Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

“I’d better show it to the police first—”

  “Just to get her name, please?”

  Reed glanced around. More cops were shouting at reporters to back off.

  “I don’t know if I should.”

  “Police will want it out. To help find her, if she’s a hostage. Just let me look, I won’t tell anyone.”

  Vanessa gazed down at the receipt in her hand and began uncrumpling it, respectfully smoothing it, holding it in her opened palm. He moved his face closer to see the full name.

  Ann Reed.

  His mouth began to say something, but an avalanche of information overwhelmed him. Brown hair, early thirties, pearls. He studied the signature he had known all of his married life, that familiar capital A, the clear double n, the elegant R. His skin prickled and the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood up as the realization hit him full force.

  “That’s my wife.”

  SIX

  Sydowski leaned closer to the stretcher as the ambulance pulled from the scene, siren wailing. He had one chance here and it was slipping away.

  They turned a corner. The suspect’s head swayed. An oxygen tube ran under his nostrils. They had wrapped his gunshot wounds with pressure bandages, started him with two large-bore IVs.

  But it wasn’t good, the paramedic monitoring his vital signs shouted into Sydowski’s ear over the siren and working engine. “He’s lost a lot of blood, he’s got massive internal bleeding and organ damage. He’s not going to make it. He’s going to code.” The paramedic got on the radio to alert the hospital.

  Sydowski assessed the dying man. No ID in his pockets. White, about five feet eleven, medium build, small teardrop tattoos under his left eye. Both arms were sleeved in tattoos, suggesting he’d done time. Probably recent and hard time, Sydowski figured, given the pallor of his skin. His eyes fluttered open, his mouth began moving. The paramedic nodded to Sydowski, he was clear to try obtaining a dying declaration.

  This was critical.

  He fingered a mini-cassette tape recorder from his pocket, set the volume to maximum, then pressed record.

  “This is Inspector Walter Sydowski, of the San Francisco Police Homicide Detail, star number—” He summarized the time, date, location, circumstances, and identification of the paramedic who served as witness.

  “Tell me your name,” Sydowski asked the wounded man. The response was liquid gurgling. It wouldn’t be easy. Dying declarations never were. “Can you tell me anything?” Sydowski said.

  “Wha—”

  “Say that again.”

  “Why did he shoot me?”

  “Who shot you? Tell me who shot you.”

  “Kra-kra—”

  “Did the police officer shoot you?”

  “Nnnn.”

  “Did the police officer shoot you?”

  “No.”

  “Who shot you?” Sydowski leaned closer.

  “Kra—”

  “Tell me their name.”

  “Kraze.”

  “Kraze? Kraze shot you?”

  “No.”

  “Did you shoot yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Who shot you?”

  “The kraze—”

  “Go ahead, tell me.”

  Sydowski put the recorder an inch from the man’s mouth.

  “Ka—crazy psycho fahker kler.”

  “That’s who shot you?”

  “I’m the wheel. Why shoot me, you fahk—What—”

  “Tell me the shooter’s name.” Sydowski was losing him. “Where did they go? Where were you supposed to drive?”

  “Grage.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “Grage. Drive to the grage.”

  “What is that?”

  “See.”

  “Where?”

  “Seek.”

  “Is it in San Francisco?”

  “Secret. Can’t—”

  “Where? Give me an address.”

  “Hewz wha—”

  “What’s the name of the man who shot you?”

  “Ka-crazy fahker. Stoopid mother—Why?”

  “Where did they go? Tell me.”

  “I dunno why the fahkerrrz—I kep’ tellin’—Heez pyscho mother—”

  The ambulance hit another corner. Sydowski steadied himself.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Don—God—I’m gonna die.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Don let me die!” He raised a hand; then it dropped.

  “Tell me your name and where they were supposed to go.”

  “Don let me—” His head lolled to one side.

  The ambulance creaked to a stop at the hospital. The rear doors swung open. Staff worked swiftly, rolling him into an emergency room. Sydowski went to the nearest counter to make notes. He had a dead cop, a robbery homicide with a hostage, two fugitive suspects, and a third critically wounded. He was tired and ran a hand over his face.

  “Would you like a coffee, Inspector Sydowski?” A nurse set a ceramic mug with a health campaign logo on it next to his notebook. “It’s fresh.”

  Sydowski smiled, showing his gold crowns. At six feet three, a trim 180-pound build, a tanned face with wavy salt-and-pepper hair, he was a good-looking man. “Thanks.”

  The nurse left him to his work. Sydowski hated hospitals. His wife, Basha, had died in one several years ago. It nearly finished him. But he hung on to his girls, his old man, the job, his birds. Then there was Louise.

  He’d met her nearly two years ago at the Seattle bird show. A beautiful sixty-something grandmother and part-time actor who looked like her forty-year-old daughter. What Louise saw in an old flatfoot like him was a mystery. He slid on his bifocals, popped a Tums in his mouth, and flipped through his notes.

  Louise wanted to sell her place in San Jose, get married, and move in with him in Parkside. After months of talking about it, Sydowski had finally agreed. In two days, they were supposed to fly to Las Vegas to get married. But he was getting cold feet. Living together would be fine, but he didn’t know about the marriage part. He wasn’t sure how to tell Louise.

  Earlier today, Sydowski was getting ready to drive down to the Sea Breeze Villas seniors’ complex in Pacifica to ask his old man for advice when he got the call from the homicide detail. A police officer had been murdered in a jewelry store heist and he was the primary. All vacation time canceled.

  Sydowski called Louise. Las Vegas would have to wait. She detected the measure of relief in his voice and understood. She was an intelligent woman. It was one of the things he loved about her. She had him dead to rights on everything. Sydowski sipped his coffee and returned to his notes.

  They had to ID the dying suspect, chase down his network. Sydowski’s gut roiled telling him his case was going to get worse. He crunched on another Tums. It never stopped. In over two decades in homicide, he had surpassed four hundred cases, held the highest clearance rate in the state, and had seen just about every kind of murder there was to see. But they just kept coming. His cell phone rang. It was his boss, Lieutenant Leo Gonzales.

  “What do you know, Walt?”

  “I’m at the hospital with the suspect from the van.”

  “How’s it look for him?”

  “Not good.”

  “What do you figure happened?”

  “I figure the crew is robbing the place, when August happens to roll up on the getaway van.”

  “That’s the early indication from dispatch.”

  “So they grab a hostage for a vehicle and unload on August and their wheelman to try to erase their tracks.”

  “Fits. You got anything we can jump on for the hostage?”

  “Not yet.”

  “This is shaping up to be a major ball buster. Make you wish you retired and went fishing in the mountains. Feebees are going to big-foot it. The national networks are calling.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “I need you back to the scene, work your homicide, throw robbery and the feebs any
thing on the hostage. We need a lead on her to blast out data on her vehicle.”

  When Sydowski finished the call, a doctor in surgical greens, face mask undone, straps draping down his chest approached him.

  “You’re Inspector Sydowski, with the shooting victim?”

  Sydowski nodded.

  “Dr. Verdell. The patient’s internal injuries were massive from five gunshot wounds. I’m afraid he didn’t make it.”

  Great, Sydowski thought.

  Now he had a double homicide. He turned to the counter, making a note in his book. And if they didn’t find the hostage soon, odds were good he’d have a triple.

  SEVEN

  Reed refused to believe it was Ann.

  For the longest time he stood alone telling himself that it was a mistake. Numb to the chaos, he began slipping into shock as though waiting for someone to wake him. Ann. He had to find her.

  Reed left the alley, went around to the street, ducked under the yellow tape, and headed straight for the crime scene.

  “Hey!” Alarm on the face of a huge uniformed officer. “Hey, you can’t go down there!” Keys jingled behind Reed. Police barked into radios. “We’ve got press breaching the cordon!”

  Trotting now, Reed was blind to the storefronts blurring by. A deathlike stillness arose from an evacuated ghost zone, void of traffic, of people, of life. Nearing the patrol car with the dead cop inside, he saw detectives probing it like somber reapers, the air punctuated with radio bursts, heavy with the smells of the bakery, the gunfire, tear gas, natural foods store, candles, flowers.

  And fear.

  A vise tightened against his chest as he came to the overturned wheelchair next to the empty parking space, clutching the jewelry store receipt he had snatched from Vanessa Jordan. He stood there running his fingers over Ann’s signature. The last thing she touched. It can’t be true. He searched in every direction, praying for her to emerge from a doorway, an alcove. Please.

  Ann.

  Homicide inspectors and crime scene techs working over the murdered officer locked on to him. “Hey, that’s Reed from the Star. How’d he get in here? He’s trampling all over our scene. Get him out of here.”

  A big detective marched toward him. “Hey! Reed! You trying to be an asshole?” Sydowski eyeballed him. “Get the hell out of here, or I’m going to charge you.”

  “It’s Ann. Walt. They took my wife from the store. She’s the hostage.”

  Reed told Sydowski what the clerk had said, then handed him the receipt. Sydowski passed it to his partner, Linda Turgeon. Then two huffing uniformed officers clasped Reed’s shoulders, yanked at him. “Sorry, he got by us. Let’s go, pal.”

  Sydowski raised a hand. “Hold off.”

  Robbery detectives arrived. “You’re the guy who was just talking to our witnesses, then ran off with evidence.”

  “Listen up.” Sydowski stopped them. “You better hear this.” Sydowski passed the receipt to them, noting the time on it, going over the story again with Reed. The huddle of cold serious faces grew as Reed repeated his story.

  “We’re just getting that from the victims,” a robbery detective said. “Do you have the particulars on your wife’s car?”

  “Yes.”

  Reed slid the papers from his wallet for the detective, who turned away to call a dispatcher to put out information on the vehicle used by the 187 suspects. “The 851 is a 2003 Jetta. Four-door silver. California tag—”

  Sydowski asked Reed if Ann had a cell phone.

  “Yes.”

  Turgeon took the number and called the service provider.

  Sydowski called the 911 dispatcher, then said to Reed, “Try calling Ann, get her to call 911 now, so we can maybe get a fix on her whereabouts. Can you do that?”

  Reed nodded, fumbling for his phone.

  “Push up your volume, set your phone on the trunk of this car here. I’ll listen with you and tape it after you make the call.”

  Reed nodded, barely noticing another detective he didn’t recognize standing behind Sydowski, listening carefully. FBI credentials were clipped to his suit jacket. Reed steadied himself, then dialed Ann’s number. He set the phone down, then leaned into it with Sydowski, who placed his small recorder next to it. The sound was loud and clear. One ring, two, three... “Hi, this is Ann. Please leave me a message.” Reed glanced at Sydowski, who shook his head slightly. Reed left no message and ended the call.

  “It doesn’t mean anything right now, Tom,” Sydowski said.

  Down the block, to the pissed-off news-people held back behind the police line, it looked like Tom Reed of the San Francisco Star was given some kind of exclusive access to the scene.

  “That’s not the case,” an officer returning to the tape said.

  “Oh, really?” Vince Vincent, a TV reporter with News 99, stuck out his chiseled chin. “Then tell us what the hell is going on.”

  “Give us some time here.”

  “You got about thirty seconds.” Vincent shot his finger at the officer. “My desk is on the line to the chief right now, so you better tell us what’s up with this bullshit.”

  “Take your finger from my face, sir, and take my word. You don’t want to trade places with him at this point.”

  “That so? Why don’t you let me be the judge of that while you start telling us what’s going on down there?”

  “You’ll know everything in a short time.”

  Not soon enough. Molly Wilson pulled out her cell phone and punched Reed’s number, breaking from the pack at the tape when it began ringing, watching Reed with the police in the distance.

  “Hold it,” Sydowksi cautioned Reed after the first ring, then said to the other detectives, “Keep it down. Okay, Tom, same as before.”

  They both leaned near the phone ringing on the trunk, the tape-recording light glowing red as Reed pushed the phone’s talk button and said, “Tom Reed.”

  “Tom?” A woman’s voice, but distant unclear.

  “Ann? Ann, where are you?”

  “No, Tom, it’s Molly. What’re you doing in there? You’re drawing a lot of heat.”

  “I can’t talk right now.”

  “Wait Tom, you got some kind of scoop. I don’t understand.”

  “Molly, I have to go.”

  “Damn it Reed!”

  “Get off the line, Wilson. Don’t call me again.” He hung up.

  Glancing up from his notebook, one of the robbery detectives said, “The suspects have Ann Reed’s home address.” The circle of investigators grasped the significance.

  “Better get people over there and clear it,” the lieutenant commanding the scene said. “Tom, you expect anyone to be at your home at this time of day?”

  “No.”

  The commander recited the address into his cell phone. “I want this off the air.” He ordered cars to set up for TAC to clear the house.

  Reed began listing Ann’s children’s clothing stores in the Bay Area. Calls were made. Detectives and cars were dispatched.

  “Tom,” the detective next to Sydowski said, “Steve McDaniel, San Francisco FBI. We’re going to help set up on your home phone in case Ann calls or the suspects make demands or contact. We’re going to need you at home.”

  “Hold up. Something else.” The robbery detective flipped through his notes. “Witnesses said when the suspects went through your wife’s wallet they saw a photo of your son. Where is he now?”

  “Zachary. Oh God! He’s in school right now.”

  “It’ll be all right,” McDaniel said.

  “They’ll know where he is, what he looks like. I have to get him. I have to be the one to tell him.”

  “Take it easy,” McDaniel said. “Come with me, we’ll go there now. We’ll call SFPD district people to sit on the school. What school is it? We’ll call the principal to quietly remove Zachary from class, and hold him so you can pick him up. Let’s go.”

  “I don’t want anyone to know yet,” Reed said, telling McDaniel the name of his son�
��s school so calls could be made.

  “No one’s going to know, Tom,” McDaniel said as they hurried from the scene.

  A few feet above them, the TV camera lens peeking between the cracks in the billboard covering the balcony withdrew unseen. It had recorded everything.

  For, unlike the reporters held back by police, this TV crew had been ensnared by events as they unfolded around them. They’d captured everything, including every word Tom Reed and the police had exchanged.

  “You get the address of the school?” the young pretty reporter said to the cameraman.

  “Baby, we’ve got it all.”

  The young woman grinned, her full red lips unable to contain her white teeth and glee over the gold they had mined today.

  EIGHT

  Ann Reed’s heart hammered against her ribs in the aftermath of the shooting.

  Please, God. Help me.

  The red-faced man had forced her to the backseat floor of her car. He had handcuffed her wrists and held her head down with his leg, pressing her face against Zach’s baseball glove, ripping the cover of his sports card magazine.

  “One wrong move, one sound, and we’ll kill you.”

  The metal of the gun muzzle knocked against her skull.

  The white-faced man drove while his partner passed him items from one of their duffel bags. Ann tried to think. Be smart. Be calm. Remember details. Maybe she could plead with them? But they’d shot a police officer before her eyes. She was a witness.

  Somebody, please help me.

  Before her head was forced down, she had seen the driver yank off his wig, wipe away his makeup with a wet cloth, then slip on a ball cap. All within seconds. She saw his outline but could not identify details. From the movements of the man holding her, Ann sensed he was now also removing his disguise.

  It wasn’t long before the car gathered speed as it clicked, then hummed along an expressway to disappear into the streams of traffic that webbed across the metropolitan Bay Area. How would police find them?

  No one spoke.

  They monitored radio news reports. Ann heard a police scanner identify checkpoint locations as they drove and drove. Which way? South down the peninsula? North? East across the bay? Which way?