Blessed Are Those Who Weep (15 page)

 

Chapter 33

“I
T
'
S
HIM
.”

Khoury doesn't need to identify herself. It's early, and I'm still in bed, putting off getting ready. Tossing and turning over my argument with Donovan last night did not bode well for an early start. He's angry, and I don't blame him. But I'm angry, as well. I can't change for him. He knew what he was getting into when we started dating.

“The prints were a match,” Khoury says. “And the kubaton has blood spatter from his wife, his father, and his nephew. All on that little piece of metal. I think it might have been attached to his belt during the attack.”

Blood spatter? She tested it for blood spatter. Not just fingerprints. And found evidence. She believes me. “Thank God,” I say, hopping out of bed. I begin filling my moka pot with water and ground coffee. “So, he
was
there. He
was
in town. I did see him. But how do we prove it?”

She graciously ignores me saying “we.”

“I'm officially ‘off' the case since the arrest,” she says. “But I haven't let go of it for one second—­something about Carol Abequero struck me as wrong from the beginning. She didn't kill all those ­people. My gut tells me that, even though the evidence is so strong against her.”

I don't know why I'm so relieved to hear it. It would be better for Lucy if her father
were
innocent. Holding the phone between my ear and shoulder, I rummage in my breadbox for some leftover baguette. “What evidence?”

“Something solid on her. But I think there is a good chance she's being framed. It was almost too damn easy.”

“Can you tell me what they have on her?” I hold my breath, but I know she's going to spill it, because somewhere along the line it became “us” against “them.”

“I'm not even supposed to talk to the press. I sure as hell can't give you confidential police information that will make or break a case.”

“Oh, come on.” I slam the breadbox shut. “Who are you protecting? You know you need me on your side. When this whole thing is blown out of the water, you'll be the hero. I'll splash your picture all over the front page.”

It almost sounds like she laughs. “The sword.”

“You're shitting me.”

“In her backyard. Buried in the dirt. Her fingerprints were the only thing found on it besides the victims' blood.”

“How the hell would they plant evidence or fake that?” I stick a slice of bread in the toaster oven and pour some milk into a pot on the stove.

“Believe me, they could do it,” Khoury says. “Think about it. Whoever can get the U.S. Army to lie to the police department can surely plant evidence pointing to her. Here's the thing. There is some blood on it—­still determining whether it is the victims' blood—­and her prints, but the thing is brand new. It had a sticky spot, like there had been a price tag recently removed. I don't think it's the same sword that killed the Martin family.”

In the kitchen, the water is percolating. The apartment has that fresh coffee smell I love so much. I pour myself an espresso and add the hot milk. Now that Khoury believes me and is on my side, I tell her everything, including what Moretti's friend in Iraq said—­how Martin was part of the most elite military organization the country has and that he was supposed to be
persona non grata
. “But Lieutenant General Cooper was told to tell anyone who asked that Martin was on base,” I finish.

“Motherfucker.” She clears her throat. “It all makes sense. My father is ex-­Army. Big shot in the Army. He made some calls. His buddies were afraid to talk, but finally he got a hold of one, who said that Joey Martin has been AWOL since before the murders.”

“Is this on the record?”

“I'm afraid not. I'm looking into it more. I have no idea why I'm telling you any of this. You're the media.”

Instead of answering, I rinse out my coffee cup. I know why she's telling me. She needs someone on her side. But I don't say this. Instead, I make light of it.

“I'm not
the media
. Do I have big hair, stilettos, and a truckload of makeup on? No? Those are the TV reporters. I'm newspaper. We have ethics. Haven't you heard about reporters going to jail to protect their sources? Well, you're one of my sources. You're good.”

“Still.” She is quiet for a second, probably mentally kicking herself for talking to me at all. “And I'm not telling you all this because I want some glory in the paper when I'm proven right. I'm trusting you because of Sean.”

I'll take it.

“And you should know Sean called me. Whoever pulled you over that day wasn't one of ours. Somebody has something to prove with you. So why don't you let us do our job?” She doesn't say it in a mean way, either.

But I don't need her advice.

“Thank you for your concern, but I can handle myself.” I change the subject. “What next?”

There is silence for a few seconds.

“Arrest the real killer.”

M
Y
FIRST
STOP
in the newsroom is Liz, who usually works Saturdays. Donovan is working today, and there's no way I can stay home when I know Joey Martin is going to take custody of Lucy in six days unless I do something about it.

“Hi, sugar,” she says, peering at me over her glasses. “So, got this hit on what might be Frank Anderson. It was in L.A.—­woman and her boyfriend came home early from a trip, dropped off their luggage, and went out to dinner. When they came home, saw someone standing in their kitchen window. Her boyfriend freaked out, screaming, and the man slipped out the back door. But in the bedroom, they found a bunch of her underwear missing. Here's a copy of the police report. He didn't leave any prints, either, which makes it seem like he's done this before, so it might be Anderson even though the victim wasn't a child and he didn't do his . . . you know . . . usual thing.”

Masturbating on the panties
.

“Thanks, Liz.”

“Not so fast,” she says. “I couldn't find a damn thing on that Carol Abequero, though. It would help if we knew her maiden name. Looks like she married in Mexico, but there's no record of her under her married or maiden name.”

Damn.

My next stop is Kellogg, who doesn't usually work Saturdays but is busy overseeing coverage of game six of the World Series while the sports editor is at the ballpark. If the San Francisco Giants win today against the Anaheim Angels, it's all over.

“Got a sec?”

It takes him a minute to look up from his green screen. “Yeah, sure.”

“Can we talk in the conference room?” He reluctantly eyes the big-­screen TV. It's only pregame coverage. He has another hour before the first pitch.

The desk creaks as he pushes his chair back and stands, grabbing his cup of coffee and some papers. My heart is pounding for no reason, and I sense eyes boring into my back as we walk.

I shut the door. He relaxes into a swiveling chair at the head of the table and starts pivoting in his seat. He's anxious to get this over with, I can tell.

“Sorry for the dramatics, but I don't want anyone else to overhear.”

“They can't help it. Reporters are naturally nosy.” He raises an eyebrow. “Not excluding present company.”

Fair enough.

“I might have a lead on the Mission Massacre killer.”

He stops swiveling. “Go on.”

“I think it's the husband.”

“They made an arrest, Giovanni.” He gives a big sigh but hasn't stood up yet. He strokes his beard and continues. “Let me get this straight. We're talking about the same husband, right? The one alibied by the military?” Anyone else would have said it with a heavy dose of doubt and sarcasm, but Kellogg says it plainly, and this encourages me to go on.

“Even the lead detective says this might be the tip of the iceberg. That the military is lying for some bigger reason.” Khoury didn't say that
exactly,
but that's where she was going. He waits without fidgeting. “And there is evidence. I found this thing, this military weapon, called a kubaton. She ran it for prints and blood. His prints. His wife, nephew, and father's blood.”

“This is good stuff, Giovanni. What's next?” He takes a sip of his coffee and glances at the clock on the wall.

“We wait to see what Khoury does with this evidence. Meanwhile, how will I go after the military?”

He squints and frowns. Finally, he shakes his head. “I don't know. But I think your instincts are right. If they are lying for this guy, there is probably a reason, a reason that could get you killed. Didn't the sheriff grant you a permit to carry and conceal last year?”

“Yes.” But I'm not carrying a gun ever again if I can help it. If you have a gun, it means you're willing to kill someone.

“Well, you probably want to be packing,” he says. “I don't like any of this, and I don't know exactly what to do about it right now.”

I was afraid he'd say that. I was hoping he could give me some direction. Unlike some editors, Kellogg rose up from the trenches of cops reporting after years of covering corruption in South Central L.A., where he grew up. If anyone could come up with a good idea to prove the military wrong, it'd be him. But he has nothing.

“And really, when you think about it, going after the military on this will be the cops' job, as well,” he finally says. “The most you can hope for is to be on the inside, to be the first reporter to get the scoop.”

“Yeah,” I say, but I'm disappointed. I want more than just the scoop. I want to prove the military lied to the police, and I want to know why.

 

Chapter 34

T
HROUGHOUT
S
UNDAY
DINNER
at Nana's, I catch my mother looking at me across the crowded table. Her forehead is crinkled with worry. There are about twenty of us sprawled at the tables stretched under the grape arbor and nestled along the patio. My mom and I are at different tables, and despite the uproarious laughter and conversation, I can tell she is not happy. Every time our eyes meet, I smile and look away and take a bite of my pasta or bread. But I'm not fooling anyone.

By the time the tiramisu and cannoli have made the rounds, I'm a bundle of nerves, anxious for the showdown with my mother. I pick at my mom's chocolate chip cannoli, something I normally eat with relish. When we're in the kitchen cleaning up after the meal, Donovan darts a glance at me and catches me sliding the cannoli into the trash.

Most of the afternoon is spent huddled around the TV watching game seven of the World Series. When the Giants lose, the mood grows somber, and the men all gather to inspect Nana's house.

Every year, my uncles and brothers and cousins weatherproof Nana's house for the winter. Nana has lived alone here for years and does quite well on her own in the sprawling stone house surrounded by vineyards. She spends her days tending her flowers and giant backyard vegetable garden. Every fall, family members show up on a certain Sunday to rake leaves, clean her gutters, and do any necessary upkeep and handiwork. It's an annual October tradition.

After most ­people have gone home, my sister-­in-­law Sally and I finish washing and drying the dishes. Nana hovers so she can oversee where everything goes. Giving her a supervisory role is the only way we can stop her from doing the dishes herself. She already spends every Saturday making giant vats of sauce. It was only a few months ago that we finally talked her out of making the meatballs herself.

Now, several of us grandchildren take turns spending Saturday afternoons forming ten pounds of beef into dozens of meatballs to feed the family. It has quickly become a tradition that the kids in the family love. Not only do they get to spend a few precious hours alone with Nana but she always saves a half pound of the meat to make the kids
polpettines
—­mini meatballs that are salted right out of the frying pan and popped into mouths for a delicious treat.

When it's time to leave, my mother follows me out to my car. “Do you have a second?” she asks. I was silly to think I could avoid this conversation. “I'm worried about you.” She presses her lips tightly together.

“Mama, I'm fine.” I lean back against my car, feeling the warmth of sun-­warmed metal against my back.

“That clearly is not true.” She flings her arms toward me in frustration. “Have you taken a good look at yourself lately?”

I look past her over her shoulder at some vines creeping up the side of my grandmother's house. She's right. I was in the bathroom a few minutes ago and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My brown hair is lank and lackluster. My skin's sallow, my eyes sunken, with purple bags. My clothes are droopy and ill-­fitting. Yeah. I look like shit. What does she expect?

“I'm fine, Mama. I'm just dealing with some stuff.” Donovan and I agreed to not tell my mother about the miscarriage. And I'm glad. Her heartbreak over it would have made everything that much worse.

“Dealing with what stuff? If this is what your job does to you, you need to seriously consider changing careers. It's not just about you anymore. You have a man who loves you now, and you need to take his feelings into consideration.”

He talked to her about me, didn't he? The heat creeps across my cheeks. I catch a glimpse of Donovan trying to make his way outside Nana's house—­one foot inside, one out. When I left, he was politely trying to say good-­bye to one of my uncles who was telling a tale about the San Francisco Giants.

“Mama, I'm fine.” If I say it enough times, will she believe me?

“I think you need to see a doctor.”

“I'm going to see Marsha. Soon.”

“I mean a physical doctor. A physician. I'm worried about you. We all are.”

Donovan did talk to her.

“Mama”—­I turn to her and hold her hands—­“I haven't felt like myself lately. But as soon as I find the man who killed that family, I'll be fine. I just need to find who killed them. I just need to make sure that he's punished.”

I've said something wrong. My mother draws back with a frightened look on her face.

“Listen to yourself, you—­”

“Ma,” I interrupt.

“Let me finish.” Her voice is firm, and I close my mouth. “Take a minute and listen to yourself. Donovan was right. You are obsessed with this case. You need to take a vacation. If I have to, I'll call your boss.”

“Editor.”

“Editor. Whatever.” She throws her hands in the air. “I'll call him and tell him you need some time off.”

A smile grows wider on her face as she warms to the idea. “In fact, that's exactly what you need. I'll call Dina at the travel agency first thing tomorrow. I'm sending you and Donovan on a vacation together. That's what you need. That will do wonders for you. When is the last time you took a vacation?”

I shrug. I know it's useless to try to resist her plans now, when she's on a roll. I'll just let her talk, let her think she has it all figured out, and then be too busy to take the vacation. A small part of me worries that she can convince Kellogg, but I'll try to get to him first.