Be Mine (2 page)

“But violent crimes do happen here, Molly. We’ve got gangs, drug
wars, murders of every sort. The city is still reeling from the recent jewelry
heist homicides.”

“Sure, but the fact is, your likelihood of being victimized by such
a crime is virtually nil.”

The two guys at the bar were now grinning, offering Molly little
waves. She shrugged them off.

She’d been on the show for over a year. She loved doing it but there
was a downside. It was more than a magnet for jerks like those two. Since Crime
Scene had been picked up by a statewide cable network it had attracted more
whack jobs. Sickos of every description tried contacting her. Comes with the
territory. She shrugged.

Molly could handle the pair at the bar. There was little she
couldn’t handle. But not tonight. She wasn’t up for these two. Not now. One was
headed her way. That was her cue. She grabbed her bag, tossed a few bills on
the table.

Outside, an evening breeze rolled up from the bay and she was struck
by an odd sensation. It was as if somebody was just waiting for her to leave
Jake’s.

And now they were watching her.

This was stupid. She took stock of the street. Nothing but a few
window shoppers. She was being silly, put off by those drunks at the bar. And
Cliff. Where was he? She waved it off and flagged a cab.

“Upper Market,” she told the driver.

The lights of San Francisco rolled by and Molly thought of Cliff. He
was so good to her. Nothing like some of the creeps she’d dated and dropped.
Like the hair puller who called her a “stupid bitch” and the weirdo who went
mute and just glared at her. She bit her lip wondering if cooling things with
Cliff was a mistake. He was considerate, intelligent, had a sense of humor. A
decent handsome guy. Nothing was wrong with him. They’d only started dating a
few months ago. She just wasn’t ready for a long-term relationship.

She considered her friend Tom Reed, the reporter who sat next to her
at the
Star
. Look at what he had with Ann, his wife. The real thing.
They had Zach, their beautiful son. They were far from perfect but they had a
fire that could melt steel. They’d endured heartbreaks and emerged stronger.
Maybe someday she’d find something like that. She just wasn’t ready to settle
down yet.

“Miss?” the driver said. “The address, please.”

Molly recited it as the cab climbed the neighborhood’s serpentine
hills. She liked the way the fog rolled up the steep streets of Cliff’s little
oasis. He’d joke about being sheriff when she pointed at the community signs
that demanded suspicious persons be immediately reported.

The creak of brakes echoed in the stillness as the cab stopped at
the small Queen Anne–style house. Cliff’s apartment was upstairs at the back.

“If you shut off your meter and wait, I’ll go back with you,” she
told the driver.”

“How long, miss? I gotta make a living.”

“Not long. Please. I need to see if my friend’s home.”

He slid the gearshift to park and killed the motor. It ticked down.

Molly approached the front. The exterior lights were on, but the
place seemed oddly dark. No interior lights. The wrought-iron gate squeaked as
she took the tiled walkway to the rear stairs. The yard was lush, private,
bordered with rosebushes, shrubs, eucalyptus trees. A couple of sturdy-looking
palms.

Her footsteps echoed as she ascended the wooden staircase to his
door. Inhaling the fragrance of the flowers rising from the boxes on his
balcony, she pressed the buzzer, heard it sound through his apartment. Then
nothing. She buzzed again. Waiting, she put her ear to the door. Not a hint of
movement. She knocked. Waited. Nothing.

Strange. She reached into her bag for her key to his apartment, slid
it into the slot. It went in too fast. What the-- The door was unlocked. She
turned the handle. It opened. Inviting her to enter.

“Cliff?”

No one responded from the darkness. She reached inside, flipped on a
light.

“Cliff?”

The first room was the kitchen. She saw his jacket draped over a
chair. His car keys were on the counter, along with his cell phone, wallet,
loose change, unopened mail.

“Cliff, it’s Molly.”

She moved to the living room. In the darkness the red message light
of his answering machine was blinking like something terrified. She switched on
a lamp.

It was too quiet.

Something began to stir deep in her gut, telling her this was all
wrong. The next room across the darkened hall was his bedroom. Instinct warned
her to leave now but her hand hovered over the doorknob. The driver out front
had blasted his horn and her skin nearly exploded.

“Jerk.”

She took a breath and opened his bedroom door. The room swam in a
surreal dim blue glow from the digital clock on his nightstand. Her stomach
tightened.

Oh God.

Cliff was on the bed. Facedown. She inched toward him.

He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. A huge damp, dark blue halo
encircled his head. Something resembling wet raw meat had erupted from the
side, glistening in the eerie blue light.

Resting on Cliff’s lower back was his service weapon, a .40-caliber
Beretta. Next to it, open for display, his official San Francisco police
identification. It read:

CLIFF HOOPER INSPECTOR OF POLICE HOMICIDE DETAIL

Across San Francisco,
Walt Sydowski
looked upon his father sleeping in the hospital bed.

Johnny.

Born a Polish peasant, he was a potato farmer and village barber
who’d kept his family alive in a labor camp during the Second World War by
cutting the hair of Nazi officers.

Now his heart was deteriorating. The doctors gave him a year.

Sydowski saw San Francisco’s skyline glittering in the night.
Several years ago he’d lost his wife, Basha. She died in this very hospital
calling his name. His first years without her were dark. He nearly gave up. His
daughters helped get him through it, visiting from the East in shifts. Sydowski
wished they’d visit more but he’d endured. Kept going. He had his work. It was
his salvation.

Visiting hours were over. He kissed his old man’s head. Then popped
another Tums into his mouth. As he neared the hospital’s main exit he nearly
bumped into his partner, Linda Turgeon, as she was rushing in.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Leo said you might be here.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Cliff.”

“What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

Sydowski steadied himself against the wall. Turgeon gripped his
shoulder.

“It can’t be. How?”

“Appears he was shot. In his apartment.”

“In his apartment.”

“Leo wants you to be the primary. We have to go now.”

Sydowski stared at Turgeon, not believing what she’d told him. Then
they hurried to where she’d parked their unmarked Chevy. A crumpled tissue was
on the passenger side. She drove.

“A few hours ago in the detail Cliff’s goofing around, holding my
coffee mug hostage for a Hershey bar, and now he’s dead,” Turgeon said.

Alarm bells screamed in Sydowski’s ears until he got control of
himself. He ran his hand over his face, then shook his head.

Hooper’s dead. Christ almighty. Hoop.

The city blurred by like Sydowski’s life. Over twenty years in San Francisco’s homicide detail. Four hundred and ten murder investigations. The highest
clearance rate in the state. He could retire anytime. And some days he thought
about it. Dreamed of a fishing cabin in British Columbia, and raising his
birds. But no matter how he looked at it, he could not get his head around the
idea of hanging it up. He needed the job. It was how he defined himself. Yet,
he knew it wouldn’t last forever. Nothing does.

His wife. His old man. His job. Now Cliff.

Sydowski had investigated the deaths of police officers. Some were
his friends. But nobody this close.

In the coffee room that afternoon, Cliff had patted his shoulder.
“My best to your old man. See you tomorrow.”

In the Upper Market, Sydowski and Turgeon came upon a knot of radio
cars, their flashing lights painting the rubberneckers who’d crowded at the
yellow scene tape cordoning off Hooper’s house. As he stepped from the car, it
dawned on Sydowski: Cliff’s girlfriend was Molly Wilson, one of the
Star’s
crime reporters. He pulled out his notebook and started a case log as he and
Turgeon approached the first officer on the scene, who briefed them from his
own notes.

“His girlfriend found him. Came to check on him when he didn’t show
for their date. Cabdriver called it in.” The officer recited the times and
names. Sure enough, Molly Wilson. “And we confirmed no sign of life. No weapons
there, except his.”

“How’s that?” Sydowski looked up from his notebook.

“It’s not a suicide.”

“How about we let the investigation determine what it is or isn’t?”

The officer understood. “Look, we know he was in your detail.”

Sydowski and Turgeon stared hard at the officer.

“I just want to say I’m sorry.”

The officer lifted the tape. Sydowski and Turgeon started down the
walkway, nodding to the uniform posted at the back. They ascended the staircase
at the rear to the landing, pulled on latex gloves and shoe covers.

“All set?” Sydowski’s hand gripped the doorknob.

Turgeon nodded and they entered.

They studied the kitchen, making notes, taking stock of the sink and
trash.

“Walt?”

Turgeon pointed her pen to a dime-sized hole in the kitchen wall,
about five feet from the floor. Sydowski drew his face close, shone his
penlight into the hole, then glanced back to the doorway. He tapped his knuckle
on the wall.

“There’s a slug in there. Looks like it’s lodged in the stud.”

Nothing looked out of place in the living room. Turgeon went to the
answering machine, listened to the messages, all from Molly Wilson. She noted
the time and the number on his call display. The scene techs would scour
everything. She joined Sydowski at the doorway to the bedroom where he took a
moment to prepare himself for what awaited them beyond the door. He’d come upon
murdered children, slain families, the scenes of rampages by insane gunmen,
satanic ritual killings, and the suicides of retired cops, many of whom he’d
known. But beyond the door was a colleague, a friend, and, Jesus, he swore he
could still feel Cliff’s hand on his shoulder from only a few hours ago.

“My best to your old man. See you tomorrow.”

Turgeon took a breath. Sydowski opened the door and entered. For the
longest time, he stood over Hooper’s corpse, saying nothing, absorbing the
scene. Hooper’s open eyes met his from his death mask. Turgeon took note of
Hooper’s gun and ID left on his back by the killer.

“Ready?” Sydowski asked.

Working from opposite sides of the body, Sydowski and Turgeon slid
their gloved hands under it to explore for any concealed evidence. The odor was
not strong. They felt nothing.

“He’s still warm,” Turgeon said.

Sydowski examined the blood pool around the head. Then using his
flashlight he probed along the bedsheet, the floor, and to the wall as if
following a trail.

“What is it?” Turgeon asked.

Sydowski went to the adjoining bathroom, inspected the sink, checked
a dampened towel and the floor under it, then returned to the bedroom wall.
Turgeon was on her hands and knees, studying the floor.

“Looks like tiny blood drops and water,” she said. “Looks like
somebody tried a fast cleanup.”

Sydowski stood before the spotless blank wall, examining it.

“Here too. They tried to wash it off the wall,” he said. “Something
written...looks like blood.”