Be Mine (39 page)

“Did you image the casing from Yarrow, run it through the data
banks?”

“Yes. Nothing. Nothing lights up in any database.”

“What about the gun, Chico?”

“Untraceable. ATF gave it a priority. You must’ve scared them. They
moved like greased lightning. They were thorough. It’s a .40-cal Beretta,
exactly what we use, but widely available to the public. It doesn’t light up
anywhere. It coulda been a throw-down, Yarrow was an ex-cop.”

“Don’t call him any kind of a cop.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, thanks, Chico.”

Sydowski slipped on his glasses, then called his lieutenant and told
him.

“According to Chico, it all fits for Yarrow.”

“Ident called. Yarrow’s prints alone on the Beretta,” Gonzales said.
“Any surprises from the autopsy?”

“Nope,” he said. “I’ll call Molly, let her know it’s all over.”

Back in the homicide detail, Sydowski stared at the empty desks that
belonged to Hooper and Beamon and rocked pensively in Hooper’s old chair,
taking stock of himself.

Over twenty years with the squad. Maybe the time had come for him to
punch out, spend more time with his old man. Was he really ready to hang it up?
Being a homicide detective was who he was.

Sydowski smoothed his hand across the desktop. This case hurt. Had
thrown him badly. He never really had a handle on it. Was he losing his edge?
There was a loose end but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He sighed, went to
his desk, cleaned his bifocals, and examined the case files again.

Maybe the loose end that was gnawing at him would reveal itself, so
he could put it to rest, he hoped, going to Seaver’s autopsy report on Yarrow.

There was gunpowder residue on Yarrow’s hand and shirt. Sydowski
reached for the reports on the Beretta. He snapped pages. The reports confirmed
that Yarrow’s prints were on the gun. Blood and tissue from blow-back were on
the muzzle. The reports also showed significant amounts of residue and soot
inside Yarrow’s mouth and on his tongue. Sydowski read the observation that
Yarrow placed his gun in his mouth and closed his mouth around it.

But what if the Beretta was shoved into his mouth and he grabbed at
it to resist when it was fired? Residue and prints would still be present.

Come on. Drop it, Sydowski rebuked himself, removed his glasses. It
was a suicide. Yarrow had twisted the wreckage of his life with his fantasies
about Molly. Stalked her, Hooper, Beamon. It was all there. The physical stuff,
the bullets, his note, his history.

Something continued niggling at Sydowski and he’d be damned if he
knew what it was. He leaned back in his chair and let his eyes travel around
the room, trying hard not to let this thing distract him until he glimpsed the
receptionist working at her desk. A shaft of sun lit on her and then it hit
Sydowski.

His loose end.

He went back to the files on Hooper’s homicide. How could he have
missed this? He flipped through Hooper’s credit card receipts. Then through the
inventory of items found at his apartment, his desk, his locker, his car.

“It’s not there,” he said aloud.

He did the same for Beamon, then Yarrow.

“It’s not anywhere.”

He made a phone call.

“Molly? Sorry, it’s Sydowski again. One quick question.”

“What is it?”

“It seems Cliff’s credit card records show that a few weeks ago he
bought a ring.”

“Ray had said Cliff had planned to propose to me.”

“Yes.” Sydowski listened for a reaction. Hearing none, he resumed.
“By any chance have you seen the ring or heard anything about it?”

“No.” She cleared her throat. “Why? I mean, you know as well as I do
he never got the chance to propose. I never got the ring. I’d always assumed
you had it for evidence, or something. Why are you asking me now?”

“Because the ring appears to be missing.”

At her apartment Molly
didn’t have time
to sort out her feelings. She was too busy clawing her way back to normal.

“Go with the flow,” the shrink had advised after her little visit
this morning.

Now Molly was scrubbing her bathtub just as she’d done after Hoop’s
death. A normal reaction, the shrink had said. “People try to wash the bad
away.” Exhausting herself physically had helped her cope. So did her closest
friends who’d called or dropped by. She loved them for it but kept their visits
short, as she’d likely do with this one.

Her apartment buzzer sounded twice more before she got to it.

“Who is it?” she said into her intercom.

“Simon.”

Simon?
Oh, shoot, she’d forgotten he’d
called.

“I said I was coming over, remember?”

“Yes. Simon, I’m sorry but I’ve changed my mind. It’s all so soon
and I’ve got a lot to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m kind of busy with something. I’m really sorry.”

“But on the phone you said you’d like to get out. I’ve got a
surprise I know you’ll love.”

She reconsidered as he coaxed her. “Come on. It’s a gorgeous day.”

Smiling, she wavered. He’d been so good to her during this awful
time. Sweet. Genuinely concerned. Considerate, actually.

“What did you have in mind?” she asked him.

“A drive along the coast and a few things I’d like to keep secret
for just a bit longer.”

Sydowski was supposed to call her back about the ring business, but
she couldn’t bear to dwell on that. Besides, it was a beautiful day and she
hadn’t been outside as much as she’d like. Why not go have some fun?

Go with the flow.

“All right. Wait there. I’ll be down in five minutes.” Molly changed
into a fresh top and jeans, grabbed her bag, then went down to the street where
Lepp opened the passenger door to a new silver Mercedes 450 SL.

“Hi, Simon. I’m sorry for waffling. It’s been hard.”

“No apologies necessary. The worst is over now.”

“Nice car.”

“Got it just for us.”

He shut her door and got behind the wheel, fearful he was going to
explode as he slipped on his dark glasses. He almost grinned. This was such a
glorious day.

Every obstacle had been removed.

Tom’s line rang at his desk
in the
newsroom.

“Reed.”

“It’s Tammy out front. You’ve got a visitor. Lois Hirt.”

“Lois?” His street sources never came to the
Star
.

“Want me to send her to you?”

“No. I’ll come out. Thanks.”

Lois was wearing faded jeans, a peach top and jacket. She looked
well. He led her to a meeting room where he offered her a cushioned chair.

“Would you like coffee, tea, soda?”

“I’m fine, Tom.”

He shut the door.

“Lois, I tried calling you through Hector. I left messages. He told
me about your friend, Gloria Carter. Her overdose. I’m so sorry.”

Lois nodded.

“You look good, Lois.”

“Thank you. I’m going to take things one day at a time. Working at
getting healthy.” She twisted the straps on her purse. “This is weird, but
Gloria’s death and my coming here, it’s sort of all related to you.”

“How so?”

“The reason I never got back to you, when you asked me to help you
find the person who called OCC, is that, well, it was Gloria.”

“It was Gloria?”

“She was the one I told you about. The one who was approached to
make the tip call about Hooper with OCC. I wasn’t certain at first. She’d
talked about it at a party, then disappeared. When I found her, she was sick.”
Lois pulled a sealed letter-sized envelope from her purse and passed it to Tom.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a note. It was in Gloria’s wallet. I went through her things,”
Lois said, “I think it’s the note the guy made her read into the phone. The guy
you were looking for.”

Tom stared at the envelope without opening it, then sighed, feeling
a wave of exhaustion wash over him. The Yarrow story was done.

“Look, thanks.” He tucked the envelope in his pocket. “The story’s
finished. It’s over. Frank Yarrow was ‘the guy.’ He was an ex-cop. He’s dead.
He left a suicide note. Did you see our stories today?”

“Yes, but I’d promised to help. I wanted to keep my promise.”

“I understand.” He patted her hand, letting a moment pass.

“I feel I should have done more to save Gloria,” she said.

“You had no control over that. You have to take care of yourself
now.”

Lois nodded, collected herself, then stood.

“If you’re still looking for a job,” Tom said, “there are some
openings in our mailroom. It’s physical shift work but it pays well. I can talk
to Human Resources if you want?”

“I’d like that.”

“Can I reach you through Hector?”

“Yes.”

They hugged. Then Tom got a fresh coffee from the kitchen and
returned to his desk feeling melancholy. Hardly anyone was around the metro
section today. He was nearly done with his follow-up story on Yarrow’s history.
Nothing else happening in town. A small news hole. A real dead day.

He felt the envelope from Lois sticking him. What the hell? Maybe he
could use it. He found his scissors and slit the top, which revealed a small
sheet of paper folded into quarters. The page struck him as familiar. A
telephone number was written on the top. It was OCC’s number, followed by a
short handwritten message, neatly printed in block letters.

HEY, OCC, YOU BETTER LISTEN TO THE WORD DOWN HERE ON THE STREET.
HOOPER HAS BEEN SHAKING PEOPLE DOWN, ROBBING DEALERS, POCKETING THEIR CASH,
MAKING ENEMIES BIG TIME. WHAT HE GOT WAS PAYBACK.

Something cold spasmed in the pit of Tom’s stomach.

He turned the sheet over. Nothing on the reverse. This page was from
a reporter’s notebook. Torn from the wire spirals. A four-by-eight-inch sheet,
blue-lined with Pitman-style spacing. The exact kind used by
Star
reporters.
Bundles of them were in the supply cupboard. But this page had a blue tint, and
only a couple of
Star
reporters preferred blue tint.

His pulse increased.

Every reporter had a unique note-taking style, as distinct as a
voice. He recognized the neat block letters of this note. His breathing
quickened. He raised his head. The newsroom was nearly empty. He swallowed and
walked to Simon Lepp’s desk.

Used notebooks were stacked in neat towers on the right of Lepp’s
terminal. Tom set the OCC note down, then opened a notebook at random. Blue
tint pages. Neat block letters. Identical to the OCC note. He opened another
one. Blue pages. Block letters. Christ. The last line of the note screamed at
him.