Blessed are the Dead (12 page)

 

Chapter 22

I
IDLY SWIRL
the vodka in my rocks glass as I watch a ­couple nuzzling in a booth nearby. I sit at the bar, near the tuxedoed piano player, waiting for Nicole and Lopez to arrive. It's Friday night, and the restaurant is packed. I want a cigarette badly but am counting to ten to stop myself from getting up and bumming one from the guy smoking right outside the window. We are meeting the sheriff and some of his top guns for a late dinner. I rushed home after work, showered, changed, then drove back across the Bay. The sheriff is an elected official above all, and this is part of his attempt to have a good relationship with the press.

I love the ambiance at Jax, with its deep black leather booths and dozens of chandeliers. One wall of the restaurant is a floor-­to-­ceiling window looking onto a tropical courtyard covered with vines and flowers and strung with small, festive, white lights. Cobblestone steps lead up the hill, and diners waiting for their tables can stroll through the gardens above. The bar where we are sitting opens up onto another patio enclosed in foliage. We often take sources to Jax's for drinks and use the company credit card. We know the bartender, and he knows to always give our guests an extra pour in their drinks. More alcohol means looser lips. I always leave him a generous tip.

I stand up to hug Nicole when she walks in, then smooth out my green jersey halter dress when I sit back down. We agreed to meet early so we could get some drinking in before we sit down with the sheriff and his cronies.

Nicole barely says hello before I blurt out my woes.

Being friends with Nicole helps me feel normal. The things we discuss—­a body dismembered by a train or a dead baby found in a Dumpster—­are generally not socially accepted topics for dinner conversation. We've talked some at work since Jasmine disappeared, but I haven't had a chance to really fill her in. I suddenly realize I desperately need to confide in a friend.

I tell her about Evans's threatening to take away my beat. I tell her about how annoying May is, trying to steal my job. And then, reluctantly, I tell her about my brief romance with Donovan. I don't say that I feel out of control. That I feel reckless, and that's one reason I felt like I needed to run away from Donovan.

“Wow, I guess we haven't talked for a while. I guess I still thought you were with Brad,” she says. For once she doesn't have a snappy comeback. She looks searchingly at me, and her eyes seem a little sad. “You doing okay?”

I nod, but then have to turn away. I can't bear to see the look in her eyes. It borders on sympathy. I don't tell her that I can't stop thinking about Donovan and sleep in his shirt every night. If I'm not dreaming about Jasmine, he's the one inhabiting my dreams. She's been gone now for nearly a month. I know deep inside she's not going to be found alive. Not after all this time. Nights have gotten even worse, to the point where every night this week I've downed a half bottle of wine with dinner before I even try to go to sleep. I don't tell her this, either.

Before she speaks again, she puts her fingers on the bridge of her nose, like suddenly her head hurts.

“I've known you five years, and this doesn't really seem like you. Are you sure that maybe covering this Jasmine Baker story might be getting to you in ways you might not realize?” I can tell her words are guarded. She doesn't want to upset me. But she's wrong.

“Maybe I just felt like having sex. Maybe I want to do what men do for once—­get laid without any emotion or attachments.”

A crease grows between her eyebrows as she watches me. I can tell she wants to say something but is holding back.

I look away and down the rest of my vodka in one gulp. I know I'm lying. And not just to Nicole. I'm lying to myself.

W
E ARE ON
our third round of drinks, and I'm feeling no pain, when Nicole nudges me and nods toward the door. I glance over. Donovan is standing across the room, dressed in a sharp-­looking suit.

I haven't seen him for two weeks, and now I can't take my eyes off him. He looks amazing. He is laughing with a group of ­people. I shrink down a little on my barstool, but like he has a sixth sense, his head swivels, and he immediately spots me. He turns to a stunning woman in a beaded black dress, grabs her by the hand, and heads my way.

Oh no. Please no. He's already seeing someone new, and he's going to introduce me? I think I'm going to be sick.

“This is my cousin, Jennifer,” he says, introducing us to the woman. He then goes on to explain how they were just at another cop's wedding and are on their way to the reception now in Jax's banquet room. At first I think how stupid it is to have a wedding on Friday night, but then his words sink in.

His cousin?

He took his cousin as a date? I can tell by his smirk that he knows what I'm thinking. This must have been the woman on the answering machine, too. I feel warmth spread across my cheeks. Even having him this near me makes me dizzy with desire. We just stare. The silence is awkward.

Nobody says a thing. Finally, I hear Jennifer's tinkling voice say, “Ahem, well, I think I might go powder my nose.”

“Good idea. I'll join you,” Nicole says, quickly grabbing her clutch.

I spin my napkin around under my glass for a moment. I finally look up at him. “I'm sorry. I don't know why I acted that way.”

Silence.

He gives me a look as if he expects me to say more than that, but I'm frozen, paralyzed, and speechless. I want to say so much, but words fail me. He turns his back. I know I'm going to lose him. This is my chance. When I start to speak, I'm actually stammering. “Can we try again? I know a really good tamale place. My treat?”

He turns back around. “I'm pretty busy.” His face is hard, but I catch a challenge in his eyes. He wants to make me work for this.

“How about tomorrow?” I realize I'm holding my breath waiting for him to answer.

Right then, Lopez arrives.

“Hey, man,” he says to Donovan, and slides right between us, astonishing me by planting a big kiss on my lips, then putting his arm around me, eyeballing Donovan. The two men stare at each other for a moment. I can tell by his set jaw and the throbbing vein on his neck that Donovan is not amused.

Then Moretti comes over. This party's getting crowded—­all with ­people I like. I can't help but smile when I see him. He's also attending the wedding. He's only about five-­foot-­eight but faithfully wears expensive-­looking black shoes with built-­in platform heels to give himself a bit of a boost. He is trim and energetic and that, ­coupled with his thick head of black hair, makes him seem at least a decade younger than his fifty years.

He's wearing his trademark Armani suit. While most detectives wear jeans and blazers, Moretti investigates the messiest murders in that suit, which must have cost him a few paychecks.

He swoops down and kisses my cheek. “Hey, kiddo.”

Then he turns to Donovan. “Sorry to break up the party, but they're about to announce the bride and groom. We gotta go.”

Donovan glares at Lopez, then turns to me.

“I'll pick you up at seven.” He turns on his heel and leaves. No smile. No conversation. No warmth.

While I watch him walk away, I realize I never gave him my address. Oh well, I'm sure he'll figure it out.

 

Chapter 23

S
HORTLY BEFORE SEVEN
on Saturday, I uncork a bottle of pinot noir and light every candle in my studio apartment. In the back of my mind, I wonder if Donovan's idea of revenge is to stand me up, but I don't think he's like that. Right on time, he buzzes the downstairs door. I push the button to let him in and rush to the mirror to check my makeup. I open the door to his knock a little too quickly.

Before I can say hello, he grabs me around the waist and pulls me close. His mouth on mine cuts off my words.

While I pour our wine, he wanders around my tiny apartment, stopping at a small wall painted deep red and blanketed in family photos. Most of them are black-­and-­whites.

“Is this you and Caterina?” he asks, pointing to one where we are sitting together on our front steps with our arms around each other. We have on matching dresses. “Cute.”

It is one of my favorite photos of Cat. I haven't looked at it in years. I don't need to, really. Its image is burned in my mind.

As Donovan paces my apartment, it seems even smaller with him inside it.

“You play chess?”

“Yup.” I eye the board warily. It is sitting precariously on the register. I moved it there earlier when I was cleaning my place. He is towering over it, and I realize I'm holding my breath, hoping he doesn't knock it over.

“With who?” He picks up my stack of postcards, and I cringe as his hand brushes one of the pieces, making it teeter.

“My friend Tomas. We play by mail. We met on Market Street last winter when he was visiting from the Ukraine. We've been playing ever since.”

He gives me a look that makes me wonder if he's jealous of this unknown chess partner halfway across the world, but then he seems to shrug it off.

“Uh, I don't know how to say this, but isn't that a little boring? I mean, geez, how long does it take you guys to play a game.”

I laugh and take a sip of my wine. “It's not boring in the least. Obviously, you don't play chess, do you?”

“Nope, and I'm not interested.” I breathe a sigh of relief as he moves away from the board, which wobbles but stays balanced on the register. “So, you any good?”

I just smile. He probably doesn't even know what being a chess master means.

“But seriously, how long does it take to play a game?”

“Depends. This game just started, but the last game took us nine months.”

“Are you kidding me? No offense, but that sounds like hell. I don't think I'd have the patience for that.”

“Probably not,” I say, handing him his wine.

He grabs my wrist and leads me to the couch. He walks backward, staring at me, then sits, putting his glass on the coffee table. Then, without breaking his gaze away from mine, he puts my glass on the table and pulls me into his arms.

We're going to be late for dinner.

A
L
THOUGH MY FIRST
love will always be the Italian section of town, the Mission District is also dear to my heart. Its colorful murals, exotic wares, variety of ethnic foods, and the fiery Latin temperament of its residents makes me happy. The Mission has its own personality, like a spicy, sexy, Mexican soap-­opera star. The district is home to many ­people originally from Mexico, El Salvador, and Nicaragua. Before college kids and artists discovered it, the area mainly consisted of beauty salons, taquerias, check-­cashing centers, and auto-­repair shops. It's now home to funky boutiques, hip nightclubs, and ethnic restaurants.

My heart is dancing happily and my mouth keeps curving in a smile as we drive there. Donovan drives with one hand, not letting go of mine. Even when he shifts gears, our intertwined hands work together. My pulse races when I look at his profile. Sometimes, I'm struck dumb by his looks.

We find parking just off Valencia Street and walk the few blocks to El Farolito. The little taqueria is always packed. Right next door is the Sweetheart Bakery, where I buy a pink-­iced
pan de luce
to bring home for the next morning.

A life-­size mural of the Virgin Mary covers the adobe façade above the door to El Farolito. The side of the building also has a colorful Mexican-­style mural of Jesus reaching his arms up to Heaven. Inside, the taqueria is crowded, but it looks like many ­people are ordering their food to go. After ordering at the counter, we luck out and find an empty table right underneath a star-­shaped piñata that says Corona on it.

Over cold bottles of Pacifico beer, tamales, and carne asada burritos, Donovan finally brings up my meltdown.

“You know, this isn't easy for me, either. It's moving pretty fast for me, too.”

I gulp and nod.

“I really like you. I don't know where this”—­he gestures back and forth between us—­“is going, but I'll try to be honest with you, okay?”

It takes me a minute to get the guts to look up and meet his eyes and nod.

I swallow hard, and the words come out very quietly. “It sort of freaked me out when you called me Ella. Only my family calls me that.”

Of course, he reads between the lines.

“So, let me get this straight because I'm not a detective for nothing. It “freaked” you out when I called you that because it meant I was getting too close, right?'

I nod sheepishly.

“And, from what I can figure, your M.O. when ­people get close is to what? Run away?”

“Sometimes,” I say, biting my lip and looking past his shoulder out the window. “Okay. Maybe not sometimes. Maybe all the time.”

“Well, that's a shame,” he says, arching one eyebrow. “Didn't anyone ever tell you that the only way to find love is to make yourself vulnerable? To take a chance?”

Love?
Who said anything about
love
? I feel my cheeks flush with heat.

“There are no guarantees in life, El—­Gabriella.”

I give him a small smile and reach over to put my hand on his. “It's okay. You can call me that. It just . . . surprised me that one time, that's all.”

“Okay,
Ella,
” he says it loudly with a bold wink and takes a giant bite of burrito.

We're halfway through our food when I remember to ask him if he ever got my message and called the woman, Jill, who thinks Johnson picked her up a few years ago.

“Yeah, I went to Monterey and we drove around to see if any of it looked familiar to her.”

“Did it?”

“Yeah, that was the problem. It's all tract housing, and every little neighborhood and cul-­de-­sac looks exactly like every other one.”

“Sorry. I didn't know if it would help or not. She seems pretty convinced it was Johnson.”

He shrugs. He's used to dealing with tips that don't pan out.

We're just digging into our dessert flan when his cell rings. He glances down at the number.

“I better take this,” he says, and heads for the sidewalk outside. He paces the sidewalk in front of the restaurant's big front window. He is talking and scowling. After a moment, he comes back in.

“Sorry, I have to go,” he says. “I'll drop you off first.”

“Gee, thanks.” He gives me a look. “Just kidding. Remember, I'm the girl who gets it—­I'm the one usually dumping my date over a dead body. It's a dead body, right? You are a homicide detective.”

We are walking down the sidewalk holding hands, but he suddenly stops walking and turns toward me. “It's a skull. A child's skull.”