Blessed Are Those Who Mourn Read Free Page B

closest Solano County city is Benicia. Both Benicia and Solano County investigators are here, but why is Rosarito involved? Unless the tipster called their tip line .

 
    Chapter 4
    A FTER THE PRESS conference ends, the TV crews hang around, waiting to go live on the ten o’clock news. I head for the east side of the island, waiting a few seconds until I see that Andy Black is deep in conversation with the Channel 4 reporter before I slip behind some brush. It won’t take long for him to talk her into going back to his place. I know. I also know that he’s ruthless and will sleep with anyone for a scoop.
    Stickers and small branches tear at my bare legs as I tromp through the bushes. A small strip of beach lies between the shrubs and the water, so I make my way toward that, keeping to the sand bordering the water. The farther I get from the murder scene and the big spotlights, the darker it gets and the louder the crickets become. I unearth my small flashlight from my bag. The island can’t be that big. I figure I will round it and meet up with someone at the south side, where I can hitch a ride back to the dock.
    To the west, the fog has rolled in, erasing the orange skies of the Martinez refineries and the looming ships of the Phantom Fleet like they never existed. I pick my way along the shore, not sure what I’m looking for. Maybe the woman’s handbag or something else that belongs to her has washed up nearby.
    My focus is on the wet sand near the shore, so when my flashlight reveals deep footprints embedded in the sand, I know they are fresh. There are two sets of prints, coming and going. I follow them back toward the crime scene until they dead-­end at a tall bank of tangled branches. What I see there makes me draw back.
    Branches are broken in one spot, revealing a perfect glimpse of the detectives working on the crime scene more than thirty feet away. Someone was here. Watching. An icy chill races down my spine. I look behind me but see nothing. The fog has crept onto the island now and is making its way toward me. Without thinking, I shine my flashlight down on the receding footprints and follow them. I’m short of breath, and my heart is pounding when I round a corner and see something move.
    In the fog, about ten feet away, a figure in a thick jacket and baseball cap pushes a small rubber boat away from the shore. His hat is pulled low over his face so I can’t see his features. Before he leaps into the boat, the man turns, his arm swooping in a big arc as he tosses something onto the shore behind him. Then the fog swallows him and the boat into its midst.
    My shout brings Donovan and several other cops running. It takes them nearly a minute to get to me since they have to take the same path I did inland and around the big thorny brush near the shore.
    â€œA man took off in a boat right here. He threw this at me,” I say when they finally arrive, pointing to the sand. “He was watching you guys through the bushes.”
    I spend the next ten minutes telling Donovan’s partner, Finn, what I saw. Finn, balding, soft-­spoken, and as tall and thin as a poplar, takes careful notes.
    As soon as I’m done, the media is booted off the island. The TV reporters grumble. The entire island is now considered a crime scene. I watch as they bag the small white plastic square he threw at me. I don’t say that I saw what it was. Before the police responded to my shout, I shined my light on it and memorized what it said.
    All the journalists are crammed on one boat this time. The cops aren’t messing around. They want us gone yesterday.
    Somehow, Black worms his way over to where I sit in the small boat, trying not to get motion sick as the boat lurches and bucks in the waves.
    â€œNice going, Giovanni, ruined the live shot for the TV folks,” Black says with a smirk. “What’d you see out there anyway?”
    I shake my head and look away, glad the