Be Mine (14 page)

“He knew.”

“What?”

“Cliff knew about us.”

“How could he? I never told him. I never told anyone. How could he
know unless--” She looked at Beamon, unsure of what she was seeing. God, no.
Her hands flew to her face.

“Good-bye.”

“Tell me what’s going on. Ray!”

He left and Molly steadied herself against the wall. What was
happening? The ghosts of her life swirled around her, like a gathering storm.
She slid to the floor.

She sat alone in silence for the longest time, understanding
nothing. What was Beamon talking about? She had to know. She had to force him
to explain. She deserved to know. Sitting there, Molly lost track of time until
she was exhausted. She collected the cups and began rinsing them in the sink.

She looked out the window, down to the street, and froze. She
clutched the neck of her robe. A man was standing on the sidewalk in the shadow
of a tree.

Staring directly up at her.

Molly’s skin prickled with anger.

She couldn’t see him clearly. Couldn’t get a good look at him. Had
no idea who it was, but damn it, she’d find out. She’d find out right now.

She’d had enough of his crap.

Molly yanked on her jeans and a sweater. She grabbed her pepper
spray, personal alarm, and cell phone. Furious, she flew down the stairs and
out the front door.

But when she got to the tree, no one was there.

Bleeder’s heart pounded
as he strode
down the street away from Molly’s building. By the time he got to his car, his
ears were ringing and his head was throbbing. He drove across the Bay
Bridge to seek sanctuary, somewhere out of the way where he could think.

The Dead Horse Bar.

It was a squat building on a forgotten corner near the edge of Berkeley, a few blocks inside of Oakland. It had cracked weatherworn bricks and windows
painted over and barred. Inside, large TVs glowed over the sweeping
horseshoe-shaped bar. Except for a couple of sad cases shooting pool, the place
was empty. Bleeder took a stool and ordered a beer.

Relax, she didn’t see you. If she did, so what? She knows you, knows
the mask you wear. How could she suspect anything more than a friend watching
over her? That’s right. Relax, she didn’t see you.

But it wasn’t working out the way he’d planned. Hooper was gone, yet
Molly was taking too long to grasp the truth. How much longer would he have to
wait before she realized the magnificent thing he’d done for her?

Give her a little more time.

How much? He yearned to reveal himself to her. He’d been so careful.
He’d earned his right to her. Earned it. Be patient.

Remember how it started with Kyle? Remember?

Far from perfect.

In the weeks after Kyle and Rowley had beaten him into a coma,
Bleeder had kept his word to take care of everything. By day at school, Bleeder
endured the taunts and teasing, which eventually faded with his bruises. As
expected, he vanished back into being less than nothing. Invisible again. Only
this time he was roiling under the surface. This time Bleeder took control,
honing his anguish, meticulously sharpening it into his sword of vengeance.

At night Bleeder put Kyle under surveillance, as if he were an
insect in his personal lab. He studied Kyle’s life away from school, analyzed
every move he made. His routine, his habits, his chores, where he gassed his
car, where he went for burgers and shakes with Amy. Bleeder probed for points
of vulnerability.

But it didn’t go well at first. In fact, the whole thing almost blew
up in his face.

On the nights he could get his father’s car, Bleeder would track
Kyle, study him, and anticipate where he was likely to go with Amy on a given
night, at a given time. Like on Friday nights, around nine-thirty. It was Big
Duke’s Diner. They’d sit in their booth by the big front window. Amy usually
got a shake and Kyle got the works, a cheeseburger, fries, and cherry cola.

Bleeder would park where the lot lights barely got through the
branches of the stand of creaking trees. But he could see them. One night
Bleeder watched Kyle leave the booth to go to the restroom. But he’d lost sight
of him and he grew anxious.

Kyle’s face appeared at his door.

“Bleeder, what’re you doing sitting here all alone in the dark?”

“Finishing my rings.” Bleeder nodded to the dash. He always arrived
early and ordered something to eat while he watched them.

Kyle placed his hands on the car’s frame and leaned in to Bleeder.

“Amy saw you.”

“So?”

“Says you’re being creepy. Spying on us. She doesn’t like it.”

“It’s a small town and I’m just sitting here minding my own
business.”

Kyle’s hands moved lower. Bleeder saw Kyle’s big football ring.

“Yeah, well, get over her. She was just fooling around with you to
get at me. Got it?”

“I got it. She never meant it when she told me you were an asshole?”

Kyle laughed.

“That’s a good one. A real good one. I sure had it coming. And, man,
I’m sorry if me and Rowley were a little rough on you,” Kyle slipped his hands
in his jeans. Laughed some more. “You know, I like you. See, it’s good we can
joke. Let bygones be bygones. Be men about this, right?”

“Right.”

Kyle’s big right hand shot into the car for Bleeder to accept as a
peace offering. “No hard feelings. We understand each other?” Kyle was all
charm.

Bleeder looked at Kyle’s hand, debating whether to shake it.
Deciding to take it, he shifted his body to raise his hand. Kyle’s arm vanished
to return in a blur, his fist and ring smashing like a steel piston against
Bleeder’s left temple.

Lightning flashed before Bleeder’s eyes and a million volts charged
through his brain. He nearly passed out, the punch resurrecting every measure
of pain from his previous beating. Kyle grabbed Bleeder by the hair, then
leaned into his ear and hissed, “Stay away from us, shithead. Got it?”

Kyle took Bleeder’s onion rings, then rejoined Amy.

Bleeder gripped the steering wheel. Breathing evenly, he held on
with both hands until his vision cleared. As he sat blinking at the night,
everything moved in slow motion. Kyle’s Camaro rumbled by him. Kyle was eating
and raising Bleeder’s rings like the victor’s trophy. Amy was grinning
pitifully at Bleeder, then gave him a mocking finger-wiggling wave.

Alone that night in his room, Bleeder put his bandage back on to
hide the fresh bruise, telling his mother the next morning that his head had
started to hurt again.

Now, a lifetime later, as he sat in the bar rubbing his temples at
those painful memories, Bleeder assured himself that he had learned from his
mistakes.

“Hey, pal,” the bartender said.

Bleeder shook himself from his thoughts. He’d been staring blankly
at the basketball game on TV.

“I’d like to switch it to the news, if you don’t mind,” the
bartender said.

“Go ahead.”

“Closing time in fifteen, you good with your beer? Hardly touched
it.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Need a cab?”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

“Put the news on.”

A five-car pileup with a tour bus near the San Mateo Bridge
was the top local story, followed by a building contract scandal at City Hall,
then the next story was an update on Hooper’s case.

“The murder of San Francisco Homicide Detective Clifford Hooper
remains steeped in mystery, but according to a report in the
San Francisco
Star
, the SFPD Management Control Squad, which investigates internal police
affairs, has indicated an interest in the case, along with the Office of
Citizens’ Complaints... .”

Bleeder smiled.

Almost immediately after Hooper’s death, he’d arranged for certain
dangerous information about Hooper to make its way to Citizens’ Complaints.
Didn’t need to be true. Bleeder knew it would cause a stink for the zealots in
OCC and MC to go to the homicide detail and mess with them. He knew it would
raise the flag of alleged corruption, turn up the heat on the investigation.

And now it was paying off, bringing him closer to his prize.

Molly Wilson.

Driving downtown
to meet sources the
next morning, Tom used his cell phone at every red light to try to contact
Sydowski. No luck. He tried Molly Wilson’s home, then her cell. Nothing. He
tried a few cop sources knowing they’d go mute because of his story. He was
right.

Damn.

He sensed something was brewing, something happening on this story.
There had to be a way to bust it wide open. Tom had learned long ago from
Sydowski that Internal Affairs and OCC’s intelligence usually flowed from two
streams: pissed-off cops and the street. He jabbed in a number he kept in his
head. It took seven rings before a man’s rasping voice answered.

“Yes.”

“This is Tom. Is Lois around?”

“Hello, Tom. I’ve seen her around, yes.”

“Is she well?”

“I don’t think so. Not at the moment.”

“When she feels better, would you please contact me? I’ve been
trying to reach her.”

“Yes. I will do that.”

“Thank you. It’s very important.”

Tom took advantage of the next red light to try another call. Man,
it was obvious. Why didn’t he think of it earlier? He’d call Ray Beamon. No one
had gone after Hooper’s partner for data, or an interview. Maybe he’d react to
his OCC story.

Before he could call, his phone rang.

It was Tammy, the newsroom receptionist, and she was whispering.

“It’s happened just like you said. Irene’s called a meeting on the
cop murder but she told Acker not to tell you.”

“Of course, she’s trying to bushwhack me. When is it?”

“Thirty minutes.”

“Thanks. I owe you.”

The instant Tammy spotted Tom in the newsroom she directed him to
the boardroom. Acker, Lepp, and Della were just seating themselves when he
arrived. Pepper had her back to them while pouring coffee at the credenza. When
she turned to see Tom, crimson rose on her cheeks.

“Oh, I’m glad someone reached you,” she lied.

Acker’s attention pinballed between them. Whatever thoughts he had,
he kept to himself.

“All right,” she said. “This will be a very short meeting on the
Hooper case to see how we can advance the story.”

“Hey,” Acker said to Tom, “great piece on the OCC.”

Ignoring the compliment, Pepper plowed ahead.

“Della, you’re mining the neighborhood and Hooper’s friends,” she
said.

“Yes, I’m close to putting together a long take on Hooper’s last
twenty-four hours,” Thompson said. “From the moment he rose, until Molly found
him. I just need to talk to a few more friends.”

“And, Simon, how are you doing?”