Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  Reed swallowed hard.

  “That’s not true,” Ann lied.

  “Is that what you think too, Zach?” Reed said.

  Zach shrugged and met his father’s gaze. With his mother’s eyes, flawless skin, he emanated innocence. “I told them my dad found the guy who killed the little girl and the police didn’t like it. I told them I am going to be a reporter, too.”

  Reed was awed by his son. After all he had put him through, his love survived. Unyielding. Unconditional.

  “You still got to put in more time at being a kid.”

  “Know what else they say?”

  “What else?” Ann asked.

  “They say that when your folks split and move out, they never get back together. No matter what they tell you, it never happens.”

  “Son, look. I know it’s tough,” Reed said. “But you can’t put much stock in what kids say. Listen to your heart. We want to move back together, that’s why we’re talking about it. And that’s better than not talking about it, right?”

  “I guess.” Zach looked at them. “But someone’s in our house.”

  Ann touched Zach’s hand. “A nice businessman from Tulsa and his wife. They are only renting. It’s still our house.”

  Zach looked at his father. “Dad, is there another killer out there killing little kids?”

  A curve ball.

  “Nobody knows, but the chance of it happening to you is like being hit by a golf ball. That’s why it’s such a big deal. Know anybody who’s been hit by a golf ball?”

  “No.” Zach giggled.

  Ann smiled. “Didn’t you have something else you wanted to ask?”

  “About the Kitty Hawk?” Zach wanted a model of the carrier.

  “No, the other thing.”

  “Oh, yeah. Dad, can I sit at your computer.”

  “Sure, come with me.”

  “All right!”

  Bending over his terminal, Reed typed a quick command on his keyboard, clearing his screen. Zach plopped into his father’s chair and watched.

  “Yo, yo, handsome.” Molly Wilson glided around the cubicle and crouched beside Zach. “Haven’t seen you in awhile. You’re getting to be a big guy. How’s school?”

  “Okay.” Zach liked Wilson. She smelled good.

  “Molly, Zach wants to hack around on the machine,” Reed said. “Could you please watch him so he doesn’t crash the newsroom?”

  “That’s a pretty big assignment, but I think I can handle it, Dad.” She offered her perfect-teeth smile, then stood and, while glancing toward Ann alone in the interview room, whispered, “You’re looking dominated, Tom.”

  How dare she say that with his son present? She loved to rile him, loved to tease. “I’m going to the FBI in a few minutes,” she said.

  “We’ll be done before then. Behave yourself and have fun, son.”

  “Okay.”

  Wilson bent over Zach, her nails clicking on the computer keyboard. “Want to surf the Internet?”

  Reed returned to Ann, shutting the door behind him.

  “Molly’s very pretty.”

  “She’s a flirt, Ann. And I’m a married man.”

  “You’ve lost weight.”

  “Well, wallowing in self-pity has its benefits.”

  “How’s work going here?”

  “I’m getting by, but they’ve got me on a short leash these days. How’s the business?”

  “We’re getting more orders. My loan is almost paid off. I think I’m going to have to hire another part-time clerk.”

  “I brag about you to the people here who’ll still talk to me.”

  Ann blushed a little. “Why?”

  “I don’t know, it’s something I should have told you. I just...I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, Ann.”

  “Have you?”

  “I realize what a jerk I’ve been. I was wrong about a lot of things. I can’t explain it, but I know I’m not the same guy.”

  “How do I know that, Tom?”

  “You don’t.” Reed stared at his hands, debating with himself as he twisted his gold wedding band. Ann still wore her diamond.

  “I took a walk at the Golden Gate one night, a few weeks after you left. Let me tell you, when you’re on the threshold of losing everything, when your feet are dangling over the abyss, life’s priorities become clear.”

  “You were going to kill yourself if we didn’t get back together, is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  “No. I was speaking metaphorically.”

  “Were you?”

  “I am not that much of a coward. I am telling you that you did the right thing, forcing me to live alone with the bad guy. Now, I...I want to, I am hoping we can try again.”

  She regarded him for a long time. “I don’t know if I should believe you.” She pressed her hands flat on the table.

  “You damn near destroyed me. The way you treated us. It was as if we were nothing to you, like this place was the universe and you were its self-righteous, self-centered king. Never wrong. I loathed you for it. I am so confused and scared. You’re telling me things, but it could be your self-pity talking. Are you still drinking?”

  “Alone in my room at night. It fills the void, helps me sleep.”

  She wanted to believe him, he could read it in her eyes.

  “We can’t go on like it was before. I refuse to accept you back if nothing’s changed.”

  “I’ve never stopped loving you. And this job”--Reed nodded at the newsroom--“it’s no longer my life.”

  Ann said nothing.

  “I’ve given a lot of thought to something you wanted me to do.”

  “I’ve wanted you to do a lot of things.”

  “I’ve been thinking that maybe I would take a leave from the paper, stay home and work on a novel.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yes.”

  They watched Zach playing on the computer.

  “He misses you,” she said.

  “I miss both of you.”

  Reed looked at his wife.

  “I have to think, Tom. I have to think about everything.”

  Reed squeezed her hand and nodded.

  SIXTEEN

  Dr. Kate Martin sat in the reception area of The San Francisco Star, twisting her briefcase strap. She looked at her watch again.

  Relax. Relax. Relax.

  She expected to see Mandy Carmel, the Star’s top feature writer. Her articles on SIDS babies and Bay Area children with AIDS were so well written, so compassionate.

  Still, waiting here, it was difficult to put herself at ease.

  Twice before coming she had picked up the phone to cancel. She didn’t do it. Despite all the risks, her blatant violation of university policy and the potential harm a story could have on the volunteers, she was determined to see this through. She had tried in vain to find the funding needed to extend her research. The university, thanks to Levine, had rejected her. The state denied grant money. Corporations politely refused her. And national victims’ support and lobby groups, which applauded her work, were cash strapped. Press attention was her last hope.

  A sensitive article by Mandy Carmel would either save the program or bury it.

  She took in the crisp current edition of the Star on the table before her. The latest on the kidnapping screamed from the front page: WHERE IS DANNY? She thought of his parents, of his abduction, and the questions it raised about Tanita’s murder. It underscored how imperative her research was. She had to do this.

  “Dr. Martin?”

  She looked up. “Yes?”

  “Tom Reed.” He held out his hand to greet her as she stood.

  Tom Reed!

  She recognized him from the face-slapping footage which TV news stations had recently replayed. Her skin prickled with apprehension.

  He was about six feet. His khaki pants, pinstripe, button-down shirt, and tie complimented his medium, firm-looking build. Mid-thirties. His tan set off his smile. His short brown hair w
as a little unruly. Behind wire-rimmed glasses were intense, blue eyes.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “I assumed I was to meet with Mandy Carmel?”

  “Mandy’s been on a leave to Europe and won’t be back for six weeks. Your letter was passed to me.”

  “To you? But why? I thought--”

  “We can talk in there.” He nodded to the boardroom nearby.

  The room barely contained the mammoth table and leather executive chairs. The walls featured the Star’s three Pulitzers and framed news pictures. The earthquakes, the Oakland Hills firestorm. A mother giving birth. A weeping cop cradling his dead partner.

  Reed slapped his notebook on the table. Martin declined coffee.

  “Be blunt, Doctor. You’re upset that I’ve been assigned to this?”

  “To be blunt, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Your part in the Donner case and the suicide concerns me. An article about my research might be best suited for a reporter accustomed to handling sensitive issues. It involves parents who’ve lost children tragically. You’re just a crime reporter.”

  “Just a crime reporter? Sensitivity is a quality alien to people like me, is that what you mean?”

  “No, I mean, I--” This was not going well. “I think I’ve made a mistake coming here.” She stood to leave.

  “Your work deals with victims of tragedy, its survivors. Right?”

  “It’s somewhat more complex than that, but yes.”

  “I deal with victims, too, and probably in greater numbers than you’ve ever experienced. So I resent having to prove to you that I am qualified to write about your work.”

  “I am protective of the sensitive nature of my research.”

  “But the bottom line here, Doctor, is you want to manipulate us.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Set aside your work. You need us to keep your program afloat. That’s why you’re here. It’s obvious from your letter. It dictates the type of story you want us to write, in accordance to the conditions you’ve listed.” He withdrew the letter from his breast pocket, unfolded it, and read: “You may interview only the subjects I’ve selected and I have editorial approval.” Reed stared at her. “What do you think this is, the church bulletin?”

  Martin closed her eyes. Leave. Leave now, she told herself.

  “I don’t know who in the business you’ve dealt with before, but it just does not work this way.” He let her letter fall on the table.

  “And just how does it work, Mr. Reed?”

  “If we do a story, we’re going to examine your group and your research, not promote it. You say your work is valid. How do we know that? You could be with a corporation poised to establish such programs in a chain of clinics and are looking for a story as a source of advertising. That happens. You could simply be seeking personal glory in your field. We don’t know. You came to us.”

  “I resent what you’re implying. You don’t know me or my work.”

  “And you don’t know me, or mine. You send us a blueprint of what you want and glide in here on a cloud of academic arrogance. You see me and your jaw drops like you’ve stepped in something disgusting.”

  This was a disaster. Martin sat down and considered cancelling everything. She had handled this poorly. The program was doomed no matter what she did. She cupped her chin in one hand, studied the dramatic news pictures, then Reed. He had a dangerous, exciting air. Judging by his passion, he was likely as committed to his work as she was to hers. She drummed her fingers against her cheek. “Perhaps I’ve become too comfortable in the ivory towers of academe, Tom.”

  He chuckled. “If we had a couch in here...” Reed scanned the room.

  “Yes?”

  “I’d tell you my miserable problems. The last few weeks have been tough ones for me, Doctor.”

  “Kate. Call me Kate. How about that coffee?”

  “Then we’ll rewind the tape and take it from the top?”

  “Agreed.”

  Reed returned to the room with coffee in two ceramic mugs bearing the Star’s logo. “Today was supposed to be my day off,” he said. “I apologize for being so hard on you.”

  She sipped, waving away his apology. “I’m the one who should apologize.”

  “I checked you out with our education reporter. I read your biographical notes in the university directory. You’re well respected in your field and certainly didn’t deserve the grilling I gave you. Your letter hit a nerve. Being suspicious comes automatically.”

  She gave him another appraisal. Maybe he wasn’t such a self-important jerk after all.

  “I want to do a story about your work. I’m just not sure what shape it will take. Tell me about it.”

  Martin explained her bereavement research, what the group was, how it functioned, and how her study differed from others in the observations she was able to make.

  Reed asked questions and made notes.

  “I’m wondering, why did you choose this field, psychiatry?”

  She tugged at the cuffs of her blazer. “That’s something I’d prefer not to discuss, if you don’t mind. It’s personal.”

  “I see.”

  “The real inspiration for the study came when I was asked to help the two girls who found Tanita Marie Donner last year.”

  “That was you?”

  “Yes. It was then that I asked police if any help had been offered to Tanita’s mother. I began seeing her and the idea for the group and the research was born.”

  “What about Angela Donner? What’s happened to her?”

  “She’s a participant in the group.”

  “Really?”

  Martin nodded.

  “Your letter says fourteen volunteers participate in sessions.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are they aware of your coming to us for a story?”

  “Yes. Most of them support it.”

  “Tell me something about the deaths of the children here.”

  Martin removed a file from her briefcase and began recounting fourteen tragedies. In some instances, the children had been killed in front of relatives, or died in their parents’ arms, or their bodies had been discovered by them. When she was finished, Reed was engrossed.

  “I’d like to sit in on the next session and profile some the parents. The program is about them. Their stories would convey the importance of your work and its impact on their tragedies.”

  “I’ll start making calls tonight,” Martin said, passing Reed a page with the time and place of the next session. “Going directly to press, as I am doing, is a violation of the department’s policy. I’ve put my job at the university on the line.”

  Reed’s eyebrows shot up.

  “This program is invaluable and I’m determined to save it. Not for me--for the people who are being helped by it.”

  “I understand.”

  They shook hands. Martin snapped her briefcase closed, smiled, and left. Reed sat alone in the room, thinking.

  He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes. His head ached. Yet things were brighter with Ann. And he was sure he had inadvertently found Tanita Donner’s mother.

  Last year, after Tanita’s murder, her mother had dropped out of sight. Now, with the anniversary of Tanita’s murder coming up, the press would be looking for her. In the wake of Danny Becker’s kidnapping, they’d be more determined. But he knew where Angela Donner was. And soon, with a little luck, he would be talking to her. Martin’s work was secondary. Angela’s story juxtaposed with Danny Becker’s case, would make a great read.

  And, there was more.

  He had covered many of the cases Martin described, reciting the names he knew. He’d get the library files before he went to the session. The guy whose kids drowned before his eyes had to be one of the worst. Reed couldn’t recall it. He’d do some digging on that one.

  SEVENTEEN

  On good days, warm memories of his dead wife yielded Sydowski sufficient will to propel his life another
twenty-four hours. On bad days, like this one, when he felt alone and could not accept the fact that she was gone, he contemplated his Glock.

  Take the eternal sleep and find her. Be with her.

  What time was it back east? The luminescent hands of his watch glowed 1:29 a.m. Three hours later where his daughters lived. Too late to call. Wearily, he found his way through the darkness. He knew his house, every tick and creak of it. In the kitchen, he snapped on the light and heated some milk for cocoa.

  It had been six years since he saw the monitor above Basha’s hospital bed flitter, then flat line. The young doctor and nurse rushing in, telling him to leave. Battling against a killer no one could stop--not even him.

  The beast slowly ravaged Basha’s nervous system with muscular rigidity, condemning uncontrollable tremoring upon a gentle woman who had danced at her daughters’ weddings. It consumed her by degrees, devouring her dignity a piece at a time. She could not feed herself, she could not have intelligible conversations, she could not go to the bathroom without help. Ultimately she wore diapers. The final insult: she could not be trusted to hold her infant grandchildren. She watched through her tears as he cared for her. A couple of times he swore her bed was empty. She was barely visible under the rumpled sheets. Carrying her emaciated body, her fragility terrified him. She weighed nothing. She was dying in his arms.

  Waiting in the hospital hallway the night they tried to save her, a strange thing happened. Sydowski heard her call his name. Once. Her voice was young, strong, wondrous. He was amazed. No one else heard her. How could it be? He remembered his daughters beside him, wailing. Then the young doctor, the one with an earring in his left lobe, appeared from Basha’s room and was standing before him.

  “I’m very sorry, sir. She’s gone. We did everything we could.”

  Something once indestructible cleaved inside, forcing him to hold his girls to keep from coming apart. The young doctor touched Sydowski’s arm and those of his daughters.

  The milk for his cocoa had come to a boil.

  They would sit in the living room. She would be embroidering something for the babies. He’d be reading. Often he would discuss a case with her and she’d make a suggestion about an aspect he had overlooked. He respected her insights. For if he had one true partner, it was she.