Blessed Are Those Who Mourn Read Free Page A

had been found at Preston Point on Roe Island,” she says. “The Coast Guard and Solano County sheriff’s water patrol units deployed boats to investigate. Upon arriving, officers found the deceased body of a woman in her twenties. The medical examiner’s office will confirm identity and determine cause of death.”
    The island is in Solano County, but it still doesn’t explain why Rosarito PD and Donovan, aka my baby daddy, were called out. I’m grumbling inside about the cameraman calling him that.
    I know I’m extra sensitive because my entire Italian-­American family is mortified I had a child out of wedlock, but I’m not getting married simply because they want me to. We keep talking about tying the knot, but who has time? With Donovan’s schedule as a murder cop and my erratic schedule as a crime reporter, lately we’re lucky if we’re able to do what we did tonight—­have a few hours with just the three of us together. Who says we need a piece of paper to prove it anyway? Oh yeah—­according to my family, that would be the pope.
    As soon as Beverly Anne finishes speaking, several reporters shoot questions at her all at once.
    â€œHow long has she been dead?”
    â€œIs there any sign she drowned?”
    â€œAre you investigating it as a homicide?”
    Beverly Anne holds up her hand. “Come on, guys, you know the drill. Just because we’re on a deserted island doesn’t mean you should forget your manners. Okay, Mary Jo, you first. You asked whether it’s a homicide. Right now, we are investigating it as a suspicious death.”
    More reporters throw questions out. Andy Black and I hang back, waiting, as we usually do, for the TV reporters to take a breath. I scoot as far away from him as possible.
    At that moment, a small boat careens in near the shore where giant spotlights are set up to illuminate the crime scene. The cops use their hands to shield their eyes, squinting toward the noise. The boat’s waves lap the shore, making the body bob where it rests at the edge of the water.
    The cops scowl and shout at the boater. In the shadows of the boat, a figure holding a camera snaps off pictures. The engine on the small boat starts up again, and a familiar cackle drifts across the water. In the commotion, the press conference is forgotten. Who would have the balls to come in at the murder scene from the water? Lopez. He lives and breathes the crime beat. He’s never without a small earbud headphone trailing down to the police scanner clipped to his belt.
    Lopez was with me the night I hunted down and killed Jack Dean Johnson at the former Fort Ord military base after he kidnapped my niece. At the time I also thought he’d killed my sister.
    As soon as everyone settles down, Beverly Anne turns back to us, and Black speaks up. He’s so nonchalant that you wouldn’t suspect what a lying snake he becomes just to get a story.
    â€œIs it true that a tipster called in the body?” he asks.
    Beverly Anne purses her red lips together for a second, thinking, and then decides it’s okay to answer. “Yes.”
    My turn. The question I’ve been waiting to ask.
    She sees my hand.
    â€œGabriella?”
    â€œDo you have any way of tracing calls that come into your tip line?”
    â€œI’m not at liberty to release that information,” she says, shooting me a warning look. Beverly Anne and I have hung out at department picnics and are friends, but she’s not going to play favorites. She’s a real cop.
    Plus, she’s sharp. She knows my question was geared to find out if the tipster had called the Rosarito Police Department or a different cop shop. She just confirmed it. I’ve been wracking my brains trying to figure out why Donovan and the Rosarito Police Department are on this homicide if it’s on some island in the Suisun Bay. Rosarito is around the peninsula from here. The