Cellar Full of Cole: A Cole Sage Mystery #2 Page 10

  “And who might you be?”

  Cole thought of a dozen snappy retorts. He caught himself and accepted the fact that Beth Swann was as far out of his league as she was for the three stooges who had just scurried back to their cubicles. “Cole Sage,” he said with a restrained smile.

  “A man who knows who he is. How refreshing.” Beth cocked her head to one side and frowned. “Chicago Sentinel, right?”

  “That’s right.” Cole was amazed she knew who he was.

  “A friend sent me the piece you did on mental health and seniors. Really touching. Nice to meet you, Mr. Sage. You’ll be a nice addition to the Chron.” Beth extended her hand.

  As Cole took her hand, he saw in her eyes an intelligence he wasn’t expecting. He was a bit chagrined at the totally sexist first impression and judgment he had made.

  “Thanks. I think it’s going to be a good fit.”

  “When you get settled in, maybe we could have lunch sometime. I’d love to talk to you about writing. I have a degree in journalism from UC San Diego, for all the good it’s doing me. Maybe you could give me some tips on how to get out of this dungeon and out on the street.” Beth smiled wide. “In a good way, I mean.”

  “I would be delighted.” Cole suddenly felt old and instructional.

  It took about 15 minutes to go over the hiring package, fill out and sign a ream of paperwork.

  “Okay,” Beth finally said, “that should just about do it. There is one more thing we need to do, but I’m not good at the retirement options stuff, so if you don’t mind, I’ll have someone else go over those with you. He’s at lunch right now, so maybe you can catch him later. No rush on those. If you don’t have time today, you can see him tomorrow.” Beth gave Cole a dazzling smile and said, “I am really glad I got to meet you. Welcome to the Chronicle.”

  Cole stood and took copies of the multiple documents he had signed. “I’m sure it’ll be wonderful. I look forward to our lunch. By the way, what’s the name of the person about the retirement stuff?”

  “Phillip Ashcroft. He sits right over there.”

  TWELVE

  Cole tapped his pencil impatiently as the phone rang for the twelfth time.

  “San Francisco Police. How my I direct your call?”

  “Lieutenant Chin, please.”

  “One moment,” the robotic voice replied.

  Three rings and a buzz later, “Chin.”

  “Cole Sage here. Got that list for me?”

  “Sure do. Got a pencil? I’d fax it over to you but I’ve never learned how the damned thing works.”

  Leonard Chin proved to be a valuable resource. With his help, Cole hit the ground running. He provided Cole with dozens of leads, names, and contacts that someone new to the city would have taken weeks, even months, to develop.

  “That’s going to be a great help. I owe you.”

  “Hey, one other thing. I talked to the Zhang’s and they are willing to talk to you later today if you have the time. I told them three, but I’ll give you their number if you need to reschedule.”

  “No, that’s great,” Cole said. “You have been a great help.”

  “No luck with the Luis’s though. The old man has disappeared and the wife is too freaked out to talk to anybody.”

  “How’s the little girl?” Cole asked.

  “Still pretty out of it. Just babbles in her sleep. Just bits and pieces in Spanish.”

  “Well, we take what we can get, huh?”

  “Name of the game. Talk to you later.”

  With only a week left to prepare for his move, Cole could make valuable headway on his story thanks to Leonard Chin.

  Chris Ramirez called a few minutes later. He made appointments for Cole to see several flats and apartments. They spent the entire morning running up and down stairs and walking through echoing, empty spaces. Cole felt that any one of them would be an improvement over his place in Chicago.

  At noon they stopped for lunch at a small, dark, Italian restaurant called ‘Mama’s Kitchen’ tucked back in a neighborhood with no parking. Chris was welcomed with open arms by the owner, Tommy Caravallo, and made it clear that, one, they were starving and, two, that Cole was not gay. The conversation quickly turned to the real estate business, and Chris’s desire to find something for Cole perfect and cheap. Tommy stopped the conversation and ran to a phone next to the kitchen door.

  “I got it, just what you want.”

  “That’s what he said,” vamped Chris.

  The big Italian rolled his eyes. “Swing by the funeral parlor on 24th Street and pick up the key. Lease option, $1,200 a month, and it applies to the purchase price. They only want 500 thou’. It’s a steal, belonged to Billy’s uncle, he died last month and they just want rid of it.”

  “Where is it?” Chris inquired.

  “It’s a surprise—but, girlfriend, take along nitro pills and an oxygen tank ‘cause you’re going to have heart failure when you see it.” Cole took a double-take at the burly Italian in the white shirt and apron. When he finished speaking to Chris, he winked at Cole.

  ”Gay?” Cole whispered as they made their way to a table near a window.

  “We’re not all as pretty as me.” Chris smirked.

  The house was beyond Cole’s wildest dreams; tucked one street back from the marina, the two-bedroom home stood proudly among the larger homes and converted apartments. Four thick concrete steps opened onto a covered porch the width of the house. The massive dark oak door framed thick leaded stained glass that pictured a sea gull in flight in an azure blue sky with the sun on the right and moon on the left. At the bottom, waves of blue-green broke on a shore with two tall redwoods.

  The door opened to an entryway of hardwood floors, shelves, and trim—all of quarter-sawn oak. Throughout the house, mission-style woodwork brought continuous whistles, wows, and ahhs from Cole. In every room, there were pieces of rich antique mission-style furniture: tiger oak mantels graced two fireplaces, and a huge round oak table sat in the center of the dining room.

  The living room was dark and a foot-deep shelf ran around the top of three walls about 18 inches below the ceiling. A fireplace with a pillared oak mantle graced the back wall and was framed in floor-to-ceiling bookcases. It didn’t take long for Cole to mentally place his big screen television and surround sound speakers. This was the kind of room he always dreamed of. Two bedrooms set off the large, square living room.

  “So, you think this might be the one?” Chris said with a big smile, leaning against the archway into the living room.

  “Forget the lease; I’ll buy it. What do we have to do to make sure it doesn’t get away?”

  Chris flipped open his cell phone and hit a button. “Bobby, Chris. Sold, if the furniture stays.” A pause, then he chipped, “Me too. Who’s gonna do the paperwork?” There was a longer pause and Chris said, “Got it. Love ya. Peace.”

  “Bobby said the furniture is too butch for his taste and you’re welcome to it. Silly boy.” Chris gave Cole a thumbs-up. “So, it’s all yours, big fella. Pacific Title will do the paperwork. My friend Kim works there; he’ll take real good care of you.”

  “Anywhere you don’t have a friend working?”

  “Hooters.” Chris threw his head back and laughed.

  Chris arranged for the papers to be drawn up and set an appointment for Cole to meet with Kim at 11 o’clock the next day. The next stop for Cole was not as pleasant.

  The Zhang’s lived in a large apartment above the herb and dried foods store they owned. The weight of sadness hung in the apartment like a heavy fog. The strong odor of incense filled the living room where they sat across from a shrine covered in flowers, candles, and photographs of Lucy. An odd mixture of Chinese icons and pictures next to statues of Catholic saints filled the home.

  Mrs. Zhang never spoke but sat softly weeping and dabbing her eyes with a pale pink handkerchief. Mr. Zhang spoke in hushed tones, but it did not hide the anger and frustration he felt toward the police and their in
ability to find his daughter’s killer. Cole tried to assure them that he would do everything possible to bring public pressure on the police to focus on this case and force them to reexamine the connections among the other children’s deaths.

  Cole quickly realized that the interview would not yield much. Most of his questions were answered in short two- or three-word phrases. Except for Mr. Zhang’s bursts of criticism of the police, his responses signaled his unwillingness to share what was in his heart.

  It was apparent the thing that sustained the Zhang’s was their faith and the comforting words of their priest. After 25 minutes, Cole left the apartment deeply touched by the Zhang’s loss, with few notes and fewer answers to why the killer would have chosen the lovely dark-haired little girl with the bright smile.

  As Cole sat staring at the wall in his makeshift office, he twisted the plastic lid from his mocha one too many times, and the crackle as it snapped in half brought him back from his thoughts. The meeting with the Zhang family left him drained and reflective. He was impressed with how their faith sustained them through their unthinkable loss. The soul-deep pain thrust upon them was tempered by their belief in knowing they would see Lucy again in heaven. They referred to their pastor, Father John, frequently, and drew on his words of comfort and teaching to get them through the nightmare of Lucy’s murder.

  THIRTEEN

  The call to St. Ignatius parish hall disappointed Cole. Father John had gone to a meeting across town, and wouldn’t be back in the office until the next day. As almost an afterthought, the secretary did mention, however, that he would be back in time for his support group that very evening.

  “Support group?”

  “Adult child abuse group,” the secretary said softly.

  “Is anyone welcome?” Cole asked.

  “Everyone is welcome in the house of God, Mr. Cole.”

  Cole felt foolish. He asked the time and location of the meeting, thanked the secretary, and got off the line.

  Traffic was backed up for blocks, and the crew working on the street was in no particular hurry to go home as Cole slowly rolled by the hole the power company had dug in the middle of Grant Street. St. Ignatius was a little church on the edge of Chinatown that served the Chinese community as well as the neighborhoods to the northwest. Cole drove by the little grey church the first time; it was tucked back between two large nondescript buildings, and Cole was expecting something far grander and ornate.

  The little iron gate on the left side of the church was just as the secretary described. Cole was nearly 15 minutes late as he entered the long hall that led to the Fireside Room. Thankfully, the door was open and Cole slipped unnoticed into the meeting.

  There were 10 people sitting in a semicircle facing a tall, thin man who stood behind a small table. Cole was trying to decide which empty chair to sit in when the man looked up with a friendly smile and waved Cole forward to a seat on his left.

  “Terri called and said she would not be with us tonight. So, sorry to say, there will be no goodies. But don’t despair; she said next week, she’ll bring double. So, Carl, you can’t get your fill of those caramel bars she makes until next time.”

  The group gave a knowing laugh, and all eyes went to a pudgy little man with a big smile and red face sitting opposite Cole.

  “Welcome to our group,” the tall man said to Cole. “I’m Father John, and we were just about to introduce ourselves.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” Cole said as he sat down. “My name is Cole.”

  “Welcome, Cole, we’re glad you came.” Father John turned to the first seat and smiled.

  “I’m Kari, and I love dogs,” said a heavy woman with a badly pock-marked face.

  “Carl, and I love Terri’s brownies, caramel bars, chocolate chip cookies . . . ”

  “Okay, we get it,” a woman to Cole’s right huffed.

  “Simone, and I love all of you,” a thin, African-American woman said, choking back tears.

  Several people in the group offered a “we love you, too.”

  “My name is Eddie. I love—” There was a pause as the Asian man in the dark blue sweatshirt wiggled in his seat. “I love—” He looked down and shook his head. The room grew uncomfortably silent.

  Cole glanced from face to face. Several people in the room closed their eyes.

  Father John nodded, and a dark complexioned man, possibly Hispanic, with a beard and sunglasses, leaned forward and said, “I love Eddie.” He cleared his throat and said, “Oh yeah, I answer to Enrique.”

  A murmur of approval came from the group. Eddie didn’t look up.

  “Lei, and I’m all about loving people.” The bubbly voice came from a very pretty girl in a red T-shirt with “I Love Iris Chang” emblazoned across the chest. “Your turn!” she said, turning to the anorexic woman on her right.

  “I’m Kimberley, and I love getting out of the house to come here.” There was more than a trace of sarcasm in her voice.

  “My name is Mark. I love the freedom this group has given me to be open.”

  “Hi, I’m Teresa,” the woman on Cole’s right began. “I love men.”

  The group chuckled at what appeared to be an inside joke.

  Cole sat up a little straighter and said, “Like I said before, I’m Cole and I love my granddaughter, Jenny.”

  “You ain’t no grandpa!” Simone blurted out.

  “‘Fraid so.” Cole smiled.

  The woman who huffed about Carl’s love of baked goods, sniffed and said, “I’m Corrine. I love solitude.”

  Cole looked beyond Corinne and saw a slight androgynous figure, anxiously biting its nails. A pair of flashing blue eyes darted about the group and then up at Father John. “Blank, tonight I’m Blank. I love palaces.”

  “Last week, she was Clover,” Corinne whispered. “I call her ‘Nut Case’.”

  “Thank you. Last week we talked about beginnings. Not just our lives but our rebirths, beginnings of our own choosing. Tonight, I want us to think about those fresh starts. Can they become as big a problem as our old selves?”

  “I’m not sure, I’m Blank,” Corrine said under her breath.

  Father John shot her a disapproving look.

  “When’d you start over, Father? You haven’t always been a priest,” Teresa asked coyly.

  The question obviously made the priest uncomfortable. “This really isn’t about me.”

  “Weak,” Enrique grunted.

  “It’s only fair. Answer the question,” Corinne said, obviously enjoying Father John’s discomfort.

  “All right. Yes, I did start over. That is how I became a priest.”

  “You been raped, too?” Eddie said softly.

  “No,” Father John offered.

  “Don’t disrespect the Father!” Simone said angrily.

  “No, it’s okay, Simone. If I am going to lead you from your dark places, I should be willing,” the priest paused, “able, to tell you about mine.”

  “That why priests do little kids?” Enrique said, sitting up in his chair.

  “Off topic and way out of line,” Mark said, strongly making sure Enrique went no further.

  “Look, some of us, as we learn every week, have been hurt deeper or have recovered faster than others. It doesn’t mean the hurt isn’t just as real or the pain just as great. By God’s grace, we are all healing,” Father John began. “That is what this group is about, God’s grace and victory through his Son. We can’t do it alone. We haven’t done it alone. That’s why we are here. I pray for each of you through the week. Sometimes in my weakness and inability to know what to say, I just pray you will show up to the next group. If your healing requires me to expose my hurt and my need for healing, I am willing.”

  “Do it,” Blank whispered harshly.

  “Can you do it? I mean is it too painful to open up?” Lei asked.

  “We’ll see.” Father John moved from around the table and placed a chair in front of the group.

  Cole wished he had chosen a
nother night to visit the group. This was too personal, too uncomfortable. What was worse, the members of this group understood the dynamic unfolding before them. Cole didn’t.

  “When I was 18, I met a girl named Maura Kathleen, freshman semester at Holy Cross. I saw her first in English and then discovered she lived on the same floor; she was just down the hall from me. We soon became the best of friends.” The priest cleared his throat and continued. “I loved her from the start, but she didn’t see me that way. I loved her smile, her unruly curls, and the way she wore a Yankees hat to cover them up. I used to love the way she could go up to one of the professors and talk to him like they were friends. I think all the boys were convinced she could walk on air.”

  The priest was no longer talking to the group. He was transported, lost in his memories and once again a student at Holy Cross.

  “Second semester, Maurie and I—Maurie was her nickname—got an apartment together off campus.

  “What a time it was. Every night, we listened to Dylan, the Beatles, Leonard Cohen, and clouds of swirling marijuana smoke filled the air. We would talk endlessly of philosophy, injustice, and politics. We spoke of the things we no longer believed in and how we would change the world.”

  “You smoke, Father?” Eddie asked in astonishment.

  “Not anymore. But that apartment was something else. I loved it. And I loved Maurie. We went everywhere together, did everything together. We would walk that old neighborhood late at night with never a care or a moment of fear. We felt real freedom for the first time in our lives. No more nuns threatening us with hell, no more fierce scoldings from Sister Whoever, and no parents looking over our shoulders.” Cole was caught up in the story. Father John’s ability to give sermons translated into his personal story well.

  Father John continued. “Then things changed. Maurie went out with Gary, a junior she met at a baseball game towards the end of the year. When I met him, it was all I could do to hold back my tears, fears, and anger. I knew she was drifting away from me, and I was afraid to say anything about it. Then she made love with Gary, right under the crucifix above her bed. I only knew because she told me and made me swear I wouldn’t tell anyone. My heart was breaking, but she never knew.