Blessed Are Those Who Weep (21 page)

 

Chapter 44

T
HE
P
ALACE
OF
Fine Arts has always been an ethereal and peaceful spot in the hustle and bustle of San Francisco. It has a calming effect on me and has always been a great place to gather my thoughts. When I arrive this morning, the sun has broken through the morning fog and illuminated the clouds behind the palace in pretty pinks and oranges.

I park out front, sipping the rest of my coffee. I wince, remembering how Donovan and I came here last winter because we were considering holding our wedding reception here.

From this location, I can see both Alcatraz and the Golden Gate Bridge.

As I look at the island prison, it triggers a memory of a dream I had last night:

I was playing a game of chess with Joey Martin. We were sitting in a damp prison cell. We had bet Lucy's fate on the game.

She was sleeping in a bassinet nearby. If I won, I could take her home with me. If he won, he would leave her here to be eaten by rats. As we played, rats kept coming out of holes in the cell and scaling the legs of the bassinet. I was trying to concentrate on playing the game at the same time I was kicking the rats away from the baby.

It was my move. I was close to losing. He was a better chess player than me, and I knew it. At first I panicked, but then I realized I would employ the technique of “craftiness.”

According to my chess book, craftiness is described as winning without actually cheating but doing something close to cheating to throw your opponent off his game.

For instance, a chess player can eat three heads of garlic the night before so he reeks terribly and disarms the other player with his pungent smell. Or wear his pajamas to the match instead of a nice shirt. My favorite example was when a player suffered a back injury and took part in a tournament while lying on a couch. It irritated his opponent so much that he took to playing all his matches while lying on a massage table. It's all part of psychological warfare to throw someone off his game.

Now I realize that this is how I will trap Martin in real life.

I come up with an idea, a plan to lure Joey Martin out of hiding. Everyone is chasing him. I will throw him off his game, surprise him with what he least expects, and force him to come to me.

Right now he has no reason to surface. He thinks he's gotten away scot-­free and he'll kill Lucy and disappear. If he hasn't already. I need to flush him out of his hiding spot.

I grab my phone and call in to my voice mail at work. Scanning my old messages, I finally hear Dave Schrader's voice again asking me to appear on his
True Crime Tuesdays
show.

I listen to Schrader rattle off his number, and I jot it down in my reporter's notebook.

A few minutes later, I hang up with Schrader. We have a date. Tonight at eight. I'll show up at his San Francisco studio down by the waterfront under the Bay Bridge. He'll talk about my guest appearance as much as possible beforehand, pulling in some favors from anchors at three Bay Area news stations.

It may not work, but it's worth a try.

T
HE
DAY
AT
work goes better.

Having a plan to trap Joey Martin makes me feel like my old self again. Then, it gets even better. My jailhouse interview request was approved.

Carol Abequero looks like she's a movie star playing the role of a glamorous prisoner. Her stint in jail has not smudged her looks.

Her complexion actually seems complemented by the orange of her jail jumpsuit. Her hair, tightly pulled back in a chignon, accents her sharp cheekbones. Above them, her makeup-­less eyes are striking, slanted and arctic blue, like a Siamese cat's. Her pale pink lips are puffy in a way only an injection from a doctor can achieve.

She arches one impeccably groomed eyebrow when she sees me.

“You look better in person than on TV,” she says.

“Same for you.” The footage of her being arrested was not pretty. She had on sweatpants, an old T-­shirt, and a green beauty mask.

“Of course they had to come on my beauty night,” she says and gestures with one French-­manicured hand. “I almost wonder if they hadn't planned it that way. Humiliate the murder suspect.” She scoffs. “Murder suspect. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?”

“So you didn't do it?”

She gives me a look of disbelief. “You're kidding, right? Isn't that why you wanted to talk to me? To put why I'm innocent in the paper?”

“Sort of.” I don't want to give her too much too soon. “What is your connection to Maria Martin?”

She purses her plump lips together in a long, drawn-­out sigh. “I believe you would call me the aggrieved wife, the cuckold—­or is that word only for men?”

“You think your husband cheated on you with Maria Martin?”

“Honey, I know he cheated on me. He spent every damn second he could over at her place. If a man does that, he's obviously getting some. You don't do that out of the goodness of your heart, or whatever crap Richard tried to tell me. Helping her while Joey was gone, my ass. Helping himself to her goodie bag is what he was doing.”

“You don't seem very broken up about your husband's death.”

“He was in love with her.” She says it in a soft voice and examines her cuticles.

“You didn't answer my question.”

She rolls her eyes. “So what? I'm not sorry he's dead. He was going to divorce me anyway.”

Her attention returns to her nails.

“Am I boring you?”

She sighs exaggeratedly. “Yes. I'm not interested in talking about Maria Martin. As a matter of fact, I'd be perfectly happy to never hear her name again.” She widens both eyes and sits up straighter, as if daring me to argue with her.

“Okay,” I say. “But that's unlikely, since you're in jail for her murder. So you've made it pretty clear that there was no love lost between you and Maria. Who do you think killed her?”

“Not a clue. Maybe some jealous lover.”

Here's my in.

“What about a jealous husband?”

Her tinkly laugh startles me. “Joey? Oh Joey wouldn't hurt her. She was his prize belonging. It's the first time I ever saw Joey in love. Not that she deserved it.”

I don't answer. An old journalism trick. Most ­people can't stand an awkward silence and will rush to fill it. She doesn't disappoint.

“A man will overlook a lot of flaws as long as he's getting laid by a beautiful woman on a regular basis.”

“Have you known Joey for a long time? You seem to think highly of him. You said she didn't deserve his love.”

“Haven't you met him? He's all man. Virile. Hard-­bodied. Doesn't put up with any shit. And yet he has the most gentle, loving side you'll ever see in a man.”

The alarms are going off in my head. Not just her words, but her smile as she speaks about Joey Martin.

“You love him.”

“Oh, yes,” she shrugs. “He'll always take care of me. That's why I'm not worried about being in here. Joey will figure out a way to get me out. You know . . .” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “ . . . he's part of a secret military group. The best of the best. Now, how sexy is that?”

“Not too sexy, since he killed his wife and parents.”

She recoils, her lips baring her teeth. She shakes her head. “Not possible.”

“He killed them and framed you. That is why you're in jail. You'll go away for the rest of your life for a mass murder you didn't commit. Do you have any idea what they'll do with your pretty face in prison?” I eye her body like a hungry man would. “Trust me, honey, you will be extremely popular.”

She swallows and looks off to the side—­the only indication that I've gotten to her at all. I push on.

“What if I told you he's here? In the Bay Area.”

A small twitch of her lips, an attempt to hold back a smile, tells me everything I need to know.

“But you already know that, don't you?” I say. “You've seen him, haven't you?”

She twists her lip a little. That's my answer. She has. For sure. She stands.

“Looks like our little visit is over. Nice chatting with you.” She starts to take the phone away from her ear to hang it up, but my words freeze her:

“You're taking the fall for him. I hope it's worth it.”

“Joey will take care of me. He'll get me out of here. I'm the only one who was honest with him and told him his dear innocent little wifey was actually a whore sleeping with my husband.”

I stare at her for a second, feeling my face turn red with fury. “If what you say is true, then it looks like you are actually the one who should be behind bars for Maria Martin's murder.”

I slam the phone down.

For a second, I see what she doesn't want me to—­a flicker of fear and doubt running across her face.

 

Chapter 45

T
HE
F
OX
TV reporter flutters her eyelashes at Dave Schrader, who is doing a great job of keeping his eyes off her bulging cleavage. His radio show must have some pull. I called him this morning and within a few hours, he's on the five o'clock news.

I'm perched on the edge of my couch with the remote in my hand. I automatically like Schrader, since the overly made up TV reporter is practically falling out of her white silk blouse and he's not even sneaking a glance. The one time I ran into this reporter at a crime scene, she was whining because she'd gotten some mud on her beige Manolo Blahnik heels.

Now she is clearly reading from a cue card, her eyes squinting.

“Dave, you say Gabriella Giovanni will reveal the identity of the killer—­or rather who she suspects is the killer—­in the Mission Massacre?” she asks.

“That's right. She has proof of who did it. She'll talk about it tonight, on my
True Crime Tuesday
radio show. Even I don't know what evidence or proof she has.” He leans back on the couch.

“That's tonight, right, Dave?”

“Yes, today is Tuesday.”

“Shouldn't she go to the police with this information?” the reporter asks, simpering.

“From my understanding, this investigation is so sensitive that Ms. Giovanni is not sure exactly who to trust, so she wants to go public with the information first. After, she will turn it over to the San Francisco Police Department.”

My phone rings, so I don't hear the rest of the brief interview.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Donovan. He decides to call me now. Too little, too late.

“I've got it under control,” I say with gritted teeth, wondering how he heard about all of this in D.C.

He knows he has no say about what I do right now. He wants a “break,” he can have one. But I still feel compelled to take away his worry if I can. I'm not a total bitch.

“Donovan, you don't have to worry about me, it's a trap. C-­Lo will be watching the whole time. It's a chance to lure the killer out of hiding.”

The line is silent.

“What was that line about SFPD?”

“Come on. They lost the evidence, Donovan. Nobody loses evidence unless they want to. Something is going on. Someone powerful is protecting Joey Martin, and I'm going to find out why.”

“You'll do whatever the hell you want because you always do. But this time you're messing with the U.S. military. You are way out of your league. I'm tempted to catch the next flight home.”

“I don't need you to come in and rescue me. I'm not a damsel in distress. If the military or the cops wanted to get rid of me, don't you think they would've a long time ago? They're not worried about me, and that's where they are making a mistake,” I say. “Besides, I'm not going after the U.S. military. I'm going after a man who killed his family and is probably going to kill his daughter if he hasn't already. If there is any chance she's alive, I can't sit back and do nothing. Anyway, you don't have to worry I'm not going into this alone. I have someone from SFPD on board—­Detective Strohmayer.”

The line is silent. Is he jealous? He doesn't have anything to worry about. The last thing I'm interested in right now is complicating my life with another man—­a married man to boot. Besides, like it or not, I'm in love with Donovan.

“I've got to go.” I hang up without waiting for his response.

And if things go as planned, I won't be alone for even a second. As soon as we hang up, I dial Strohmayer's cell. I sort of fibbed to Donovan. I planned on bringing Strohmayer into the loop, but I haven't actually reached him yet. I called him three times already today, but I didn't get a response.

This time he answers. I tell him all about my plan for tonight and the note from Maria I have in my bag. Joey Martin is going to kill Lucy if he hasn't already. Why he didn't the first time, I don't know. It doesn't make sense. But his intentions in that note are clear. And if he has killed her, I will not stop until he is punished for it.

At first, Strohmayer isn't happy about my plan, but he warms up to the idea and agrees to help. There are at least three cops he can trust at the department, he says. Then he hangs up to make arrangements.

Less than four hours until go time.

Slipping on my old worn jeans, a stocking cap, and my Oakland Raiders hoodie, I lace up my combat boots and pound down the stairs. I also scrubbed all the makeup off my face. Now that I've been in the paper and on TV, I'm worried my chess buddies will recognize me. Part of what I love about playing chess on Market Street is that it is one place where I'm always anonymous, where I can go to escape and not be baggage-­laden Gabriella Giovanni for a few hours. Glancing at my clock, I see I have time for a few quick chess games on Market Street, dinner, and, after, my interview on live radio.

An hour later, Georges looks worried as I try to hail a cab on Market Street. I've lost four games in a row. And I bet big. Twenty-­five bucks a game.

“Natasha, today is just not your day,” he says, and his big brown eyes under bushy eyebrows seem sad. “You maybe want to go home now and get in bed. Luck and fortune are not shining on you today, my friend.”

I think about that for a second. He may be right. Either way, it's too late. Game on.