“Yes.” My voice was barely above a whisper. She had every right to lay into me.
“Oh Lord, have mercy. Honey, I’m so sorry.”
“No, you don’t understand,” I stammered. “It’s all my fault. You don’t get it. It’s my fault. Because I went to James. They told me it was because I went to the police. They were following me.”
I spilled the whole thing and looked down at the hospital floor, waiting for Darling to answer. After exhaling loudly, she grabbed my hand between her two hands and patted it. “It was all meant to be. Whatever you did, it worked. You got my grandbaby back. And you both still alive. That’s all that matters.”
I looked up. That’s when I noticed Bobby standing in the doorway. Darling must have seen the look on my face because she turned. “Oh, good. You’re here now.”
She headed toward the door. “I’m going to let you two chat.” She turned back to me. “Sasha is in room 320. She wants to see you when you’re up to it.”
“Thanks, Darling.” I had a hard time taking my eyes off Bobby.
As soon as Darling left, he stepped inside shutting the door behind him.
The look on his face told me the ball was in my court.
“Darling called you?”
He nodded.
“I’m glad.” I said, figuring honesty was my best play.
He smiled. “I was thinking the same thing.”
I patted the bed beside me and he came over and sat down, not taking his eyes off my face. He looked at my cheek. “You okay?”
“I think so.”
“Good.”
Taking a deep breath, I spoke. “I was thinking about something while the doctor was stitching me up. It hurt like hell. Way worse than when it happened. Maybe all the adrenaline was gone or something but it really hurt and I was dumb enough to say I didn’t need it numbed.”
“Oops.”
“Yeah. Not the only thing I’ve been dumb about.” I glanced over at him under my eyelashes, but he didn’t react. “When the pain was at its worst, I was wishing you were here holding my hand, telling me that everything was going to be okay. But then I realized I’d blown it with you.”
Again, he didn’t move a muscle.
“As they were fixing my face, I thought about what my major malfunction was and I realized that I’m afraid.”
“Well, no kidding. I could’ve told you that. Hell, you already said that.”
I raised an eyebrow and went on. “True. But here’s why I’m afraid—in case it counts: Everyone I care about dies, Bobby. You know that. You’ve seen it. So, I realized that this irrational dumb part of me is afraid you’ll die, too.”
There. I said it.
He swallowed. ‘You’re afraid to make a commitment to me because of that.”
“It’s dumb, I know.” I reached for his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“You said everyone you care about dies. Do you have to make a commitment to me to care about me?”
“No!” I’d said it too loudly.
Then I thought about what he’d said. Of course, I cared about him whether I had a commitment to him or not. I couldn’t help it.
He leaned over and kissed my forehead. I drew back and cringed a little.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Does your whole face hurt?”
I didn’t answer.
“Well, good thing there are a lot more places I can put my mouth besides your face.”
Gingerly he touched the bandage. “You’re going to look bad ass with a scar.”
I laughed despite myself, but then grew serious. “So, you’re cool with having a girlfriend who looks like Tony Montana?”
“All I have in this world is my balls and my word and I don’t break ‘em for no one,” he said, quoting my favorite line in Scarface.
“Very funny,” I said. “Your accent sucks by the way.”
Instead of answering, he leaned over me and kissed my neck, his mouth trailing down to my collarbone, and soon we were so caught up in each other’s bodies, I didn’t realize someone had opened the door until I heard the nurse gasp.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“King’s gone.”
It was James.
“What?” I had been half asleep when my cell rang. “I thought he was in jail?”
“Something is going on. Somebody with a lot of power pulled some strings and he made bail this morning.”
I sat up shaking my head trying to clear it. Bobby sat up beside me, yawning.
“Who grants bail at ...” I looked at my clock. “Before eight in the morning?”
“Judge Conner apparently.”
“So, he’s gotta be on King’s payroll.”
“For sure. Proving it will be another matter. The San Francisco District Attorney has already put the judge on probation. Judge won’t be in court again soon, maybe ever.”
“When is King supposed to appear again?”
“Next week, but he’s in the wind.”
James explained. Since he’d made bail, all King’s bank accounts had been cleared out and his four houses—in Berkeley, Washington, D.C., New York City, and Miami—had mysteriously sold overnight after his arrest.
The FBI had put him on their most wanted list. The CIA was searching every corner of the world. Even Interpol was looking for him.
He was wanted for twelve murders. The ten homeless and poor that he’d murdered and put in barrels, along with the mayor’s murder and the slaying of Sasha’s source, a man pretending to go along with King in order to stop him. His name had been Josh. Guy was a goddamn hero if you asked me.
After I hung up, I sat there thinking about what James had said until Bobby pulled me over to him and woke me up properly.
SASHA’S STORY RAN TOP of the fold, in the main San Francisco paper, and then was picked up by every paper in the world, it seemed. The first TV station to have it, however, was Channel 5. I’d called Jimmy the photographer and told him all the details so he came out with the full, detailed story at noon the day the paper had it. The other news stations had tried to hobble something together by their five o’clock news, but ended up quoting Sasha’s story in the San Francisco paper that first day.
King’s group had fractured into ineffectual subsets that tried to rally in protest of his arrest, holding signs that said, “We are the power. You cannot stop us.”
Antifa put out a reward for information on King’s whereabouts. The information didn’t say “Dead or Alive,” but that’s pretty much what they meant. They were pissed beyond belief that King’s goons pretended to be Antifa.
Within a week, the protests by the few follower’s King still had—at least those who admitted it publicly—only drew a few dozen people. Counter protesters apparently decided that even showing up was giving the small hate group credence and attention they didn’t deserve, so they stayed home
As details of King’s ethnic cleansing operation spread, people stopped defending him at all. The protests died out completely within two weeks.
But Sasha’s story of corruption prompted investigations throughout the country, sending any other hate groups underground.
Baumann was interviewed on CNN, the BBC, and the Today Show, about his young star reporter because Sasha refused to go on the air and she begged Baumann to step in for her. She didn’t want the attention. And didn’t want people to know what she looked like. She worried fame would hurt her chances of investigative pieces when she graduated in two years and accepted the position waiting for her in the Paris bureau of the Associated Press.
Every time there was a show about Sasha and her story, I bought champagne and cheese and crackers and huddled in the back room of the salon with Darling to watch. Sasha refused to join us. After one 60 Minutes episode featuring Sasha’s investigation, I stood and paced Darling’s small back room. I balled my hands into fists. I wanted to punch something.
“Baby girl, you brought her home. She stopped that King. It’s all good. What on earth are you all bothered about. Yo
u look like you want to punch somebody in the nose.”
“I didn’t bring her home soon enough.”
“You hush now.”
I’d turned the pinky toe over to the police, but it would haunt me forever.
“My Sasha is one tough cookie,” Darling said, her chest puffing out in pride. “She doesn’t even want to go to counseling any more. She wants to find King and make him pay.”
“I bet,” I said, shrugging on my leather jacket and striding toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, right?”
“With bells on.”
“Who is your date Miss Darling?” I knew many men were in love with her, but she hardly gave any of them the time of day.
“Surprise.”
“Must be the governor, then.”
“Ha!” She snorted.
“Sasha coming?”
“She’s on deadline.”
“See you tomorrow then.” I stumbled a little pulling on the door.
Darling gave me a look. “You okay to get home?”
“Yeah.” For once, I was stone cold sober. Plus, it was a short walk home. My place had finally been finished. I’d moved in last weekend. Before my things were even packed, I’d sold my Russian Hill apartment to the neighbor next door. He said he was going to bust down the walls and double the size of his place. More power to him.
“You give my dog a big fat smooch from his mama, you hear?”
“Fine.”
Django had moved back in with me when I got my new place. He seemed to have forgiven me or else he was a really good actor, wiggling all over the place and putting his paws up on my shoulders to kiss my face when I came home.
Walking out into the crisp, cool night air, I pulled up the collar of my jacket and tucked my fingers inside my sleeves. Fall was in the air. Halloween was in a few weeks. The night sky glowed orange above me. In the distance, the tall buildings of the financial district were dotted with lights in the windows. Overachieving accountants burning the midnight oil or janitors busy cleaning.
Here in the Tenderloin, the buildings were dark. With only an occasional night owl, like Danny, still awake. Most of the homeless had tucked into their ratty blankets and cardboard boxes or curled up in a pew in St. Boniface church.
The streets were mine.
As I got closer to my building, I could see the hulking darkness of the building in the Forgotten Island. The creep factor of the building had not diminished for me.
Even though the police had finally removed the barrels of bodies, faded yellow police tape was still strung across the fence and garage door. The whole place still loomed dark and forbidding—a place where death had been welcome.
Shortly after Sasha had been found, I’d happened to drive by the building on my way to check on the construction progress at my new place. I’d involuntarily shivered as the building’s bulk cast a shadow over my car.
Later that day, I’d gone to the city to search the property tax records. I wanted to know who had owned it before the mayor. For some reason, the most recent property tax files were missing. The next most recent file dated back to 1956. A man named Donald Jamison had sold the building to a group called SF Industries. About as generic sounding as you could get.
Before that, a lumber company had built the building after the San Francisco fire.
What had been there before was lost to the ages.
A small part of me wanted to buy the building, tear it down and construct something new. But I also knew that some evil cannot be removed. Some places just exude darkness and are best avoided.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I twirled in front of the mirrored wall in the penthouse lobby. The Armani suit fit like a dream. Even so, I didn’t want to completely give in, so I didn’t wear a shirt or bra underneath it. From the front, it was completely modest. Everything that should not be seen in public was covered.
However —if I turned a certain way—well, it would give those old codgers on the board something to think about at night.
And I’d had the pants hemmed so my favorite Jimmy Choo stilettos peeked out at the bottom. To finish off the look, I wore earrings that were shimmery silver strings that flowed like a waterfall to my shoulder pads.
When Dante stepped out of the elevator I puckered my fire engine red lips at him. “So?”
He smiled. “Looking good, G.”
Gingerly he touched the jagged line running from my cheekbone into my hairline.
“This is sexy.”
“Ha.” I rolled my eyes at him.
The raised slash on my cheek ached a little and felt odd when I smiled, but for the most part I’d forgotten about it.
I winked and looped my arm through his. “Let’s go crack some fucking heads.”
After the door into the boardroom closed with a heavy whoosh behind me, I stood with my legs spread and my arms across my chest. “Gentlemen.”
There was an uncomfortable murmuring around the table.
“My associate Dante Marino has been hard at work since our last board meeting and has uncovered some interesting findings I’d like to share with you.”
The men shifted uncomfortably. I smiled, flashing my white teeth at each one of them in turn.
Then I pouted. “Wait? You don’t seem happy about this?”
I walked over to the large floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the Golden Gate bridge, keeping my back to them. “You couldn’t possibly be worried about what he found, could you?”
I whirled back around.
“You see, the so-called research involved taking a look, a deep, penetrating look into your expense accounts. Wow, was it fascinating. It sounds like you all have been having an absolute ball since my father’s death. Trips to Bali. A fleet of new cars for each of you. A vacation home in Steamboat Springs. Even the rental of the penthouse at the Top of the Mark here in the city, for well, geez, Dante, what was it? A year straight?”
Dante nodded, his eyes deadly calm.
“Yeah. That was a doozy. I’m sure there was lots of illicit sex in that room. Your poor wives. It was probably the most egregious use of the money my modest and upstanding father earned working sixty hours a week until the day he died.” I scrunched up my face. “Especially since our private investigator found that Mr. Henley liked to use the penthouse to host underage parties where he drugged young women, stripped them and photographed them for his private collection. So, Mr. Henley, why don’t you get your saggy old ass out of here before I call the police and hand over the video footage we have of you.”
A blue-haired man with a bad comb over and a red face looked as if he might choke, but managed to push back his chair and rush out of the room past me.
“Now, which one of you is Tad Carrillo?”
A man in his sixties with neatly trimmed short hair and Elvis Costello glasses stood. “Ma’am?”
I could see his Adam’s apple bob.
“And who is Ed Alford?”
“Here.” A man with a deep, husky voice answered and stood. His mane of gray flecked hair swept back from his face above his stylish glasses.
“And one more,” I said, smiling. “Who is Shawn Long?”
A man with brushed back brown hair stood. “I’m Shawn.”
I clapped my hands together. “Wonderful!”
“You three are the only board members who didn’t screw this company over. You are all welcome to stay and help me turn this place around.” I smiled at them. Tad Carrillo’s shoulders sagged in relief. Then my smiled faded.
“The rest of you get the fuck out of my boardroom before I call the police and have each and every one of you arrested.”
Startled looks were exchanged. Eyes wide. People froze.
“Now!” I screamed. They scuttled like cockroaches out the door.
Once the door closed I let out a big sigh. Dante walked around and handed the three men envelopes.
“Please open your envelopes.”
I watched gleefully as they each extra
cted the check inside. The stunned looks were sweet.
“Gentlemen, thank you for your loyalty to this company and to my father’s memory. I’ve given each one of you a token of my appreciation.”
“Excuse me?” I turned. It was Ed Alford. “This is really unnecessary. Extremely generous, but unnecessary. I know you want what’s best for the company and this is possibly not the wisest use of the funds we are working with. Especially in light of some of the misappropriation you’ve uncovered.”
“That’s sweet of you to say, Mr. Alford, but that isn’t from the company. That’s from my own account.”
The three men exchanged looks.
“And don’t worry. You’ll earn that. I’m going to rely on you and turn to you heavily in the next few months so we can salvage what’s left of this company. I’ll be here working along beside you every minute for the next six months, but then I’m hoping to turn it over to you three. You’ll be in charge of finding new board members and so on.
Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you still have a life, too. I’m not going to take you away from your families. My father always said family first and that is a value we need to make sure we keep. But when you are here, I expect the best of you, agreed?”
The men murmured agreement.
I gestured at the chairs. “Let’s get down to business.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
It took two attempts for Bobby and I to get out the door to the grand opening party. I blame it on the dress.
When Bobby ran one finger down my hips and discovered I had nothing on underneath, it was impossible to resist his kisses.
As I stepped onto the sidewalk in front of Swanson Place, the black velvet slithered across my thighs and felt delicious against my skin. Going commando had definitely been the way to go. The dress itself was pretty modest, down to my ankles and a modest neckline, but it plunged to my lower spine in the back. I wasn’t a nun.
I was eager to see the twelve residents. I’d sent them to the Esalen Hot Springs in Big Sur where they’d soaked in the hot springs, and had massages, facials, manicures, pedicures and a chance to relax. On the drive back, I’d had their drivers stop at Sak’s Fifth Avenue in Carmel where personal shoppers had helped them pick out modest wardrobes.
Gia and the Forgotten Island (Gia Santella Crime Thriller Book 2) Page 15