Blood of Others (12 page)

Sipping her
morning tea at her keyboard,
Olivia reviewed some of her exchanges with her new friends she’d met on-line.

The single mom in Detroit:
I
thought I’d never fall in love again. I’d been hurt so many times, I stopped
dating four years ago until I literally bumped into a guy at the bookstore. Now
we’re engaged. Never give up.

Then a law student from Atlanta:
But
it hurts so much when after one or two dates the men never call you again. If
it is perfection they seek, then their search is futile. Better for me to get a
dog and stay at home.

That prompted Olivia to join in
with some advice.
We all know the risk of rejection can put you in some
awful situations. But you have got to take part in life. Time is too short to
waste. I truly believe there is somebody out there who is right for you.

The divorced young dad with two small
girls in Los Angeles agreed:
Livinsf is right. Life has to be grabbed by the
horns, you have to take control, don’t wait for them to call you. Go out
hunting, get some new clothes, change your hair, whatever it takes to bolster
your confidence because, believe me, the guys are just as nervous as women are.

Olivia found the on-line
exchanges were helping her. They were safe, anonymous, heart-to-heart
exchanges. Like having a diary that responds with a dozen different answers to
her questions.

There were all types out there,
breezy teens, college kids, burned-out, career-driven, hollow-hearted types,
the loved, the lost, the dumped-on, and the man-hating poets and various
mistresses of the dark. Then there were the shy boys, the geeks, the freaks,
the perverts, and all-round nightmares, which she deleted; there were some
honest-to-goodness nice men, at least they sounded nice in their messages, and
then there were some unique types. Like the one guy who was so specific with
the questions, as if conducting a personal sociological study or job interview:
What exactly do you look for in a man?

Honesty,
Olivia had
responded.

At the store yesterday when she
had gone on-line she found he had responded with a new question:
If you
found the right man for you, could you forgive any sins in his past life?

She waited until she got home
before answering. She had given it some thought, answering it late last night
before going to bed, writing:
Yes. I believe love can overcome any human
failing.

His new response arrived this
morning:
You sincerely mean that? Because in my experience so many others
have misled me. So please, livinsf, assure me now, is this empty rhetoric, or
do you truly mean it when you say that if you found the right man your love
would wash away the sins of his past life?”

Olivia looked at her watch. She
wanted to answer but was running late for work. She started the shower, then
returned to her keyboard. Hot water hissed and steam rose from the bathroom
door as Olivia considered his newest question.

Yes, she had meant what she said.
But this guy was a little deeper than her other friends. Must have some serious
issues. What was he -- a convict? Olivia laughed to herself. “The sins of his
past life.” Seriously, maybe he had been terribly hurt by someone. Deeply
wounded. Maybe she could help him? Olivia began typing.
Yes, I truly mean it
from the bottom of my heart.

Olivia had to go. She was running
late.

Opening Caselli’s, Olivia went
through her routine. The morning went fast, she thought, catching herself in
the mirror, checking her hair.

“Today, you’re getting that
fixed.”

The transom bells jangled.

“I’m a little worried. They
haven’t arrested anybody, you know, Olivia,” Mrs. Caselli unwrapped her shawl.
“I’ve been talking to some of the other merchants. They say police are coming
around to stores asking everybody questions.” Mrs. Caselli’s eyes twinkled.
“So, Olivia, lunchtime. You going to meet somebody, today?”

“I have a hair appointment.”

“That’s nice. Very nice.” She
studied Olivia for a moment. “Something is different about you. I can’t put my
finger on it.”

At the busy salon Olivia said,
“Nothing drastic. Just a trim and a re-working of these bangs.”

Her hairdresser placed one hand
on his hip and fingered Olivia’s bangs. “That’s as bold as we’re going to be
today?”

“I think so.”

Welcoming the din of the salon,
Olivia felt a strange pang of guilt, as if she was part of a karmic universal
adjustment. For she definitely felt a growing debt toward Iris Wood.

“Look,” said her hairdresser,
spinning her chair to the mirror when he’d finished, “we’ve found the real you
in there.”

Mrs. Caselli’s eyes widened when
she returned. “Olivia, you look very nice.”

“It’s just a haircut, Mrs.
Caselli.”

“I’m curious. Why are you doing
this now? You meet somebody new, maybe?”

“Sort of.”

A wrinkled hand, its palms as
smooth as a baby’s skin, patted Olivia’s.

“Good, Olivia.”

That afternoon Olivia assessed
herself in the backroom mirror. Not too bad, she thought as the transom bells
rang.

“Can I help you?” Olivia said to
the man at the counter.

“Ben Wyatt, San Francisco
Police.” He showed her his ID. “I’m looking for the manager.”

“You found her.”

“I’m kind of rushed but we’re
asking businesses in the area if they would quickly let us see their security
camera systems to determine if they could’ve possibly picked up anything
recently.”

“This is related to the bridal
shop?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t it late?”

“Well, some units record slowly
for days.”

Olivia led Wyatt to their system
and its controls in the storage room. After several minutes, Wyatt saw that
Caselli’s cameras had not recorded anything of use to the investigation. Olivia
volunteered some other tapes for him to take.

At the counter, Wyatt gave her a
receipt for the tapes, made a few notes. They exchanged business cards.

“Did you know Iris Wood?” Wyatt
asked.

“No. But I could check something
for you.” Olivia went to the store’s delivery data bank, explaining the on-line
delivery service to Wyatt. “Give me her birth date, I’ll check if anyone sent
her anything from us.”

Impressed by her quick thinking,
Wyatt gave her the information. He moved closer to her, studying the computer
as she typed.

“Nothing. She’s not in our
system.”

“That’s pretty good detective
work there,” Wyatt looked at her card, then at her. “Olivia.”

She blushed before his cell phone
rang and he left.

That night at home, as Olivia
ate, she reflected on meeting Inspector Ben Wyatt, his card propped on the vase
of her table.

Seemed like a nice guy. Good
looking too.

Later she went on-line to tell
friends about her day, how she was inching out of her shell.

Go girl,
one friend
cheered from Tampa.

Nothing to fear,
said
another from San Diego.

Then Olivia remembered to check
on her wounded, deep thinker; to see if he responded to her philosophy that
love could wash away any sins of a past life.

That was a beautiful thing you
wrote this morning. I don’t think you’ll have to wait much longer for the right
man to come along. I think he’s going to find you.

That was intriguing. Olivia
wondered what had prompted that.
How do you know?

He surprised her with a
lightning-quick response.

Stay tuned.

Iris May Wood
had been nine when she was
rescued in the night from the blaze that engulfed her home and killed her
mother and father.

A news photographer from the
Star
had been there in time for a shot of a firefighter carrying Iris from the
burning house. Eyes wide with horror, barefoot in pajamas, hugging a stuffed
teddy bear. Flames, smoke and sparks swirling to the stars, as people from the
neighborhood watched her family burn.

Iris had been raised by her aunt
and uncle, who were killed thirteen years later by a drunk driver. After college
Iris got a researcher-writer position with American Eagle Federated Insurance.
She had never married. No boyfriends. No relatives to mourn her as the
moderately-priced oak casket purchased by her employer was lowered into the
plot next to her parents. Of the tiny group who stood at her graveside, only
three were not paid to be there: two women from her office and her landlord.
The hired chaplain read a final passage that had been confidentially requested
by Sydowski. The one from Isaiah, chapter forty-two.

“Fear thou not; for I am with
thee.”

Reed watched it all from a
respectful distance, discreetly taking notes.

Sydowski was absent. So was
Turgeon, leaving Reed to puzzle over Sydowski’s cryptic interest in the bit of
Scripture. Nothing made sense, Reed thought, catching the glint of metal
reflecting the sun in the distance.

Ah, there it was.

Reed headed for the dark van
parked in the distance. The invisible police surveillance unit, keeping tabs on
the service in the remote chance the killer might wish to pay his respects.
Some forty yards east of the van, Reed spotted a man in a dark suit and glasses
standing near the corner of a mausoleum and approached him.

“Good afternoon, Inspector
Wyatt.”

“Hello, Reed.”

“I haven’t seen you since your
partner got shot up.”

“You know how time flies, Tom.”

“Where you been?”

“Here and there.”

“So you’re on this too? What’s
the latest?”

“You tell me. You probably know
more than I do.”

Reed could not gauge his face
under the dark glasses. “I doubt it. Seriously, anything new?”

Wyatt shook his head.

“I hear you guys are checking
into some pretty familiar territory.”

“Is that what you’re hearing?”

“Yup.”

“You’ve got very good ears.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because they don’t tell me
anything. Sydowski’s the primary. All roads of information flow and lead to the
great one.”

“I see. So how are you doing,
Ben?”

“Fine. Listen, this is not the
best place to catch up, so could you, like, take a hike?”

“Sure, but I want to stay up on
this. I’m going to call you.”

Over the next few days, Reed
worked on his profile of Iris Wood. He argued with Sydowski about the exclusive
tip on the cop.

“Walt, I am going to say a
witness says he saw an officer in an unmarked car stop Iris Wood’s car near
Stern Grove, then drive away with her.”

“If you do that now, you’ll blow
the case.”

“You always say that.”

“Have you not learned from your
mistakes?”

“Tell me how I’ll blow your
case.”

“We need more time.”

“I’m not going to get beat on
this?”

“Damnit, is that all you --”

“He came to me, Walt.”

“Listen, you are way out in front
on this.”

“Is the tip good?”

“We haven’t ruled it out but we
need more time.”

“Then I am going to use it --”

“Tom, if you hold off a bit, we
can give you pictures.”

“What kind of pictures?”

“Exclusive pictures.”

“Describe them.”

“Taken a few hours before death.
The last time she was seen alive.”

That sounded good.

“I’m coming over to the Hall to
see them.”

The grainy stills from the campus
security cameras, dramatically enlarged, showed Iris getting into her car for
the last time. Reed had accepted Sydowski’s proposal. Sydowski also provided
him with a time line and map detailing the final movements of Iris Wood’s life.

Reed had interviewed some of her
former college classmates, including Penny Dumay, the woman who walked to the
campus parking lot with her. He talked to the staff from Forever & Ever. He
was given a brief tour of her apartment and the bridal shop with Turgeon as an
escort, allowing him to produce a dramatic account of her life and her final
hours.

Sydowski raised the specter of a
serial killer and the ritualistic nature of Iris Wood’s murder, releasing some
details, holding back on most as he outlined the last hours in the life of a
quiet, lonely office worker in downtown San Francisco.

Brader did not criticize Reed’s
piece.

“It’s going Sunday, Reed,” he
said.

Reed was pleased. It was the
Star’s
largest circulation day. His article would dominate front and spill into two
clear inside pages filled with previously unpublished photographs and
information. It was also the feature the paper planned to use to kick off its
new redesigned Web site.

Reed never told Brader, or anyone
for that matter, about his tip on the cop, figuring he had done well so far in
his high-stakes poker game with Sydowski, a man he respected and trusted. He
could go with the tip later, at the right moment when it would bust the story
open in another direction.

Driving home Saturday, Reed
thought of Ann and Zach. He had immersed himself so deeply in the story, he
forgot they had plans for dinner at their favorite Mexican restaurant. He also
thought about Zach’s mystery reaction and wondered about allergies in his
family tree. A horn blast yanked him back to his feature. He realized how well
Sydowski had played him. All the information squeezed into tomorrow’s story was
not meant to inform Bay Area residents.

It was meant to challenge the
killer.

Reed has just taken dictation for
Sydowski’s letter to the monster who murdered Iris Wood.

The eyes of a little girl rescued
from a deadly fire, grainy photos from a security camera taken hours before her
murder. The Scripture.

Sydowski must be convinced the
killer was going to read his article.