Be Mine (22 page)

“The San Francisco Police Department is asking the public’s
assistance for any information related to the murder of Ray Beamon, an
inspector with the department’s homicide detail. Inspector Beamon was found
deceased in his residence last night. We strongly suspect his death is directly
related to that of Cliff Hooper, also an inspector with the department’s
homicide detail, who was found deceased in his residence on the evening of the
tenth. We’re asking anyone with any information on any aspect of these cases to
immediately contact law enforcement authorities. That is all we can say at this
time. I will not speculate or discuss case details. I will take only a few
questions. Starting with you, waving your hand.”

Several reporters starting talking at once.

“Yes,” the chief said, “the woman from KTW.”

The woman stood. “Sir, recent reports indicate Molly Wilson, a
reporter for the
San Francisco Star
, was known to Beamon and Hooper. Can
you confirm that?”

“Yes.”

“Can you elaborate on Wilson’s relationship with them and how it
connects her to this case?”

“No. Next question.”

Again the room surged.

“You. You in the blue shirt,” the chief said.

“John Miller,
Associated Press
. Has Molly Wilson been ruled
out as a suspect?”

“She’s cooperating with the investigation. That’s all I’m prepared
to say. Last question.”

Last question? Reporters complained. Ignoring them, the chief
pointed to a reporter among those standing at the side of the room.

“Tom Reed,
San Francisco Star
,” he said. “Chief, do you have
anything that points you to a suspect or a motive?”

“We’re working on all avenues of investigation.”

The chief stood to leave amid a barrage of questions, but Tom’s
demand drowned out all of the others.

“Hold it one minute, sir!” Tom said. The chief halted, then turned
to him. The room fell silent. A few TV cameras swung to Tom as still cameras
shot picture after picture.

“With all due respect, Chief, I think the people of the city deserve
better answers than you’ve been providing this morning.”

As a veteran of many battles, the chief was aware of the emotional
ties between his dead detectives and the
Star
newsroom. He bowed his
head slightly. “I’ll take one last question, Tom.”

“Do you have a suspect in this case?”

“I’ll make it clear. We have some leads. And we urge anyone with
information on these cases to contact us. Thank you all.”

First Hooper. Now Beamon. What the hell was happening?

Returning to the
Star
building, Tom struggled to make sense
of the last few hours. In the elevator, his body tremored as he ascended to the
newsroom. He hadn’t had any sleep.

Coffee.

He craved coffee and got some from the newsroom kitchen before
heading to his desk. On the way he saw Irene Pepper sitting in his chair,
tapping a cassette tape against her nails. The one of his interview with
Beamon.

“Good little conversation you’ve got here,” she said.

He tried to guess how she’d found out.

“I can’t help but think you were hiding it from me. Not good.” She
grinned.

“I was not hiding it from you. I wasn’t done with that story.”

“And when were you going to tell me about this?”

“When I was finished checking things out on it.”

“Well, I’ve listened to it and I want you to write this up today.”

“I think we should wait,” he said.

Seeing what was transpiring, Acker came over.

“And you knew about this Beamon interview too?”

“Yes,” Acker said. “It wasn’t finished. Tom needed to check a few
things out.”

“There’s nothing to check out. We go with it today.”

“I think we should wait,” Tom said.

Acker nodded.

“Why?” Pepper asked.

“Beamon’s murder is the story today. Our exclusive would be lost,”
Tom said. “Besides, I can leverage it with Homicide.”

Pepper touched the tape to her chin and swiveled in the chair.

“No, we go today for tomorrow’s paper.”

“It’ll just get lost,” Acker said.

“It’ll have little impact,” Tom added. “If we wait a few days the
story will cool and this interview will be hot. By then I’ll have had time to
leverage Homicide for more. It’ll demonstrate that we own this story, Irene.”

Pepper stood.

“No. We go today.”

“That’s a mistake,” Tom said. “No one can possibly beat us on this
interview now. We should wait a few days and get the best bang out of it. Going
now would be a big mistake.”

Pepper eyed both men.

“I’m not the one who made a big mistake.” She put the tape in Tom’s
pocket. “You did. We go today.”

By the time the news conference
had
started that morning, Sydowski and Turgeon were driving back to the location
where they’d taken Molly the night before.

Listening to Mozart as they left San Francisco, they headed south,
then east over the bay. Sydowski had not slept at all in the night. He lay in
bed for ninety minutes flipping through the Old Testament searching for
answers. Finding none, he’d forced himself to think of his birds, the weather,
ordinary thoughts. Anything to keep ahead of the horror.

Now, as the Chevy’s tires click-clicked rhythmically along the San
Mateo Bridge, Sydowski took stock of the case. The autopsy found that Beamon
had died of a single gunshot wound to the head. The recovered round was a
.40-caliber SXT Talon. The residue tests on Molly were negative. Canvass
reports had two neighbors hearing a pop coming from Beamon’s bungalow in
advance of Molly’s arrival. In Sydowski’s mind, Molly was no longer a suspect,
but rather the single thread running through the bleeding wound inflicted on
the homicide squad. He needed her to lead him to the killer.

They exited the bridge. Destination: Union City.

The San Francisco police and the California Justice Department used
a small house on a quiet street in the Old Alvarado area to park witnesses
safely when things heated up. It’s where they’d taken Molly. Today, Union
City was sitting on it in an unmarked vehicle. Inside, two San Francisco
detectives and a nurse were with her watching TV news reports on the case.
Molly was on the sofa bed, knees drawn under her chin. She glanced up at
Sydowski and Turgeon.

“Why don’t you guys take a break at the coffee shop down the street
while Linda and I talk to Molly?” Sydowski said to the others.

“Would you like us to get you anything?” the nurse asked.

Molly smiled and shook her head, thanking her watchers as they left.

Turgeon switched off the set.

Sydowski sat on the sofa chair nearest Molly, produced his notebook.
He got to work, asking her to review the list of all the men she’d dated for at
least a month or longer over the last few years. The same list they’d drawn up
after Hooper was killed.

Before he pursued Beamon.

His murder meant a realignment of the case. Hell, it was a new case.
It meant going back on everything hard. Scrutinizing Molly’s boyfriend list.
She took Sydowski’s pen and looked at the names. She took a few moments to
think about it, made notes, then passed it back to him.

“Murdoch, Glazer, and Yarrow, you never gave us these guys after
Hooper,” Sydowski said.

“They don’t live in the Bay Area. And I don’t think they were even
around at the time Cliff and Ray were killed.”

“Tell us about them and we’ll determine if that’s true.”

“Steve Murdoch’s a movie technician who lives in Los Angeles.
Travels a lot. I dated him when they shot Pitt’s last movie in Golden
Gate Park. He works mostly on big-budget films. Rob Glazer, the airline
pilot, lives in San Diego. I met him on a flight. Frank Yarrow’s an old boyfriend
who was in town on business, then left.”

“What does Yarrow do?”

“A security consultant, or something. I think he lives in Kansas City, I think, or Colorado before that. He’s recently divorced and shaken by it. He
wanted to see me. Oh, and Glazer, it turns out, was cheating with me on his
wife. I didn’t know at the time. I told him I hated what he did to me and to
her. He was a creep.”

Molly went through her bag for her address book and gave Sydowski
every iota of contact information she’d had on all of the men.

“Some of this might be outdated,” she said.

“What about the message on the wall?” Sydowski passed Molly a color
picture from the crime scene:

Why, Molly?

“Does that scrawl or script look familiar? Anyone you know use that
phrase, or term, a lot? Any idea of its significance?”

Blinking quickly, she shook her head.

“What about the crazies, the idiots who contact you through the
paper and Vince Vincent’s TV show?”

“I never really see them or have any contact with them. We have
security at the paper. I might get a strange letter or pervy e-mail at the
paper.”

“And Vincent’s show.”

Molly shook her head.

“The station blocks or intercepts everything. The producer has told
me how some of the stuff addressed to me is revolting and disgusting. Guys send
videos of themselves doing things, or call, or write to graphically discuss
their fantasies. You’d have to check with the show.”

Sydowski studied a page in his notes.

“The last time we talked, you said you had this weird feeling
someone was watching you. You said you felt it that night at Jake’s bar just
before you found Hooper.”

“At times it was like I was being watched or followed. Even now, I’m
not sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I could’ve been just hyper-paranoid after finding Cliff. I
mean, I thought I saw a guy. But it could’ve been a reporter or photographer.
Could’ve been a cop.”

“You have a description, a vehicle, a plate? Anything?”

“No. White guy maybe. A late-model sedan.”

“Nothing more than that?”

Molly shook her head. “It could’ve been my imagination.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I haven’t gotten a full night’s sleep since Cliff was
killed. I’ve been exhausted and an emotional basket case.” Her chin crumpled
and she covered her face with her hands. “And now this.”

Turgeon passed her a tissue and rubbed her arm until Molly regained
a measure of composure.

“How long will I have to stay here?”

“This is not protective custody but we think it’s best if you keep a
low profile for a few days,” Sydowski said.

“I want to go back to my apartment. I need to start putting my life
back together.”

“Just a little while longer until we get on top of this,” Sydowski
said.

“Well, can you take me to my place so I can get a few things,
clothes and stuff?” Molly asked. “This was all so sudden.”

“I’ll take care of it for you later today,” Turgeon said. “Just
write down what you want and where I can find it.”

Molly pulled a reporter’s notepad from her bag and started to list
items. When Sydowski and Turgeon drove back to San Francisco, the afternoon sun
was brilliant over the bay. The waves sparkled like diamonds as a bittersweet
Italian opera wafted through the car’s speakers. It seemed a fitting piece of
music for a nightmare, Sydowski thought, as he reviewed Molly’s amended list of
former boyfriends.

The suspect list.

He slid a Tums in his mouth and cracked it between his teeth.