Blood of Others (7 page)

The first meeting
on the investigation into
the homicide of Iris May Wood was in an empty admin room on the fourth floor of
the Hall of Justice.

By 7:30 A.M. it was filled with
the heavy scent of cologne, the squeak of swivel chairs, and the smell of
something suggesting coffee brewing in the anteroom as the dozen or so mostly
male detectives and supervisors shuffled in. They slapped down notebooks, file
folders, the morning editions of the Bay Area papers, draped jackets over their
chairs, rolled up their sleeves, and bitched about police politics, overtime,
support payments, ex-spouses and San Francisco’s performance in pro sports.

Ben Wyatt arrived. With
recognition, smiles faded, eyes strayed from conversations, catching his
shoulder holster, his crisp shirt, knotted tie. Primed to work. He sat, opened
his file to the two-page summary of the case, and began reading.

In no time at all, a large
detective from Narcotics, huge chest straining his pin-striped shirt, glanced
at the others, then at Wyatt, saying from behind his handlebar moustache, “That
really
you, Benjamin?” It was not a greeting but rather an alert to the
group of his presence.
“It is you.
Ben Wyatt. Where the hell they been
hiding you?”

Wyatt kept his face in his file.
“Here and there.”

“Complete your video-game therapy
there, all-star?”

Wyatt chewed on the remark.
Sydowski entered, stopping in his tracks, his attention shooting to Wyatt.
Conversations ended. A few chairs creaked as the room tensed. The coffee
machine in the anteroom hissed.

“You’re Ben Wyatt?”

Wyatt looked at him.

“Reggie Pope’s
former
partner?”

Wyatt nodded.

“Why are you here?”

“I’ve just been detailed. My
lieutenant assigned me last night.”

“That so?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this is my case and nobody
told me.” The gold in Sydowski’s teeth glinted. “Let me ask you something,
Wyatt.” Sydowski removed his jacket slowly. “How’s your partner doing? You see
him lately? You keep in touch?”

Wyatt stared at his file. “Look,
nobody understands.”

“I understand, Wyatt. I think we
all understand.”

“Walt,” Sydowski’s boss, Leo
Gonzales, stepped from the coffee room, gripping a full pot. “Got some fresh coffee
here. I’d like to pour you some.”

Sydowski burned a departing stare
into Wyatt before stepping into the anteroom. Gonzales reconsidered, then took
Sydowski into the hallway, closing the door behind them.

“I want him out, Leo.”

“Not going to happen.”

“That guy is not a cop. He’s a
waste of skin.”

“Walt. It’s out of our hands. He
is assigned to this investigation. Period.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this last
night?”

“You needed your sleep.”

Sydowski unbuttoned his collar,
loosened his tie, and stretched his neck muscles.

“Leo, I saw Reggie the other day
for the first time in a long time. Christ, he was rooting through trash on the
street outside of Nick’s. You wouldn’t even recognize him. He’s a ghost. And
all because that guy in there, with his nice shirt and tie, and new holster,
did not have the guts to back him up.”

“Keep it down and take it easy,
will you?”

“I lost touch with Reggie myself.
He’s fallen through the cracks, Leo. We’ve got to do something for him.”

“All right. We can look into
that. I’ll talk to some people, but right now you lock on to this case.
Totally.”

“I want Wyatt out.”

“No. He’s on the team and you’re
going to have to deal with that. Frankly, I expected a higher caliber of
professionalism from you, Walt.”

Sydowski shook his head, stared
at his feet and cursed.

“Fine, Leo. He does what I tell
him to do.”

“You’re the primary. It’s your
show.”

“He gets periphery, superficial
stuff and he works alone. The less I see of him the better.”

Gonzales nodded, removed his
cigar, jabbing it at Sydowski. “And you focus on clearing this thing. Did you
even look at this morning’s papers? Front page. BRIDAL SHOP HORROR. They are
already chewing on my butt upstairs because they’re catching heat on this from
City Hall and the commission.” His eyes bored into Sydowski. “Walt, we’ve got
to clear this case. Got that?”

Sydowski popped a Tums into his
mouth then led the meeting, dissecting the investigation, assigning teams to
examine its key aspects by retracing the final steps of Iris May Wood’s life. They
would go to her office, her neighborhood, they would canvas where her car was
found, talk to her astronomy class, and campus security. They would go to the
bridal shop and question everyone who had anything to do with that store, or
with the woman whose gown was used. They would double-check patrol unit logs
and complaints for the key area, taxis, security people, everything.

“Somebody out there saw
something,” Sydowski said.

They had her apartment, phone
records, her computer. Crime Scene still had the bridal store and they were
awaiting results on the search of trash bins near the boutique. So far, no
weapon, no trace, no latents, nothing. It was abnormally clean.

“She got family, Walt?”

“None that we know of so far.”

Then there were the other
intriguing pieces, like making her cat and the animal shelter beneficiaries.
They would interview shelter people, run background. And how the security
cameras in the bridal boutique failed to record anything. The same for the
exterior cameras of other businesses in the area.

“This was too ritualistic, too
organized to be a random, impulse thing. It may be fantasy-driven, could be he
knew her or knew her
type.
I mean it appears she lived a quiet life
alone with her cat. She may have been
selected.
She could also be a
message, signifying something he hates or fears. Maybe he was somehow wronged.
Whatever he is, I’ll bet my pension he’s going to do it again.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because we haven’t caught him
yet.”

Reed’s story
was the line, running six columns
under the
San Francisco Star’s
flag over a large color photo of canvas
covering the corpse in the display window of Forever & Ever. The secondary
art showed a model in a Veronica Chan wedding gown, taken from a feature the
Star
did on Forever.

Reed shoved his cereal aside. His
stomach heaved as he compared his work to his competition. The
Chronicle
had killed him, victory staring back at him from a color head-and-shoulders
photo of Iris May Wood,
confirmed by sources
to be the victim found in
the Union Square bridal boutique. Reed’s story failed to ID the victim.

Reed switched on the TV set on
the new kitchen counter and surfed through local morning news shows. All quoted
the
Chronicle,
flashing Iris Wood’s picture. He had been beaten. Why did
he not trust his gut? He
had
a lead on her name late last night and a
tip that she worked downtown at an insurance company. He couldn’t get anyone to
confirm it at deadline. Who confirmed it for the
Chronicle?
Reed
devoured their story. It confirmed that Wood worked at American Eagle Federated
Insurance. Reed forgot to follow through on the abandoned car, check for dealer
stickers, club or association decals, an employee parking sticker. Run down the
tag.

“Damn!” He slammed his palm on
the breakfast table. He didn’t need this now.

“Tom. What’s going on out there?”
Ann called from the bathroom where she had spent much of the morning with Zach,
who was sick again.

“Nothing.”

Reed heard Ann start the shower.
In a few minutes she would emerge to begin the inquisition.

He had picked up Zach last night
in Berkeley after filing his story at the paper. By the time Ann had arrived
home from Los Angeles later that night, Reed and Zach were asleep.

Zach had woken early, vomiting
again. Ann went to him. He didn’t sound too bad. Eventually, Reed rolled out of
bed and headed to the door to get the newspapers. Now, sitting at the kitchen
table, staring at them and snatches of the TV news, he heard Sydowski’s advice
ringing in his ears.
“Stay with this one.”

He knew he would pay a price for
failing to identify Iris Wood. But something far more significant loomed. Reed
sensed this murder was just a knothole glimpse into something colossal,
something terrible. He could almost smell it. But that didn’t matter now with
his wife standing before him, silk blouse, hands on hips, gorgeous eyes filled
with righteous anger.

“So when were you going to reveal
to me that you took Zachary to the doctor, Tom?”

“Today. Good morning, dear. How
was Los Angeles?”

Ann got a grapefruit and kiwi
from the refrigerator. Slammed the door. Poured coffee. Stood at the counter.
Glared at the muted TV news. Shook her head while slicing into her grapefruit.

“Let’s see if I’ve got it right,
Tom.” Juice-dripping blade pointed at him. “Zach is sick. You take him to the
doctor. Give me some line about milk.”

“I bought milk yesterday and
drank it.”

“You dump him on my mother so you
can go to work on your day off. Have I got it?”

“The doctor said he was fine but
wants him to see an allergist. I got called out to a story and your mother was
happy to have Zach for the day. Cripes, Ann, you act like I sold him to crack
dealers.”

“I am worried about him. He’s
sick with something and you don’t seem to care.”

“I rushed him to the doctor
yesterday. She said he was fine and he
was
fine. Call your mother. Ask
her. Once we left our house he seemed to be okay.”

“When is he supposed to see the
allergist?”

“I’m not sure. Dr. Cranson wanted
you to call her, I think.

“Crenshaw. Doctor Crenshaw.”
Ann carved hard into her fruit. “Weren’t you supposed to be off yesterday?
That’s why I went to L.A.”

“Brader called me. Demanded I
come in. He was going to fire me if I refused.”

Ann bit into her fruit, chewing.

“Just quit. Quit, Tom, and write
your books. We can swing it from the stores.”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. Admit it. You’re
addicted to it. It’s like a drug for you. You can’t see how it’s messing with
your priorities. It always has.”

“Hey, don’t worry, baby. I’ve got
my priorities in order.” Reed lifted his mug to sip coffee. A blue slip of
paper was stuck to the bottom of it.

“What is that?” Ann rushed over,
snapped it. “This is Zach’s appointment with the allergist!
Tom, it’s this
morning!”

Neither of them noticed Zach,
wearing sneakers, a faded red 49ers T-shirt, white chinos, hands in his
pockets. He was a little pale, a few morning cowlicks, but looked fine. He was
behind the counter staring at the muted TV news.

“Can I go to school today, Mom?”

Ann was reading the note; then
her watch, calculating the time she needed.

“How you doing, pal?” Reed said.

“Okay. I’m really hungry.” Zach
pointed at the news. “Dad, is that the murdered woman from the bridal shop?”

Ann’s attention shot between Reed
and Zach. “How does he know
that?”
She switched the set off, seized the
Chronicle
from Reed, speeding through the article. “It was on the radio news in the taxi
last night. It’s horrible.” She saw the
Star
and her husband’s byline.
“This
was the story you got called on?”

“Oh yeah, Mom. She was mutilated
or something. Did dad tell you? He talked to a guy who found her.”

“Tom, how does he know this?”

“Well, Ann you see --”

“Dad took me to the scene. It was
so cool.”

“You took him to a homicide! This
homicide! She thrust the
Chronicle
in Reed’s face.

“Well, it was on the way to
Berkeley --”

The phone began ringing. Zach got
it.

“How could you!” Ann threw the
papers at him. “After all he’s been through. All we’ve been through!”

“Ann. It was not like --”

“Dad. It’s for you.”

“Tom, I cannot believe this.
Zach, come on. We’ve got to get going.”

“Dad? Phone?”

Reed took the call.

“This is Brader. I want you to
get your ass in the newsroom now!”

Reed muttered.

“What’s that, Reed? You’re quitting?”

“I said I’m coming,
Clyde,
don’t wet your pants.”

Iris Wood stared at Reed from the
crumpled front page.

Stay with this one.

The
San Francisco Star’s
building was downtown at the edge of the Financial District. Reed stepped off
the elevator into the newsroom, expecting to be fired before he reached his
desk.

In Metro, many reporters and
editors were settling into their cubicles or working at their computers. Phones
trilled, keyboards clicked, and conversations, muted radio scanners, TV
newscasts from sets on overhead shelves and the smell of coffee, filled the
air. Brader’s glassed-walled office was empty but the jaws of his briefcase
yawned on his office table.

He was around.

Reed yanked off his jacket,
placed it on the hook at his cubicle, and loosened his tie. He surveyed
yesterday’s chaos on his desk; it looked like an explosion at a paper recycling
plant. The red message light on his phone was blinking. His computer indicated
he had twenty unanswered e-mails. Reed removed his glasses and ran a hand
across his face. His phone jangled and he grabbed it.

“Get in here!” Brader said.

The fronts of the
Star
and
Chronicle
were open on the table in Brader’s office.

“Confirms what I’ve known about
you, Reed. You are overrated.” Every hair of Brader’s impressive silvery white
wavy cut was in place. Scarlet silk tie expertly knotted, sleeves of his
cream-colored button-down shirt rolled with surgical precision.

Here it comes,
Reed
thought, searching the desk for his termination papers. The guy who started in
the business next to him was about to kill his career.

“Reed, you have rendered the
San
Francisco Star
irrelevant as a news provider. This was, and is,
the
story,
and we dropped the ball, because of you.”

“Gosh, Clyde, if you thought it
was
the story,
why did you only assign one reporter to it? But that
could not have anything to do with you, seeing how you are the person paid to
make that decision. The person who called me at my home on my day off and
threatened me with my job?”

Brader invaded Reed’s personal
space. “Shut the hell up and listen to me.”

“You’re making another decision?”

“I am giving you one final chance
to make sure the
Star
claims ownership of this story and you keep your
job. One chance, Reed.”

“What’s that?”

“I want you all over this story
and I want you to profile Iris Wood. Give us an in-depth feature, with
exclusive revelations.
Exclusive.
Tell this city who this woman was, the
life she lived and how she ended in a wedding gown carved up on display in a
San Francisco bridal shop. I want dark poetry, Reed. Sixty exclusive inches for
the weekend. Fail and you’re gone. Now get out.”

Reed deposited himself before his
terminal and began opening and discarding e-mail, much of it garbage. The
chinking of Molly Wilson’s bracelets sounded her presence at the neighboring
cubicle.

“Reed?”

“Leave a message.”

“Reed,” Wilson stood, swung her
bag over her shoulder, grabbed his arm. “Get your stuff, I’m buying you a
coffee. Across the street. Now.”

Wilson was the favorite Bay Area
reporter in most cop circles. She could out-write, out-report and out-drink
most hacks. The FBI called Wilson “eye-candy.” The SFPD TAC commander requested
through the chief’s office that she not be visible at tense standoffs after she
momentarily distracted a sniper at a hostage-taking.

At the coffee shop Wilson told
Reed what had happened on the story.

“When it broke, I wanted to rush
down, but Brader kept me back. He said you had called in to say you happened to
be right there. We thought you had it under control.”

Reed shook his head, as Wilson
told him how that morning one of the
Star’s
senior editors tore a strip
off of Brader for not assigning enough people to the bride murder.

“I overheard them this morning
near the news library. Brader said it was time to ship you out of Metro. Violet
shut him down and demanded to know who made the call to understaff the story.
Violet’s calling this one now, Tom. She was the one who wanted you on the
feature.”

“Explains why Brader pulled his
punches. I thought he was going to can me. And I thought he sounded like Violet
when he’s telling me to deliver ‘dark poetry.’ ” Reed swallowed some coffee.
“What about you?”

“I’m on it too.”

“Fine, we can cover more ground
that way. I should get going on learning about Iris.”

“Tom.” There was an important
question in Wilson’s coffee and she stared at it waiting for it to surface.
“You and Brader go back to your days at the AP. What kind of guy is he?”

“Why?”

“I haven’t breathed a word of
this to anyone. You have to keep this just between us. Promise?”

“I swear.”

“Remember Zeke Canter’s send-off
party?”

“Sure. Big drunk. Everyone
thought it strange how Brader was there, slithering around.”

“Brader’s still married, right?”

“Yes. Got kids, the whole thing.”

“Well he made a pass at me. In
fact, kept making them all night and he was not that drunk. I don’t think he
was drunk. At one point, he pins me alone in a corner, advises me to hitch
myself to his star because he guarantees that he will have Violet’s job inside
of a year.”

“He’s a vampire, Wilson. Benson
was a stooge, this guy’s the prince of darkness. A cold, calculating,
manipulating --”

Reed’s cell phone rang. “Yeah.”

“This Tom Reed whose name is on
today’s column about that murdered woman?”

“Yes. Who’s calling, please?”

“Never mind that now. Do you deal
and protect sources?”

“Been known to happen.”

Reed heard nothing. “Hello…”

Silence. He raised his eyebrows
to Wilson, then hung up.

“Strange call.”

“What about?”

“Sources and the case.”

Reed’s phone rang again. It was
the same caller. “What’s going on there?”

“Had to switch phones, Reed. To
protect myself.”

“From what?”

“The truth.”

“The truth about what?”

“I know who killed that woman.”