Blood of Others (14 page)

Vryke had done his homework.

There was nothing he did not
know.

Then he had stepped into the
frame, enshrouded head-to-toe in a hooded white bio-chem jumpsuit, complete
with goggles, gloves and surgical mask.

He knew how she had dreamed of
the special day she would come here for her gown. But she had lied, laughed at
him, laughed at his face like all the others since his childhood.
You are
not worthy to join me in eternity.

He had gripped his scalpel.

Liar.

Vryke switched the movie off. He
knew the ending. An icon on his screen said
Iris in San Francisco.
He
dispatched it to the file that contained the others who had failed him.

He had to find his One True
Heart.

He had narrowed his list.

Ah, the piano player. Averted
disaster in Orange County. Could he risk returning to Santa Ana after such a
close call so soon after Iris? The little gang bangers had interrupted him,
forcing him to abort. Police spoke with him. It was too dangerous.

He tapped his lip. Now which one?

All of them strong candidates,
all promising to wash away the sins of his past life. Like this one:
I truly
mean it from the bottom of my heart.

He had to choose. Time was
running out.

Wyatt watched
the sun kiss the Pacific while
waiting on the street outside of Iris Wood’s building. He checked his
wristwatch.

Where were they?

He’d been there for over an hour.
Since he was assigned to this homicide, every cop he met had treated him with
contempt. He didn’t know how much more he could take. Maybe he should demand to
be pulled from the file. Just head back to CFU. Let the homicide dicks play
their games. Sydowski was determined to ignore his work. Wyatt looked both ways
down the quiet street.

Sydowski and Turgeon were
supposed to be here over an hour ago. Screw this. Wyatt began pressing numbers
on his cell phone when an unmarked Caprice roared around the corner, squeaking
to a halt in front of the house. Turgeon was by herself, slamming the door,
face taut as they moved quickly along the walk.

“I got tied up.”

“Save it, Turgeon. I know what’s
going on.”

“What?” She stopped to eye him.
“Hey,
I was tied up.
Don’t get all paranoid on me. I am one of your
satisfied customers, Wyatt. Or did you forget?”

He did forget.

“Fine,” he said.

Turgeon fished out the key and
they headed for the stairs to Iris Wood’s apartment.

But along the way, Wyatt could
not contain his frustration. “I can’t understand why this has taken so long.
Why Sydowski has practically ignored her computer.”

“It’s not like that.”

“No? Sure looks that way to me. I
chalk it up to the fact your partner loathes me. Because unless he’s got
something up his sleeve, something you guys are holding back, I can’t figure
out why he is overlooking a cyber-stalking line of investigation.”

“We’re not overlooking it.”

They crested the stairs to the
apartment.

“We should have been all over it
from the beginning, Linda.”

Turgeon had to bite her tongue
because she agreed with Wyatt, but respected Sydowski.

“We’re still at the beginning,
Ben. Now you’re investigating for any cyber angle.” Turgeon unlocked the
apartment and pushed the door open. “It’s all yours.”

Wyatt went directly to the
computer, set down his briefcase, and switched on the machine.

“I’ve already poked around on it
a bit,” Turgeon said. “Enough to guess that she spent a lot of time on-line,
has hundreds of bookmarked sites for dating, singles chat groups, matchmakers,
lonely-hearts clubs, advice stuff. You name it.”

“You know the last sites she
visited?”

“Booksellers, I think.”

“Her last e-mails? Sent or
received?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll see what I can find out.”

The keyboard clicked. In seconds
Wyatt was into another realm of Iris Wood’s machine, reading the technical
properties of her system that appeared on her monitor.

Turgeon was impressed but she had
to leave. She told Wyatt that Crime Scene had cleared the apartment, that Leo
had cleared Wyatt to seize Wood’s computer here.

“The landlord’s pretty broken up.
Went to Key West to see his sister. The other tenant’s in Europe. You’re alone
here. We put Jack, her cat, in a shelter until the landlord returns. He may
take him. Call me and Sydowski when you’re done. Okay?”

Wyatt was absorbed in his work.
He did not answer and did not hear Turgeon go.

He fired up his own laptop,
connecting it to another cell phone he had in his briefcase. He removed his
shoulder holster, draping it over the chair, and worked. He scanned Iris Wood’s
specifications, then inserted a specially designed diagnostic disk into her
computer and began a quick series of checks, typing certain data he pulled from
her computer into his laptop.

Soon he had her passwords and
usernames,
IW02
was a favorite for the various on-line clubs she had
joined. Wyatt started working on the sites which Iris had visited most
recently.

Careful to use his police laptop,
he signed on to a number of them and began reading the message boards, studying
their content, tone, trolling for clues about Iris. Wyatt was cautious. Waiting
until he found a site where someone mentioned
IWO2.
A so-called
lonely-heart from San Antonio was asking if anyone had heard from her lately.

Wyatt made a note to watch that
site, then moved on to begin trolling the scores of others, knowing it could be
futile.
What exactly am I looking for?
He didn’t know. Nothing surfaced
that indicated she had been lured to a meeting. It was like looking for a
needle in a haystack without knowing what the needle looked like. And it turned
out that Iris used many sites, varying her user name on each one.
She must
have spent all of her free time on-line.

There were things he could try,
but it was going to take a lot of work and a lot of time. For now, he inserted
another disk, which would take several minutes to do its work. As it softly
hummed and whirred, Wyatt left the computer to explore the apartment,
discerning the desperation of a lonely life, something he had come to know
firsthand.

He recognized it in the longings
of the on-line groups Iris Wood had joined. Hell, he was no different. He had
tried a few himself. Everybody’s looking for somebody. But he could never seem
to find the right person, and spent much of his time staring at the city lights
from his apartment, or watching old Bogart movies, or driving San Francisco’s
streets searching for answers to the shooting. Searching for salvation.
Searching for someone to know the truth. That he didn’t fail his partner. That
he was a good cop. Searching for someone to understand that in a heartbeat
people can face a life-defining moment and must make a decision, and that they
will be judged by that decision.

I made my decision.

The shooter had taken a kid
hostage on the stairs. There was a kid. I saw his eyes. I could not fire.

He longed to tell somebody who
would just listen to the truth. Instead he ended each day as it began, a
prisoner in his empty apartment, living an empty life. Facing nothing with
nothing. Some days it seemed so futile. Maybe he was just tired. They had him
running all over the place chasing nickel-and dime-stuff. Wyatt was standing in
Iris Wood’s bedroom staring at the twinkling city lights. He shoved his hands
in his pockets, suddenly feeling the business card from one of the shops he had
visited near the murder scene.

He retrieved the card, staring at
it. It was from Caselli’s, the little gift shop on Maiden near Union Square.
Manager,
Olivia Grant.
He remembered how she seemed like a nice person. So quick to
help him and smart, punching up Iris Wood on her computerized client list.
Running a name like a cop would, inviting him to stand near her while they
searched. When was the last time he had been
that
close to a woman? Ms.
Grant was not wearing any rings. Kind eyes, a warm smile. Made him feel
comfortable. He turned her card over, to her neatly penned home number. Maybe,
he could call --

A muffled thud sounded from
downstairs.

Wyatt held his breath and pricked
up his ears.

Turgeon said he was alone. He
expected no one.

Another sound. A creak. Drawing
near fast.

The second floor.

Wyatt’s gun was in the living
room, in his holster draped on the chair near the computer. It seemed like such
a long way.

Someone was approaching the
apartment. Wyatt moved to his gun. The door handle was turning.

In a heartbeat.

He reached his gun. The door
opened to Sydowski, glaring at him, eyeing his gun, in his right hand, lowered
next to Wyatt’s leg, barrel pointed at the floor, thumb on the safety.

“Put that away, Wyatt.”

“You could have called, or at
least knocked.”

“Why, so you could bake a cake?”

Wyatt holstered his gun.

“Sit down and listen, Wyatt,
because I don’t wish to be in your company any longer than necessary.”

“I’ll stand.”

“We’re still maintaining cemetery
surveillance. Your next shift is tomorrow morning.”

“But I’m working on her
computer.”

“You want off this case, Wyatt?”

“No. I think you should let me
finish what I am trained to do.”

“Oh, and what’s that?”

“This.” Wyatt indicated the
computers.

“Well, have you found anything,
Inspector?”

“Not yet, I just got started. But
she’s been all over the Web, talking to everybody.”

“Talking to people? Well this
visit was worth my time. That’s why I dropped by. To see a
real cop finding
real evidence.”

“What century are you in, Walt?
What city are you in? Take a look around. You know cyber-stalking is real. You
know on-line murder is real.”

“I know what’s real.” Sydowski
invaded Wyatt’s space.
“The bullet in Reggie Pope is real.”

“That’s what this is all about,
isn’t it? It’s all about me and Reggie. Nothing I do will ever be right by
you.”

“You’re getting warm.”

“You’re letting your emotions
cloud your judgement.  This is dangerous for the case.”

Sydowski stabbed his forefinger
into Wyatt’s chest. “Some things can’t be forgiven.”

Wyatt said nothing.

Sydowski’s face remained tense;
then he left.

Wyatt stood alone in Iris Wood’s
apartment, thinking of nothing, listening to Sydowski descend the stairs, leave
the building, then drive off.

It was late but Wyatt was in no
hurry. No one was waiting for him. His eyes inventoried the living room when he
realized the disk he had inserted into Iris Wood’s computer had completed its
initial check. Wyatt typed a command.

A message appeared on the screen.

Cannot read from drive A:

Christ. What the hell? It was a
new updated disk. This had never happened before. Wyatt tried a few commands.

A is not accessible. The
device is not ready.

He tried something else.

Serious disk error writing to
drive A:

This was not good.

Disk has been formatted.

What the hell?

Somehow, his most powerful disk
had just been destroyed.

Reed entered
the
San Francisco Star
newsroom a little after eleven A.M. The news receptionist spotted him flipping
through a back issue near the front desk.

“Tom, some guy’s been calling for
you every half hour. Wouldn’t go to your voice mail and said your cell phone
was off.”

“It’s charging. He leave a name?”

“No. It sounded urgent. He said
he’ll keep calling.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Reed threaded his way through the
metro news section to his desk with one thought on his mind. Coffee. He felt
the stirrings of a headache from his lack of caffeine. The upside: No sign of
Brader.

Reed’s phone rang as he loosened
his tie, pulled off his jacket, then grabbed the call.

“Tom Reed.”

“I trusted you, asshole.”

“Is this a radio contest?”

“You know who I am?”

“Afraid I need a clue.”

“Slim. As in witness.”

“Slim! Man. I’m sorry. What’s
up?”

“What’s up?
You gave me
up, asshole.”

“Time out there, pal, because I
don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do. You gave me up.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then how come I just spent the
last forty-eight hours as a guest of the SFPD. I’m a dead man thanks to you.”

“I did not give you up. I took
your information to them,
like you wanted.
Sure, they wanted to meet you
but I didn’t give you up.”

Silence.

“So, Slim, tell me what
happened.”

“When we finished in Golden Gate,
I went back to Stern Grove. Replaced the jewels I boosted. Clean. But like the
next day, at the auto-body shop at my day job, two detectives, a pretty woman
and a big mean-mother old guy, show up, take me away quietly. They got paper to
go through my stuff at work at the halfway house. Got their evidence people
going through my stuff. Kept pumping me on what was I doing at Stern Grove at
that time. Told me it was no use lying because they had me and were sending me
back inside if I didn’t cooperate.”

“What did you do?”

“Told them the truth, which is
what I told you. That I saw a cop stop her car.”

“What did they say?”

“Asked me for details, describe
the cop, the car, her, what happened. They kept going over and over exactly
what I saw, repeating details.”

“Did they try to put the murder
on you, say they had you at the bridal shop, anything like that?”

“No.”

“Where are you now?”

“Pay phone around the block from
my job. They let me go and told my boss and my parole officer I was helping
them on a major case, like everything was cool.”

“Then that’s a good thing,” Reed
said, adding, “I never gave you up.”

“Then how did they know?”

“Probably saw you take the jewels
back. They’ve likely been surveilling and canvassing the area where they found
the car. Probably ran a routine check on all area burglaries. Anyway, you’re
okay.”

“How do you figure that?”

“They told your boss you were
helping them with a case. They cut you loose. You’re not a suspect. You’re a
hero.”

“Soon to be dead.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because the killer is still out
there and I saw him.”

“It’s time to write about you. No
one will touch you then.”

“Right, tell that to Lee Harvey
Oswald,” Slim laughed. “I’m just a small-time addict.”

“I got to write about you.”

Slim was silent.

“I did not give you up.”

Slim was thinking.

“Your boss and parole officer
already know you’re helping the police. A news story is insurance for you,
which is why you came to me in the first place.”

“No names, no pictures, no
burglary details. I am just a witness who was there that night, Reed.”

“Deal.”

Slim hung up.

Reed turned to see Brader
standing two feet from him, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, hands on his hips.
He’d been listening.

“Mind telling me what deals
you’re brokering there, superstar?”

Reed swallowed, thinking fast,
head throbbing from lack of coffee.

“Oh, that was just some nut case.
Claims the CIA and some militia groups are behind the bride shop murder.”

Brader stood there, obviously not
buying Reed’s explanation. “Really. Bet it’s funny then.”

“A real knee-slapper.”

“Then let me hear your tape.”

“My tape?” Reed reached for his
recorder. “Sure.” He pushed EJECT, then dropped the machine. “Darn it. Just a
sec.” He bent over, swiftly hooking a finger around the ribbon of tape. “Darn.
I’m all thumbs.” Some two feet of the tape unwound, got tangled and snapped.
“Oh, I am such a dope of a reporter.”

Brader stomped off, hurling an
order over his shoulder. “I’ve got you down today for a news exclusive on the
bride case, Reed. Deliver, or you’re covering the dog show this weekend!”

Reed left the newspaper for the
Hall of Justice.

Sydowski emerged from the homicide
detail. “Let’s grab a coffee, Tom.”

They were alone in the elevator.

“I am going to write a story that
says a witness told investigators on the Wood homicide that he saw an unmarked
police car stop her, then vanish with her.”

“Sounds like a good story.”

Reed was surprised. He had
expected friction.

“We don’t think it was a cop.
Believe me, we have done some deep checking and cannot verify exactly what the
witness saw.”

“Can you place the witness
there?”

“Yes, but we cannot verify what
he says he saw.”

“Someone posing as a cop?”

“It happens, but again, we’ve got
nothing.”

They headed for the cafeteria.

“Are you still investigating his
report?”

“Certainly.”

“Will you release the witness’s
name?”

“Absolutely not.”

Sydowski paid for two coffees and
they sat at an isolated table. Reed loaded his with sugar and cream. “Guess now
that you talked to Slim, my story won’t hurt your case?”

“Depends what you write.”

“How did you grab him?”

Sydowski sipped his coffee. “This
is not to be published.”

“Sure.”

“Because of his drug problems, he
was sloppy with his burglaries near Stern and St. Francis Wood. He was busier
than he led you to believe. Left prints at the house closest to where she was
stopped. He was an easy pick up. We recovered most of the stuff. We’ll talk to the
DA because what he saw is a link. He’s not getting a medal, but we’re sorting
things out.”

“He’s scared to death, convinced
it’s a cop.”

“He’s a drug addict and a thief.”
Sydowski downed the remainder of his coffee. “I got to go.”

Returning to the
Star,
Reed was taking stock of what he knew of the case. A ritualistic murder of a
single downtown office worker who barely existed beyond her little world; a
drug-addicted thief on parole who claimed he witnessed a cop abduct her in the
hours before her death.

A cop?

Ascending the elevator to the
newsroom, Reed thought Sydowski’s reaction to the cop theory was not right. If
they truly thought it was a cop, Walt would be enraged. But someone posing as a
cop? Reed shook his head. What did it matter? A killer was a killer. One thing
Reed was convinced of, this crime was so
choreographed,
that Iris Wood
couldn’t be his first victim.

And if they didn’t catch him, she
wouldn’t be his last.

Stepping off the elevator, Reed
nearly bumped into his wife.

“Ann?”

“Hi. Had a coffee meeting near
here with a client and thought I’d drop in. Can I buy you lunch?”

Reed saw the time on the clock in
the reception area, then studied his wife. Her short chestnut hair was pulled
up into an attractive bun. She was wearing a lilac designer suit, with a
pleated-front skirt, a pearl necklace which worked well with the jacket’s
V-neck. She wore little make-up. She didn’t need it. Her full lips and
sculptured cheeks set off her brown eyes, as she stood before him, gripping her
slim briefcase. He knew that lately they’d had so little time alone together,
that Zach’s sickness was worrying them, especially Ann because her sister had
scores of allergies. Seeing her standing there, so beautiful, knowing that she
was too good for him, made it easy to set his murder story aside for an hour.

“Let’s go.”

She smiled.

They went to a crowded little
trendy place a few blocks away. Ann ordered a salad. Reed found the thing that
passed for a burger platter.

“Tom, I’m worried about Zach.”
Ann produced a small file from her briefcase. “I talked to the allergist,
again. She faxed me some forms and questions this morning.”

“What do they figure it is?”

“They don’t know. He is reacting
to something.” She opened the file, studied it, twisting her wedding rings. “His
diet hasn’t changed. She said it could be anything but is leaning to something
environmental.”

“We renovated the house,
including his room.”

“I told her. She said that it
could be something in the material.”

“Like what?”

“She doesn’t know. She said we have
to find out what’s new in the house. Tom, how do we do that?” Ann handed the
file to him.

“Well, we call the contractors
and get a list of everything they used, from the wood, the material, the paint,
everything. We break it down and provide it to her. Maybe it’s the type of
wood, paint, or something in the flooring.”

A cell phone trilled softly in
Ann’s briefcase and she reached for it. “Sorry,” she blinked at him. “This is
Ann,” she said into the phone.

Reed looked over his son’s
medical file. What was making Zach sick? He spotted the server coming from the
kitchen with their order.

“No, no. That’s too much,” Ann
said to her phone, then after listening, “They are?” The server set their
orders down. “I’ll be right there.” Ann ended her call. “I’m so sorry,” she
said to the young woman serving them, “could you make the salad to go?”

“Not a problem.”

Reed tried to flatten the
two-inch thick slices of bread keeping him from his burger while Ann stood and
pecked his cheek, then tapped the file.

“I’m sorry. I have to run,” she
said. “Crisis with a supplier trying to double an order. Tom, you take the file
and, please, can you call the contractors, and get the material? Please?”

He worked his mouth around his
burger, nodding to her.

When Reed returned to the newsroom,
he set Zach’s file down, listening to Molly Wilson, bracelets chiming as she
typed at her work station next to his.

“Brader’s been looking for you,
cowboy.”

“He can’t seem to function
without poking me with a stick.” Reed was exhausted, pulling off his jacket.

“He wants to be sure you have a
good story today on our bridal shop of horrors.”

“I do. What are you doing?”

“A feature that is sort of a
follow to your big take on Iris Wood. On-line dating, that sort of thing. Keys
off her lonely life and some recent studies about love on-line. A little edge
but not much. How about you?”

“A witness told homicide he saw a
cop in an unmarked car stop Iris Wood near Stern Grove where they found her
abandoned Ford.”

“I like that! That’s hard. All
ours?”

“All ours.”

“Should keep Brader happy.”

“Nothing would keep him happy.
He’s nuts.”

“I almost forgot.” Wilson stood.
“Remember Lou Del Grachi from the
Daily News
in New York?”

“Met him in Montana on that story
in the Rockies. Seemed like a real sharp guy. What about him?”

“Oh, he’s very good. He called
today. Wants to talk to you. So call him.” Wilson’s bracelets clinked as she
flipped through the pages of her notebook, then tore out a page. “Here’s his
direct line.” She glanced at her watch. “He should still be there.”

Reed studied the number. “He say
what it was about?”

“Said there might be a New York
link to our bride-in-the-window murder.”