Blessed Are Those Who Weep Read Online Free

the philosophy my own way—­by dressing up on the days I feel the worst, sort of a bait-­and-­switch maneuver. Since today is an especially shitty morning, I spent extra time on my hair and makeup. I also threw on my nicest formfitting black wool pants, a silky navy blouse with white polka dots, and black patent-­leather slingbacks, which are totally inappropriate for covering the crime beat.
    Inside the café, I flip through the stack of discarded newspapers someone left on a table while I wait for my cappuccino.
    The Bay Herald has a tiny front-­page story by May, the night cops reporter. It has the bare basics of what happened: Five dead. Police investigating. It doesn’t even identify the victims or say how they were killed. At least we have something, even if it’s not much.
    The San Francisco Tribune is on another table. I’m nervous to see what they wrote, but even so, I’m not prepared for the giant photo.
    It’s a picture of me. Above the fold. Under a huge headline. “Massacre in the Mission: Five Dead. Family Slain by Samurai Sword,” with a subhead: “Reporter found with baby at scene of gruesome slayings.”
    In the photo, I’m looking out the backseat of the squad car with the baby’s head tucked under my chin.
    My index finger traces the contours of the baby’s face in the black-­and-­white photo before my eyes move up to the image the photographer caught of me.
    I don’t recognize the look in my eyes. I don’t recognize myself at all. My hair is ratty from the girl twirling it in her fingers. My lipstick is rubbed off. My mascara is smeared. The look in my eyes is what floors me. I look . . . unstable. Frantic. Deranged.
    I read the headline again. Samurai sword. Yes, I suppose that would have caused the carnage I saw, but who carries around a samurai sword? And how did Andy Black at the Tribune get info on the murder weapon so early? Usually the cops won’t release that until the coroner’s report is complete. The Tribune kicked our ass on this story. And I was there as a witness. The realization makes my mouth dry.
    Grabbing my coffee, I rush out, taking the paper with me. Did Donovan hide the papers from me? I scan the story as I walk to my car. It contains no hint that the cops have a suspect or that an arrest is pending. It says that Maria Martin’s husband is in Iraq. It will take at least a week for him to get back to the U.S. because of national security issues. Along with his wife, the dead include his parents, his sister, and his nephew. The story says the child apparently has no other living relatives besides her father. My heart breaks for him. He’s lost his entire family and is thousands of miles away. That little girl will grow up without knowing her mother or her grandparents or aunts and uncles or cousins.
    I can’t imagine life without a big family.
    As soon as I get to my car, I call Kellogg.
    He answers on the first ring.
    â€œGiovanni, what the hell is going on? How do you think it looks that the Tribune has more details on this massacre, when you were there ? Arnold is going off the rails about this. One of his reporters is in the middle of the biggest crime story in San Francisco since Harvey Milk was shot, and you’re on the front page of the fucking competition. Jesus Christ.”
    Guilt swarms over me, making my face flush with heat. I crank up the air conditioner in my car even though it’s cool outside.
    â€œThey kept me past midnight, questioning me. I wanted to call, but I couldn’t.”
    His long sigh is a bit reassuring, but I’m still braced for an ass chewing.
    â€œThat’s what I told Arnold. I know things have been tough for you lately, but I’m worried you’re losing your reporter instinct.”
    I pull over to the side of the road and press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, staring, unseeing, at a man waiting for a