Blessed Are Those Who Weep by Kristi Belcamino Page A

doesn’t know my appetite flew the coop after my miscarriage. I hold up the paper bag. “You’re in luck. I was saving this pork bun for the best news researcher west of the Mississippi.”
    Her smile fades. “I haven’t found anything recently on Frank Anderson. I know you told me not to look anymore, but I can’t help it. I can’t give up. I have to check at least once a week.”
    â€œThanks, Liz.” I grow quiet for a moment. The pity and warmth in her big brown eyes make me slightly weepy. I change the subject. “You’re going to love this!” I wave the bag.
    â€œSugar, you know me. I never pass up pork buns.” She takes the bag from me with a smile.
    â€œThat’s because you’re my type of woman.”
    I start to open my e-­mail in-­box. She remains standing there, so I look up. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought you were just coming by to say hello.”
    â€œThis probably doesn’t mean anything . . .”
    I wait.
    â€œI heard something on the scanner this morning when I was walking by. I couldn’t tell what department it was, but it was talking about a DOA, and I’m pretty sure they said something like it might be connected to the Mission deal.”
    â€œThanks. I’ll try to track it down.”
    She walks away. Another body connected to the massacre four days later? And it might be connected? Maybe the killer committed suicide? Or did the killer knock off someone else? And is it Joey Martin? Is he the killer?
    Before she turns to leave, I dial the cell phone number for Brian, my source at the morgue.
    â€œMay the force be with you . ”
    â€œYou working the morgue?”
    â€œYou will find that it is you who are mistaken . . . about a great many things.”
    â€œWhat? Is that another Star Wars quote? I told you I don’t remember that movie. So you’re not at the morgue?”
    â€œSearch your feelings.”
    â€œHeard something about a DOA that might be connected to Mission Massacre? Is it in your county?”
    â€œThese aren’t the droids you’re looking for.”
    â€œI’m going to assume that means no. Can you find where it is? Will you try to help me?”
    â€œTry not. Do . . . or do not. There is no try.”
    I say thanks and hang up.
    A few seconds later, my cell phone rings. I rummage around in my bag. It’s Donovan.
    â€œHey.” His voice is low and warm and comforting.
    â€œHey yourself,” I say in a whisper. “I never got a chance to thank you for the medal.”
    He waits a moment before answering. “Sorry. This murder has been brutal.”
    I don’t answer.
    â€œDo you like it?” he asks.
    â€œIt’s beautiful.”
    â€œI think we got a lead on the killer. I know we’re close.” he says. “My sister, Mary Jo, said she wore a medal like that after her . . . you know. And that it comforted her and she wore it the whole time she was pregnant with Ben.”
    I press my lips together. “Thanks.”
    â€œListen, I’ve got to run. I’ll try to be home early tonight.”
    â€œWait,” I say, before he hangs up. “Have you heard anything about a DOA that might be connected to . . . the Mission slayings?”
    â€œSorry, I’ve been feet on the street tracking leads. I can ask around.”
    I disconnect, but hug the phone to my chest for a few seconds before placing it in its cradle.
    Glancing at the photograph of my sister on my desk, I feel guilty that I’ve been thinking more about that black-­eyed baby than her.
    I was only six when Caterina, older than me by fourteen months, was kidnapped out of our front yard. Her body was found eight days later, in a rural area, by off-­road bicyclists. My father never got a chance to learn this—­he dropped dead of a heart attack three days after she disappeared. The doctor