Blessed are the Meek by Kristi Belcamino Page A

last week, the dot.com millionaire?”
    They give me blank looks. The older cop is now pushing his cuticles back without looking up, just nodding at what I’m saying every once in a while.
    â€œKeep going,” the redheaded one says, tapping a finger on the table. Don’t these guys take notes? Their offhand demeanor makes me flustered. I wonder if that’s their intention?
    â€œI was in that bedroom, and I was kind of . . . well, I was trying to listen in to their conversation.”
    â€œWhat did you hear?” the older cop asks without looking up from his grooming.
    â€œThe mayor seemed angry that Annalisa had brought a detective to the party. That’s my boyfriend, Sean Donovan, he’s a Rosarito cop —­” I trail off.
    â€œIs that it?” The redheaded cop lifts an eyebrow. His fingers stop tapping.
    â€œWell, actually, they started, um, doing some more private stuff, so I, um, left.”
    â€œYou left?”
    â€œWent home.”
    â€œWhat time was that?”
    â€œProbably six o’clock.”
    â€œDid anyone see you leave?”
    â€œNo, I sort of snuck out,” I say. “Now, can you tell me what’s going on?”
    The older cop tucks his pocketknife away and stands.
    â€œWe’re going to need you to stay in town for a while,” the redhead says casually and locks his gaze on me.
    Need you to stay in town for a while.
    The redhead stands and holds the door for me. I start to walk away and turn back.
    â€œYou haven’t told me who the victim is.”
    He gives the other cop a meaningful look.
    â€œWho is it?” I nearly whisper the words. I wait for him to say Annalisa’s name.
    â€œAdam Grant.”
    I feel the blood drain from my face, and my entire body is bathed in a chill that sends tremors down my spine. Adam Grant? He was so charismatic and vibrant, it is hard to imagine his body lifeless. The cops walk past me and turn without saying good-­bye, leaving me standing in the doorway watching their backs.
    And then the realization strikes me—­the police think I murdered the mayor of San Francisco.

 
    Chapter 15
    B ACK IN THE newsroom, everything seems surreal, as if I’m dreaming or hearing everything from underwater. Reporters are filtering into the newsroom. The volumes on the smaller televisions have all been turned up. Pictures of Adam Grant flash over the screen—­pictures of him with Annalisa. Also, pictures of Annalisa with Sebastian Laurent.
    The TV coverage cuts to a blond woman spilling out of her low-­cut top. A diamond pendant dangles in her cleavage. She’s standing in the doorway of a home with giant pillars. TV reporter: “Candace Davenport was at the pool party yesterday.”
    That’s where I recognize her. Although we didn’t talk, she was hard to miss, falling out of her strapless swimsuit top and giggling, always with a big froufrou drink in her hand.
    â€œMy husband, Jeffrey, and I left around five thirty so we could get home and get ready for our dinner party. We had the board of the San Francisco Opera over for our annual planning meeting . . . my maid gets fresh scallops, oh sorry, well anyway. It’s such a shame. The mayor is such a nice man.” She starts to get teary. “I mean he was. What is our city going to do without him? I don’t know why he was hanging out with that woman, anyway. I mean, it’s like she’s a Black Widow. Her boyfriend died last week, now she comes to the mayor’s house, and he ends up dead, too.”
    The reporter cuts back to the newsroom.
    â€œThat is an odd coincidence,” the anchor says to the reporter.
    Hell yeah it is. The cops are wasting their time with me. They better be questioning Annalisa. Black Widow is right. I can’t figure out why Annalisa would kill both Sebastian Laurent and Adam Grant, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t do it. What would she gain