Blessed Are Those Who Weep (13 page)

 

Chapter 29

M
Y
PHONE
RINGS
in the middle of the night.

“They've made an arrest.” It's Khoury.

There is something in her voice.

“What do you mean, ‘they'?” I ask.

Even over the phone, I can tell it pains her to say the words: “They punted the case. Took it out of my hands yesterday and last night arrested an East Bay woman.”

I sit up and flip on my light.

“Who took the case? What woman?”

“My lieutenant handed the case to another detective, and he made an arrest last night. Woman named Carol Abequero.”

My eyes narrow in suspicion. “What detective?”

“Jack Sullivan.”

“That prick.” Donovan rolls over and sits up, squinting at these words.

“Uh-­huh.” Khoury obviously agrees with my assessment of Sullivan.

I'm still stunned by what she said. An arrest. And who they arrested: Carol Abequero.

“Her husband just committed suicide,” I say to Khoury. “What's the connection with Martin? I don't get it.”

“This will be in the arrest report. They think she was in love with Joey Martin, and when he scorned her, she lost her mind and sought revenge by killing everyone he loved,” Khoury says. “Martin and her hubby were in boot camp together a few years back.”

I squint at my clock. It's early Friday. Joey Martin will take custody of Lucy one week from today.

“Her husband, Richard Abequero, is scheduled to be buried later today,” I say. Donovan lies back down and puts his arm over his eyes.

Khoury says the funeral has been changed to a memorial ser­vice without a body. “They're taking his body back to the morgue. Making sure he was a suicide.”

“No way. I don't believe it.”

“Me either, kid.” Kid? She can't be that much older than me, but it also makes me wonder if she likes me a little.

“I'm sorry they took the case away from you.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“What will you do now? Are you going to back off?”

“I'll keep in touch.”

As soon as the jail opens, I fax over a request to interview Carol Abequero. An hour later, I get a fax back. “Interview denied.”

 

Chapter 30

F
OR
A
BEQUERO
'
S
SER
­
VICE
,
the second memorial I attend in a week, I wear the same black dress and patent-­leather pumps to the small chapel on cemetery grounds in Colma. I sneak in the back and try to be inconspicuous in the last row.

I bury my nose in the program but look up when I sense someone watching. A man in uniform. What looks like a high-­ranking member of the military. I don't know what all the stripes and badges mean, but this guy is no slouch. Even without the uniform, he's obviously a man of authority. He has that aura, that presence, head shaved, shoulders back. More than just the way he holds himself erect and makes eye contact with me without flinching. He is turned around in his pew, surveying the crowd and his gaze has stopped on me. He watches me until a woman touches his arm and he leans down to hear what she says.

I realize the woman is probably Abequero's mother. She wears a black dress with a tiny hat and veil. He turns back toward her, takes her arm in his and pats it gently. He's forgotten about me. All of his attention is on this woman. I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding.

I stare at the back of their heads for a while. Is he her husband? No. He is so formal with her. Does she believe her daughter-­in-­law killed all those ­people? I'm tempted to ask, but now is not the right time.

Something about his mother, maybe the shade of her hair, reminds me of my own mother at Caterina's funeral. I'm thrown back in time to that day. When everyone stands for a prayer, I push that memory aside. I don't have time for my own grief, I remind myself.

Thinking of Caterina makes me remember the e-­mails from Frank Anderson. The secrets I'm keeping from Donovan feel like a towering mountain of deceit. I haven't given up my hunt for Anderson, and now I'm worried that doing this behind Donovan's back will drive an invisible wedge between us.

I slip out before the ser­vice is over.

Joey Martin will be home in one week to claim Lucy. I'm running out of time to prove he had something to do with the murders. And now, even with proof, I'll need to convince the cops, who are already happy to neatly wrap up the murder case with Carol Abequero's arrest. Thank God Khoury seems to believe that Joey Martin is not the innocent husband the military would like us to believe.

On my way into the newsroom, I stop at the sex club again. This time my knocking is answered. The steel door swings open. A short guy with bad teeth and a flannel shirt steps out and leans against the building, eyeing me as he lights a cigarette. He inhales deeply and doesn't say anything, only watches me.

“I'm here about Javier. Heard he worked here.” I stand so I'm about a foot in front of him.

“What about him?” the guy says, blowing smoke in my face and looking over my shoulder warily. I turn to look, too, but there is nobody there.

“Any idea why he's dead?”

He sneers at me and scoffs out a “no.”

“What did he do here?”

“You could call him a handy man.” He chuckles.

“You know if he knew a dude named Joey Martin?”

For a second, his eyes darken. He knows Martin.

“You know Joey Martin, don't you?” My voice rises excitedly, but he's already stepped on his cigarette and with a flick has the door to the club open.

“Wait,” I say, but the door closes. Angrily, I jerk at the handle, but it's locked once again.

O
NCE
I
GET
into the office this afternoon, my first call is to the VA. It takes me about twenty minutes, but I finally get transferred to someone who can help me. Sort of.

“I'd like to find out some statistics—­say, the number of soldiers who return from active duty overseas and seek counseling for mental and physical issues.”

“Medical records are private.”

“I get that. I just need some numbers. I don't need to see actual files from individual soldiers.”

“I'm going to have to get back to you.”

She takes my name and number. I don't hold my breath. Instead, I immediately fill out a Freedom of Information Act form and fax it to her office, to her attention.

Before I log off, I check my e-­mail. My fingers freeze on the keyboard.

Another e-­mail from FA2858. Subject line:
He does not hear you.

Inside, the e-­mail reads,
Isaiah 59:2—­But your iniquities have separated between you and your God, and your sins have hid his face from you, that he will not hear.

My heart pounds loudly in my ears. My fingers are shaking as I forward the e-­mail to the detective. If I don't hear from him by next month, I'm going to stake out his office until he gives me some answers.

I
FILL
UP
my gas tank and point my car south.

Khoury hasn't gotten back to me with the name of the recruiter who called her, but Liz says the main recruitment office for San Francisco is south of the city, in Mountain View. It's a pain in the ass to get there, but worth a shot. I'm afraid if I just make a phone call, I won't get anywhere. Better to ask the tough questions in person.

The office is crammed in between a video game store and a dry-­cleaning business in a strip mall, of all places.

It's 2:40 p.m. Of course there is a little clock on the window saying they will return at 3:00 p.m. I pull out my reporter's notebook and start listing everything I know about the Mission Massacre and questions I have:

Carol Abequero is arrested for Mission Massacre.

Joey Martin attacked me in his apartment.

Saw Joey Martin at wife's memorial ser­vice.

Sensei acting hinky, seems afraid to talk.

Dojo and sex club connect Javier and Martin.

Javier's death was done in same manner as Martin family.

Is the kubaton Martin dropped actually evidence?

Mrs. Castillo thinks Joey did it.

Maria was afraid.

Who else would know Martin?

The military is lying for Martin. Why?

I look at the list and feel overwhelmed and hopeless—­it's a bunch of unrelated facts that don't seem to add up to anything.

I call Lopez to pick his mind about how to cajole information out of a U.S. Army recruiter.

“You're S.O.L., man. They aren't going to tell you jack.”

“You don't think I can sweet-­talk him?”

“Giovanni, you could probably convince a dead man to start dancing, but this is a whole different animal.”

I chew on that for a few seconds. Great.

Right before three, a car pulls up. A big American car with shining hubcaps, exactly what I'd expect a recruiter to drive. But the driver is not someone I expect to see. It's the man who was comforting Abequero's mom at the funeral.

“Whoa.” I breathe the word into the phone as an exhalation.

He walks by, glancing around. I slouch down in my seat for a few seconds until he unlocks the door, takes down the clock sign, and turns on the lights.

“Whoa what?” C-­Lo asks.

“Is it normal for a recruiter to attend the funeral of some soldier he recruited?”

“No way, man. All we are to those bozos is a number, a quota that needs to be filled.”

A quota. “Would it be normal for him to make arrangements for a soldier to come back home on leave from overseas?”

“Man, why don't you sit tight? I'm on my way. Sounds like that recruiter is going off the rails. That's not something he'd even
be able
to do if he wanted.”

“I'm in Mountain View. By the time you get here, I'll be done. But thanks anyway. Call you when I finish.” I click off. It's not like the guy will hurt me in broad daylight in some strip mall. The buzz of a helicopter sounds overhead, but when I peer out my windshield, I don't see anything.

I count to ten and open my car door.
Let's do this.

The door chimes loudly as I enter. I give the guy a big grin, as if he never gave me the stink eye at the funeral.

“Good afternoon!” I chirp.

His face is deadpan.

“How can I help you?” He eyes my high heels. Definitely not G.I. Jane material. Better cut to the chase.

“I'm Gabriella Giovanni with the
Bay Herald
newspaper. We're working on a story about soldiers who return home from Iraq.” I pause. “I've heard you really care about the soldiers you recruit.” His expression does not change. “I'd like to ask you a few questions.”

I pause again. He continues to stare.

“Soldiers returning home from Iraq are facing some unique challenges,” I go on. “They leave a highly charged environment, where they are essentially forced to be on high alert nearly twenty-­four hours a day, to come back home to, in some cases, a wife and children in a serene subdivision. I know there are ser­vices out there to help these soldiers, and I'd like to do a story about those, but maybe also we can bring light to the fact that additional ser­vices and resources are probably needed.”

I come up for air after my spiel, and Rambo hasn't even blinked.

“Some of these things which the military might be a bit hesitant to bring to light might find support and funding if the public puts pressure on the politicians.” I know I'm babbling, but I go on. “In other words, Mr. . . .” I squint, trying to see his name on a pin. “ . . . Johnson?”

“Sergeant Jameson,” he says stiffly.

“Mr. Jameson, if I put it in the paper, it can help your boys.”

It's the longest speech I've given since college. The room is silent. I hear the gurgling of the water cooler and the hum of a tiny refrigerator in the corner. He sits as still as stone.

Crossing my arms across my chest, I wait for him to respond. He's a tough nut to crack, but I'm good at this game.

We stare at each other. I raise one eyebrow and give the slightest nod.
I can do this all day, buddy
.

Finally, when I'm nearly about to throw in the towel, he clears his throat.

“Mrs. Genovese—­” I can see by his smug smile that he knows he has my name wrong and he knows that two can play at this game.

“Giovanni. Miss.”

“Miss Giovanni, as I'm sure you must realize, my hands are tied. While I appreciate your . . . concern . . . for our soldiers, I am not authorized to speak to the media. We have an entire division dedicated to this. In fact, we probably have some of the best-­trained media experts in the country. I know they would be happy to help you.”

“Yeah, I have a Freedom of Information request in. What I need to do is talk to you about our local soldiers and what you've seen here in the Bay Area. I'm sure you have more authority than you let on.”

Okay, I admit I'm slightly buttering him up, appealing to his vanity. But it doesn't work.

He gives an exaggerated sigh. “I wish I did.”

I'm tired of acting like we didn't see each other a few hours ago.

“I saw you at this morning's funeral—­ Abequero's. Is it normal for recruiters to comfort the grieving family of the soldiers they recruit?”

“Ah.” He leans back, as if that explains everything. “That was an unusual situation. Abequero's mother and I went to high school together. The least favorite part of my job is hearing about the deaths of the men and women I recruit. I deeply regret when circumstances turn out this way.”

“What do you think went on there? Did you know his wife, as well?”

“I can't comment on that.” I remember that as far as the public is concerned, Abequero committed suicide.

“What about Abequero's death,” I say. “It seems that other soldiers returning from Iraq have suffered from depression and committed suicide. Can you tell me what type of screenings, mental, physical, and otherwise, ­people go through before they enlist? It sounds like they don't always pick out issues that might surface later? Does this system need to be improved?”

The annoyance that flashes across his face is quickly masked.

“That is a question that has been tossed around for years in the branches of the military. We keep trying to refine and perfect the screenings, but alas, sometimes ­people who are clever at taking the tests slip through. Not often, though. I'd say that Sergeant Abequero was an anomaly. I've known him since he was in grade school and never would have expected this.”

Of course that's how he'll play this. An anomaly. A fluke.

“What about these cases in Kentucky? Suicides? Domestic violence? Maybe even a homicide?”

His eyebrows knit together in a concerned frown. “Not familiar with those. I tend to focus on my own recruits.”

“Would it be possible for me to look at a sample of some of the screenings and tests potential recruits must go through?” I don't blink, waiting for his answer.

“Of course.” He reaches down into a drawer. I can't help but be suspicious. How come he'll turn this over so easily? I'm not surprised when he draws out a sheet and hands it to me, along with his business card.

“Here's a list of the ­people you could contact to send your FOIA requests to. And here's my card if you have any follow-­up questions.”

I clear my throat as I stand. As a reporter, you learn to lob the soft balls early on and save the tough questions for last.

“How did you know Joey Martin was coming home from overseas if you are only his recruiter? Is that a special case, as well?” It's a gamble. I don't even know if he's the man who recruited Martin.

His eyes turn steel gray. I wonder if I imagine the dangerous glint I see, because it so quickly disappears as a huge smile spreads across his face.

“That's confidential. I'm restricted from speaking about that particular situation, miss. You must excuse me now. I am expecting an important phone call.”