Free Blessed Are Those Who Weep by Kristi Belcamino Page B

despite what the military says? Would he be a suspect then?” I don’t blink, and her gaze doesn’t falter.
    â€œMrs. Castillo may hate her son-­in-­law, but that doesn’t make him a murderer.” She waves her hand, dismissing my words.
    â€œWhat if she’s right?”
    â€œYou mean what if some elderly woman is right and the U.S. military is wrong? Well, that would be interesting, wouldn’t it?”
    I give her a stony stare and stand to leave.
    â€œAre you guys even going to search his parents’ apartment?”
    â€œMy men already did.”
    But I see a flicker of doubt cross her brow. She’s not sure they did, is she?
    In my car, my cell rings. I don’t recognize the number.
    â€œGiovanni,” I say.
    â€œGive me motive,” Khoury says. “Why would Martin kill not only his wife but his parents, his sister, and his nephew as well? Give me one reason, and I’ll shift gears.”
    â€œI’ll get back to you,” I say quietly and hang up.
    D RIVING HOME , I pound the steering wheel in frustration.
    I know what I saw. Joey Martin is here. He was in his apartment. What was he doing? What was he looking for? The letters under the floorboard? Did he get to them first?
    The military is lying for him. To protect him? His own mother-­in-­law called him a devil. She said she would give her life to prevent Lucy from ending up in his hands. I believe her when she said the baby is in danger. And there is no doubt that Mrs. Castillo is afraid, terrified.
    I worry I’ve ruined my credibility with Khoury. Now I’ve got to find proof of my own.
    Because a week from Friday—­in twelve days—­they are turning Lucy over to a man who might have massacred five ­people, including his own parents. Meanwhile, that little girl has been with strangers in a foster home for the past three days and will end up spending two full weeks there. The realization hits me that staying in foster care might now be the safest place for her.

 
    Chapter 15
    L OPEZ MEETS ME at Peet’s Coffee on Lakeshore Monday morning near Donovan’s apartment. I called Donovan to see if he wanted me to bring him a coffee, but he was already at work and too busy to talk, asking if he could call me back.
    I’m a little relieved. I don’t want to hear his reaction when I tell him I was attacked last night at the Martin apartment and had to go to the cop shop to give a witness statement that was barely believed.
    Lopez and I park ourselves on the bench in front of the coffee shop. I hand him the double espresso I sprung for to get him out of bed so early. Lopez usually sleeps in late after staying up most of the night listening to the police scanner.
    He takes a long gulp of hot coffee that would burn anyone else’s throat and drums his fingers on the back of the metal bench.
    â€œWhat’s up, man? Let’s see it?” The foot in his steel-­toed combat boot taps the ground.
    I sigh with frustration. “I turned it over to the cops.” I describe what it looked like. “Seen anything like that before?”
    Lopez lights up. “Kubaton.”
    â€œGod bless you,” I say.
    â€œIt’s a weapon. A martial-­arts weapon. You can jab it in the neck or rib cage, but you also can take a little fold of skin between the metal and your thumb at the armpit or throat or inner thigh, and it feels like a little electric shock. Bring a big dude to his knees.”
    â€œNice.” I have new respect for that tiny scrap of metal I found. “Where can you get one of these?”
    â€œA dojo.” A martial-­arts studio.
    â€œKnow any dojos around here that might carry one like this?”
    â€œSure, man.”
    He reels off the names of several dojos in Oakland and San Francisco.
    â€œThink it’s worth checking every one?” I ask.
    He grabs his phone. “Stand by.”
    Within about ten minutes,