Blessed Are Those Who Mourn (6 page)

Although many of the stories I write unearth the seedy, dark side of the world, there are days like this that reveal the basic decency and humanity so many ­people have when it comes to other ­people. I know I could probably talk to a few more neighbors, but the fire is finally out and the streets are starting to clear. This story is too close to home. The cause of the fire is under investigation, but it could have been anything. And even with working smoke alarms, the little girl still died.

I've never wanted to be anything but a reporter and I've never wanted to cover any other beat except the crime beat, but covering stories like this one might do me in. Now that Donovan and I have moved into our spendy condo, I can't afford to quit my job if I wanted to. But I just don't know if I can hack it anymore.

Being a mother has changed everything.

With a heavy heart, I find Lopez, and we head back to the office in silence.

 

Chapter 10

G
RACE IS HAPPY
to stay the night at Grandma's house. I agree with Donovan that it's smart to have her stay there. I miss her but feel better knowing she is tucked away at my mother's house, just in case Anderson is back.

I will do anything to protect my daughter and my family. It's why I take shooting lessons. And why I train in military-­style Budo martial arts. As I get to the Bay Bridge, I shoot a guilty look at the dojo in Oakland where I usually train. I've been going there for five years and am close to getting my black belt. But I haven't made it there very often these past few months. Life has become even busier lately as Grace gets older. Play dates and soccer and ballet. Thank God for my mother, who can often pick up the slack when our jobs get in the way, like tonight.

After I pay the toll and am merging into traffic on the Bay Bridge, I call Grace to say goodnight and “tuck” her in over the phone.

First I talk to my mom.

“I don't think it's really anything to worry about, but there have been two recent murders lately that have Donovan on edge,” I say. “He thinks maybe we should be a little extra careful until they get this guy. But I don't want you to worry.”

“What is going on?”

I spill it all—­everything about the murders and the Bible verse—­as I merge into traffic.

“I know it might seem a little paranoid,” I say hesitantly.

My mother is silent for a second. “No. You're right. It is better to be cautious. I wish we didn't have to be like this, but I just accept it is part of life now.”

“Thanks, Mama. I never worry about Grace when she's with you. . . . Thanks for understanding.”

I feel guilty, because a small part of me is also relieved I get to skip the morning routine with Grace tomorrow. This morning was such a disaster. I yelled at her and then felt awful about it. I know she'll be a perfect angel for Nana. She always is. What I saw this morning was a sharp reminder that every time I think I've got it together as a mother, the universe is there to remind me that I'm not even close.

When Grace gets on the line, she is very chatty, telling me all about working in the flower shop. She loves having sleepovers at my mom's house. My mother lets her help cook and then gives her ice cream for dessert.

Halfway across the bridge, I tell her it's time to say her bedtime prayers.

“Are your eyes closed?” she asks before we start.

“Sort of.” I am squinting. I obviously can't close my eyes while I'm driving. It's silly, but I don't ever want to lie to her. But, like other parents, I guess I already do lie. Case in point: The Easter bunny. The tooth fairy. Santa Claus. But those are white lies. What I really want to do is lie when she is old enough to ask me if I really killed two men.

Right now, though, my heart is full to bursting listening to her voice. That poor family whose house started on fire will never tuck in their little girl again. You can never take a minute of this life for granted. My job makes me hyperaware of the fragility of life. As a mother, I'm still learning to walk that tightrope between being overprotective and being grateful for each small magical moment I spend with my child. It's been a balancing act, reconciling the two worlds I live in.

At work, I'm pulled into the depths of darkness, talking to ­people who are grieving, or coaxing information out of convicts. When I return home at night, I'm confronted with innocence in the form of my small child, who knows nothing of the evil in this world, who is wrapped in a magical cocoon of her family's love.

Before I had Grace and even before I met Donovan, I was out drinking with some homicide detectives, and they were talking about why they stopped to have a drink every night before they went home. They needed that middle ground, that neutral space, that alcohol to serve as a barrier, a passage between dark and light—­the life of a murder cop and that of a father and husband.

Now I get it. Some days it takes me a glass of wine out on the back deck before I can enter the world of innocence within my home. Donovan gets it more than most husbands would. And I never give him beef when he stops for a drink after work.

“Mama?” Grace's voice draws me back. I pull it together enough to sound cheery as we say goodnight, making kissing noises into the phone. Then she says something that tugs at my heart.

“Mama, when are you and Daddy going to get married?”

“Did Nana tell you to say this?” I say in a teasing voice, thinking of the black velvet box.

“No,” she says and is quiet for a second.

“Does it bother you that we're not married? We told you that we love you and that we're a family no matter what, if we are married or not.”

“I know,” she says. “But Sofia and Maria and Lucia and Dominick . . . all my cousins . . . their moms and dads are married.”

Hearing her little pleading voice makes me vow to examine, at the very least, the resistance I have to getting married.

My therapist, Marsha, claims it boils down to my fear of abandonment. That for some irrational reason, deep down I believe that getting married will result in me losing Donovan.

I'm mesmerized by the red taillights of the cars in front of me, remembering what Marsha thinks about my reluctance to tie the knot. It sounds crazy. It
is
crazy. But I worry that what she says is true. Traffic has grown thick on the Bay Bridge. I should hang up and pay more attention to the road.

“Grace, let's talk about this more with Daddy. Maybe tonight or this weekend, okay? I know. We can go out to breakfast at Max's Opera Plaza and have banana nut pancakes and hot chocolate and talk about it on Saturday morning, okay?”

“Okay.” Her voice is quieter than usual.

After I hang up, I feel a mixture of sadness and guilt. I'm not sure why the idea of getting married freaks me out so much. But it does. It has ever since Donovan first brought it up years ago.

W
HEN
I
PULL
onto Grant Avenue in North Beach, I see the squad car waiting in front of our condo. I pull up opposite and roll down my window.

“I'm Gabriella Giovanni. Thanks for waiting for me,” I say. I don't recognize the cop.

“No problem. Donovan did me a solid a few years back. Plus, it's dead in the city tonight. If something big goes down, I'll have to bail, though.”

“You're staying out here all night?”

“I work until five. Got some coffee, and I'm listening to the classical music station.”

“Can I bring you something? Something to eat?”

He holds up an empty fast-­food bag and pats his belly. “I'm good to go. You go on in and get a good night's sleep.”

“Thanks.” I wonder what he'll do if he has to go to the bathroom, but I decide not to go there. Cops must have some plan for when they are on stakeout. I hit the garage door opener and pull into the private garage under our condo. Like always, I don't get out of the car until I see the garage door close behind me.

I feel a little sheepish having a cop on Code 5 stakeout outside our condo all night, but also a bit relieved after what Donovan told me about the Bible verse. I don't think I have anything to be worried about, but it's better to be safe.

Holding the kubaton that hangs from my key ring, I head toward the elevator, punching in our access code. The small, sharp, pen-­sized metal weapon can disable someone much bigger than me if I jab him in the right spot.

Upstairs, the timers we use mean the condo is lit and the soft crooning of Bono singing U2's “Sometimes You Can't Make it On Your Own” is piping from the sound system. I scoop up a meowing Dusty and head straight to the master bathroom. I lock the door behind us, then unlock the gun safe. Grabbing one of Donovan's Kel-­Tec P-­11 semiautomatic pistols, I unlock the bedroom door and quietly go from room to room, heart pounding, as I check the rest of the condo. Once I'm convinced the place is empty, I change into a tank top and sweatpants, pour myself a double shot of Absolut, and crank up the stereo, which is now playing U2's “Vertigo.”

I know I have nothing to worry about, but even the remote possibility that Anderson is back has me spooked.

Lounging on the couch with my feet up on the coffee table, I grab my chess book, read a page, then throw it down. I can't focus. I joke that my idea of peace is having the condo to myself for a few hours, cranking the music I love without anyone asking me for anything, but it's not true. Far from it. Tonight, for some reason, I'm uneasy, on edge. I turn off the stereo but regret it after every little noise seems louder than normal. I dial Donovan's cell. When he picks up, I hear voices in the background.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Wanted to let you know I'm home. Your cop buddy is out front, and once I got in, I cleared the condo. I'll sleep with a gun on the nightstand.”

He is quiet for a second. “I'll try to stop by later and grab a few hours of sleep.”

I don't answer.

“Anything else going on?” He's wondering why I called. I'm not the needy type of girlfriend who calls all the time for reassurance. I reach for the TV remote.

“I'm lonely and sort of creeped out and sad,” I say, flipping through TV channels with the volume muted.

“I thought you said you checked the apartment?” He sounds distracted.

“I did. But I miss you. And Grace,” I say and turn the TV off. At the last minute, I add in more. “And I covered a fire where a little girl died.”

Someone is talking to him, and he sounds distracted. I don't think he heard what I said about the fire. “Gotta go,” he says. “Be home by midnight.”

A few minutes later, I turn the TV back on again and flip to the news to see what the TV reporters dug up on the murder and the fire, drawing my legs up on the couch and pulling a soft blanket over me. They don't have anything I didn't already have. I flip the station to
Austin City Limits.
I don't recognize the musical act.

The next thing I know Donovan is nuzzling his unshaven jaw into my neck.

“Mmmm,” I say sleepily, reaching up to wrap my arms around him.

“Your hair smells like smoke,” he says, his low voice right next to my ear, sending a shiver through me.

“House fire.”

“Some good that would've done you,” he says, gesturing to the gun on the coffee table. “You didn't hear me come in. I even called your name.”

“Oops,” I say and tilt his head, guiding his mouth to mine.

We never make it to bed.

“M
Y NECK IS
jacked up,” Donovan says in the morning, sitting up from where our bodies are tangled on the couch. He rubs the back of his neck and grimaces.

“I know,” I say. “I've got a crink, too. I think we're too old for that.”

“Which part?” he says, his eyes full of laughter. I sit up and start kissing his neck where he's rubbing it.

“Or else we need a bigger couch,” I say.

Donovan stands and stretches.

I lean back and watch his naked body in admiration as he heads to the bathroom for his shower. I strip off my clothes and join him in the shower, and it's a long time before we come out. My fingers are like prunes by the time we are sipping espresso and munching on sourdough toast. We are still in our bathrobes, and every once in a while my wet hair drips droplets of water on the tile floor.

“This is nice—­a morning to ourselves. But is it okay if I miss Grace, too?” I say, washing down my second slice of sourdough toast with a sip of my milky cappuccino. “That fire story was heartbreaking.”

“Yeah. A damn shame.” He stands up behind me, leaning down, lifting my hair off my neck so he can kiss it. “Hey, I have an idea to take your mind off of it.”

Instead of answering, I stand and untie my robe, letting it drop to the floor.

 

Chapter 11

Tuesday

I
T'S CLOSE TO
10:00 a.m. by the time we are both dressed and ready to go. I'll stay late at work to make up for my tardy start. With my bag slung over my shoulder, I lean in to kiss Donovan good-­bye but draw back when I see the look on his face. He's at the kitchen table with the
Tribune
spread before him, and he's reading Andy Black's story about the fire. I've already read it.

Luckily, Black had the same information I had on it.

“Ella.” He pauses and takes a deep breath, and my heart stops for a second. He points to the picture of the crime scene under the bridge. “We found something in her pocket.”

I close my eyes for a second.

“Bible verse?”

He nods his head so slightly that I nearly miss it. The muscle in his jaw is working overtime, clenching and unclenching, and his eyebrows are knit together.

“Son of a bitch.” Another Bible verse. “Is she still a Jane Doe?”

He shakes his head again. “Kelly Dance, twenty-­three. College kid. DeAnza College in Cupertino.”

Despite what my gut is telling me, my mind says that there is still a chance the Bible verses might have nothing to do with me. Like West said, a lot of religious freaks kill and justify it in the name of God. I try to convince myself that it's all a coincidence, until his next words:

“She's also originally from Livermore.”

Black was right. An icy wave of cold fear travels down my spine.

Donovan stands and takes my face in his hands, searching my eyes.

“We have to consider the possibility that these murders are a message.”

Heat flushes my cheeks, and I'm suddenly dizzy.

“Anderson?” I ask, my mouth so dry the name comes out with difficulty. Now it is suddenly real, not just a fear I've kept bottled up inside.

Donovan breathes out loudly and nods. “Same Bible verse as the second e-­mail he sent you. The one about thou shalt not kill. It's like the first one—­ he shortened the verse again. ‘You have condemned and murdered the innocent one.' ”

“What are we going to do?” My voice is shaky.

Donovan shakes his head and exhales. “I'm going to figure it out. Let me make a few calls. You can go to work, but watch your back. Take Lopez out to any crime scenes with you. Grace should stay at your mom's until we know more.”

“Okay.” The word comes out as a whisper.

My phone is on the nightstand, so I head back into the bedroom. I've missed a call from my mom. When I call back, her house phone rings and rings. I glance at the clock. I feel guilty. I usually call her and Grace first thing in the morning on the nights Grace sleeps over, but instead I forgot because I was getting busy with Donovan.

When her voice mail picks up, I leave a message.

“Mama? That second body had another Bible verse. I hate this so much, but we should probably be careful. Maybe stay home from work today. And you should probably tell Marco and Dante.”

I hang up and cringe. My family hates my job for good reason. I've put their lives in danger more than once. The worst was when Jack Dean Johnson kidnapped my niece Sofia. Even though she was rescued before anything bad happened, I'm still filled with guilt over that.

“I left a message for my mom, but maybe I should just skip work today and spend the day with them?” I say to Donovan.

“Sure, you could do that,” he says, absentmindedly reading the paper.

I bite my lip, thinking. I'm unsure. Am I overreacting? After all, my mom's house is secure.

Glancing down at the
Tribune
spread out on the table, I see Black's story on the slaying. He interviewed the parents of the woman who was found on Roe Island Saturday. Scooped the hell out of my story. Damn it. I need something more. I have to ask even though it's going to irritate Donovan. But he knows I have a job to do. He's filling his to-­go mug with the rest of the coffee in the moka pot.

“I need to use the Bible verses. Is it going to hurt the case?” I ask Donovan.

“I doubt it, but I'll check with Beverly Anne,” he says. “Did you decide to go in to work?”

I nod, but inside I'm still uncertain.

“Grace will be fine with your mom,” he says. “You already suggested they stay home today, lay low. Her community is like Fort Freaking Knox. I'll call the rent-­a-­cops who work there and tell them to do a few extra patrols around her house if that makes you feel better.”

“Okay,” I say, telling myself it
is
okay as I head for the door. Grace is with my mother. She'll be fine. My mom's number is unlisted, and just like us, her property records for her home are under a fake name. We've lived this way my entire life. Once Caterina was taken and we learned evil does exist, we've taken precautions. Grace is safe with my mom.

My mother is very protective of Grace and very concerned with keeping her safe. It's one reason I don't send Grace to day care and have my mother watch her. Since she was born, it has been hard to trust anyone else with Grace, to get over the feeling that I'm the only one that can protect her. I've fought against this fear for years in therapy. When she was a baby, I nearly quit my job because I was worried that I needed to stay home to keep Grace safe. Marsha convinced me that this was irrational thinking and quitting my beloved job would be an extreme overreaction I would regret.

Besides, I know that other than me and Donovan, there is nobody I trust Grace with more than my mother. She won't let anything happen to her. I can't raise my daughter to live a life filled with fear, spending more time worrying than living.

I
N THE NEWSROOM,
the press release Beverly Anne sends out about the second body is not much help. Even so, I dutifully write a short story about how investigators are looking into the two deaths as the work of a serial killer.

Those two words—­“serial killer”—­will ignite their own shit storm when they appear in 24-­point type on the front page. I dial Donovan.

“My story is lame. I have to include the Bible verses. Nobody will know it is directed at me. Except us and the killer.”

He's quiet for a minute, and I can feel the tension through the phone line. “I haven't heard back from Beverly Anne to get the okay.”

“All I need to know is if this will hurt your case?”

He sighs. “Stand by.”

I hum a Replacement's song for a few minutes until he comes back on the line.

“I told them I couldn't control you, which God knows is the truth, and that you were going with the Bible verses. My lieutenant said if this blows our case, it's my ass.”

“Oh come on, do you really think that would blow your case? It's not like this is something only the killer would know. The whole crowd of cops saw the piece of paper, right?”

He's silent.

I realize this is much more than just whether it will blow his case.

“Will you be angry with me if I print it?”

I hold my breath, waiting. Even after eight years together, I'm still learning how to be part of a ­couple. I probably always will be a work in progress.

“No.” He says it so quietly I barely hear him.

“Thanks. I love you.” I hang up and rush over to Kellogg's desk to tell him about the scoop.

“How come every fucking whack job in California thinks that invoking the Bible gives him license to kill?” Kellogg says.

I shrug.

Back at my desk, I try my mom's house phone and then cell phone again, but there is no answer. I disconnect and dial the number to her flower shop.

“Hey, Jane, it's Gabriella. Is my mom there today?”

“No, she told me she was watching Grace and wouldn't be in.”

“Great, thanks.” Good, they are staying home like I suggested.

I try her house phone again. Nobody picks up, so I leave a voice mail. “Mama, will you give me a call when you get this?”

A flicker of worry runs through me, but I brush it off. Once, when my mother was watching a three-­year-­old Grace, she didn't pick up the house phone and I panicked. When her gated community's security team arrived at her house, she and Grace were in her garden in the backyard sitting on a blanket and having a tea party.

I text Donovan:
Did you make sure security is checking on my mom's place?

After I hit send, I'm ready to write my front-­page scoop.

It takes me an hour. When I'm done, I head over to the news research department. I only have a few weeks if I want to write a story about the ship graveyard for Memorial Day.

Liz, my favorite news researcher, smiles when she sees me, her soft brown eyes lighting up behind her rhinestone eyeglass frames. Over the years, Liz and I have become close friends. She is the best librarian this side of the Mississippi. She should have left the paper and retired to Florida, where her family lives, long ago, but she would never leave her tiny Berkeley bungalow and yard overflowing with flowers. Besides, she'd be bored without the thrill of the daily hunt for information.

“Hey, sugar.” She tosses her long hair, which is neatly weaved into a thick braid. When I started at the paper, her hair was brown, but now it is streaked with gray. A native Berkeley resident, she dresses in long, flowing skirts and Birkenstocks, and I suspect she might grow her own marijuana, but I've never asked.

“Anything new on Anderson?” I feel duplicitous asking after the recent killings, but Liz would be suspicious if I
didn't
ask about him.

“No, sorry.” Her eyes grow soft with pity.

Liz checks her online sources at least once a week to see if Frank Anderson has applied for a driver's license or any other type of legal documentation that might indicate his whereabouts.

Liz knows everything about my past and Anderson.

After a few minutes, I'm loaded with a stack of documents Liz printed out about the Phantom Fleet. In addition, she hands me an aerial-­view map of the fleet and the surrounding bay.

“I've always been fascinated by that ship graveyard,” she says. “I can't wait to read your story.”

When I get back to my desk, there are two messages on my cell phone—­one from my mom and one from Donovan.

My mom says she was driving and couldn't pick up. Maybe she is going to work after all. I bet Grace talked her into it. Grace loves the flower shop.
She will be fine
. The flower shop is on a crowded and fancy Main Street shopping district not far from the police substation.

Donovan's message says I should go ahead and pick up Grace after work and head home. He has arranged for an off-­duty cop to be outside our condo 24-­7 until further notice. The cop will come inside and “clear” our apartment before we go in. Every day. I hope it was the nice cop I met the other night. He didn't make me feel paranoid or silly about him being there.

I hate being babysat like this, but I'll do it if it means my daughter is kept safe.

I'm staring off into space, facing the newsroom wall with the big-­screen TV. A commercial for Baja California in Mexico is playing. The screen shows clips of a giant cactus, ­people frolicking on the beach sipping giant margaritas, and whales dipping in and out of the dark waters.

When I see the whale's hump gracefully rise and curve out of the water, it hits me.

I'm back to that day with the whale six years ago. The day I almost died and have otherwise tried to forget. I was tied to a dead man in a small boat by a crazed former cop out to seek revenge against Donovan. Before he left me alone in the middle of the ocean, he fired a gun into the bottom of my boat. As I fought against the idea of my death, a whale came to the side of the boat. When I looked into that big black eye brimming with intelligence and emotion, I made peace with the idea of my death.

Then I was rescued.

Later that night, I remembered an old wives' tale I had heard about coming face-­to-­face with a whale. Lore suggests that if you see a whale, you must go immediately to sleep and remember your dreams. When I'd heard the story, the storyteller had been cut off before she'd revealed the significance of the dream, whether it was prophetic or what. When I did fall asleep that night after I saw the whale, I had a nightmare that I've pushed back deep into a black hole in my mind.

But now, sitting at my desk in the newsroom, snippets of the dream come back.

I dreamed of a little girl laughing and playing on the beach. But then a long shadow fell on her. In my dream I couldn't see who cast the shadow, only the face of the little girl. It was filled with an unspeakable terror.

Now, remembering the dream as I sit in the newsroom, it seemed that the little girl
was
Grace. How could I have dreamed about my daughter before she was ever born? Isn't that impossible? My mind must be replacing the girl's face with my own daughter's features. Like how we think we have a memory of something from our childhood that we've seen in pictures.

Now, remembering this, I sink into my desk chair, dizzy, heart booming in my ear.

The other day I watched Grace on the beach as a long shadow appeared over her and that man leaned down to grab her arm. But she is fine. She didn't look up at him with fear or terror. She was smiling and chatting animatedly with him.

For a few seconds, I'm lost in this memory, staring at the big-­screen TV in the newsroom that is now showing CNN footage of the White House. Then, with a jolt, I remember that yesterday my mother mentioned taking Grace to the beach today. Because Grace stayed at her house last night, I didn't have a chance to send over Grace's swimsuit, so I assumed they weren't going to go. My mother often keeps clothes from her other grandchildren in a tiny bureau to use as spare clothes for visiting grandkids who get messy. Fear slithers up my spine, and I'm groping through my bag, searching for my cell phone at the same time it rings.