Blessed are the Merciful Read online

  I had hesitated at first, but after Grace’s kidnapping when she was younger, I knew it was necessary. It provided a level of security that Donovan and I could never afford on our own.

  And now with El Loro on the loose, I was doubly grateful for the secure building. Although I doubted he would come into America.

  I still hadn’t told Donovan what El Loro had said when he called. I didn’t want him to worry. And I didn’t want him to protest me going to Central America.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The next morning in the newsroom, I was deep in the abusive cop story when I noticed that Josh, the intern, stood by my desk.

  “What’s up, Josh?”

  He fidgeted. He was in J-school and twenty-two years old. He wore pressed black slacks and button-up shirts every day, which I thought was sweet but possibly a little overkill. Most of us wore jeans. A blazer if we were feeling fancy.

  His brown hair was combed back and looked a little wet. His cheeks red, as if his shave had irritated his skin. He was just a puppy. I forced a smile.

  “Were we supposed to go to the coroner’s office today?”

  I groaned. “I completely forgot.”

  My pal at the morgue, Brian France, invited us to sit in on an autopsy today. A class from some college would be there, as well. It was an easy one—a drug overdose, so not too gruesome. Nobody wanted to attend a car-crash autopsy—I knew from first-hand experience. Even I wouldn’t wish that on an intern.

  Glancing at my screen, I knew it would take me two more hours to nail the story down.

  Reaching for my phone, I dialed Brian.

  “I see dead people,” he answered.

  “Hey, Brian. I can’t make it today. If I send the intern up alone, will you take care of him?”

  “Take care of him? How? Is he gonna barf? I don’t want barf in my sterile room.”

  “Just give him the tour, you know. Like you usually do but without me there. And sterile? What’s sterile? You mean your meningitis-infected office?”

  He laughed. “Whatev. I’m just telling you. I don’t like barf. I hate barf. Barf makes me barf. Every time you bring an intern, it’s a regular barf fest.”

  “Don’t you think you’re overreacting a little? I’ve seen you scoop up bits of brains from a suicide, and now all of a sudden you’re worried about a little barf?” I glanced up at Josh who was looking at me expectantly.

  “Not all of a sudden. I’ve always hated barf. You never answered my question. Is he gonna barf?”

  I shot another glance at Josh.

  “Nah. I don’t think he’s a barfer.”

  A flush rose on Josh’s cheeks.

  Most of the time the editors made me take interns hostage and drag them to the morgue. It was our hazing ritual, I guess. But this kid came up to me and said he’d heard I’d take him to the morgue. Pretty please. Awesome. He was pure cops reporter material.

  I hung up. “You’re good to go.”

  He fidgeted.

  “You need directions?” I asked, thinking if he answered yes, I’d give him a big fat “F” in Reporting 101.

  Josh looked uncomfortable, not meeting my eyes and biting his cheek. “I have directions, but I don’t have a car.”

  “You’re a reporter.” Mother Mary. What kind of reporter showed up at the newsroom without a vehicle. It wasn’t like the old days when we had fleet vehicles to drive. I tried to hide my irritation. Maybe my instincts on this guy were all wrong. Maybe he should go into public relations or something.

  He fidgeted. “I know. It was a dumb skull move. It’s just that my car died last night so I dropped it off at the mechanic this morning and got a ride over here. I figured it would be okay since I’d be riding with you all day.”

  Again, I tried to hide my exasperation.

  “I think you mean numbskull.” I rummaged in my bag and fished out my keys, handing them to him. “Here. Take my car. It’s the black Land Rover out back. And do me a favor, swing by the Martinez Police Department and pick up an envelope they have for me at the front desk.”

  Might as well put him to work.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking my keys and slinking off.

  I watched his retreating back. I’d probably been a little too hard on him.

  I turned back to my screen and was back in my story within seconds. I was furiously typing when a deafening blast and a small shock wave nearly knocked me off my chair.

  Car alarms screeched and people screamed.

  I stood, looking around in shock. I stared at the daylight and smoke suddenly pouring into the newsroom through a hole the size of a house. The hole was on the side of the newsroom leading to the parking lot.

  Right where my car was parked.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I crouched on the ground near the back door, shaking. It had been my car. It had exploded. With Josh inside.

  The car was now a black, smoking skeleton of metal. There was something red in the front seat that I couldn’t make out. Every time I looked over, I threw up. Then I simply drive-heaved. Tears blurred my vision and ran hot down my face.

  The paramedics examined me: Listening to my lungs and shining a bright light into my eyes to check for concussion. I’d been far enough back. They did transport two other reporters, Janie and Cass to the hospital. But both women had walked to the ambulance, so I was hopeful they weren’t too seriously injured.

  Once the paramedics cleared me, I called Donovan. He was in San Jose, more than an hour away. He lost it, shouting and swearing. I told him I couldn’t deal with him freaking out and hung up on him. Then I called The Saint.

  I told him what happened and then said, “the kids.”

  “I’ll handle it,” he said and hung up.

  The police made me sit there, far away from my car, promising to talk to me soon.

  A grizzly old editor offered me a cigarette. I took it gratefully, puffed on it like it was a lifeline, and then dry-heaved again.

  I could smell burnt flesh from where I sat. The fire department had put out the flames but the hulk of my car still smoldered.

  The crime scene techs, detectives, and guys from the coroner’s office, including Brian France, huddled by a big van. After a few minutes, they broke apart and started erecting a large tent around my car to process the scene in private.

  France gave me a sorrowful look from across the parking lot. I turned away and dry-heaved. The grizzly editor patted me on the back. Hard.

  I knew he was trying to help, but I wanted to turn around and let loose with cartoon punches—whirling arms where the fist was a blur, pummeling something.

  I shrank away instead. He said “sorry” and hurried back inside the building.

  Through the hole in the newsroom wall, I caught a glimpse of reporters still at their desk pounding away.

  I knew what tomorrow’s front-page story would be.

  Josh. My car. Me.

  Across the parking lot, a reporter from the San Francisco paper stood behind a line of yellow crime scene tape talking to a community service officer. Probably trying to sweet talk the young woman into giving up some information.

  Then, Kellogg was at my side.

  He had a notebook. I looked up at him in disbelief.

  “I’m sorry, Gabriella.”

  “Thanks,” I said. But I was pissed off.

  “Can you tell me why exactly Joshua Brogan was in your car.”

  I reeled off the details in a monotone, the flattest voice I could muster. “I was busy on a story. We had a date at the morgue with Brian. I told him to go on without me. He didn’t have a car today. I handed him my keys.” I paused. “Then ...”

  I couldn’t say it.

  Kellogg wrapped me in a hug.

  I buried my face into his bulk and wept.

  After a long time, a plain clothes police officer came over. A detective.

  “We’re ready to talk to you now.” He glanced at Kellogg and then down at the reporter’s notebook Kellogg held and scowled.
“We could speak in the sergeant’s car. For privacy.”

  “Fine.”

  In the back seat of the large SUV, the detective got the same story I’d told Kellogg. He was a pudgy, balding guy with kind eyes.

  “Can you think of anyone who might have done this?” he asked, puffing out his cheeks.

  Across the parking lot, I saw the police chaplain comforting Josh’s girlfriend. I’d met her once when she came to see where Josh was working. She and the chaplain sat on a bench near the back door. She was nodding and wiping away tears.

  I didn’t want to tell the detective who had done it. The local police couldn’t do shit. They couldn’t help me. They couldn’t protect me. They couldn’t stop El Loro.

  I was too weary to go into it all, so I said, “It’s on the front page of today’s newspaper.”

  He exhaled. “Do you want to just tell me?”

  I clamped my lips together and shook my head.

  “Okay, then.” He rolled down the window, spoke to someone, and within two minutes a newspaper was handed in the window. He scanned it quickly and then looked up, eyes wide.

  “We better call in the Feds on this one.”

  I stared out the window. A big black car had pulled up to the other side of the crime scene tape. The Saint, wearing a suit and cashmere overcoat, got out.

  “Can I go now?”

  The detective thought about it for a second and then nodded.

  “We’ll call you for follow up.”

  I scrambled out and raced over to The Saint before the detective changed his mind.

  Vincenzo Santangelo folded me in his arms. After a few seconds, he pulled back. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded. “I think so.”

  “Let’s go.”

  On the drive back to San Francisco, The Saint explained how he’d already arranged for all the children to be picked up and brought home. They were waiting with my mother at our penthouse.

  I called Donovan and filled him in. It was as if he wasn’t even listening. He started talking about what he and the DEA were doing to find El Loro, and then he broke off.

  “Gabriella...I don’t know what I would have done—”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You sure you don’t need me to come and be with you? I can have Smitty follow this lead ...”

  “I’m fine, Donovan,” I said in as firm a voice as I could muster. “Just go get that bastard.”

  An image of Josh with his shy grin made me double over, clutching my stomach. That poor boy was dead. And it was my fault.

  Donovan didn’t answer for a second.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “Just please be careful. Call me if you need anything. I’ll drop everything.”

  “I know you will,” I said in a soft voice.

  “I love you, Ella.”

  “Me, too.” I hung up quickly before I burst into tears. I was emotionally, physically, and mentally exhausted so I slumped in the passenger seat and stared glassy-eyed out the window at my favorite view as we crossed the Bay Bridge—the city lit up before us.

  My phone rang again. It was my mother. She said nothing about the bomb. The children must have been within earshot. She wanted me to know that all three kids were safely ensconced in our penthouse. She’d made her special baked macaroni and cheese and was letting them have ice cream for dessert.

  “You don’t worry about a thing.”

  “Thanks, Mama.” I almost added, I don’t know what I’d do without you.

  CHAPTER SIX

  When we pulled up to my building, The Saint spoke again. “I’ll be back later. I have some business to check into regarding this attack.”

  I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Thanks for everything.”

  My doorman rushed over to open my door.

  “Ms. Giovanni.”

  “Mr. Peters.”

  He liked it formal, so I obliged. With his proper carriage, slicked back short gray hair, and impeccable uniform, he was right out of Casting 101. He’d spent a lifetime in New York City working in an old money building on Park Avenue and then retired to California to spend time with his grandchildren. But he soon got bored sitting around while the grandkids were in school and got the job at our building.

  Now, he held the door and then walked me to the elevator, using his key to access our penthouse apartment.

  “Have a good night, miss.”

  “You too, good sir.”

  Inside the elevator, I slumped against the wall. All I wanted was to hug my kids and then go to bed.

  When the elevator door slid open to the small hallway before our front door, I took a deep breath and plastered a smile on my face. Using my key card, I unlocked the steel-reinforced door and was greeted with a view of my children happily gathered around my mother at the kitchen table as she showed them how to play Scopa, an Italian card game.

  Stefano, who was in his high chair, saw me first. He squealed in delight and started babbling mamamamamama.

  After I took off my coat, my mother ushered the kids off to get ready for bed. She hugged me tightly and then said, “I’m staying the night. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  Soon, everyone had brushed their teeth, and I’d tucked everyone in and fed Stefano his bottle. I was in my bedroom, about to pull on my pink flannel pajamas when I heard Grace’s voice calling me.

  I stepped out of my room.

  “Grace?”

  She came rushing around the corner.

  “Mama there’s someone at the door. I went to get a drink in the kitchen and I heard someone talking outside.”

  “What?” It took me a few seconds to comprehend what she was saying. “Men’s voices?”

  “Do you think Daddy brought someone home?”

  “No,” my voice was shrill. I’d just got a text from Donovan that he was leaving San Jose.

  “Get your grandmother. The safe room. Now.”

  I’d given Grace the code for the room shortly after we moved in while she was still having nightmares about being kidnapped when she was younger.

  Grace ran off to my mother’s room, which was next door to the safe room.

  I raced into the bedroom, scooping a warm and sleepy Stefano out of his crib and then ran to Alejandro’s door.

  Speaking quickly, I roused him. His eyes were wide with fright.

  Racing into the open door of the safe room, I quickly handed Stefano to my mother. They were all sitting on the floor, backs against the far wall.

  Once the heavy steel door was shut and locked, I flipped on the monitors that showed the cameras in our front hallway and elevator. They were black. Someone had disabled them. I reached for the phone. The first call I made was to Mr. Peters downstairs. The line rang and rang. My blood ran cold.

  I dialed Donovan, and in as calm a voice as I could manage, explained what was going on.

  “We are okay and in the safe room,” I began. And then told him the rest.

  I tried not to react to his swearing, keeping a calm expression on my face as the kids watched me.

  “Okay,” I said in a monotone voice. “I’m going to hang up now and call the police so they can figure out what is going on.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  I didn’t call 911. I called a sergeant I knew at the Northern Station. I didn’t want to say too much in front of Grace and Alejandro, so I told him the bare basics. Someone was outside our front door. The cameras had been disabled. The doorman was not answering his phone.

  “I’ll send a squad car to investigate.”

  I realized I’d played it too nonchalant because of the kids. I’d have to spill more. I didn’t want him to send some rookie cop to go up against Central American assassins.

  “Uh,” I said, glancing at the faces staring at me. “It might be El Loro’s men. You might want to call in the big guns.”

  I winced as Alejandro curled into himself more.

  “Jesus Christ.” The sergeant inhaled loudly. “Okay.”
<
br />   I hung up and attempted a smile at my children.

  “Well, they should be here soon and we can get out of here.” I glanced over at a wall of cupboards.

  “There are some games and snacks in there. Grace why don’t you see if there’s something to drink, too.”

  “I don’t want to.” My normally sweet and helpful daughter had clearly had enough.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll—”

  A massive explosion cut off my words, rattling the ceiling tiles.

  The six-inch thick reinforced steel door I was leaning against reverberated, but didn’t budge.

  Stefano began howling, his little face bright red and his fists clenched, while my mother buried her face in his head and tried to comfort him.

  Alejandro looked catatonic, with his knees drawn up to his chest, staring at nothing. And Grace screamed—a long endless wail.

  I wiped any sign of fear off my face and matter-of-factly punched in a code to a large safe and withdrew an AK47. I ignored the sudden silence around me. Even Stefano had stopped crying and was sucking furiously on his pacifier watching me.

  “Why don’t all of you sit over here behind me,” I said.

  They all scrambled to the wall with the cabinets and I stood in front of them holding the gun out in front of me, trying to stop my arms from shaking.

  We waited. And listened. The thick steel door made it difficult to hear anything in the penthouse. After a few minutes, I sank to the ground, crouching, still pointing the gun at the door.

  Then I heard rattling as if somebody were pounding on pipes. I glanced at my mother out of the corner of my eye. Stefano had fallen asleep in her arms. She raised her eyes to the ceiling where there was a square air vent. I nodded. The ceiling wasn’t reinforced steel. If they got to our air vent we were screwed.

  I’d grown weary of holding the gun when I heard the distinct sound of gunfire. It seemed to go on and on. Grace cried silently. Alejandro had closed his eyes tightly and was grimacing. I wanted so badly to drop the gun and take them both in my arms to reassure them, but I needed to stay alert in case the intruders were somehow able to breach the door. Or the ceiling.