Blessed Are Those Who Weep (11 page)

 

Chapter 25

W
HEN
D
ONOVA
N
KISSES
me good-­bye this morning, he seems distant, distracted.

Glancing at my calendar, I note that Joey Martin will take custody of Lucy in less than ten days unless I do something first. I also see that I'm not ovulating again for three weeks. Vaguely, I wonder if abstaining will increase our chances of getting pregnant. I frown. I don't remember reading anything like that in the stack of books on my nightstand. They all promise to hold the key to getting pregnant. I cling to the small tendril of hope that grew with the doctor's words: “
. . . I've told hundreds of women the same thing, and within a year, I've delivered their baby
.”

Donovan has to be patient with me. The only thing I can focus on, the only thing I have energy for, is proving that Lucy's father murdered her mother. That way, she won't end up in a killer's hands.

I'
M
THE
FIR
ST
one in the newsroom, and I'm already halfway through typing up some press releases from the police department about minor burglaries and stickups, when a new one comes across the fax.

It catches my eye because it has a surveillance picture of a man in a convenience store above a photo of a cute, fluffy white poodle.

Thirty minutes later, I've talked to the cops and the owner of the poodle. Apparently the dude thought it would be a good idea to steal the poodle, which was tied up in front of the convenience store, while its owner, Josie Bartholomew, was inside buying a half gallon of milk for her Poopsie. No, you can't make this up. Poopsie.

What kind of jerk steals an old woman's dog? And what kind of woman names her dog Poopsie?

­People will be up in arms over this story. Nothing enrages readers more than someone messing with an animal. Kidnapped and murdered kid stories don't stand a chance. It still ticks me off, but I'm resigned to the fact that ­people are more outraged about mistreated animals than mistreated ­people.

This is front-­page material for sure.

With the adorable pictures of the mutt and the not-­supposed-­to-­be-­funny-­but-­hilarious quotes from the cop—­i.e., “Our main priority right now is to reunite Poopsie with her owner”—­ TV will have a field day with this one.

I'm just about finished writing my story, which I gleefully slug “Poopsiepinched,” when the phone rings.

“Giovanni.”

“Hello. I'd like to report a hole-­in-­one.”

Call sports
. “Hold, please.”

I stand on tiptoe. Nobody in sports yet. A few ­people have trickled into the newsroom, so I shout, “Hey, this guy wants to report a hole-­in-­one, who should I transfer him to?”

“Tell him one-­eight-­hundred-­call-­your-­mama!” someone hollers from the copy desk.

My other line rings.

“Cripes.” Instead of getting back on the phone, I send the golfer up to Jan at the reception desk. She'll be able to figure out where to transfer him. Then I remember Jan is on vacation and there is a temp worker. Not her or his fault trying to figure out where all the crazy, random calls go.

At least they aren't for me today.

I scrabble to answer when my cell phone rings. It's my cousin.

“I think I found her,” Tricia says. “She's with a real nice foster family in Noe Valley. They take in kids all the time. Her file says that her biological father will be back in the country next week and pick her up.”

The baby has been in CPS care for a week. I suppose another week won't hurt her. And I have a feeling that if Mrs. Castillo is right, any place is safer than with her father.

“Noe Valley, huh?” I ask. “What part? What's the address? I know a yummy Chinese restaurant there.” I try to make my question as casual and matter-­of-­fact as I can.

Tricia is silent for a minute. “Even if I had the address—­which I don't, they don't even put it in the file for confidential reasons —­even if I had it, I'm not supposed to give it out. Even to family.”

I swallow hard. I don't mean to put Tricia on the spot or try to make her jeopardize her job.

“I'm sorry. I understand. Thanks for telling me what you did.” I try to lighten the mood. “And you guys better get over to Nana's. I need a Freddy fix soon.”

“Deal. Love you.”

I'
VE
MISSED
MY
appointment with Marsha and feel a mixture of guilt and relief. I call to reschedule before leaving work early. Because even though I don't want to talk to my therapist, there is someone I do want to speak with.

Thirty minutes later, I'm knocking on the door of the rectory to St. Joan of Arc Church in Oakland. Father Liam answers the door himself. His bright blue eyes are sparkling, and his full head of dark hair, swept back away from his face, is just starting to become fringed with gray.

“What a lovely surprise. It's my entertaining hour. Would you care for a drink? Or possibly a spot of tea?”

Sometimes I forget that although he's half Italian, he's also half Irish. Do the Irish prefer tea to coffee, like the British?

“Just water, thanks. Do you have a minute?”

“I always have time for you,” he says. I follow him upstairs to the study. He's dressed casually, in pressed designer jeans and a button-­up top with a soft cashmere cardigan and loafers.

He busies himself at the bar, and a few seconds later, he turns and hands me a Pellegrino with a small slice of lime on the edge of the glass.

“Thank you.” I take a sip.

“The pleasure is mine,” he says as he folds himself into an armchair. He crosses one leg over the other and takes a sip of his Bombay gin and tonic.

In between sips of my water, I tell Father Liam about the massacre in the San Francisco apartment and how I feel unusually attached to the child I held in my arms.

“I did see that—­and you—­on the television. I wouldn't wish that on anyone, finding something like that. But with that said, your attachment to that child appears to be a normal reaction for someone who has been through what you have,” he says.

Maybe I should fire my expensive therapist and turn to Father Liam exclusively. I brush that thought aside. I came to him for a more spiritual reason today.

“Do you think you could bless this for me?” I hold out the medal in my palm.

He takes it from me. “Ah, St. Gerard. Is there something I should know?” His eyes twinkle, but his brows crease in consternation when he sees the answer on my face. He quickly amends what he said. “Well, it never hurts to pray, my dear. I'd be happy to bless it.”

I'm afraid to meet his eyes and see the sympathy in them, so I stare at the round heels of my pumps. Father Liam lifts my chin with two fingers until I meet his eyes.

“Now, now.”

“I know you said it's not true, but—­”

“It's not true. I told you that's not a possibility. And it's not up for discussion.” His clipped accent puts an end to the conversation.

He's sick of hearing it, and I don't blame him. I've told him several times that I'm convinced my miscarriage and inability to conceive is my punishment for killing two ­people.

He will have nothing to do with that idea.

I leave a few minutes later with the medal tucked into the neckline of my blouse, nestled against my miraculous medal. I finger them both as I drive toward San Francisco. As Father Liam said, “It never hurts to pray.”

 

Chapter 26

O
NCE
I
PULL
into North Beach, I'm restless. Donovan is staying at his own place tonight whenever he gets home. This homicide he's working is all consuming. We've been together two years, so I should be used to it, but for some reason I've found I'm less and less understanding.

The thought of sitting in my apartment alone is stifling.

Within twenty minutes I'm cruising the placid streets of Noe Valley, a family-­friendly neighborhood in the city, chock full of row houses and small stores on its main road. I ignore the alarms going off in my head warning me that looking for Lucy is bordering on crazy town.

I drive past Eric's Chinese restaurant on Church Street and glance into the window of a little Santeria shop that sells potions and candles. For half a second, I'm tempted to stop and see if they have any spells for baby making, but imagining Father Liam's face when I confess this keeps me driving.

At one point, passing a woman with several kids, including a baby in a stroller, I slam on my brakes and wait for them to walk past, even though cars are honking behind me. When the woman gets close, I can see that the stroller holds a little boy in a baseball cap. After a few more false alarms like that, I finally admit I'm acting irrational and head back to my part of town.

Back in North Beach, I park and hit the streets, wrapping my new turquoise scarf loosely around my neck.

October is usually my favorite time of year in the city. It's a little-­known secret locals don't like to divulge—­summer in the city is the pits: rife with tourists and bitter-­cold fog and wind. Mark Twain got it right when he said, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.”

Fall in the city is the best time of year. It's when the fog clears and the warmth of the sun's rays soak into bare skin. But this year it seems like a shadow of its former self. The East Bay is unseasonably warm, and the city is abnormally cold.

Tonight, even with the chill in the air, the streets of North Beach are teeming with diners and shoppers and strollers taking their
passeggiata
—­nightly stroll—­before dinner. In the old country, even in the smallest villages of Italy, whole families dressed to the nines and strolled the promenade or the town plaza, catching up on local gossip, news, and admiring one another before a late dinner. Romances and business deals alike were made during
la passeggiata
.

It is a chance to see and be seen, to create
la bella figura
.

In San Francisco, some of the old-­school Italians still stroll, but mainly the old-­timers plant themselves at sidewalk cafés to chitchat while nursing a beer or glass of wine. Usually this makes me smile, but tonight it just makes me jealous, seeing everyone greeting one another as I walk alone. Although I often see friends, today all the faces I see are those of strangers.

I stop at Molinari's deli, where I fill my market basket with some rotini pasta noodles, a small, expensive tin of Donovan's favorite amaretto cookies, and an Italian sub. At City Lights bookstore, I pick up the latest Anna Gavalda book and head home.

Sitting out on my balcony, I put my sub sandwich on a china plate and one of my nana's handmade, rose-­patterned cloth napkins in my lap, and pour myself some cabernet sauvignon. One glass of wine won't hurt, since I'm not pregnant this month anyway. Unfortunately, the sub tastes like cardboard in my mouth, and I work hard to chew some and swallow. I'm tempted to give up, but I take another bite instead and wash it down with wine. Take another bite, wash it down. Repeat. The only thing that goes down easily is the glass of wine. I didn't realize until now how much I missed drinking wine while trying to get pregnant.

On the drive home across the Bay Bridge, I vowed to myself that tonight I would pamper myself, relax, not think about saving Lucy from her father, not obsess about finding the man who kidnapped my sister, and ignore the aching hollow in my midsection that once held a life.

But after refilling my wineglass a few times to get the sub down, all bets are off.

I'm at my computer looking up Joey Martin's name, but I find nothing.

After using all the search engines I can, I give up. I have a call in to Liz, the news researcher at the newspaper, to see if she can dig up any dirt on him.

Maybe she's found something new. I check my work e-­mail. Nothing from Liz, but my heart starts to beat wildly when I see an e-­mail from Anderson: FA2858.

This time, the subject line says,
An eye for an eye?

Why the question mark? I click it open.

This time the Bible verse is Romans 12:17–19.

“Repay no one evil for evil, but give thought to do what is honorable in the sight of all. If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.' ”

Is he warning me not to seek justice for the Mission Massacre, or not to seek justice for Caterina's murder? It doesn't matter. Before I die, I will seek justice for both. I still don't know how he found me, but I vow to make it his downfall if I can.

I forward the e-­mail to the detective. A tiny flicker of guilt zings through me as I remember Donovan's happy face asking me to let it go and concentrate on being pregnant. I flick it aside. I'm not pregnant anymore. There is no reason not to go after Anderson with everything I've got.

I search through the trash file on my computer to find the old e-­mail he sent me with the subject line
Thou Shalt Not Kill.
This time nothing will stop me from reading it.

Again, inside the e-­mail there is nothing but Bible verses. This time three of them:

James 4:2—­You want something but don't get it. You kill and covet, but you cannot have what you want.

James 5:6—­You have condemned and murdered the innocent one, who was not opposing you.

John 3:15—­Anyone who hates a brother or sister is a murderer, and you know that no murderer has eternal life residing in him.

It's as if he knows me, and knows how the weight of the men I killed weighs so heavily on my soul. At first the verses send a chill through me, but then I grow angry. How dare he? How dare he, who is a murderer, judge me?

I shoot off an angry e-­mail to the detective assigned to Caterina's case.

What is going on with my sister's case? I haven't heard from you in months. I've sent you three e-­mails now, including the one I sent a few seconds ago. What are you doing about them? This is the man who killed my sister, and he's taunting me. If you won't do something about it, I will.

Feeling a bit better, I hit send. If he doesn't respond, maybe I'll show up in person.

Looking over my shoulder—­even though I know I'm alone—­I punch in Frank Anderson's name and hit search. Guilt streaks through me, but I brush it off. When nothing comes up online about Anderson, I grow weary. My eyes are heavy. My legs feel like lead, my mind, dull and gray.

I close my computer and crawl under my covers.

But as soon as I get in bed, I'm wide awake, my mind whirring along, analyzing the e-­mails.

I bet the detective isn't convinced the e-­mails are from Anderson. How can I prove it? I know the initials “F.A.” stand for Frank Anderson. But what does “2858” stand for? I've racked my brains for the past two months trying to figure out what it might mean.

I switch my light back on, take a small key, and unlock a drawer in my desk. Inside, I unearth a worn manila folder. It contains all the information about Caterina's kidnapping and murder. I've looked at all the documents so many times I nearly have them memorized. In fact, I just read them two weeks ago, but I pick them up again and reread them.

On the third time skimming the documents, I pause on an arrest record for Anderson, when he got caught sneaking into a little girl's house and masturbating in her room. Her dad came home early and beat the crap out of Frank until the cops showed.

Reading the arrest record makes me the tiniest bit happy. I like reading how the father beat Anderson to a pulp. I think he even had to have reconstructive surgery on his face. Good. He tried to sue the father for assault, but a judge threw the case out. Are they going to side with a veteran? Or a pedophile?

Starting from the top, I read every box on the arrest report. At first, I skip right over the box marked “birthdate.” 2-­8-­1958, which can also be written 2-­8-­58. FA2858. It's him. It is a message. He wanted to let me know that it
is
him.

After I find myself falling asleep sitting in front of the computer, I crawl back into bed. Before I turn out the light, I study the picture of Caterina on my nightstand. Each night her picture reminds me that her death remains unavenged. For now.