Blessed are the Meek (13 page)

 

Chapter 26

W
HEN
I
GET
to my car, I check my cell. One missed call. Donovan left a message saying he picked up a night shift for a sick colleague and won't be home until late, so we can't get together tonight. Two nights in a row.

I'm still trying to figure out how to deal with the news that he was over at Annalisa's house last night. For one fleeting second, I wonder if he's having an affair with her. What if there is no sick colleague, and he's at her place again tonight? My stomach does a loop de loop, and I remind myself to call Marsha, my therapist. My jealousy is getting out of hand. I need to run all my fears and irrational thoughts by someone who is objective and can tell me whether I'm completely out of whack.

Later, at my desk, I take my time packing up. Being alone tonight sounds like a bad idea—­an invitation for anxiety to creep up and clamp its fingers down on me. At the last minute, I dial Nicole.

J
AX RESTAURANT IS
the sheriff's favorite hangout and the spot I like to wine and dine my cop sources on the company credit card. Sure enough, when I walk through the chandelier-­and-­candlelit room, past the piano player, I spot a few cops I know.

I head to the bar, but Art, the bartender, jerks his thumb toward the French doors. Nicole is waiting for me on the brick patio. Parisian cafe tables are scattered under a latticed pergola strung with vines and twinkling white lights. Nicole's eyes are sparkling, too, and she has a secretive smile.

“I've got some news,” she says, shyly looking down.

“What? Did you scoop the
Trib
on your story?” I pull up a chair.

“I'm sorry I didn't wait to order, I'm starving,” she says as a waitress drops off a huge chef salad for her. I gesture toward her soda and salad. “What gives? You worried about your liver still?”

“I have some news. I wanted to tell you in person . . .”

News? Fear spurts through me. “You got another job? Please, please, please don't tell me you're going to the
Trib.
I'll die. I swear. Please don't leave me!”

Nicole starts laughing. “No, but I will be gone for a few months next year.”

“Huh?”

“I'm pregnant.”

I look blankly at her.

“As in—­having a baby. Knocked up. Bun in the oven. In the family way. Eating for two.”

I leap to my feet and hug her. “Congratulations! That's—­great. I had no idea.”

“I wanted to tell you the other night, but I thought I'd wait until the doctor's office confirmed it at my appointment this morning.”

“I just . . . I guess I didn't think . . .”
you guys were going to have kids.

“Now that Ted has a new job, his traveling days are over. It seems like the right time.”

“Wow.”

Nicole beams at me. I force a grin onto my face—­this is
her
night and
her
celebration. And I am happy for her, truly, so I don't know exactly what my problem is.

We spend the rest of the night talking about baby stuff. I try to act interested, but I'm relieved when she yawns, saying she's exhausted and has to go home. She never asks how my conversation with Donovan went the other night, and I don't bring it up.

Driving home, I try to wrap my head around her news. Nicole having a baby? Have I lost my tough, courts-­reporter friend? Does this mean we have to talk about diapers and that kind of crap for the next nine months? And beyond? I know I'm being selfish, but I want my old friend back. I feel like I'm about to lose her. I want to pore over pictures of dead bodies and talk about horrific crimes with her. Not booties and bassinets.

 

Chapter 27

A
FTER SAYING GOOD-­BYE
to Nicole, I head to Donovan's place and let myself in. I fall asleep before he gets home, only vaguely sensing him crawl into bed with me.

In the early morning, I wake, sensing something is off. Opening my eyes in the dim light, I'm half-­asleep as I make out Donovan's silhouette standing in the doorway. It seems like he's watching me. He's so still, it sends a chill through me. I shake it off. My eyes are heavy, so I give in and fall back asleep. When I wake, he's already gone.

It's Saturday, but I head into the office to polish my Sunday story on Adam Grant. I give Donovan a call on the drive in, but he doesn't pick up. At work, I can't shake the odd, out-­of-­sorts feeling I have today. Everything in my life seems off-­kilter, yet there is nothing I can really put my finger on that is wrong. My relationship with Donovan seems okay on the surface, but there is something beneath that sends a ripple of fear through me. Are we okay?

Later, in the afternoon, when I see Donovan's name on my cell phone, I clamber to answer it as fast as I can.

“Hey, Ella, I miss you.” Donovan's husky voice on the other end of the phone line sends a happy thrill through me just like it has since the first time we spoke. He's using my family's nickname for me. It took a long time for me to feel comfortable with it, but now the name on his lips makes me feel wanted and safe and instantly erases my unease. “Seems like lately we only see each other when we're both asleep in bed.”

“I miss you, too,” I say, barely above a whisper. “You working tonight?”

The police scanners on the desktop beside me crackle loudly. I turn the volume completely down. I don't care if the Bay Bridge has collapsed. All I want to do is hear Donovan's voice right now. I haven't really talked to him since Annalisa tried to imply there was something between them. I need to see him to stifle this jealousy.

“Hell no,” he says. “It's Saturday night! That's why I called. I was thinking about having dinner in North Beach. I've got a craving for Bocce's ravioli.”

Perfect. I have to drop by my place to feed my cat, Dusty, tonight, anyway.

“Let's do it.”

W
E TAKE MY
car. I move over to the passenger seat when I pull up in front of his place. He likes to drive, and I don't mind relaxing and letting him deal with Saturday night Bay Bridge traffic.

He gets in, gives me a sexy smile, and leans over to give me a long kiss.

“Geez, I feel like we haven't seen each other for a week. You've put a spell on me.”

I smile, but inside I keep remembering Annalisa's words—­that Donovan was at her house the other night.

I brush it off. I will not let her viper venom poison my relationship. If he was at her house, I'm sure it was for a good reason. I need to learn to trust him. If I don't, our relationship is doomed. I will not ask him about it. Instead, I lace my fingers through his on the gearshift as he drives.

I always get a thrill crossing the Bay Bridge with the city lit up before me. The skyline always energizes me and makes me feel like anything is possible.

Donovan drops me off at the entrance to my building and leaves to find a parking spot for the car. Parking in North Beach is a nightmare, especially on a weekend night, so I know he might be a few minutes.

My place is a fourth-­floor walk-­up. No elevator means that although it's a pain in the butt, it keeps me in shape since I'd rather eat than go to the gym. When I get to the top floor, I try my key, but it doesn't seem to work. Donovan arrives, fiddles with the key, and pushes the door. This time it yields, swinging open. Dusty immediately streaks out between my legs and barrels down the stairs. It takes me a minute to comprehend what I see on my bed. When I do, I scream.

A dead man with bulging eyes looks my way. I take him in as snapshots, as if a flashbulb is going off, giving me tiny glimpses of a crime scene. White man. Mid-­forties. Duct tape over his mouth. Bullet hole through his forehead. Receding hairline. Shirt untucked. Too-­snug khaki pants. Slight beer belly hanging out. Scuffed brown shoes. One shoe has its laces untied.

Before Donovan yanks me back, I take in another detail—­something shiny stuck to the duct tape over his mouth.

Donovan shields my view and makes me wait in the hall while he searches my place. His voice filters through the crack in the door as he calls 911.

I vomit into a bag of recycling on the floor outside my door, then, worried about Donovan, I peek in. He's standing over the body, making the sign of the cross. In my detached-­from-­reality state of shock, I idly wonder if he does that over every dead body he investigates. Then, he does something else, something that sends confusion coursing through me.

W
IT
HIN TWENTY MINUTES,
police are tromping through my apartment. Donovan is somewhere inside with them. I'm huddled on the rug in the hallway with my back against the wall, clutching Dusty to my chest. I can't stop thinking about what I saw on my bed.
My bed.

Now, sitting in the hall, trembling, I think about what
else
I saw. Donovan reaching over to the dead man's mouth, picking up the shiny thing, and pocketing it. It was a police badge—­like the one I found on my windshield.

I don't say anything about it when a nice female detective questions me in the hallway later. I tell her everything that happened.
Except that.

Why in the hell would Donovan tamper with evidence at a murder scene? I realize I haven't told him about the badge I found on my windshield. When Donovan comes into the hall and tells me it's time to leave, I stare at him as if I've never seen him before.

How well do I know this man? I've been fooled in love before. Not long after my wedding was called off, I found out that my fiancé, whom I'd known since childhood, had been cheating on me for a year. I had never suspected a thing. Within two months of our breakup, he'd knocked her up and married
her.

I eye Donovan's back. What secrets is he keeping? Ones that keep him up at night tossing and turning?

The detective brings Dusty's carrier out in the hall. She tells me I probably won't be able to come back until at least tomorrow night. I put Dusty in it and set it down in a corner of the hallway. Donovan turns and takes my hand.

“Come on. Let's go to Bocce. We'll pick him up on our way back.”

I draw back, surprised. “We're going to have dinner like nothing happened? Like I didn't just find a dead man in my bed?”

“You need a stiff drink,” he says.

I can't argue with that.

Donovan turns to the detective. “We're going out for a bit, then we'll come back to get the cat if you have any questions.”

“Sounds good,” she says. “You should be able to get in here and at least grab a change of clothes by the time you get back.”

He takes my hand and leads me to the stairs. He's so calm. I feel like I'm going to explode, but I follow him.

Detectives Jack Sullivan and Harry Gold are pounding up my stairs as we head down. It's hard to believe that it's only been a week since the mayor of San Francisco was murdered. I bet the cops are going crazy that the case hasn't yet been solved. On the stairs, Sullivan wiggles a toothpick that is sticking out of his mouth. Donovan slings his arm around me protectively. All three detectives pause on the stairs, giving each other looks.

It's like a standoff.

“Hey Sully, awful nice that you have Napa's help to investigate crimes in your city,” Donovan says to Sullivan, whose neck flushes red at the insult.

“We were just in the area and heard the call.” Gold's tone is friendly and casual as if he is trying to defuse the tension in the air. “Thought we should swing by when we heard you were here. See if you needed some help. Make sure everything was okay.”

Donovan nods, accepting the peace offering.

But Sullivan clears his throat. “Detective Donovan, I'm only a wet-­behind-­the-­ears detective and probably should mind my own business,” he says, teeth clenched on the toothpick, “but it seems to me there are an awful lot of dead bodies connected to you and the women in your life.”

It smarts hearing this detective lump Annalisa and me in one category as “the women” in Donovan's life. Donovan, who has been suspended twice for losing his temper on duty, clenches his fists. His face grows red. I grab his arm. Sullivan takes all of it in and chuckles.

“What, tough guy? You going to hit me? Maybe you get mad with your women, too, huh? Listen, darling . . .” He turns to me. “You—­I haven't quite figured out. Either you're in it with him, or he's out to make you take the fall. You better watch yourself because the way I figure, you're going to end up in jail for murder or on a morgue slab as a victim.” I feel Donovan's arm tense under my hand, and I'm afraid to look over at him. “I hope I'm wrong, though because I'd hate for your pretty little body to be the next one I'm looking at naked in the morgue.”

That does it. Donovan's arm shoots out as he takes a swing at the detective. I shout and grab for his arm. Donovan's punch arcs through the air in a blur. Sullivan easily dodges it by ducking, and smirks. “Pretty slow, old man. That might have worked ten years ago, but I think you've lost your touch. Better stick to knocking around ­people smaller than you.”

Meanwhile, the other detective, Harry Gold, has pulled Sullivan away. “Come on, Sully.”

Sullivan's face is now red, but he begins backing up the stairs.

“
Adios
, Deteeective.” He draws out the word with a sneer. “I'll catch
you
later.”

Donovan is breathing heavy and turns and punches the wall. “That son of a bitch.” He then turns and storms down the stairs, flinging the glass door open, leaving me to catch up.

 

Chapter 28

W
ITHOUT TALKING, WE
start down Columbus Avenue toward the restaurant. Donovan walks ahead as if I'm not even there. Everything is surreal. Lights are too bright. Voices too loud. Colors bleed into one another as if I'm dreaming. I can't shake the image of the dead man in my bed. It's there glowing when I close my eyes. Finally, I stop and wait for Donovan to notice. He keeps walking for about half a block before he notices. He shakes his head and comes back with a sheepish look.

“Sorry, that smart-­ass kid has me really wound up.” He blows out a big puff of air and takes my hand in his.

I hate when he's angry. It doesn't happen often, but it makes me extremely uncomfortable around him. But now he's
too
calm.

“What about the dead guy?” My voice is incredulous. “The dead body in my bed? Doesn't
that
have you wound up?” I don't even try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

Donovan takes a deep breath and looks off into the distance, at the spires of the Bay Bridge rising up on the horizon. “Let's go eat.”

“I'm not hungry,” I say.

“I get that. But I haven't eaten since breakfast. I need some food, or I'm going to get really crabby. And you need a drink. You act all tough, Ella, but I know you're not used to seeing something like that. Not like I am.”

“Fine.” I grit the word out.

At Bocce Café, Donovan orders an antipasti dish of olives, mozzarella, prosciutto, and salami. I manage to swallow a few olives. Donovan eats most of it. I make up for my lackluster appetite by drinking most of the bottle of zinfandel we split. We don't talk. I stare at him as he wolfs down the food.

“I don't understand. Why is there a dead body in my bed?” I finally say, putting my head in my hands. A wave of hysteria rises in my throat. I swallow and close my eyes to tamp it down.

Donovan stands, his chair scraping back noisily and plops down a wad of cash. “I knew the guy.” He heads for the door.

My eyes widen, and I jump up from my seat, scrambling after him. “What are you talking about?”

“Somebody's sending me a message.”

He's already at the door. I snatch my bag and jacket and run after him.

“You think?” My voice is incredulous. “Is that why he was in
my bed
? In my place?”

A wave of dizziness from the wine hits me as I walk out of Bocce after Donovan, so at first I think I'm seeing things when I notice that detective, Sullivan, waiting at the end of the long, covered walkway leading from the restaurant door to the street. His voice echoes down the walkway as he places his hand on Donovan.

“Sean Donovan, you are under arrest for murder.”