Blessed Are Those Who Weep (17 page)

Was
.

“If everyone knows she carries the files around, is that why she's dead?” I ask.

“I don't know, but I'm going to find out.” His mouth is set in a grim, determined line, and I can tell by the furrow across his brow he's not kidding.

He turns the key in the ignition. That's my cue.

“Need a ride to your car?”

I shake my head no. I open the door and duck down to say good-­bye.

He reaches over to his glove box, pops it open, and extracts a small gun, which he sticks in an ankle holster as I watch.

“I'm going to find out what the hell is going on,” he says, as if that is an explanation.

I raise an eyebrow.

“Hey, my dad always said you get more with a kind word and a gun than with a kind word alone.” He winks and peels out.

 

Chapter 36

B
ACK
IN
THE
newsroom, I have a hard time writing the story about Khoury's murder. I want to do her justice, but that's going to have to be in another story. This one is just the facts. And there are so few of them. I didn't stick around for the press conference, but Lopez did and took notes for me. I have so many questions. Eventually I write a story, leaving out everything I suspect about her murder and can't prove.

The military is lying for Martin, and the cops are in on it. Khoury is dead because she was on to them. She must've found something incriminating, and that's why she's dead. Maybe the only thing saving me is my ignorance—­the fact that I don't have any proof about Joey Martin or the military lying.

Because the truth is I have no way of proving anything. Khoury might have had a way to prove it, and now she's dead. If they think I know anything, I'm probably their next target.

Donovan asks me to stay the night at his Oakland apartment, saying he's worried that whoever killed Khoury might come after me. For once I don't think he's being overprotective. If the cover-­up extends to the cop shop, to the detective who already has it out for me—­Jack Sullivan—­then I'm also a little apprehensive.

A few hours later, after I finally turn in my story about Khoury's murder and leave work, we are hunched over tzatsiki, baba ghanoush, and tabouli that Donovan brought home from the Holy Land deli. I know he is worried, so I gulp down most of my pita bread, but it tastes like cardboard. He's on his third beer, while I'm still sipping my first.

“If you're right and they took out a cop to protect this Martin guy, there's nothing to stop them from getting rid of you, too.” He looks at me over his beer as he takes a long pull. “I didn't think your life was in danger until now. But now I'm not so sure. Whatever the military is hiding must be a pretty big deal for them to take out a detective in the middle of a big case.”

“She was taken off the case.”

“Gives me more reason to worry.”

When Donovan hears about the cops searching Khoury's apartment, the muscle along his jawline starts pulsing, and his eyes narrow.

“Sullivan, huh?”

There is no love lost between him and the San Francisco detective. But I probably despise the man even more.

“That man is like a dog with a bone. He won't let go until he wreaks revenge on you.”

I nod. He's right. I make a mental note to ask Liz if she can find out more about the redheaded cop. He's got to have some vulnerability, some Achilles' heel we can find and use to our advantage.

“So, what's this Strohmayer guy like?”

That was out of left field. “Nice guy.” I shrug. “He said that everyone knows Khoury took her work home with her. There's motive right there.”

“What's Khoury's lieutenant's name again?” Donovan asks.

“I don't know. I think Khoury said Alexander. Does that sound right?”

Donovan nods. “Dennis Alexander. I don't know much about him, only his name.”

I'll ask Liz about him, too.

Donovan clears the dishes as I stand and gaze out at Lake Merritt before me. The downtown Oakland skyscrapers soar up into the crisp black sky beyond the lake. The walking path around the lake is strung with lights like a necklace, giving it a fairylike feel from my third-­floor perch. I sense Donovan behind me before he wraps his arms around my waist and nuzzles his lips into my collarbone.

I remember what he said about sex being so clinical lately. I close my eyes and try to let my body respond to his touch, but I'm numb. My mind is racing with so many things: Lucy. Her father. Khoury. Sullivan. And underneath it all, lying like a big lump of mud, is the resentment I feel against Donovan for not wanting to get pregnant as badly as I do.

I can't get past it. He must sense my resistance, because soon the warmth of his body leaves mine and footsteps sound along the wood floor as he heads toward the bedroom.

The view of the lake strung with lights is blurry now, just streaks of smeared white.

 

Chapter 37

D
ET
ECTIVE
S
TROHMAYER
CAL
LS
me while I'm in the newsroom Wednesday.

“I'm in the East Bay,” he says. “Got the day off, and I took the twins to Waterworld in Concord. Can you meet me here in a half hour?”

“You're brave.”

“Hell, this is the safest waterslide park in the world. Now.”

“Right. Now.”

A few years ago, a group of graduating seniors from Napa ignored a lifeguard's warning and stormed the seventy-­five-­foot-­tall slide. When they tried to ride down together in a massive pack, the slide collapsed, sending ­people plunging to the ground below. A seventeen-­year-­old girl died, and thirty other ­people were injured. Witnesses said the pool below became red with the blood of those injured.

I agree to meet him and log off my computer. I stop by Liz's desk on my way out of the newsroom. I owe her way more than a box of biscotti. As soon as I have time, I'm taking her out to dinner at Chez Panisse or something.

It's been two days since Khoury's death. Liz did some digging on Khoury's lieutenant.

Unfortunately, Dennis Alexander is pretty boring on paper. Lives in San Mateo. Owns a small house there. Has a wife and two teenage boys. Nothing interesting on him whatsoever.

The paper trail for Jack Sullivan is cold. There is nothing on file for him. Nada. Not even the usual paper trail of a birth certificate, driver's license information, or voter registration. It's like he's a ghost.

For some reason, that makes me worry.

But I'm more worried that Joey Martin is going to pick up Lucy in two days, and right now I don't see any cops trying to stop him.

S
TROHMAYER
IS
ON
his cell phone by the bottom of the Dragon Tails body slide, a smaller, twisty slide for families. It's ninety degrees out. Unusually warm for October, plus it's a release day for Bay Area schools, so the waterpark is packed. Kids scream and shout, and lifeguards are blowing whistles, reminding ­people to behave and not run.

Strohmayer is wearing shorts and a bright blue shirt that makes his eyes light up when he sees me and smiles.

He finishes his conversation and clicks off his phone. “Sorry about that. The wife. She's got a roller derby bout tonight and is making sure I'm able to watch the kids.”

I don't know why this makes me jealous. That he's married, or that he has kids? Or both?

Two towheaded boys run up. “Dad! Dad! Can we go to Treasure Island now?”

“Yep. Head on over,” he says, patting one of them on the head. “I'll follow.”

“So your wife does roller derby?” I say as we walk to a picnic table near the Treasure Island pool, a watery playground with tunnels and fountains. “She sounds awesome. Roller derby isn't for sissies. ”

“Let's sit here, that way I can keep an eye on the kids. Can't go home tonight and tell Mary one of them drowned, you know. My wife is understanding and all, but that probably wouldn't go over well.” He settles in at a table facing the pool. “You're right, roller derby isn't for wimps. The last time I put on skates, it was ass over teakettle. Which, of course, Mary thought was hilarious. Sometimes it's hard to keep up with her. Every year it's something new—­this year it'll be jumping out of airplanes.”

“That's always been my dream.” Of course I don't tell him that I planned on skydiving for my birthday this past summer but put that aside as I sank into a deep funk from my miscarriage.

“Hey, Toby,” he says. “Quit splashing your brother.” He turns his attention back to me. “Well, she's looking for a pal to skydive with her, but all her friends are chicken. Maybe I should introduce you two.”

“That would be amazing.” I watch as the two boys wrestle and dunk each other. He turns to me, and I'm afraid to take my eyes off his twins in case one of them drowns or hits his head or something when he's not looking.

He takes out a small wallet-­size picture of his smiling wife and twin boys. “Here she is.”

I hand it back to him. “I already like her,” I say and mean it.

He pockets the photo and grows serious as we settle in. “I called you because I think you're right,” he says, taking a sip from a bottle of water.

“About what?” My cell phone rings. I glance down. Donovan. I mute my phone and ignore the call. There is no way I could hear him over the screams, shouts, and laughter at this waterpark.

“Amanda,” he says. “That wasn't a robbery gone bad.”

“What changed your mind?” I squint at the pool. For a second I couldn't see one of the boys, but then his head bobs up, like a seal's.

“The evidence is gone.”

“What?” My mind goes blank. What is he talking about? I forget about keeping an eye on his twins and turn to face him.

“The kubaton.”

Strohmayer explains that when he confronted Sullivan and Lieutenant Alexander, they brushed him off and told him that if he didn't mind his own business, he'd be back to working the patrol shift, nights.

“It's not an empty threat, either.” He turns toward the pool and stands. “Matt, get over here and take a time out. I told you not to sit on your brother's head in the water.”

Matt gets out and his brother follows. Both boys are crying. They sit on the cement near our feet, both pouting. “Six minutes starting now,” Strohmayer tells them and turns to me. “A minute for each year of their life.” I don't point out he doesn't have on a watch.

“So, after they threatened me, I figured it'd be smartest to just play their game. Play dumb. I told them I wanted them to find Khoury's killer and to let me know if I could help. Meanwhile, I've been doing some poking around myself. Found copies of most of Amanda's investigation. She must've known something was up, because she stashed a bunch of copies in a file we share for Fantasy Football. Smart lady. I got all the goods on the case except the results of the blood-­spatter analysis and fingerprints.”

My heart sinks when he says this. He doesn't appear to mind talking about blood spatter around his boys, who are now giggling and talking to each other.

“Six minutes up. Get on out of here and behave!” he says in a mock mean voice. Patting both boys as they run off, he winks at me. “So I thought I'd get the kubaton and requisition the work myself. Went in to ask for it, and bam, the kubaton was gone.”

“I don't understand.” My phone vibrates, and I look down. Donovan calling again. I ignore it.

“She checked it out the night before she was killed.” The smile I saw earlier is gone. “Damn it, Amanda,” he mumbles, wadding up his napkin. “What did you get yourself into?”

“If she checked it out, then she had it with her or at her place,” I say. “It has to be somewhere, right? Unless another cop took it.”

“Yep.” He says it and is quiet, as if he's thinking about this.

“What?”

“Or what if she never had it in the first place? I can't see Amanda checking out evidence and bringing it home. Especially when she knows it's a lynchpin in her case. Doesn't make sense.”

“If it didn't get checked out, where is it?” I can't wrap my mind around the idea that police evidence can just disappear.

A bloodcurdling scream from the pool makes me jerk my head to look. I immediately spot both boys' blond heads bobbing close together as the twins dip and swim, spitting water out of their mouths at each other.

“It got checked out, alright,” Strohmayer says. “Just probably not by her. I think someone else forged her name after her death.”

I tap my fingers on the white plastic picnic table. Evidence is missing from police custody.

“So, what now?”

“I don't know, but I'm going to find out.”

“He's going to pick up Lucy on Friday. In two days.” He knows I mean Joey Martin.

“I know.”

“If evidence is gone, then that's proof this whole deal is an inside job, right?” I ask. “How do you know who to trust?”

“I guess I don't.” He hands me his card. He's scribbled his home number and cell phone on it. “Keep in touch.”

“How can we stop him?” I ask as I stand.

He presses his lips tightly together and shakes his head. He doesn't have the answer. The despair I feel at that gesture is quickly replaced by steel determination. I will stop Joey Martin, no matter what it takes.

As I walk out of the park, I think about Strohmayer's cute boys and his wife at home. If he's digging around and this is as corrupt as it appears, he's also risking his life. A small flicker of guilt washes over me. Is all this my fault? Is it all because
I'm
digging around?

Getting in my car, I see that I've missed three calls from Donovan. I wonder if it's an emergency and dial his number, but I only get voice mail.

“It's me. I was meeting with Detective Strohmayer. Hope everything's okay. Call me back.”

I'm relieved that Strohmayer believes my theory that Khoury was taken out for what she knows, but I'm not sure it will help. What I do know is that Lucy will end up in the arms of a killer if we don't stop him. I have two days to prove Joey Martin was in town when his family was killed.