. It's not snooping if he gave me a key, right?

For some reason, my hand is shaking as I unlock the apartment door. Inside, all the blinds are closed. I turn on a few lights, feeling like a thief. Drawers are open and papers flung everywhere, like someone had burglarized the place. The search warrant. I creep into the bedroom. The covers on the bed are on the floor. The contents of the nightstand drawers are on the bed.

In the living room, the couch cushions and pillows are on the floor. On the long bar in the kitchen the contents of the drawers are scattered, knives, spatulas, spices.

What jerks. They could've been more considerate about it
.

But they didn't find his secret compartment. I reach down and find the latch to the hidden cupboard latch. I fiddle and it springs open. Inside, I find two guns, ammo, a wad of cash, and Donovan's laptop. Resting near the computer is a notepad and pencil.

I clear a spot and put the laptop on the counter. Eyeing the notepad, I wonder why it was hidden. Is it important, or was it just tossed in with everything else when he went to work one day? The top page is blank, but there is a slight indentation that shows writing. I do an old kid's trick and rub a pencil lightly over it. I can only make out a few words, but it's enough.

Tim Conway. Todos Santos. Cabo.

I know that name. That was one of the cops Donovan mentioned from the special-­task-­force team.

I turn on Donovan's computer and look at his history. Sure enough, his history tab shows he was looking at flights to Cabo San Lucas. I try passwords for his e-­mail.

His first dog was named Trixie. He loved that little guy. I give it a shot. Nope. He would think that is too cutesy, anyway. His dad's name was Finnegan. No. I type in Finnegan and his lucky number 12. No. His gun? Sig40. No dice. Then I remember: he told me once that if he had a daughter one day he was going to name her Grace after his great-­grandmother. I type in Grace. No. How about Grace and Sig40? No. Grace and the number 12?

Jackpot. I scroll through his read e-­mails—­a few boring ones from his work, but then I see two from Tim Conway. The first one is cryptic. Obviously in response to something, Donovan had sent him:

“You're right. Only one way to stop him. I'll be waiting for you.”

Him. The killer. With trembling fingers, I click on Donovan's sent folder to find out who
he
is. But the sent folder is empty.

The second e-­mail from Conway is unread. It is guarded and brief. It was sent yesterday.

“Haven't heard from you. Can't wait much longer. I need to go underground. It's getting too hot. Come soon. Alone.”

Getting hot? What is going on?

I book the next flight to Cabo. It's for later tonight. A red-­eye. Sort of. I have a ridiculous, nonsensical layover in Phoenix. I'll get in at nine in the morning. Absurd. Who makes these schedules? But it's still the fastest flight there from the Bay Area. Then I search on a map—­about fifty miles up the coast from Cabo San Lucas is a beach town called Todos Santos. I search for restaurants or hotels in Todos Santos.

I hit reply to Conway's e-­mail and type, “Barajas Tacos. Thursday 2 p.m.”

I think the answer to everything lies in Mexico.

 

Chapter 44

B
ACK IN MY
car, my cell rings. It's Liz from the newspaper.

“Got it,” she says when I answer.

Records show that Frank Anderson opened a checking account with Delilah Jones last year. Another document shows Jones is listed as owner on the title to a small house in Concord. I drive right past the rectory where I was going to stop and grab some clothes for my trip and instead hop on the 580 freeway. At the last second, when a shiver of fear runs through me, I call Lopez and tell him to meet me there. Won't hurt to have him with me.

Concord is not far from Pleasant Hill, where the newspaper is based. It's dusk, and the deep blue sky has purple and pink streaks when Lopez and I pull into the neighborhood. We both park a few houses down, eyeing the address—­Lopez with his telephoto lens, me with binoculars. The weeds are a foot high and the grass is brown and dead. Chipped paint on the brown house reveals ugly streaks of red underneath.

After about fifteen minutes of watching the house and seeing no movement, we decide to knock. I'm not sure what else to do. I'm too impatient to wait any longer, and I have a flight to catch. I have no idea what I'm going to say or do if Anderson opens the front door. Commander Sandoval said Anderson is an immediate arrest for not checking in as a sex offender. So, I know at the very least, I'll call the cops if I can confirm he's here. Who knows what else I'll do?

Just in case, I reach over to the glove box and stick Father Liam's gun in my jacket pocket. I've kept it there since my trip to Napa.

Lopez whistles when he sees it. “Wow, man, that's some piece. You aren't messing around, are you?”

“Like you're one to talk?” I know he's got his regular small pistol in its ankle holster and probably another gun under his jacket.

We hurry toward the front walkway leading up to the house. I keep my eyes on the closed curtains, but don't see anything move. There isn't any glow of interior lights, like in the other houses on the block. At the front door, I glance at Lopez. He stands back with his hand under his jacket, eyes darting back and forth at the windows, then nods for me to go ahead. I knock on the flimsy wood door and step to the side to wait. My heart is racing, thumping in my throat. I clutch the gun inside my jacket pocket. I know I can't just shoot him. But will I want to?

I eye the windows in the front of the house in case someone is peeking out. No movement. I knock two more times and press my ear to the door, listening. Silence. Lopez raises his eyebrows and gestures toward a small fence at the side of the house leading to the backyard.

The sun sets, and, as darkness falls, the streetlights and nearly full moon make it easy to see. I look furtively around the neighborhood. I don't see a soul. No faces peering out. Everyone is probably inside eating dinner or watching the news. Lopez, as sleek as a cat, effortlessly scales the fence and crouches against the house, holding his gun in front of him. Looking around, I follow. My skirt rips up the back, startlingly loud. I probably look like a track-­team dropout, but I make it over the fence in one piece. My blood is pounding in my ears loudly. I keep expecting to either smell the foul breath of a child-­killing monster over my shoulder or have a police loudspeaker ordering me to put my hands up for trespassing.

Lopez, a few feet away, silently chuckles at my less-­than-­graceful fence scaling. He holds his finger to his lips and gestures for me to follow. We crouch walk underneath the windows, which all are covered in thick drapes, and make our way along the side of the house to the backyard.

At the back of the house, a small brick patio is home to a ripped armchair and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. In the moonlight, the small square yard reveals itself as brown patches of dead grass dotted with cigarette butts. The grimy sliding glass door doesn't have a curtain. Lopez peers in, holding his palm up for me to wait. Then he motions me forward. I cup my hands around my eyes and peer through the window. The moonlight behind me illuminates the interior. The kitchen is empty. The house seems vacant, which makes my heart sink. Did I come so close just to miss him again? But then I see a take-­out pizza box sitting on the kitchen counter. The sliding glass door yields easily in my hands with a loud screech that startles us.

Slowly, we creep in, leaving the door open behind us. Lopez is in front, with his gun drawn, directing me to follow with his hand. My heart is racing, and my hand is shaking when I take my gun out of my pocket. Clutching it with two hands, I hold it with my arms outstretched. It is heavy, and the shudders running through my body make it wobble up and down in front of me.

Lopez pauses a moment, looking back at me briefly. He's listening, maybe waiting for someone or something to respond to the noise we made on entering. It gives me time for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior. After a few seconds, Lopez takes a step. I follow on his heels. The living room has a small lawn chair, empty pizza boxes, and beer cans—­some crushed, others upright—­used as ashtrays. It looks like a homeless person is squatting here. Anderson?

Lopez gently pushes open the first door we come to—­a bedroom door. Empty. Then another. It's the bathroom. Vacant. Goose bumps spring up on my arms. Something has been bothering me, in the back of my mind, nagging at me, since I walked in. Then, it hits me. I assumed the house smelled like cigarettes because of the stacks of butts, but then I realize I smell smoke. Fresh cigarette smoke. That isn't stale. The hand holding my gun begins to shake. From fear or fatigue at holding it, I'm not sure.

A clacking noise startles me.

Lopez rushes into the room the noise is coming from. I hear him exclaim, “Son of a bitch!” and rush in behind him, gun held in front of me.

Inside the room, I lower my gun. There's no one else here. Lopez flicks on the light to reveal a small pile of blankets, a book splayed open, and there on the floor—­the cigarette I smelled, still faintly smoking. A breeze rippling through the room is making the blinds clatter loudly.

“Holy Mary Mother of God!” I stare down at the smoking cigarette, a Lucky Strike, and the book, Hermann Hesse's
Demian.

Lopez pulls aside the clattering blinds. The window is wide open.

He was here. I can feel it. His presence. I can almost smell him. He must have fled when I knocked on the door. We missed him by seconds.