Blood of Others (3 page)

“Dad?”

Tom Reed was not awake.

“Dad?”

A small hand nudged Reed.

“Dad?”

“I’m sleeping, Zach.”

Reed groaned into his pillow,
head hurting, throat parched. After work last night at the
San Francisco
Star,
he had joined the usual gang for a few. Stayed late because he was
off today and now his ten-year-old boy was shaking him.

“Son, get your mother. Please.”

“Mom went to Los Angeles early
this morning, remember?”

Los Angeles?
A vague
memory of Ann in bed telling him something about an unexpected early meeting
with suppliers as he had wrestled out of his clothes in the dark.
Then she had smelled the beer, rolling to him, voice like ice.
“Tom,
you promised to stop this.”

He had been snoring about then.

Well, at least he was off today.
Pulling his sheets tighter, enjoying the whole bed, hearing Zach wretch in
another room, then return.

“Dad, I don’t feel good. I
puked.”

Reed thought of the mess he’d
have to clean.

“Where?”

“Toilet. Maybe I better see the
doctor.”

“Come here.” Grunting, Reed sat
up, slipped on his glasses. Zach’s eyes were bleary, he was pale, his skin was
blotched with red patches. He was feverish.
Those red patches.
Reed had
never seen anything like that on Zach. Not good. “I’ll call the doctor. Go get
yourself dressed, brush your teeth.”

Who was Zach’s doctor? Shaw?
Crenner?

Think about that later.
He
held his own head. How many beers did he have? The pain. Reed got himself to
the bathroom, swallowed several headache pills, took a hot shower, and
revisited his problem.

Brader. The
Star’s
new
metro editor.

They had first encountered each
other as fiercely competitive young reporters at the Associated Press in San
Francisco. Reed had broken a story about Russian mobsters, had been
short-listed for a Pulitzer, then accepted a job at the
San Francisco Star
as a crime reporter. It had angered Brader, who openly exaggerated his
contribution to Reed’s mob story. The lanky ambitious Texan soon got a job on
the cop beat at the
Chronicle
where he began ascending the management
ladder. Several months ago, to Reed’s horror, Zeke Canter, his beloved editor,
left the
Star
for
USA Today.
He was replaced by Brader, who was
now in a position to bury Reed.

The day after Brader arrived to
start his new job at the
Star,
he summoned Reed into his office, leaned
back in his chair, and clasped his hands behind his head.

“Reed, your file has been shit
for the longest damn time.”

It was true he hadn’t hit many
out of the ballpark recently. “It’s a bit of a slump.”

“I don’t think so.”

Brader was three years older
than Reed, a few inches taller. Married. Two daughters. Thick wavy
salt-and-pepper hair, perfectly groomed. Wore expensive button-down shirts and
silk ties. Liked to wink, show his white teeth, do a lot of shoulder touching
whenever he talked to female staff.

“You’re stale, Reed. I saw
that when I was at the
Chronicle.
You need a change.”

“I like the crime beat.”

“Lifestyles wants to expand
coverage of whatever the hell it is they do. Here,” Brader looked at the
section of that day’s edition, ‘Choosing the right name for your pet’. What do
you think?”

“This a joke?”

“No joke.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Get interested.”

“Why?”

“Unless you show me something
in the next few weeks, you’re going to Lifestyles.”

“What is this?”

“This damn newsroom needs
recharging.”

“All these years and you can’t
let it go. You still got a problem with me, that it?”

Leaning forward, Brader stared
hard at Reed.

“I have a problem with your
damn ego.”

“My
ego?”

Reed made a point of surveying
the wall behind Brader. Covered with full-page reproductions of Brader’s major
stories, awards, and photographs of Brader with celebrities.

“Tom, I know you. I’ve looked
damned hard at your stuff in the past year or so and frankly, you are
overrated.”

“Is that what you thought at
your old rag when I was killing you?”

Brader ignored him.

“These are the facts, Reed.
You are not a
relentless investigative reporter.
You’re a mediocre reporter
with the luck of a jackass. No room for a jackass on a Brader news team,
sorry.”

“Clyde.”

Brader’s face tensed. Reed
knew he hated his first name. “I’m not a threat to you and you know it.”

“Three weeks, Reed. If you
don’t dig up a real damned story by then, you’re going to Lifestyles. Got it?
Now get out.”

Reed was determined to prove
Brader wrong, but his weeks of pumping cops and street contacts were futile,
leaving him to seek sanctuary in war stories at bars with other reporters from
the paper. Coming home drunk or late had become his routine.
Again.

After the Keller nightmare, Reed
had vowed to Ann that he would never return to his
bad ways.
This
morning she let him know that he had and she issued a warning.
“Better THINK
about what you’re doing, Tom. You made promises to us.”
That was how she
ended the note she left him on his mirror about her trip and Zach’s schedule.

He threw on jeans, a T-shirt and
a plaid L.L. Bean he left
un-tucked
and unbuttoned.

Maybe he should quit and finish
his book. Ann’s children’s clothing stores were doing well. They could make it
without his salary. But he couldn’t focus on his book and he would never
surrender to Brader.

Reed searched the kitchen for
Zach’s doctor’s number, ashamed he didn’t even know her name, or the name of
Zach’s teacher. He would have to call the school.

“Zach.” He rifled through
cupboards and drawers. “Where does Mom keep Doctor Cranson’s number?”

“It’s
Crenshaw,
Dad.” Zach
was dressed and produced a small black notebook from a drawer Reed had
searched. Zach’s face was still patched. He had combed his hair neatly. Smiled
up at his dad. Zach loved being with him. Reed punched the number. “Thanks,
son.” The line rang. “Is your teacher in this book? I better call your school.”

“Good morning. Pacific Sun
Medical.”

“No school today, Dad.”

“No school?”

“Hello, Pacific Sun?”

“Sorry. I’m calling for Dr.
Cranson?”

“Who?”

“
Crenshaw,
Dad!”

“Sorry, Dr. Crenshaw. For Zachary
Reed. He’s ten. A patient. I’d like to bring him in.”

Reed heard computer keys clicking.
His head was throbbing.

“Dr. Crenshaw is booked solid
today. In the hospital tomorrow. Next week --”

Ann would kill him if he didn’t
get Zach to his doctor.

“That’s no good. We need to see
the doctor.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Zach’s face is covered with red
blotches, he’s vomited a few times.”

“We’re really booked, Mr. Reed.
Maybe if you kept him in bed?”

“What’s your name?”

“Denise, but --”

“Thanks, Denise. We’re on our
way.”

“Mr. Reed, I told you, we have no
--”

“He’s sick, Denise.”

Annoyed, she sighed. “We might
have an opening if you can get here in less than an hour.”

Thirty minutes later, Denise was
warm to Zach when she led him to an examining room, but cold to Reed when she
entered information into the office computer. The waiting room was crammed with
mothers who were scowling at Reed as he flipped impatiently through dozens of
old
Time, Newsweek,
and children’s magazines, worrying about Zach. On
the drive, his face had improved and he said he felt better. What could it be?
And why were these women so disgusted at him? Reed’s head ached from the
previous night, lack of coffee. His stomach was yowling from skipping
breakfast. He hadn’t shaved.

“Mr. Reed? The doctor will see
you now,” Denise pointed her pen to Zach’s room, where he sat on an examining
table, little sneakers dangling to the floor.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, pal.” The patches had
vanished. He looked great.

“Mr. Reed. I’m Ellen Crenshaw.” A
woman in her mid-thirties, frizzy red hair, beige V-neck top and tan slacks.
She was holding a file folder. “Zach’s fine now, but I suspect --”

Reed’s cell phone rang. In a
reflex he took the call.

“This is Brader. Where are you?”

Reed’s stomach tightened. “On my
day off.”

“Not by my schedule. You’re on
today and you’re late!”

“No, I am not on.”

“I want you to get your damn ass
to Union Square.  The Forever & Ever bridal shop. Photo’s already got
somebody there.”

“I am off today, Clyde.”

The doctor’s mouth opened. “Mr.
Reed, please.”

Reed’s head was shattering. His
stomach roiling. He held up his hand, a plea for patience. Zach looked at his
shoes.

“You are on duty today, Reed.”

“My boy is sick! I am at the
doctor’s office and it’s my day off!”

Crenshaw shut the door. Zach
swayed on his feet.

“You damn well listen to me,
Reed. Get yourself down there now, or get a new job. Forever & Ever. A
homicide. Got it?”

Homicide?

Reed hung up. “I’m sorry, Dr.
Crenshaw.”

She began reading from the file.

Reed’s phone rang again.

“Mr. Reed, please shut your phone
off!”

He’d already taken the call.

“It’s me,” his wife said. “I tried
you at home, where are you?”

“Hi. We had to go out on an
errand, pick up something.”

Crenshaw looked at her watch.

“Ann, my battery’s going we could
get cut off --”

“Put Zach on.”

“Sure.”

He passed the phone.

“It’s Mom.”

“Hi, Mom. I’m good. What did we
have to go out for?”

Reed carefully mouthed the word
milk.
Crenshaw stared at him like he were insane.

“Milk. For my cereal. Guess the
milk we had turned sour. Oh. The phone’s beeping, Mom. Here’s Dad. I love you!”

Reed took the phone. He was
getting another call. “Ann? Yeah, it’s the battery or something. When are you
coming back?”

“Could be tonight. Tomorrow at
the latest. We had plenty of fresh milk, Tom. Bye.”

Reed took the incoming call.

“Hey Reed. It’s Kayle. I’m down
at this bride shop murder. When do you plan to get here?”

“Soon Kayle, I --”

The cell phone was pulled from
Reed’s hand as Crenshaw took it hostage in hers, closed it to write on a pad.

“Zachary’s had a reaction to
something. It could be an allergy due to diet or environment. I want him to see
a specialist. Here’s my referral to set up an appointment. Have Ann call me.
You guys can go.”

Crenshaw tore her written page
from her pad, thrust it in Reed’s hand with his phone, then vanished.

Reed looked at the note, then at
Zach, as he folded the page and tucked it into his breast pocket.

“How do you feel now, son?”

“Fine, Dad.”

“I was thinking we could make
today a sort of job-shadow day. How’s that sound?”

“Cool.”

They picked up breakfast at a
McDonalds drive-thru, ate on the ride to Union Square as Reed navigated the
quickest route from the Sunset.

Zach’s eyes widened at the scene
downtown, a tangle of police cars, news crews, and lights. Reed flashed his
press ID to a cop who nodded approval for him to park near his squad car.

“You stay with me. You do what I
say. If you feel sick, let me know.”

Zach nodded. Excited.

“Dad, is that Sky Parker from
KTO?”

“Yes.” Reed sipped coffee as they
walked to the news trucks near Forever & Ever, where a pack had gathered.
Cameras and groggy-looking press types sipping take-out coffee bordered the
yellow crime-scene tape, joking quietly with officers, teasing them about
lifting the tarp blocking the shop’s display window.

“Five seconds. We won’t tell.
Please.”

A blond-haired woman in her
mid-twenties wearing a navy suit and impeccable make-up approached Reed.

“Tom. It’s been a long time,” Sky
Parker had a honey-dripping broadcaster’s voice and huge violet eyes. “Who’s
your little friend?”

“Zach, my son.”

Parker’s brow knitted with
concern. “Tom, I don’t think this is --”

“Long story, Sky. Long, painful
story. What’s up here?”

Parker dropped her voice,
practically whispering in Reed’s ear.