by Rick Mofina
“I see you’re still eating healthy.” Sydowski sucked air through his teeth then began working a toothpick through them.
“Speaking of health, my job is ailing right now.”
Sydowski’s toothpick work held more interest for him.
“Walt, why didn’t you let me know more after you found her car when I was at the Hall? The Chronicle had it. I got beat up on that. I was right there. You could have extended me the courtesy. After all we’ve been through together.”
“Is that why you’re here, inflicting yourself on me? How many times do I have to tell you, your career is not my concern.” Sydowski made a point of looking at his watch. “Let’s go. You said a witness called you.”
“Got any suspects?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Everybody.”
“Where have you been looking?”
“Reed I don’t have time for this.”
“Walt, how are you making out on the spot where she was stopped?”
“I’m getting very cranky. Get to it.”
Reed’s back was to the entrance of the restaurant. He took stock for any potential eavesdroppers, then lowered his voice.
“I’m going to give you some premium information but I want something in exchange.”
“When do you not want something from me?”
“I want to trade my data for some solid exclusive stuff.”
“How about I put you in an exclusive cell with exclusive meals and an exclusive cellmate to love you exclusively all night long?”
“After all we’ve been through together and this is the respect you show me.”
“I’m very tired.”
“So I have a deal?”
“What you have is a very grumpy old cop. Are you going to get to the point? Because I’m going home to see my birds.”
“Okay, Walt. I got a call from a guy, out of the blue. I met him and he says he knows who killed her.”
“And?”
“Says he was there at the Grove when her Focus was pulled over.”
“And?”
“Says he saw an unmarked police car, the dash cherry spinning, make a stop on her. He says the cop gets out, talks to her, she walks back to his cruiser, he hits her or something, then drives off with her.”
Sydowski’s face did not betray so much as a tick but his gut began churning.
“So, not bad, huh, Walt?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“He tell you this over the phone after it was in the papers?”
“After. But those details are not public.”
“What’s his name?”
“I’m protecting a source.”
“Age? Race?”
“Forget it, Walt.”
“Your guy get a plate number? Make on the car, color. Description of the driver? Hear a unit number over the radio?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Where did you meet this tipster?”
“I’m not ready to give that up yet.”
“Anybody could claim like that. We get them all the time. Some come from the mother ship.”
“I think this guy’s real. I did some checking.”
“Did you now? Can you place him at the location? What was he doing there?”
“Conducting business.”
“What sort of business does he conduct at night? Would the SFPD know this guy?”
“Most likely.”
“So if this guy is genuine, why didn’t he come to us?”
“He’s afraid the cop he saw will come after him, what with him being a witness.”
“And because of his business?”
“I suppose.”
“Let me ask you something, hotshot. Ever dawn on you that the guy who called you might actually be involved and is using you to throw us off? We know that has happened in previous cases, don’t we, Tom?”
“I took precautions.”
“Like what, made him swear he was telling you the truth, raise his fingers in the Boy Scout salute?” Sydowski shook his head. “Tell me why your guy wants this out. What’s his angle?”
“Protection. He’s afraid.”
“Of what?”
“The cop who killed her.”
“The cop who he says killed her. Listen, maybe he’s afraid of getting nailed and calls you to create this mystery cop diversion.”
“But you’re not ruling out that it could be a cop.”
“I never said that.”
“You’re going to sit there and tell me to my face that given information from a witness who saw a law enforcement unit stop the car of Iris May Wood, you’re ruling out a line of investigation that concerns checking with SFPD traffic, unmarked sector cars, patrol and unit logs, with California Highway Patrol, every federal agency in the Bay Area, city, state department and private firms, any department that conceivably could have made a stop there?”
“I never said that.”
“Because one might suspect that you are protecting your own house, there, Walt.”
Sydowski’s eyes narrowed. “You’d be wise to be careful with your words. Did I not tell you off the top that we’re looking at everybody?”
“Fine. We’re on the same page.”
“Then cut the crap. You tell anybody at all about your witness?”
“No.”
“You going to write about it?”
“Just a matter of time.”
“Reed.”
“First, I’d like you to check it out.”
“Hey, I don’t work for you.”
“Then you’ll be checking it out after the Star publishes it, won’t you?”
Sydowski’s eyes lost all warmth as he brought his full size forward, moving his face to within inches of Reed’s. “Are you attempting to exercise influence over a member of the San Francisco Police Department to sway the course of a homicide investigation for your gain and interest?”
Reed shook his head.
“Don’t you ever try to pull that crap with me. Understand?”
“Look, it’s just that the Chronicle scoop on the car hurt me, especially since I was with you at the Hall, and I’m really getting pressured from my new editor.”
“So write a letter to Ann Landers. You’re certain your caller didn’t go to another news department?”
Before meeting with Sydowski, Reed managed to get a phone message to Slim, conveying that he had Slim’s real name and picture to ensure his exclusivity and cooperation. I ain’t going anywhere. My life is in your hands, man. In your hands. Reed had calmed Slim down, telling him that it all reinforced the fact he was telling the truth.
“I am certain my guy won’t go elsewhere.”
“You going to recommend he talk to us, or are we going to have spend more taxpayer money and find him the hard way?”
“I will work on getting him to talk to you.”
“This is what I’ll give you. The company where she worked is having a private funeral for her. I’ll get the few friends she had to talk to you, so you can put out a story and I’ll see if I can get you stuff no one else will have. Meanwhile, you get me this guy, or I will come after you.”
“Done.”
Reed’s food arrived. He looked at his watch.
“Sorry,” he told the man who brought it. “Can you pack it up to go, along with three pieces of that Boston cream pie, over there?”
“How are Ann and Zach doing?”
“Zach is dealing with some kind of allergy and Ann is dealing with me.”
Sydowski shook his head. “God help both of them.”
“How are your birds?”
“Fine.”
“Your old man?”
“Fine.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“You’re food’s ready.”
Reed grabbed his brown take-out bag and waved.
Sydowski nodded a farewell, then ordered a piece of Boston cream pie for himself. Alone again
, he flipped through his notes. The burglaries near Stern Grove on Crestlake would fit, making Reed’s tip very, very plausible. He pulled out his cell phone to call the district and push for more information, then Linda to revisit traffic logs. After finishing the pie, he stepped into the street.
A cop. Jesus.
TWENTY-TWO
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.
TWENTY-THREE
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.”