Blessed Are Those Who Weep (16 page)

 

Chapter 35

M
Y
MOOD
MATCHES
the gray skies seeping out of San Francisco this morning. And not simply because it's a Monday. The wind is whipping and howling and moaning when I wake, filling me with unease. Even Dusty is acting freaky, sort of like he does before an earthquake, winding himself around my legs and then hiding under my bed.

It's almost as if something evil is nearby. Something isn't right, and some sixth sense is telling me to watch out, be wary. Logically, I know there's nothing tangible behind it, but I've been filled with unease since I woke. It's more than just knowing I have less than five days to keep Lucy out of her father's hands. It's something more—­a simmering level of anxiety or foreboding I can't shed. I burn my toast and spill my coffee all over my front this morning and have to change clothes at the last minute.

It doesn't help that Donovan seems like he's avoiding me. We've eased into a truce since we had it out the other night, but things are still a little prickly. He picked up a shift last night and is planning on working another one tonight.

I'm heading toward the Caldecott Tunnel when I notice a helicopter above the freeway. Another one. The thudding of the helicopter sends a surge of anxiety through me. Some of Lopez's paranoia is rubbing off on me. I'm peering out my windshield, trying to see if the helicopter has any identifying information, when my cell rings. C-­Lo.

Relief floods me when I see the helicopter has the emblem for the California Highway Patrol, probably monitoring traffic from an accident I passed a ways back.

“Lopez?”

“Yo badness. Where you at?” he asks.

“About to enter the third bore.”

“Flip a bitch and head to the city. Got a one eighty-­seven.”

I frown. San Francisco isn't my beat. But Lopez wouldn't call if it weren't important. A wave of adrenaline hits me as I slam on my brakes and cut off several cars to make the last exit in Berkeley before the tunnel.

“What's the skinny?”

“Vic is five-­o.” He says it somberly.

A cop. Donovan. My heart leaps into my throat. I pull over on the side of the road as fear spurts through me, causing a wave of cold and dizziness. I press my forehead down on the steering wheel, but at his next word, my heart starts up again.

“SFPD.”

San Francisco Police Department. I open my eyes. “What you got?”

“Inner Sunset. Twenty-­first Street.”
In the Aves
. “Walking her dog. Might have been a robbery gone bad. Bullet to the temple.”

We haven't had an officer killed in the line of duty for about a year. And it's rare for a cop to die violently off the job, but it's still a major deal. I can already see the giant police funeral that will take place. What a shame. Now I know why Lopez called; any cop killed is a big story. Especially one who dies as a victim of a crime.

I exit and get back on Highway 24, headed toward San Francisco. The city lies before me. Rays of sunshine shoot up through a low haze of fog that hasn't yet burned off.

The Inner Sunset is an area of San Francisco that is almost always thickly cloaked in fog. It is not uncommon to go days there without seeing the sun. The address Lopez gives me is between Santiago and Rivera streets. I don't know a lot of female cops in San Francisco. Only Khoury. I don't even know if she lives in the city. A ripple of anxiety surges through me.
Don't be ridiculous. There are dozens of women cops in the city.

T
HE
CRIME
-­
SCENE
TAPE
blocks off the entire block on both sides. When one of their own falls, the last thing cops want to do is talk to the press, but that doesn't stop at least six news trucks from parking at one end, their satellite antennas extended up into the fog.

As I pass for the fourth time, looking for a parking spot, I see Detective Jack Sullivan's red hair. That guy hates me. The feeling is mutual. He couldn't pin the mayor's murder on Donovan or me last year, and I know it drives him crazy. It made him look bad when we found the real killer, and I'm sure he hasn't forgotten that. I scan the cops for Khoury's petite frame and boyish hair but don't spot her. My mouth grows dry and a wave of anxiety floods me, but I reassure myself. I'm being paranoid.

Finally, I park a block away, near Abraham Lincoln High School. I pull on my gloves while I walk and wind my new turquoise scarf around my neck as the wind whips my hair around my face, stinging my cheeks.

Isn't this supposed to be the best time of year in San Francisco? The air is biting today, and the Inner Sunset, only three miles from the Pacific Ocean, is the worst for bitter cold and chill.

Most of the first floors of the houses contain storefronts, like the ones on this block—­a Thai restaurant, a boutique, and an old-­fashioned drugstore. The bay windows above are for the second-­story flats. All the buildings are painted lemon and sky blue and peach. On the road closed off by crime-­scene tape, waist-­high wooden flower boxes line the sidewalks near the street, and several European scooters are parked on sidewalks. Despite the gray and cold, this neighborhood seems so friendly, cheery even. So why is there a knot in my stomach?

H
OV
ERING
AT
THE
edge of the crime-­scene tape, I ignore all the TV reporters. Some are in their vans, staying warm. One extremely coiffed reporter in stilettos and a pencil skirt is ordering her photographer around, treating him like a lackey. No respect. I see Andy Black, my competition at the
Tribune,
but look away before he meets my eyes. Every time I see him, I regret our one-­night stand with all my heart and wish I had been the one who'd given him a black eye that day instead of Donovan.

My cell vibrates in my bag. When I finally fish it out, I see it is Lopez.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“Look up and over at the third apartment building in from the corner.”

I squint. Right at the edge of the lingering fog that hovers at the top of the building, I see a lithe figure dressed in black. He gives me a little wave.

“Sweet,” I say. I clear my throat. “Can you see the vic?”

“I've got eyes on her.” At these words, my heart catches in my throat. She's covered with a tarp, he says.

He keeps talking. “Some pissed-­off cops down there. As soon as one notices me, I'm outta here. Today is one day you don't want to be on their bad side.”

“No kidding. Have you figured out which place is hers?” I brush off my fear. The body could belong to any of a dozen female cops.

“Yeah. They've been going in and out. It's the dark green three-­story.”

“ 'Kay. Call you back in two.”

I hang up and dial Liz, reading off the house address. “Can you run this house number and tell me who lives there?”

“Sure thing, sugar. Hold the line.” I hear her click-­clacking on the keyboard and close my eyes.
Please don't let it be her
.

“Here we go,” Liz says. “Amanda Khoury, thirty-­five, bought it last month for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

As soon as I hear the name, I close my eyes, and my stomach hurts like someone just sucker-­punched me. And I know. It wasn't a robbery gone bad. My fingers are shaking as I thank Liz and click off. A wave of vertigo hits me, and I slump against the wall of an apartment building for a few seconds. My fingers are tingly, and the hair on my arms is sticking straight up. Khoury is dead.

What if she's dead because of what I told her? What I gave her? The kubaton? What if the killer is here watching me? Instinctively, I duck behind a TV van and lean back against it. After a few seconds, I peek out, watching the cops circling the crime scene, trying to see if any are paying attention to me. I freeze when I see one cop standing motionless, watching me. He holds my gaze for a few seconds, and a chill races across my scalp.

Finally, another cop is at his elbow, saying something. The first one waits another second before he turns. As soon as I'm released from his stare, I bolt around the corner and press my back against the cold wall of an apartment building.

My phone rings.

“What the fuck is going on?” Lopez says.

“Did you see that?”

“Yeah, man. Lieutenant Stick-­Up-­His-­Ass was staring you down. But what I don't get is why you ran?”

I fill him in.

“Motherfucker. That's some seriously fucked-­up shit.”

“I know.”

“Hold the phone. Two cops just went inside. Let me use my zoom lens. I'll call you back.”

After a few minutes, he calls back. “Your boyfriend Sully and the lieutenant are the only ones in the place.”

I try to let go of my anger and listen to Lopez. “ . . . throwing shit around like they're looking for something they can't find. They've trashed her place completely. I got a bunch of shots of them doing it. Why would they do that, when it was a robbery gone bad? Doesn't jive.”

“What else can you see?” I ask.

“Crime-­scene investigators just showed up. Hold on. Dude is kneeling down. Okay. He lifted the tarp. Not pretty. Closed casket for sure.”

My heart sinks, and I close my eyes. I was just starting to really like Detective Khoury. She didn't deserve to die. Something else occurs to me: the case she was building against Martin—­now what? She was the only cop who believed me. Now he'll grab Lucy and disappear, getting away with mass murder. There's no way I can trust Sullivan with what I know. He'd just as soon throw me in jail if I tell him I was in the apartment and found the kubaton.

Lopez's voice interrupts my thoughts.

“Okay. Another dude heading over to the body.”

“What's he look like?”

“Six feet something. Good head of hair, brushed back, cop hair. More Ponch than John, though. Close-­cut beard. Wire-­rimmed glasses. Tall. Lean. Jeans and cowboy boots. Blazer. Got a detective badge clipped to his belt. Talking to the crime-­scene guys now. Leaning over. Lifted tarp again. Oh fuck. He's broken up. He knew her. For sure, man. I'd bet ten to one he's the partner. Just closed his eyes for a second. He's pulling it together.”

“Let me know when he heads back toward the tape. I'm making my way over there.” I start to run, heading down the parallel street, hoping to make it around the block before Khoury's partner is kicked out. Because I'm sure that's what will happen. They will boot his ass out of there. They won't let him stick around and investigate the death of his partner. They'll throw him in counseling or something.

I round the corner, panting. I can see the crime-­scene tape a few cars away.

Lopez calls. “He's ten feet from the tape.”

“Thanks. I'm here.”

The detective ducks his tall frame under the tape. I hear a shout. Someone must have called his name, because he pauses for a second without turning around and then keeps walking. I make my way to the opposite sidewalk and follow him, keeping a few cars behind.

When he stops at a small black sports car that he can't possibly fold his tall frame into, I make my move. I dart across the street.

“Detective?” His face is wary. I wonder what he looks like when he smiles. I speak fast, knowing I only have about thirty seconds to convince him to talk to me. “I'm the one who gave Khoury the kubaton.”

“You're that reporter.”

I meet his eyes and nod.

Now I will tell if he was on Khoury's side or Sullivan's.

He juts his chin toward his passenger door. I don't hesitate and hop in, slamming the door behind me. It smells like stale cigarette smoke and cologne. He closes the door and leans his forehead on the steering wheel. He grits out the words. “Goddamn it.” He lifts his head and squints one eye at me.

“I'm so sorry for your loss.” He acknowledges my words with a nod. The pain in his face makes me look away. When I can meet his eyes again, I stick out my hand. “Gabriella Giovanni.”

“Scott Strohmayer.”

“Thanks for talking to me, Detective Strohmayer.”

“None of this adds up.” He's tapping his fingers on his steering wheel, staring out the front window. “Why Amanda? No reason to kill her for her cash. She would've just handed over her bag. It'd be no great shakes to her. She's smart—­she knows no amount of money is worth losing your life.” He shakes his head.

This may be harder than I thought. I'll have to lay my cards on the table.

“Did Detective Khoury tell you she was still working the Mission Massacre? That she didn't think Carol Abequero did it?”

He looks over at me, surprised. “I've been out of town. Annual family vacation to Hawaii. Got back last night. She left a few messages, but we got back so late . . .”

I fill him in quickly, trusting my gut instincts that he's one of the good guys and not part of whatever landed Khoury under that tarp.

Staring out his windshield, he listens without moving. He takes off his glasses and rubs the ridge between his eyes.

I tell him what she told me the other day—­that the kubaton had blood spatter from the victims and Martin's fingerprints.

He strokes his beard. “That's good, but that might not be enough. This whole thing is a screwy deal. Now I know why she wanted to meet with me today—­away from the station.”

He punches the steering wheel. My eyes sting, and I blink back tears.
Pull it together
.

I have one last question for him. “Why do you think Sullivan and the lieutenant are tossing her apartment right now? What are they trying to find?”

His eyes narrow. “Could be her notes on the case. Most of the time if she's working a big one, she carts everything around in that big bag of hers. She's only been here a short time, but everyone knows that Amanda takes her work home with her. It's her whole life. That's the kind of cop she is.”