Blood of Others

by Rick Mofina

  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.”

  TWELVE

  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 jaw
s 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.”

  THIRTEEN

  The Forever & Ever bridal shop remained shrouded by the huge canvas. Yellow police tape still protected the scene. More flowers had accumulated on the sidewalk in front of the boutique where Olivia had placed the first one. Her white rose.

  Theories and rumors swirled over the crime during the lunchtime rush at Caselli’s. It was a cult thing, it was an ex-boyfriend, an ex-girlfriend, a crime of fashion, mob, drugs, psycho. Nothing made sense, Olivia thought, after staring at Iris Wood’s picture in the Chronicle all morning.

  The insurance company where she had worked was a few blocks away. Had Iris Wood ever shopped at Caselli’s? Had anyone ever purchased a gift for her here? She had been thirty-two years old. They were almost the same age. She had lived alone. Olivia stared at her face, feeling the stirrings of kinship with Iris Wood. In some mysterious way she had rescued Olivia, her tragic death fuelling her determination to ensure that her life mattered by holding Olivia to the promise she had made to herself on the bridge.

  The lunch-hour traffic subsided and Olivia worked quickly on the next day’s e-mail orders, then ate her lunch in the store. A fresh salad with French dressing and some fruit. She flipped through the new magazines she picked up on her way to work and scanned articles on FINDING LOVE ON-LINE, a fun item on TEN WAYS TO OVERCOME SHYNESS, an edgy one called, SEX, LIES AND CYBERSPACE, and one SURFING FOR SINGLES. Olivia chuckled through most of them. Common sense was the common thread.

  In the store’s back room, Olivia started the kettle for tea, catching herself in the mirror, her neat slacks, print top. She studied her hair, her face.

  “Brave enough to try a little tune-up?”

  Olivia picked up the phone, called her hairdresser, and booked an appointment before she could change her mind.

  “Here I go,” she said to no one, making tea and sitting before the store computer.

  That morning at home, Olivia visited several on-line dating sites. She had posted a humorous plea for advice for shy girls trying to meet decent guys.

  What’s the best approach?

  She had checked her Internet e-mail for responses.

  The first one had said: Hey, livinsf, just be yourself. If a guy cannot accept you for who you are, he’s not for you.

  Next: You out there in San Francisco, that is pretty wicked about that bride murder. Saw i
t on CNN and the Chronicle Web site.

  Olivia responded: It’s very sad. I walk by that shop every day to the place where I work.

  Next came a new message from the person who earlier had asked Olivia what exactly she looked for in a man. Olivia had responded that she had looked for honesty.

  Then there had been a new question for her: Dear livinsf: Honesty. That’s good. I like that. Now help me with this: If you found the right man for you, could you forgive any sins in his past life?

  FOURTEEN

  Iris Wood’s landlord was sitting in a creaking wicker rocker on the front porch when Sydowski and Turgeon arrived. His face was ashen; Iris’s cat was rubbing against his leg.

  “How are you holding up?” Sydowski said.

  The landlord shrugged.

  “The people from Crime Scene are wrapping up, so Linda and I are going to spend some time alone in her apartment to look for anything that might help us.”

  The landlord collected Jack the cat into his arms. “I just don’t understand,” he said. “She was such a good person. Wouldn’t harm a soul. Lived here for three years. Always smiled, always said hello.” His eyes glistened. Turgeon placed a hand on his shoulder. “I read the papers, watched the news. What sort of depraved person could do such a thing?” He stared at both detectives for a moment, his thin moustache quivering. “Do you think she suffered?”

  Turgeon and Sydowski exchanged glances.

  “We have lots of questions too,” Sydowski said; then he and Turgeon headed up the stairs to the apartment. Iris Wood’s cat leapt from the landlord’s arms and followed them.

  Sydowski signed the receipt sheet for the apartment key as the last members of the weary crime scene team departed.

  For a long silent moment, Sydowski and Turgeon stood in the center of the large living room and scanned it as Jack padded off. The walls were the color of a tropical bay with pearl trim moldings. The oak floors gleamed from the sunlight splashing through the customized wall-to-ceiling window facing the north. It offered a sliver view of the Golden Gate. Sydowski detected the fragrant hint of mandarin oranges.