Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
She approached him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her body into his. He sighed, embracing her slim body and inhaling her shower-fresh fragrance. He felt the blood move more swiftly, and then more slowly, in his veins, his muscles loosening, even though he’d thought he’d been relaxed a few minutes before.
This. Human touch. It was medicine. His shoulders lowered, his thoughts drifted, as she stroked his hair. “The cameraman,” he murmured.
She leaned back. “What?”
“Oh my God, the cameraman. There was a cameraman filming. Jamal sat with me and asked questions. But there was a man behind the camera.”
She blinked, stepped back. “Call Jamal,” she said, handing him her phone and scrolling to the number.
Ambrose stood and dialed the number as Lennon dropped her towel and began pulling on clothes, late-afternoon light caressing her skin and making it glow. Jamal answered on the second ring, sounding distracted. “This is Ambrose DeMarce. I hope I’m not disturbing you, but we had a few questions based on the videos you gave us yesterday.”
“The people who didn’t want their interviews aired? Sure. What’s up?”
“You told us no one else has or had access to the videos you didn’t post, right?”
“Correct. I can’t imagine how anyone would have access unless my Dropbox was hacked. But there’s never been any evidence of that.”
“Not even your cameraman?”
“Franco? No. There’s no need.”
“Can you tell me a little about him? Franco?”
“Sure. He’s a nice guy. Quiet but very dependable. Serious, does his job well. He’s generally in and out, not big on small talk. I hired him about five or six years ago, after my original cameraman moved out of town.”
Ambrose felt a small tremble move across his nerve endings, the same one he felt when he was hot on the heels of a criminal he’d been sent to hunt down. He knew he was close; he felt it. “What’s Franco’s last name?”
“Girone.” Jamal spelled it for him, and Ambrose nodded to Lennon, who had run into the living room, grabbed her laptop, and now had it open on the dresser.
“Can you tell me anything else about him?”
Jamal paused for a moment. “Let’s see. Franco’s mom was a big advocate for the homeless. She ran a program . . . I can’t think of the name now. Tragically, she was murdered. I don’t know all the details. I think I learned about it from someone I interviewed, but I’d already heard her name. To this day, she’s often honored at events. When Franco applied to be my cameraman, he said he wanted to carry on in her tradition but he doesn’t have her outgoing personality. He prefers to stay in the shadows and help tell the stories of the Tenderloin streets from behind a lens.”
Ambrose thanked Jamal and hung up, then joined Lennon where she was bent over the screen of her laptop. “Look at this,” she said, pointing to a news article. “Zeta Girone was murdered in her home.” She picked up the laptop, turned, and climbed into bed, where she sat against the pillows. She propped the computer on her lap. Ambrose sat down on the edge of the bed and faced her. She took a minute to scan the article, obviously speed-reading. “Zeta Girone was the foster parent of four teens she’d taken in when they were relinquished to the system by clients of her foundation, Rays of Hope, located in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco.”
Rays of Hope. Where had he heard that name? Had he passed by it when he was in the Tenderloin? He must have. He waited as Lennon clicked for a few minutes.
“‘The goal of Rays of Hope is to abolish family homelessness in San Francisco. Until that time, we offer assistance with housing, financial, and addiction services,’” she said, obviously reading off the website she must have opened in another browser.
“So it’s still open?”
Lennon nodded, scanning the screen. “Okay, so Zeta Girone fostered these four teens who then murdered her in her home and were apparently collecting the checks she was getting for housing and caring for them. Before they killed her, however, they kept her confined in her own basement for almost a year.” Lennon shook her head. “Holy shit,” she muttered, scrolling down the screen. “She’d taken a hiatus from work to put all her effort into helping the teens readjust and catch up on their education, since they were so far behind and still experiencing effects of their diagnosed posttraumatic stress disorder.” She glanced up at Ambrose and then back to the screen, pausing as she read for a few moments and then continued to summarize. “Instead, the teens tied her up, tortured, and taunted her for eleven and a half months, according to those familiar with the case. Eventually they stabbed her because the checks stopped coming, a consequence of unfiled necessary paperwork and missed home visits. Her body was found by her son, Franco, who was in college on the East Coast at the time of her captivity and eventual murder.” She looked up at Ambrose. “A chemistry major. Franco was a chemistry major.”