by Rick Mofina
Next: You out there in San Francisco, that is pretty wicked about that bride murder. Saw it 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.
There was a small Indian rug near the glass-top coffee table and couch; above it was a large framed painting of a girl alone on a beach, cutting a forlorn figure gazing at a vast azure ocean and an eternal horizon.
“Hi, Iris.” A strange woman’s voice broke the silence. “It’s Mel at the office. Are you coming in today, dear? We haven’t heard from you.”
Turgeon was replaying calls on the telephone answering machine.
“It’s the only message,” she said.
Sydowski nodded to the desk, computer, and work area.
“You take this room, Linda. I’ll start on the others.”
The bedroom walls were yellow cream, a framed Van Gogh print over the four-poster bed. Neatly made with a quilted bedspread and throw pillows. A telephone and paperback were on the nightstand. Sydowski slipped on his bifocals. Gone With the Wind. The tassel of a bookmark protruded at the halfway point. Jack meowed from his regal spot on the bed.
Sydowski went to the four-drawer wooden dresser against the wall. Cotton pajamas. Panties, socks, bras, shorts, T-shirts, pullover tops, a swimsuit. All neatly arranged. Nothing unusual. Nothing kinky to indicate a secret life.
He opened the jewelry box atop the dresser to find Iris Wood looking at him from a snapshot framed inside the lid. Far removed from the bridal shop, the cold autopsy room, and her driver’s license. His first unofficial glimpse of her alive.
Iris, part of a trio of women, was standing behind an office desk and a small cake with lighted candles, waves of white icing. Congratulations, Jan looped elegantly across the top. The woman in the center looked to be in her early twenties and pregnant. She was beaming. The other woman, early thirties was grinning. And there was Iris. Living her life. Wearing a beige skirt and matching top. Smiling as if forced to. Standing stiffly. Self-conscious. Sad. A hint of desperation in her pretty eyes.
Sydowski blinked behind his glasses. The photograph was smeared with fingerprint powder from the crime scene crew. He tucked it inside the breast pocket of his jacket, sifted through the small collection of earrings, necklaces and bracelets. He closed the lid on the jewelry box, then opened the folding doors of her closet, to the modest wardrobe of Ms. Iris May Wood. Single, working woman. Sleeveless sheath dresses, button-front cotton prints, embroidered jacket, dress suits, knit tops, pleated twill pants, some stretch pants. Fat pants. Not that she needed them. Jeans, shorts, a floral-print kimono. He imagined her in the kimono snuggled on her couch watching a girl movie, Jack curled on her lap. Sydowski surveyed the shoes on the closet floor, fabric pumps, scuffed flared-heeled loafers, white joggers, and frayed thong slippers. He detected a plastic bottle of foot deodorizer pushed nearly out of sight in the closet. She was sensitive about foot odor. Sydowski closed the door and headed to the bathroom.
It was clean and bright with a pleasant trace of lavender; tumble-stone floor tiles, matching rose-tinted wall tiles, a soaker tub, pedestal sink with brass fixtures, shampoo, conditioner, wheat germ soap, skin creams, bath oils, candles, potpourri on the toilet’s water closet, thick towels hanging from the wall rack. He opened the medicine cabinet over the sink. One tooth brush. No regular boyfriend, or girlfriend, he figured, studying the bottles and boxes, aspirin, cough syrup, eye drops, calcium, over-the-counter sleeping pills, vitamins, the usual array of women’s hygienic items. No prescriptions. Sydowski closed the vanity, scanning the glass shelf under it, antiperspirant, toothpaste, mascara, lip gloss, eye shadow, hair spray, moisturizer, baby oil, nail-polish remover.
He studied the mirror for a long moment, the very mirror she had stood before in the final hours of her life. Sydowski looked beyond his own reflection, staring hard as if he could retrieve the face that was once there for a message, for a clue, for direction on where to search to avenge her death.
How did he know you? Tell me that and I will find him.
He felt the cat weaving itself around his ankles; then Sydowski moved on to the kitchen.
“Already went through it, Walt.” Turgeon was seated before the computer clicking and typing. “Single-girl fare.” Sydowski looked. Healthy frozen low-cal single-serving dishes, vegetables for salad, flavored tea, juice, bottled water, comfort food like gourmet ice cream and microwave popcorn. And take out menus for Chinese and pizza. Stuff for Jack under the sink.
Turgeon was concentrating on the computer screen.
Sydowski looked through the living room. He scanned her CD player and flipped through her music, Bruce Hornsby, Jann Arden, Bruce Springsteen, Van Morrison, Annie Lennox, Neil Young, some old Beatles stuff. Then he went to the titles of hardcovers on the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Contemporary best-selling novels, a smattering of literary classics, Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hugo, Tolstoy, Pasternak. He pulled some from the shelf. They looked as if they had been read. Sydowski then selected a worn Bible, the kind found in most hotels. Fanning the pages, a notation blurred by. He stopped, found it in The Book of the Prophet Isaiah, chapter forty-two. A small, neat hand-written note penned in the blue ink of a fountain pen, said Comfort in time of loneliness, and underlined the passage: Fear thou not; for I am with thee.
She was lonely and self-conscious. Hiding her foot powder. Sydowski was almost certain she was not the victim of a random crime. Because of the specific mutilation, the way she was displayed, her death had been organized, planned, calculated. It was ritual. He had selected her because he knew her, or knew her type.
But how did he know you, Iris?
Sydowski replaced the bible.
He saw Iris Wood’s phone bills, credit card bills, and other papers stacked next to Turgeon near the computer and shuffled through them. They already had people running down her most recent phone calls, credit card purchases, and the status on her bank accounts.
Sydowski checked
his watch. “We should head to her office.”
“I hear your wheels turning, Walt.”
“At this point, Linda, I’d say she lived a quiet life.”
“Lived much of it on-line. Look.”
Screen upon screen of bookmarked sites all relating to lonely-hearts clubs, on-line dating, chat rooms and cyber-clubs for singles scrolled down the monitor, reflecting on Sydowski’s bifocals as he bent down for a closer look.
“It’s massive,” Turgeon said. “She’s locked on to hundreds and hundreds, maybe in the thousands, of sites.”
Sydowski’s eyes widened slightly as he realized the potential number of people around the world that Iris Wood could have had contact with. He stood, shaking his head.
“We’re going to need help with this aspect of the case,” Turgeon said.
“Yup.” Sydowski, removed his bifocals, muttering something about computers.
“Now, I’m not an expert but I know who is, Walt.”
“Who, Linda?”
“Ben Wyatt.”
FIFTEEN
Pulling his Taurus out of the Star’s parking lot downtown, Reed decided Geary, then Divisadero would be the best route to his secret meeting with his anonymous source who promised to tell him who killed Iris Wood.
The caller had offered no details. Wanted to meet Reed within an hour at a specific bench at the northeast corner of Golden Gate Park, near the hospital.
Reed had nothing on at the moment, so he figured he would give it a shot. He dropped the Ford’s front windows, switched on his favorite rock station in time to catch the beginning of “Layla.” He pumped up the volume.
This guy sounded like a nut who’s seen too many bad conspiracy movies. He is either going to want money, a favor, or demand the Star publish his ten-thousand-word manifesto on the parallel universe. Reed shook his head. He had met all kinds.
Upon arriving, Reed’s chief concern was not meeting a stranger, but parking. It was damned near impossible to find a spot anywhere in the city and he was afraid he’d get nailed after he slipped his Ford into a vacant slot in a restricted area.
Ah, to hell with it. Reed hurried to the park carrying a rolled-up newspaper, as his caller had requested.
He found the bench and immediately set a twenty-minute deadline for Mr. X to show up. He really should be chasing Sydowski right now. The only thing this would achieve would be a parking ticket.
Reed took stock of his immediate area. A couple of neo-Haight types playing guitars, a mom with a baby in a stroller. Nothing. Bored, he unfurled the papers, the Chronicle and the Star, to once again study the reports on Iris Wood.
A shadow fell over him.
“You Tom Reed from the paper?”
Reed recognized the voice of the caller, now standing before him. A slight man in his late twenties. About five feet nine inches. One hundred forty pounds. White, head shaved. Goatee. Black jeans. Black T-shirt. A candidate for state time. Spider web tattoo on his right forearm. Stud in his left lobe. Grey eyes. Runny nose. Cokehead.
“Yeah, I’m Tom Reed.”
“Got ID?”
Reed produced his press photo ID and a business card.
“No tape recorders, I want to check you.”
Reed stood. “What’s your name.”
“Slim. Call me Slim.”
“Listen Slim, you are not touching me. I’m not recording this. You called me. Now say what you’ve got to say because I’ve got to be somewhere.”
“Okay.” Slim rubbed his chin, sniffing. Looking around, licking his lips. “You got good police contacts for the district down near Stern Grove?”
Reed nodded. That was where they had found Iris Wood’s car.
“Listen, I had nothing to do with what happened to that woman.”
“Take it easy.”
“I am so jammed up, man. I don’t know where to turn. I don’t know. They’re gonna put this crap on me.”
“Slow down. Who is going to put what on you? Slim sit down beside me.”
Slim fished matches and a pack of Camels from his pocket, lit one and drew on it deeply, before sitting next to Reed.
“I’m on parole, okay? The program ain’t workin’ for me. See, I got a bad habit and I’m down near the south side of the Grove. I had been scoping out some houses down there and I got a line that some people are going to be on vacation, okay?”
Reed nodded.
“So I am going to move on this place, but I got a curfew, so I got to do it early.”
Reed felt pieces of his story coming together.
“It’s a great night for me, fog is thick, area secluded. I’ve got the jewelry maybe, three, four grand in quick cash. I’m cutting out clean, heading for the street when I just about have a heart attack.” Slim dragged on his cigarette. “I’m leaving when I see an unmarked police car throw the red right on the street in front of me. Hell, I thought I was busted. But he’s making a stop. Stopping a car.”
Reed’s newspapers rustled as Slim tapped them with his cigarette hand. “Her car. The cop is stopping her Ford Focus.”
“What did you do?”
“I step back slowly near a tree. I mean like, I am there. It’s dark and they are like shadows, but I just hear their voices. The cop stops her and begins to write her up. Then he hits her or something, and drives off with her.”
“Why didn’t you call it in?”
“Give me a break.” He pulled on his cigarette. “Listen, I didn’t know what happened. I thought, okay. Cop makes a stop, woman gets sick, or faints like or something, and he takes her to the hospital. Then I see the news. I read the papers. I start to figure it out.”
“Are you sure it was a cop?”
“I’m a con.”
“You get a plate number?”
“No.”
“What kind of car?”
“Full-sized unmarked sedan. Ford or Chevy.”
“But you’re not certain, Crown Vic, Impala, Caprice?”
“No.”
“What about grill lights and a flash pattern, like strobe or wigwag, notice anything like that?”
“I can only say that it was an unmarked car.”
“So you think they’ll somehow implicate you?”
Slim tossed his cigarette. “Listen, if that cop who murdered her finds out I was boosting jewelry at the very time I saw him, then I am a dead man. Dead. I am a thief. I ain’t no killer. They’re gonna put it on me. They can do that. The guys inside have told me stories, man.”
“Take it easy. What do you want from me? If your information is true, I want to report it. And who’s to say the police don’t already know this?”
“That’s just it. Find out. You’re my protection. I have to go.”
“How do I reach you?”
“I’ll call you.”
Slim turned to walk away.
“Wait,” Reed said. “How do I know you didn’t kill her?”
He was gone.
So were the other people in the area.
Reed sat there for a moment trying to comprehend what he had just heard. It was astounding. A cop. Unless Slim was the killer. Reed stood up and made the one-block walk back to his car, glad he had alerted the photo desk at the Star prior to this thing.
Reed drove six blocks away to a Burger King, the rendezvous point with Henry Cain, a news photographer. During Reed’s meeting with his source, Cain had positioned himself some sixty yards away with a telephoto lens -- the same long lens he used at 49-er games -- taking pictures of Reed with his source. Between bites of his Whopper, Cain showed them to Reed on his digital Nikon. A series of crisp shots clearly identifying Slim.
Picture after picture.
SIXTEEN
The coffee in Wyatt’s take-out cup rippled at the surface as he sipped from it, swallowing hard.
It had been a long time since he had been on the street. Waiting at the rear of Forever & Ever, he was jittery, feeling the weight of his gun in his shoulder holster and everything it signified i
n the rubble of his life.
Wyatt took another hit of coffee. As nerve-shattering as this was, he needed to do this. There was no escaping it. At any moment he could again be forced to draw his weapon and make another life-and-death decision.
I hope not.
He had already paid an enormous price. He was an outcast. Scorned. Expected to fail. It was killing him. Rage seethed in his gut but he wrestled it down with the realization that this case was his only hope, his last chance to make it all right again. To prove he was a solid cop. If he failed, he failed completely, because he had nothing left to lose. Fate had him by the balls. He crumpled the cup and tossed it in the trash.
No sign of Veronica Chan.
Wyatt nodded to the uniform posted at the rear and went inside to look around while waiting for her. This assignment Sydowski had spat at him was superficial. Wyatt’s job was to review the bridal shop’s security videotape which showed nothing, according to Sydowski and the crime scene people who had already watched it about a dozen times before putting Wyatt on it. After that, he was told to go find out why the shop’s security cameras apparently malfunctioned, and to try to obtain the video security tapes of surrounding businesses, in case one of them picked up something.
Wyatt and every other detective on the case knew full well much of that had already been done. He figured they were just keeping him out of the way, ensuring all he did was annoy people by asking them questions they’d already answered.
So here he was staring at mannequins in wedding dresses, his world hanging by a thread, a man alone in his skin, nothing waiting for him at home but a can of beans in an empty fridge. And this was a good day.
“Inspector Wyatt, is it?”
He turned to a stunning woman, in a tailored suit. Model’s figure. In her early thirties. Cleopatra shoulder-length hair framing a stone-cold face.
“Yes.” He extended his hand.
She offered hers. Small. Same warmth as her face.
“Veronica Chan,” she said. “We’ve been through all of this with your colleagues and I really don’t appreciate the police department’s repetitions.”