Blessed Are Those Who Weep

by Kristi Belcamino

  At least they aren’t for me today.

  I scrabble to answer when my cell phone rings. It’s my cousin.

  “I think I found her,” Tricia says. “She’s with a real nice foster family in Noe Valley. They take in kids all the time. Her file says that her biological father will be back in the country next week and pick her up.”

  The baby has been in CPS care for a week. I suppose another week won’t hurt her. And I have a feeling that if Mrs. Castillo is right, any place is safer than with her father.

  “Noe Valley, huh?” I ask. “What part? What’s the address? I know a yummy Chinese restaurant there.” I try to make my question as casual and matter-­of-­fact as I can.

  Tricia is silent for a minute. “Even if I had the address—­which I don’t, they don’t even put it in the file for confidential reasons —­even if I had it, I’m not supposed to give it out. Even to family.”

  I swallow hard. I don’t mean to put Tricia on the spot or try to make her jeopardize her job.

  “I’m sorry. I understand. Thanks for telling me what you did.” I try to lighten the mood. “And you guys better get over to Nana’s. I need a Freddy fix soon.”

  “Deal. Love you.”

  I’VE MISSED MY appointment with Marsha and feel a mixture of guilt and relief. I call to reschedule before leaving work early. Because even though I don’t want to talk to my therapist, there is someone I do want to speak with.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m knocking on the door of the rectory to St. Joan of Arc Church in Oakland. Father Liam answers the door himself. His bright blue eyes are sparkling, and his full head of dark hair, swept back away from his face, is just starting to become fringed with gray.

  “What a lovely surprise. It’s my entertaining hour. Would you care for a drink? Or possibly a spot of tea?”

  Sometimes I forget that although he’s half Italian, he’s also half Irish. Do the Irish prefer tea to coffee, like the British?

  “Just water, thanks. Do you have a minute?”

  “I always have time for you,” he says. I follow him upstairs to the study. He’s dressed casually, in pressed designer jeans and a button-­up top with a soft cashmere cardigan and loafers.

  He busies himself at the bar, and a few seconds later, he turns and hands me a Pellegrino with a small slice of lime on the edge of the glass.

  “Thank you.” I take a sip.

  “The pleasure is mine,” he says as he folds himself into an armchair. He crosses one leg over the other and takes a sip of his Bombay gin and tonic.

  In between sips of my water, I tell Father Liam about the massacre in the San Francisco apartment and how I feel unusually attached to the child I held in my arms.

  “I did see that—­and you—­on the television. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, finding something like that. But with that said, your attachment to that child appears to be a normal reaction for someone who has been through what you have,” he says.

  Maybe I should fire my expensive therapist and turn to Father Liam exclusively. I brush that thought aside. I came to him for a more spiritual reason today.

  “Do you think you could bless this for me?” I hold out the medal in my palm.

  He takes it from me. “Ah, St. Gerard. Is there something I should know?” His eyes twinkle, but his brows crease in consternation when he sees the answer on my face. He quickly amends what he said. “Well, it never hurts to pray, my dear. I’d be happy to bless it.”

  I’m afraid to meet his eyes and see the sympathy in them, so I stare at the round heels of my pumps. Father Liam lifts my chin with two fingers until I meet his eyes.

  “Now, now.”

  “I know you said it’s not true, but—­”

  “It’s not true. I told you that’s not a possibility. And it’s not up for discussion.” His clipped accent puts an end to the conversation.

  He’s sick of hearing it, and I don’t blame him. I’ve told him several times that I’m convinced my miscarriage and inability to conceive is my punishment for killing two ­people.

  He will have nothing to do with that idea.

  I leave a few minutes later with the medal tucked into the neckline of my blouse, nestled against my miraculous medal. I finger them both as I drive toward San Francisco. As Father Liam said, “It never hurts to pray.”

  Chapter 26

  ONCE I PULL into North Beach, I’m restless. Donovan is staying at his own place tonight whenever he gets home. This homicide he’s working is all consuming. We’ve been together two years, so I should be used to it, but for some reason I’ve found I’m less and less understanding.

  The thought of sitting in my apartment alone is stifling.

  Within twenty minutes I’m cruising the placid streets of Noe Valley, a family-­friendly neighborhood in the city, chock full of row houses and small stores on its main road. I ignore the alarms going off in my head warning me that looking for Lucy is bordering on crazy town.

  I drive past Eric’s Chinese restaurant on Church Street and glance into the window of a little Santeria shop that sells potions and candles. For half a second, I’m tempted to stop and see if they have any spells for baby making, but imagining Father Liam’s face when I confess this keeps me driving.

  At one point, passing a woman with several kids, including a baby in a stroller, I slam on my brakes and wait for them to walk past, even though cars are honking behind me. When the woman gets close, I can see that the stroller holds a little boy in a baseball cap. After a few more false alarms like that, I finally admit I’m acting irrational and head back to my part of town.

  Back in North Beach, I park and hit the streets, wrapping my new turquoise scarf loosely around my neck.

  October is usually my favorite time of year in the city. It’s a little-­known secret locals don’t like to divulge—­summer in the city is the pits: rife with tourists and bitter-­cold fog and wind. Mark Twain got it right when he said, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.”

  Fall in the city is the best time of year. It’s when the fog clears and the warmth of the sun’s rays soak into bare skin. But this year it seems like a shadow of its former self. The East Bay is unseasonably warm, and the city is abnormally cold.

  Tonight, even with the chill in the air, the streets of North Beach are teeming with diners and shoppers and strollers taking their passeggiata—­nightly stroll—­before dinner. In the old country, even in the smallest villages of Italy, whole families dressed to the nines and strolled the promenade or the town plaza, catching up on local gossip, news, and admiring one another before a late dinner. Romances and business deals alike were made during la passeggiata.

  It is a chance to see and be seen, to create la bella figura.

  In San Francisco, some of the old-­school Italians still stroll, but mainly the old-­timers plant themselves at sidewalk cafés to chitchat while nursing a beer or glass of wine. Usually this makes me smile, but tonight it just makes me jealous, seeing everyone greeting one another as I walk alone. Although I often see friends, today all the faces I see are those of strangers.

  I stop at Molinari’s deli, where I fill my market basket with some rotini pasta noodles, a small, expensive tin of Donovan’s favorite amaretto cookies, and an Italian sub. At City Lights bookstore, I pick up the latest Anna Gavalda book and head home.

  Sitting out on my balcony, I put my sub sandwich on a china plate and one of my nana’s handmade, rose-­patterned cloth napkins in my lap, and pour myself some cabernet sauvignon. One glass of wine won’t hurt, since I’m not pregnant this month anyway. Unfortunately, the sub tastes like cardboard in my mouth, and I work hard to chew some and swallow. I’m tempted to give up, but I take another bite instead and wash it down with wine. Take another bite, wash it down. Repeat. The only thing that goes down easily is the glass of wine. I didn’t realize until now how
much I missed drinking wine while trying to get pregnant.

  On the drive home across the Bay Bridge, I vowed to myself that tonight I would pamper myself, relax, not think about saving Lucy from her father, not obsess about finding the man who kidnapped my sister, and ignore the aching hollow in my midsection that once held a life.

  But after refilling my wineglass a few times to get the sub down, all bets are off.

  I’m at my computer looking up Joey Martin’s name, but I find nothing.

  After using all the search engines I can, I give up. I have a call in to Liz, the news researcher at the newspaper, to see if she can dig up any dirt on him.

  Maybe she’s found something new. I check my work e-­mail. Nothing from Liz, but my heart starts to beat wildly when I see an e-­mail from Anderson: FA2858.

  This time, the subject line says, An eye for an eye?

  Why the question mark? I click it open.

  This time the Bible verse is Romans 12:17–19.

  “Repay no one evil for evil, but give thought to do what is honorable in the sight of all. If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all. Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.’ ”

  Is he warning me not to seek justice for the Mission Massacre, or not to seek justice for Caterina’s murder? It doesn’t matter. Before I die, I will seek justice for both. I still don’t know how he found me, but I vow to make it his downfall if I can.

  I forward the e-­mail to the detective. A tiny flicker of guilt zings through me as I remember Donovan’s happy face asking me to let it go and concentrate on being pregnant. I flick it aside. I’m not pregnant anymore. There is no reason not to go after Anderson with everything I’ve got.

  I search through the trash file on my computer to find the old e-­mail he sent me with the subject line Thou Shalt Not Kill. This time nothing will stop me from reading it.

  Again, inside the e-­mail there is nothing but Bible verses. This time three of them:

  James 4:2—­You want something but don’t get it. You kill and covet, but you cannot have what you want.

  James 5:6—­You have condemned and murdered the innocent one, who was not opposing you.

  John 3:15—­Anyone who hates a brother or sister is a murderer, and you know that no murderer has eternal life residing in him.

  It’s as if he knows me, and knows how the weight of the men I killed weighs so heavily on my soul. At first the verses send a chill through me, but then I grow angry. How dare he? How dare he, who is a murderer, judge me?

  I shoot off an angry e-­mail to the detective assigned to Caterina’s case.

  What is going on with my sister’s case? I haven’t heard from you in months. I’ve sent you three e-­mails now, including the one I sent a few seconds ago. What are you doing about them? This is the man who killed my sister, and he’s taunting me. If you won’t do something about it, I will.

  Feeling a bit better, I hit send. If he doesn’t respond, maybe I’ll show up in person.

  Looking over my shoulder—­even though I know I’m alone—­I punch in Frank Anderson’s name and hit search. Guilt streaks through me, but I brush it off. When nothing comes up online about Anderson, I grow weary. My eyes are heavy. My legs feel like lead, my mind, dull and gray.

  I close my computer and crawl under my covers.

  But as soon as I get in bed, I’m wide awake, my mind whirring along, analyzing the e-­mails.

  I bet the detective isn’t convinced the e-­mails are from Anderson. How can I prove it? I know the initials “F.A.” stand for Frank Anderson. But what does “2858” stand for? I’ve racked my brains for the past two months trying to figure out what it might mean.

  I switch my light back on, take a small key, and unlock a drawer in my desk. Inside, I unearth a worn manila folder. It contains all the information about Caterina’s kidnapping and murder. I’ve looked at all the documents so many times I nearly have them memorized. In fact, I just read them two weeks ago, but I pick them up again and reread them.

  On the third time skimming the documents, I pause on an arrest record for Anderson, when he got caught sneaking into a little girl’s house and masturbating in her room. Her dad came home early and beat the crap out of Frank until the cops showed.

  Reading the arrest record makes me the tiniest bit happy. I like reading how the father beat Anderson to a pulp. I think he even had to have reconstructive surgery on his face. Good. He tried to sue the father for assault, but a judge threw the case out. Are they going to side with a veteran? Or a pedophile?

  Starting from the top, I read every box on the arrest report. At first, I skip right over the box marked “birthdate.” 2-­8-­1958, which can also be written 2-­8-­58. FA2858. It’s him. It is a message. He wanted to let me know that it is him.

  After I find myself falling asleep sitting in front of the computer, I crawl back into bed. Before I turn out the light, I study the picture of Caterina on my nightstand. Each night her picture reminds me that her death remains unavenged. For now.

  Chapter 27

  “ANGEL OF DEATH?”

  It’s Brian at the morgue.

  “Pretty ironic, coming from the Grim Reaper himself,” I answer. “Did you trade in your light saber for a scythe? I barely recognized your voice, since it wasn’t quoting Star Wars.”

  “Got a soldier on ice,” he says.

  “I’ll be there in a few,” I say and hang up.

  Brian is one of several sheriff’s deputies assigned to a two-­year stint at the morgue. They are called out to any suspicious death or car crash fatalities and have to take photographs of the death scene, do the initial investigation, bag the bodies, and transport them to the county morgue, where a forensic pathologist does the autopsies. Because death doesn’t punch a time clock, they take turns filling the twenty-­four-­hour shift, sleeping alone on a cot in a creepy, windowless room. The last place I’d want to stay the night alone, with about a dozen dead bodies chilling only a wall away.

  When I get to the morgue, Rita at the front desk is on the phone, so she buzzes me in and waves me back instead of us catching up with our usual chitchat about her grandchildren and recipes we’ve tried.

  Brian greets me in the back offices with a folder he plops into my arms. With his blond crew cut and ripped forearms, Brian is built like a linebacker, so it always strikes me as funny how nerdy he actually is. He once told me his wife encourages him to collect figurines from The Simpsons TV show. I keep meaning to get him some for Christmas.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” He points me to a chair. “You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy . . . We must be cautious.”

  “Got it,” I say.

  I open the file, and on top of a stack of documents lies a vivid picture—­a close-­up of a guy with half his head blown off. I’ve seen worse in person at the morgue, but this one is particularly gruesome. Brian hovers over my shoulder, so I don’t react. I’m sure he’d stop letting me see the complete autopsy files if I’m a wimp about it. Other pictures show the man sprawled on the floor of a garage. His body is near the tire of a silver vehicle. A gun lies nearby. I scan the cover page. His name is Richard Abequero.

  “Suicide?”

  “Guy ate his gun.” Brian leans against the cubicle wall, flipping through a stack of photos he took out of a large envelope. “Been back from his tour of duty about six months. Lives in Oakland.”

  “Iraq?”

  “The force is with you . . . but you are not a Jedi yet!”

  “Thanks.”

  I study the picture closer. Above the bloody mess that used to be a face I can see a close-­shorn haircut.

  “Married? Any kids?” I ask.

  “Married.”

  Brian pulls out a chai
r across from me. He takes out his Death Book and adds new pictures to it, carefully using a glue stick to adhere them to the professional-­style scrapbook. I know later he will take a fine ink pen and mark poignant details. For instance, on one he wrote, “Father of four. Asphyxiated from sinking into silo bin full of grain.”

  Along with photographing the scene officially, he takes snapshots “unofficially” and keeps them in his Death Book, his morbid account of his time at the morgue. And he calls me “Angel of Death.”

  I continue flipping through the file until I find contact information. His wife. Her name is Carol Abequero.

  “They pick him up yet?”

  “Yep. He’s over at Dunwoody Funeral Home. Viewing is tonight. Seven p.m. Closed casket. Ugh. And I thought they smelled bad on the outside.”

  Closing the folder, the image of the soldier’s mangled face is seared on my mind. “I’m sure.”

  I pick up my bag. “Thanks again, Brian.”

  “The circle is now complete.”

  “Um, okay. See you.”

  IN THE CAR, I start making calls. First, Liz in news research.

  “Hey, sugar,” she says, and I can tell she is smiling.

  Liz should work for the CIA or FBI. She could unearth Jimmy Hoffa’s body if she set her mind to it.

  “Got a name for you, Liz. Carol Abequero. Looking for an address.” The best way to get someone to talk is to show up in person. Anyone can hang up the phone. And they often do.

  “Will do, sugar.”

  Next, I call Detective Khoury.

  “I don’t have anything new for you. They’ll look at that weapon you gave me, but there is a backlog of evidence they’re working.” She says it before I can ask a question.

  “Any chance I can get that recruiter’s name yet? I want to know who says Joey Martin was in Iraq.”

  “I got some bad news for you. It’s more than just the recruiter. My lieutenant apparently talked to a general over there. The big guy is vouching for Joey Martin. That gives the husband the best alibi I’ve heard in a decade,” she says. “Wait, I take that back. There was a better one. The suspect who was already dead in the cemetery had the best alibi I’ve ever run across. Even so, his neighbor was convinced he killed her husband. Asked me if I’d ever heard of zombies.”