Blessed Are Those Who Weep (7 page)

 

Chapter 14

I
FRANTICALL
Y
CLAW
for the doorknob behind me, but it's too late. A weight slams into me in the dark, crushing me back against the wooden door. A gloved hand closes over my mouth, stifling my scream. My hand is on the doorknob behind me, and I have it twisted. If I can get our weight off the door, I can open it.

Clawing for the eyes, my fingernails scrape against bare cheeks. I bite through the gloves and meet flesh at the same time my knee connects with the man's groin. He grunts and yanks at my hair, tugging so tightly that tears spring to my eyes. As he yanks me away from the door, my hand is still grasping the twisted doorknob. The momentum of him pulling away as I hold the doorknob sends the door careening open. The scream building inside me lets loose at the same time light from the hall illuminates my assailant's face. Bushy eyebrows and full lips. Eyes narrowed with hate. The same face I saw in the wedding photograph with Maria.

Joey Martin.

His eyes widen as my scream goes on and on. Within seconds, doors down the hallway are opening, and he has scrambled off me and is gone. Without thinking, I clamber to my feet and chase him, heading straight to the bathroom. I climb in the tub and peer out the window in time to see a stocky figure in black leap off the bottom of the telephone pole beside the building. Something drops from his waist, but he doesn't seem to notice. Instead, he gives one glance up and darts around a small fence, right when the sound of sirens fills the air.

Then I'm down in the alley, searching in the leaves.

I find a small, metal, pointy thing.

It's like a metal stick with a sharp end like a stake. The gunmetal gray has ridges in it, like a piece of bamboo. The entire object is about the shape and size of a marker. I tuck it in my pocket as the police come charging around the corner with guns drawn.

K
HOURY
SITS
AC
ROSS
from me at her desk. She is not amused.

I'm not under arrest, but she wanted me to come down to the station to tell my story.

I already told her the whole story earlier, when she first showed up at the apartment. I told her how Mrs. Castillo thinks Joey Martin killed her daughter and that he is in town, not in Iraq. For a short time, she believed me enough to order an officer to pry up the floorboard in the closet. When the officer lifted the board, we all leaned down to see.

There was nothing there.

Now, back in her office, I can tell that Khoury won't believe anything else I have to say.

“It was him, I swear. It was Joey Martin.”

“He's in Iraq,” she says in a monotone.

I have one chance left to convince her. Digging in my bag, I hand her the piece of metal.

“He dropped this when he was running away from the apartment. I know I've probably corrupted the chain of evidence, but if it has his prints on it, will you believe me?”

She doesn't answer, just puts on gloves and drops the metal stick in a plastic bag, which she seals.

“The fact that it was outside their apartment is not incriminating in itself. He did live there, right? It wouldn't be unusual to find one of his possessions either in the apartment or outside it, right?”

My excitement fades. She's right.

“But he attacked me.”

The look she gives me tells me she is not convinced.

“You're lucky I believe you were attacked, because I hate to break this to you, but you're not looking so squeaky clean yourself right now.”

My eyes widen as I take in what she means. “What are you trying to say?”

She clears her throat. “You found the bodies. You were in the apartment again tonight. You found some so-­called weapon. Your prints are all over the crime scene and now on a potential weapon.”

Weapon?

“The only reason I'm entertaining any notion that you're telling the truth is because you're Sean Donovan's girl and he did something for me once. I owe him—­and you get to benefit from that.”

She pushes a stack of four-­by-­six photos toward me. “Prove you saw Joey Martin there.”

All of the photos are of men in army uniforms. I find him immediately. The blood rushes to my face, and my fingers shake as I pick up a photo of a man with full lips and bushy eyebrows.

“This is the guy who attacked me.”

She nods. She believes me.

“Has anyone shown you a picture of him before?”

My heart sinks. The wedding picture Mrs. Castillo loaned me is still in my bag.

“Yes.”

She presses her lips tightly together. “I don't know who you saw, but Joey Martin is in Iraq. He's coming home a week from Friday on leave so he can get his child out of CPS care,” she says. “She'll be with family again instead of strangers. You should be happy to hear that.”

I shake my head. “He's here. It's been three days since the murders. He could have flown home by now. And if you ask his mother-­in-­law, she'll tell you he was here at the time of the murders.”

Her eyes narrow. “So you're not only saying the U.S. military is lying to the San Francisco Police Department but that Joey Martin killed his entire family?”

“Maybe.”

We have a stare down. She squints, as if she can see into my soul, before leaning back in her chair and exhaling.

“I'll play devil's advocate here for a second, and let's suppose that you are right. Even if you are, there is nothing we can do about it. He's heavily alibied. He was overseas. Iraq. The U.S. Army is vouching that he has been in Iraq since March.”

“The military is lying.” My voice is shaking.

She studies me for a few minutes. I wonder if she's remembering how I refused to turn over Lucy the first time we met. Does she think I'm too stubborn to listen to reason? Leaning forward, she shuffles some papers on her desk without looking away from me.

“The military is not going to lie about this, Ella.” I cringe at her using my nickname, reserved for family only. The look Khoury gives me is a combination of pity and condescension. It makes me wonder what she knows about me. What she's heard. I stare at her until she speaks again. “I'm sorry. I know you personally want this case solved, but you can't want it any more than I do.”

“What if he was actually here during the murders, despite what the military says? Would he be a suspect then?” I don't blink, and her gaze doesn't falter.

“Mrs. Castillo may hate her son-­in-­law, but that doesn't make him a murderer.” She waves her hand, dismissing my words.

“What if she's right?”

“You mean what if some elderly woman is right and the U.S. military is wrong? Well, that would be interesting, wouldn't it?”

I give her a stony stare and stand to leave.

“Are you guys even going to search his parents' apartment?”

“My men already did.”

But I see a flicker of doubt cross her brow. She's not sure they did, is she?

In my car, my cell rings. I don't recognize the number.

“Giovanni,” I say.

“Give me motive,” Khoury says. “Why would Martin kill not only his wife but his parents, his sister, and his nephew as well? Give me one reason, and I'll shift gears.”

“I'll get back to you,” I say quietly and hang up.

D
RIVING
HOME
, I
pound the steering wheel in frustration.

I know what I saw. Joey Martin is here. He was in his apartment. What was he doing? What was he looking for? The letters under the floorboard? Did he get to them first?

The military is lying for him. To protect him? His own mother-­in-­law called him a devil. She said she would give her life to prevent Lucy from ending up in his hands. I believe her when she said the baby is in danger. And there is no doubt that Mrs. Castillo is afraid, terrified.

I worry I've ruined my credibility with Khoury. Now I've got to find proof of my own.

Because a week from Friday—­in twelve days—­they are turning Lucy over to a man who might have massacred five ­people, including his own parents. Meanwhile, that little girl has been with strangers in a foster home for the past three days and will end up spending two full weeks there. The realization hits me that staying in foster care might now be the safest place for her.

 

Chapter 15

L
OPEZ
MEETS
ME
at Peet's Coffee on Lakeshore Monday morning near Donovan's apartment. I called Donovan to see if he wanted me to bring him a coffee, but he was already at work and too busy to talk, asking if he could call me back.

I'm a little relieved. I don't want to hear his reaction when I tell him I was attacked last night at the Martin apartment and had to go to the cop shop to give a witness statement that was barely believed.

Lopez and I park ourselves on the bench in front of the coffee shop. I hand him the double espresso I sprung for to get him out of bed so early. Lopez usually sleeps in late after staying up most of the night listening to the police scanner.

He takes a long gulp of hot coffee that would burn anyone else's throat and drums his fingers on the back of the metal bench.

“What's up, man? Let's see it?” The foot in his steel-­toed combat boot taps the ground.

I sigh with frustration. “I turned it over to the cops.” I describe what it looked like. “Seen anything like that before?”

Lopez lights up. “Kubaton.”

“God bless you,” I say.

“It's a weapon. A martial-­arts weapon. You can jab it in the neck or rib cage, but you also can take a little fold of skin between the metal and your thumb at the armpit or throat or inner thigh, and it feels like a little electric shock. Bring a big dude to his knees.”

“Nice.” I have new respect for that tiny scrap of metal I found. “Where can you get one of these?”

“A dojo.” A martial-­arts studio.

“Know any dojos around here that might carry one like this?”

“Sure, man.”

He reels off the names of several dojos in Oakland and San Francisco.

“Think it's worth checking every one?” I ask.

He grabs his phone. “Stand by.”

Within about ten minutes, he's narrowed it down to four in Oakland and two in San Francisco that might sell kubatons.

We split up. He has to shoot the San Francisco Giant's game this afternoon, so he offers to take the San Francisco dojos. My job is Oakland.

Before he leaves, he hands me a key. A bump key he made for me by carefully sanding down the grooves. Now I really am a burglar.

The first dojo is on fancy, yuppie Piedmont Avenue, across the street from the famous Fentons Creamery. The woman who runs this dojo knows exactly what I'm looking for, but she says she hasn't seen one for years, not since she was in Japan.

The next stop is on the border of Berkeley and Oakland. The kid inside takes my card and says he'll have his father call me. The third dojo has a
FOR
L
EASE
sign in its window.

My fourth stop is at the dojo in Oakland's Chinatown. A small door has the dojo's name on it—­Kocho Bujutsu Dojo—­but the door is locked, and nobody answers when I punch the doorbell ringer a few times. The street is busy with ­people chattering as they go about shopping and taking lunch breaks.

On the sidewalk out front, an odd-­looking chair on wheels sits next to a pile of trash. It smells like rotten produce from the shop next door. And stale beer. On the other side, braids of bread hang in the front window of a bakery called See Yee Yum.

The screen door clangs shut behind me as I enter. The ripe smell of the street is replaced by something sweet and fresh. A long, narrow walkway borders bakery cases that almost extend the length of the shop. At the far end sits a single bistro table and a refrigerator full of American sodas. Inside the bakery cases are all sorts of unidentifiable pastries. Even though I'm not hungry, the bakery smells amazing—­a combination of fresh baked bread and barbecue.

A small woman in a crisp white shirt with rolled-­up sleeves looks up at me without smiling.

“Can I help you?”

“What do you recommend?” I ask, while the woman busies herself rearranging pastries with a pair of tongs.

“Pork bun,” she says matter-­of-­factly without looking up.

“I'll take two.”

While she packages them up, I ask about Kocho Bujutsu Dojo. She tells me the dojo is on the second story, above her bakery.

“Do you know what time it opens?”

The woman looks over my shoulder, as if she is thinking. “Sometimes not till five, but most of time, they are open by two.”

It's noon. I'll come back later.

“One dollar.” She hands me a white bag with the top neatly folded shut.

I rummage around in my bag and extract a wrinkled dollar, which I try to smooth out before I hand it to her. “Best deal in town,” I say.

Finally she cracks a smile. “You try first.”

Outside, I cross the street and eye the bank of windows above the bakery. It could be my imagination, but for a split second, I think I see a shadow move in front of the window.

I stare for a few seconds longer before I head to my car.

 

Chapter 16

I'
M
FINISHING
UP
my profile story about Maria Martin when Liz, the news researcher, comes over to my desk. In my story, based on what Mrs. Castillo told me, I've painted a portrait of a sweet woman who studied nursing in the hopes of living a life devoted to helping others. Now she's dead.

Liz watches as I swallow my last bite of pork bun. A small paper bag holds another pork bun. I was crazy to think I could eat two of them. Last year, I would've been able to scarf six of these puppies down in the blink of an eye. Now, I'm forcing myself to eat.

Liz smiles. Her soft brown eyes twinkle behind her purple eyeglass frames. She wears her signature long flowing skirt and Birkenstocks, like a real Berkeley hippie should.

“You kill me,” she says. “The way you love food is practically pornographic.”

Guilt streaks through me. She doesn't know my appetite flew the coop after my miscarriage. I hold up the paper bag. “You're in luck. I was saving this pork bun for the best news researcher west of the Mississippi.”

Her smile fades. “I haven't found anything recently on Frank Anderson. I know you told me not to look anymore, but I can't help it. I can't give up. I have to check at least once a week.”

“Thanks, Liz.” I grow quiet for a moment. The pity and warmth in her big brown eyes make me slightly weepy. I change the subject. “You're going to love this!” I wave the bag.

“Sugar, you know me. I never pass up pork buns.” She takes the bag from me with a smile.

“That's because you're my type of woman.”

I start to open my e-­mail in-­box. She remains standing there, so I look up. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I thought you were just coming by to say hello.”

“This probably doesn't mean anything . . .”

I wait.

“I heard something on the scanner this morning when I was walking by. I couldn't tell what department it was, but it was talking about a DOA, and I'm pretty sure they said something like it might be connected to the Mission deal.”

“Thanks. I'll try to track it down.”

She walks away. Another body connected to the massacre four days later? And it might be connected? Maybe the killer committed suicide? Or did the killer knock off someone else? And is it Joey Martin? Is he the killer?

Before she turns to leave, I dial the cell phone number for Brian, my source at the morgue.

“May the force be with you
.
”

“You working the morgue?”

“You will find that it is you who are mistaken . . . about a great many things.”

“What? Is that another
Star Wars
quote? I told you I don't remember that movie. So you're
not
at the morgue?”

“Search your feelings.”

“Heard something about a DOA that might be connected to Mission Massacre? Is it in your county?”

“These aren't the droids you're looking for.”

“I'm going to assume that means no. Can you find where it is? Will you try to help me?”

“Try not. Do . . . or do not. There is no try.”

I say thanks and hang up.

A few seconds later, my cell phone rings. I rummage around in my bag. It's Donovan.

“Hey.” His voice is low and warm and comforting.

“Hey yourself,” I say in a whisper. “I never got a chance to thank you for the medal.”

He waits a moment before answering. “Sorry. This murder has been brutal.”

I don't answer.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

“It's beautiful.”

“I think we got a lead on the killer. I know we're close.” he says. “My sister, Mary Jo, said she wore a medal like that after her . . . you know. And that it comforted her and she wore it the whole time she was pregnant with Ben.”

I press my lips together. “Thanks.”

“Listen, I've got to run. I'll try to be home early tonight.”

“Wait,” I say, before he hangs up. “Have you heard anything about a DOA that might be connected to . . . the Mission slayings?”

“Sorry, I've been feet on the street tracking leads. I can ask around.”

I disconnect, but hug the phone to my chest for a few seconds before placing it in its cradle.

Glancing at the photograph of my sister on my desk, I feel guilty that I've been thinking more about that black-­eyed baby than her.

I was only six when Caterina, older than me by fourteen months, was kidnapped out of our front yard. Her body was found eight days later, in a rural area, by off-­road bicyclists. My father never got a chance to learn this—­he dropped dead of a heart attack three days after she disappeared. The doctor blamed it on the stress of my sister's kidnapping.

My world dimmed the day my sister was kidnapped. I've fought my entire life to press back the dark shadows that have hovered around me ever since. It has only been in the past few years that I've faced my sister's death head-­on and tried to move past it. Donovan has helped. In so many ways. Not only by being a solid presence in my life, supporting me at every turn, but also by investigating her murder.

Last year we got a lead on Caterina's killer that pointed us to a man named Frank Anderson. This man bragged to another inmate in prison that he had killed my sister. By the time we found out, he'd been paroled. We found him by searching the property records of his girlfriend. Both him and his girlfriend were on the lam, but when we arrived at the house, traces of him squatting there were obvious. It is so frustrating to think I was within a hairsbreadth of finding him—­I walked into an empty house seconds after he escaped out a window. He's been underground ever since.

Now that he's loose on the streets, he's in my sights. I'm not done with him yet. Even though I told Donovan I'd let go of actively investigating him, I can't stop thinking about it. I'm relieved that Liz hasn't stopped, either.

Losing the baby sent me plunging back into the despair that has haunted me every so often in this life. I'm often able to set it aside, but there have been a few times I've been immersed in the darkness and barely escaped with my life.

The last few nights were the first in months that I didn't fall asleep thinking about Caterina.

Now all I can think about is Lucy in the arms of a killer.