“I’m sure she’s okay,” I said. It was pathetic how easily the lie came out of my mouth.
WALKING UNDER THE GIANT arch onto the Berkeley campus filled me with regret and longing and guilt. Maybe someday I would go back to school. I knew my parents had always planned for me to go to U.C. Berkeley. I’d thought I would, too, but plans changed.
For instance, I hadn’t planned on my parent’s getting murdered.
Or later, my brother and my godfather’s murders.
When my parents died, I enrolled in the San Francisco Art Institute, but didn’t even last a semester. I was too interested in numbing my grief with drinking, drugs, and sex. Art school became somewhere for me to meet cute boys. I was asked to leave school after I posed nude when the model didn’t show up. It probably didn’t help that I slept with the professor, too.
As I walked across campus, past college kids in sweatshirts noses into their phones, my own cell dinged with a text from Dante. Shit! I’d forgotten he and Bobby were coming over for dinner.
“The board is trying to squash Swanson Place. I only now got wind of it.”
I texted him back. “Can u help me? Do digging on the board – their bank accounts, etc. Ask Sal for help. They’re hiding smthing. I’m caught up in smhing else. Fill u in later.”
The campus newspaper wasn’t the sort of dark and dank gritty spot I’d always imagined a newspaper office to be like. It was underground, sure. But it was brightly lit and modern.
Bookshelves crammed with reference materials lined the walls. Tables scattered across the room held desktop computers or docking stations for laptops and tablets and smart phones. Students typed furiously on keypads or had excited conversations. I stood in the doorway trying to figure out who was in charge. Finally, I saw an older man in jeans, cowboy boots, and a tie. He had longish gray hair swept back from his forehead, a neat beard, and penetrating eyes behind large glasses.
“Excuse me.” I approached him. “My name’s Gia Santella. I’m a friend of Sasha Fitzgerald’s family. Can we go someplace private to talk?”
His smile had faded when I said Sasha’s name.
“Sure. Just a second.” He turned to a student. “Josh, keep an eye out for Brody’s copy. He’s ten minutes late. I’ll be back in twenty.”
He turned to me and stuck out his hand. “I’m Bruce Baumann. My office is across the hall.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The walls of his office were covered with framed certificates and yellowed front pages from newspapers across the country, including one from the New York Times on 9/11. It had a little plaque beside it saying the story had won a Pulitzer. I gestured to it, eyes wide.
“Another life,” he said and smiled.
He closed the door and took a seat in one of two worn leather office chairs in front of the desk.
“What have you heard about Sasha?” he asked.
“You know she’s missing?”
“Hell yes, I know. She’s my star reporter. She didn’t file a story from the protest. I called her phone about fifty times. Finally, I went and knocked on the door of her house. Her roommate told me she never came home.”
I watched as he spoke. I knew I could trust him.
“Whatever happened to her,” I said, “I don’t think it’s good.”
He pressed his lips together tightly, shook his head, and waited for me to continue.
“Is this confidential?” I asked.
He gave me a look. “Consider yourself a source.”
I lifted an eyebrow.
“It means I’ll go to jail before I reveal my sources.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he said it so low I barely heard.
I tilted my head. “Okay, then. Somebody saw her dragged away by men in masks. All in black, black masks.”
“Antifa!” he said in a low voice and then whistled.
“Who?”
“Stands for Anti-Fascist Action. They are a militant anti-fascist group.”
“Oh, yeah. I think I heard of them.” I got out a scrap of paper and started taking notes.
“It doesn’t make any sense that they would take Sasha,” I said. “They oppose hate groups, right?”
“It’s a little complicated,” he said, “but Antifa stands less for a group and more for a call to action. Anybody can say they are Antifa and get out there with their masks on and basically incite violence.”
“Wait? Isn’t this the same group that came out to help with Hurricane Harvey relief?”
“Same name. Different people. They’re all independent, loosely organized groups using the name and donning the masks. They’re known for their masks, and using sticks and clubs to attack others during protests.”
I thought about George. They said he’d been clubbed.
“That’s one reason Sasha was covering the protest,” he said. “Besides her meeting afterward, she was going to interview the members. They claim to protect those who are trying to stand up to the white supremacist groups. And frankly, that probably is true in the rest of the country, but there is a rogue subset here in the Bay Area that we believe is actually run by Kraig King. I told you that each Antifa group is independent? Well, we suspect this local group using the Antifa movement to perpetuate racism.”
Kraig King was the national head of the country’s largest white supremacist group. He had a home in Berkeley so it made sense he’d be involved in local rallies. But him being behind a group that publicly opposed him? Crazy.
“Like an inside job?”
“Pretty much.”
Baumann typed at his laptop and then turned it around to face me. It was an article the student paper had published about possible links between King and Antifa in Berkeley. A giant photo at the top showed a man in a suit standing on a hill overlooking the Oakland protest.
“Whoa.” King was the guy who’d stared at me in Katrina’s last night. Except in the photo he wore dark sunglasses with his fedora. “Have you ever seen him without the sunglasses and hat?” I asked Baumann.
“Never.”
“I saw him with the hat, but without the sunglasses. He was in the Tenderloin the night of the protest.”
Baumann paused, thinking. “He was there, huh?”
“You mentioned Sasha was planning to meet someone after the protest? Any idea who she was meeting?” I told him what the blond woman had said, that they took Sasha because she was a reporter.
“She was meeting someone for her story,” he said. “Supposed to file that night. She had one more source to check with. It’s slated for A1 on Sunday. A blockbuster story. We were going to scoop every paper in the country on this one.”
“What’s it about?”
He sighed. “I’ve never given a reporter this sort of leeway before, but Sasha’s an exceptional case. She’s the best reporter, student or professional, I’ve worked with in my thirty years in journalism. As far as her story goes, she was keeping it close to the chest. But she did say it involved the mayor’s office. Something that would bring the mayor down. In flames.”
“Bloody hell!” I flashed back to seeing the mayor coming into Café Katrina’s after the protest.
“Yes. Something big.”
I was looking at my notes, scribbling and circling words: King. Antifa. Mayor Evans. Protest. Oakland. Berkeley. The Tenderloin.
“Why would King’s group have kidnapped Sasha if her story was about the mayor? And why were both of them at Katrina’s afterward?”
“Together?” Baumann raised an eyebrow above his glasses.
“No. He left right before Evans and his entourage arrived.”
We both sat there in silence, thinking. Finally, I said, “I don’t suppose she told you anything about her source?”
“Sasha, like me, protects her sources. She would only tell me if I needed her to and right then I didn’t need to know. Now, I’m kicking myself. I should’ve never let her go off like this, keeping the story to herself. She was just so damn stubborn so
metimes. I should’ve made her tell me everything—for her own good.”
“Any idea where she was meeting the source?”
He shook his head.
“But that never happened, did it? They grabbed her at the protest.”
“They might have been trying to prevent her from getting to the meeting or maybe her source was behind the kidnapping,” he pointed out. “What if he or she was compromised and also grabbed? We don’t know much at this point.”
I chewed my lip for a minute, thinking. There had to be some clue somewhere as to who her source was. “Her laptop is missing,” I said. “Any chance it’s somewhere here?”
“I tore the newsroom apart looking for it,” he said, opening the door. “But maybe fresh eyes will help. You’re welcome to look around. I’ll show you where she sits.
As soon as we walked in, a young man rushed up to him.
“Brody just filed. It’s in the que.” The boy, who had messy hair and blue eyes looked me up and down. He gave me a smirk I think he thought was sexy.
Baumann handed me a card. “My cell is on the back. Call me if you need anything. Josh, can you take Miss Santella over to Sasha’s desk? Tell her anything she needs to know.”
“Got it.”
I scribbled my own number on a scrap of paper and handed it to Baumann before he walked away. “Thank you.”
I turned my attention to the boy in front of me who still had that dumb ass look on his face. I drew back and took him in from his pretentious hair down to his Abercrombie tight sweatshirt, shorts and expensive sneakers. I admit, I might have lingered a little on his crotch. Then, I met his eyes and smiled.
Unnerved, a red flush crept up his neck and he turned away. “This way.”
In a far corner was a desk below a map of Berkeley. The desktop computer screen was pushed off to the side, along with a keyboard. A few books were stacked in a corner. The desk was covered with a large calendar.
“I’m looking for her laptop,” I said, not wasting time on chitchat with Big Man on Campus.
“It’s usually right here if she’s in the office.” He tapped the desk top and then leaned down peering under the desk. “Otherwise, if she’s out at class or something, she’ll sometimes tuck it into her bag down here.”
He stood back up. “Not there.”
I sat at her desk.
Josh cleared his throat behind me. “Is Sasha okay?”
His voice made me soften. I turned in the chair. “I don’t know. I’m trying to find out. You friends?”
He shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Do you have any idea who she was meeting at the protest or where?”
He frowned and looked off in the distance. “She was really excited but she didn’t tell me anything. She kept skipping around the newsroom saying the Pulitzer was hers.”
I laughed, but then quickly sobered. Turning back to the desk, I grabbed the calendar, going straight to the other night.
It said, “Eddy. 12. KKK.”
Standing, I walked out without another word. Walking back to my car, I thought about calling James with what I’d found, but decided to sit on it for now. I’d call him when I had more to report. Meanwhile, I had next to nothing to work with: a partial license plate number and some scribbles on a calendar.
Who was Eddy? Was she meeting him at 12, midnight? Was he a Klu Klux Klan member? Or did it mean something else, altogether?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Stuck in traffic waiting to get onto the Bay Bridge, I cursed all the people in the Bay Area who apparently had nothing better to do than clog traffic.
I rolled down my windows, letting the breeze from the water wash over me and cranked the Jetset Junkies to drown out the cat calls from the moron in the lane beside me.
Yes, it’s a Ferrari. Yes, it’s mine, not my daddy’s or my baby’s daddy’s.
My music came to an abrupt halt as my phone chimed through the car speakers.
Bobby.
“Hey.” I tried to sound nonchalant, but my voice betrayed me.
“Hey.” He cleared his throat. Was he nervous? “We still on for tonight?”
Hearing Bobby’s voice always made me a little weak in the knees. No other boy had ever had quite that effect on me. Today was the day Bobby and Dante were going to meet. Dante was making dinner for us and Bobby was going to stay the weekend with me. I’d been both nervous and excited about it for the last week. That is, until Sasha was taken.
For a split second, I considered canceling, but then realized that it was what I always did: run off to be by myself when things got complicated.
“Yes. I’m really looking forward to it, but something’s come up.”
“Are you canceling?”
“No, I just meant that I have some stuff going on I need to tell you about.” I lowered my voice. “I really, really want you to come. But I might be busy this weekend with some other stuff. You can tag along, if you don’t mind.” I grimaced. I sounded so wimpy, and uncertain.
“What’s going on?” he asked, his voice full of concern.
“You have a few minutes?” I asked.
By the time I got to the toll gate, I’d told Bobby the whole story.
“What can I do?” It was the first thing he said when I finished and it made me smile. He was just my speed.
Traffic on the bridge had slowed to a stop and I gazed out over Treasure Island to where my Russian Hill apartment building was. It protruded from the highest hill in the city. I dropped my gaze to the left where the Tenderloin was and where my new home would be soon.
Bobby repeated his offer. “I want to help. Tell me what to do.”
“I’m not sure. I need to get in touch with the TV station. They had a helicopter up that night. I need to find that woman with blond hair. I need to find out who Eddy is? I don’t even know where to start. I just want you to understand why I might seem a little antsy tonight or distracted.”
“You’re doing what you can,” he said. “You did right to chase after Sasha. You got a plate number. That’s huge,” his voice was firm. “And you got something at the newspaper. We’ll try to figure out what it means. We can call the TV station. And if something comes up tonight, we’ll skip dinner and chase that lead. Got it?”
Bobby got me.
“Thank you.” I said softly. “See you soon.” I clicked off and felt a weight lift off me that I hadn’t realized was there. I couldn’t cancel on Bobby and Dante, but the thought of drinking and partying with Sasha missing didn’t sit well. I couldn’t get the look in Darling’s eyes out of my mind. The strongest woman I know reduced to a fearful child.
When I got to my place, Dante was already there and something smelled amazing.
I kissed him on the cheek. “You’re already cooking?”
“My sous chef was MIA, but I managed to get started.”
“It’s going to take six hours for you to make dinner?”
“At least.” He seemed offended that I would think otherwise. His dark hair was pulled back off his face. So cute.
“Do you always wear a man bun when you cook?”
“Always. Where’s Django?”
I ignored his question. I swear everyone cared about that damn dog more than me. I threw out my arms and stretched luxuriously. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
“Ditto, paesana.” He looked up and smiled. He looked good. His olive skin glowed and his eyes were bright.
“What’s on the menu, Julia Child?”
He rubbed his palms together. This was his favorite part. “Traditional Corsican saffron-infused risotto with scallops, scampi, and ranch quail eggs served with garlic-infused squash blossom fritters followed by a wild fennel, watercress, and rocket salad sprinkled with a rosé vinaigrette. For dessert, a simple but refreshing lingonberry gelato.”
I shrieked and ran over to grab him around the waist, twirling him around. “I don’t even know what the hell you just said, but I know it’s going to be fabulous!” I grabbed his face and kisse
d his cheeks so many times he grew red.
“You are the maestro!” I drew away and did a deep bow. Then I remembered Sasha and was filled with guilt. I reached for the bourbon, pouring us each at least three fingers.
He raised an eyebrow as I handed the crystal glass to him.
“But seriously, where is Django?”
“My dog is having an extended sleepover at the salon for now. I’ll fill you in on what’s going on. It’s Darling’s granddaughter.”
By the time I’d finished, we’d both downed the bourbon and poured more.
“Oh, boy.”
“Yup.” I took a big gulp. “So that’s why I couldn’t help you with the curmudgeons on the board. Any luck?”
He looked thoughtful. “Maybe. Sal gave me some ideas where to look. I think I might have stumbled onto something.”
I raised my glass to him. “You’ve always been my favorite partner in crime, Dante.” I was starting to feel buzzed from the booze and it made me sentimental.
“Well, it sounds like there’s a replacement waiting in the wings.”
I raised an eyebrow and he smiled. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
My stomach erupted in nervous flutters.
“I’m worried sick about Sasha, but I am going to try to set that aside and enjoy the two most important men in my life meeting for the first time.”
I poured us glasses of red wine from the bottle I had opened the night before. “Salut!”
“What? You trying to get us drunk before he even gets here.”
“Drink!”
“Salut!” he said and took a small sip. “Oh, Gia. You have fine taste in wine. Awful taste in clothes and men, but fine taste in wine.”
I gave him a playful punch in the arm. “Stop. I told you that Bobby was different.”
He winked. “He must be different because he’s the first boy you’ve ever introduced me to.”
“Really?” I was surprised to hear it, but when I thought back I realized he was right. Dante was too special for anyone else to meet. My stomach tumbled. I only hoped they would like each other. Otherwise, I’d be devastated. They had to like each other, didn’t they?
Gia and the Forgotten Island (Gia Santella Crime Thriller Book 2) Page 6