by Rick Mofina
“They found a van, about a quarter mile deep into the forest!”
The deputy led them to the location, far from the farmhouse. Reed heard a dog yelping and took stock of searchers scouring the surrounding terrain. The van had been driven directly into a large bramble and was invisible.
“Everyone hold back,” a K-9 officer shouted. “We got to protect this scene.” White-gloved DPS investigators had opened the doors. The interior had tools, shovels, a pickax, and appeared to be drenched in something that had dried brown. Reed saw it.
Blood.
The dog was barking, straining to leave.
“Okay, she’s got a scent trail.”
The officer unleashed the dog and let it go. Radio traffic increased. Helicopters hammered in the sky. The small group followed. Reed chased the dog as if it were hope, until he realized where it was leading.
Tears filled his eyes.
The dog was making a direct line to the smoldering farmhouse.
Reed’s running slowed to a walk. He felt the weight of all his fear crushing him, forcing him to the earth. Oh God. If he could hold her one last time. To tell her how much he loved her. One last time.
“Tom!” Sydowski yelled over the choppers. “Over here!”
The dog was sniffing at the ground beyond the farmhouse. The K-9 officer was saying something to his radio, the others were pulling away tree branches, boards, a cinder block, revealing a hole.
“A well!” The sheriff’s deputy dropped to his knees and un-holstered his flashlight, so did the K-9 officer and a second deputy. Their beams shot into the darkness. Reed dropped to his chest, shielded his eyes.
Twenty feet down, he saw Ann’s terrified face squinting at the light.
She was wedged like a peg, nearly entombed in the shaft.
Radios crackled. The site swarmed with firefighters, paramedics, police, and rescue crews set to work on extracting her.
News spread that Ann Reed had been found. Alive. More networks broke into regular programming to broadcast the events. The growing number of press at the police tape was allowed access to the story. A quick attempt at a media pool failed. All news crews demanded access to the well site. They’d arrived in time to witness Ann Reed hoisted from it. Her dyed blond hair was matted, her face masked by dirt, arms covered in scrapes and cuts. Reed pulled her to him.
“Ann! Oh God! Ann!”
She locked her arms around him and he held her.
As paramedics began a quick examination, cell phones trilled incessantly. Reporters relayed events to their desks, some were running live on-scene commentary with their pictures.
Across the country, in Tom and Ann’s San Francisco home, Zach and Doris screamed with joy at the live pictures. The police officers and FBI agents assigned to the house high-fived each other.
Throughout the Bay Area, the staff at Ann’s stores squealed and began jumping. In the San Francisco Star’s newsroom, reporters and deskers gathered around the large TVs to cheer, some hugged, others blinked back tears. Reed’s editor, Bob Shepherd, shook his head grinning. In all his years in the news business, he’d never seen a story like this. Damn!
In Texas, deputies and firefighters led Ann and Tom through the throng of news-people to the ambulance and patrol cars cutting a swath through the grass. Molly Wilson elbowed her way to Reed and Ann, hugging them both, sharing their joy. Reed gave Wilson a few words, invited her to meet them at the hospital, before climbing into the ambulance with Ann. The highway patrol cars gave them a police escort.
After the ambulance left, Texas authorities advised reporters of a short, upcoming on-scene news briefing. The air was electric. Everyone at the farmhouse was uplifted by the way things had turned out. Every face bore a smile. Except two.
Tia Layne was screaming at Cooter.
“I don’t believe this. We missed it all because you forgot to charge the batteries? You fool! We got nothing! Nothing!”
Cooter kept tapping the battery against his knee. “Could be a loose contact.”
“What do I tell Seth?” Layne’s cell phone trilled. “Tia Layne. Worldwide.”
“Ms. Layne, Molly Wilson, San Francisco Star.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve just learned that yesterday the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s office swore out a warrant for your arrest on charges against you in that little matter of the report you stole out of the Baker office.”
“What? No one’s told me. Who told you?”
“Sources close to the investigation. What’s your reaction and could you look over your left shoulder, please?”
“What. Why?” Layne turned, opening her mouth as Henry Cain, a news photographer with the Star, fired off a few unflattering frames. Wilson crinkled her eyes and waved before walking toward her.
“Here you go.” Wilson’s bracelets jingled as she placed a faxed copy of the warrant and charges in Layne’s hands.
“This can’t be happening to me.”
“Nice quote. You’ll make a nice little sidebar. Thanks, we have to run.”
In the ambulance, the paramedic asked Ann to lie down to be comfortable while she checked her signs.
“Are you aware of any serious physical injuries, Ann?” She shook her head. The woman had a kind face.
A Texas Ranger rode with them in the back. An FBI agent was up front.
Reed held Ann’s hand and stroked her cheek. The paramedic prepared her stethoscope and blood pressure equipment.
“Ann, they’re both dead,” Reed said. “We know all about them. The police will talk to you at the hospital.”
Ann nodded. Then, on the brink of hysteria, she began sobbing.
“Tom, oh, Tom. Del wanted to—I was chained to the tree—he was getting ready to ra—” Ann covered her mouth. “Then John came up behind and cut his throat. I saw the knife just slice him, then—”
Reed caressed her head, pulling back so the paramedic could take her pressure, then shine a penlight in her eyes. “Looking good so far, Ann.”
Ann blinked.
When the paramedic removed Ann’s shoes to check her feet, a small object slipped from the toe of the right one. The paramedic caught it
“Goodness, this looks important.”
The paramedic passed it to her. Ann’s face brightened at the sight of the piece of jewelry that had been her lifeline, her talisman since she’d picked it up from the jewelry store that terrible day. Ann smiled, pressing it into Reed’s hand. “This is for you. For our anniversary.”
It was a small gold pocket watch with a fine chain.
Reed ran his fingers over its design.
“Open it,” she said.
He popped it and read the inscription.
For all time. Love, Ann.
Tears rolled down his face.
Ann pulled Tom to her and they held each other as sirens wailed and the morning sun climbed in the eastern sky.
For Inspector Eddie J. Erdelatz,
San Francisco Homicide Detail (Ret.),
who has been a friend since the day
I walked into room 450 at
The Hall of Justice
And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly: I perceived this is also vexation of spirit.
For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow.
--Ecclesiastes 1:17,18
ONE
Waiting alone at Jake’s Bar & Grill in North Beach, Molly Wilson finished her second diet cola, then pressed redial on her cell phone. Four rings. She got his machine again. Damn.
“It’s me. I’m at Jake’s. Where are you? Call me.” Nearly an hour late and not a word. This was not like Cliff. Maybe he’d left her a message at work. She tried her line there.
“You’ve reached Molly Wilson of the San Francisco Star. I’m either on the phone or--”
She keyed in her password. No new messages since she’d left the newsroom. Just two hang-up calls. She’d been getting a lot of those lately but nothing
from Cliff. She ordered another soda and brooded.
In the time they’d been together Cliff had never been late. Except tonight. Maybe he’d sensed that she’d reached a decision. Cliff was a great guy. She’d never set out to hurt him. She’d set out to have fun and they were having fun. But she didn’t want to move in with him. Wasn’t ready for it. She wanted to cool things. See other people. She was going to tell him tonight. She was going to thank him for his offer and return his key.
If only she could reach him, she thought on an exhale.
She didn’t like this. She tried his cell phone, wanting this night to be over so she could retreat to her apartment, soak in her tub, listen to some Phil Collins, then eat a gallon of butterscotch ripple. No answer. She drummed her glossed nails on the table. Then stopped.
Someone was watching her.
She pushed back her auburn hair and inventoried the after-work office crowd. Nothing unusual until she noticed two men nearby warming stools at the bar, ties loosened, stealing glimpses of her, then the big TV overhead.
Of course. She was on Eyewitness 24-Hour Action News. It was her weekly eight-minute spot with Vince Vincent, host of Crime Scene, when they talked about crime trends in San Francisco.
The show was taped at noon. Molly was still wearing the same sweater and matching blazer, which complemented her eyes. There she was with Vincent at a studio desk against San Francisco’s skyline at night discussing the latest justice department figures.
“... but what about violent crime, like murder?” Vincent asked.
“The odds of your being murdered, or a victim of a violent crime, are very remote,” she said.
Watching the set over the bar, Molly shook her head. Vince was worried. No sensational crimes in weeks.
“But violent crimes do happen here, Molly. We’ve got gangs, drug wars, murders of every sort. The city is still reeling from the recent jewelry heist homicides.”
“Sure, but the fact is, your likelihood of being victimized by such a crime is virtually nil.”
The two guys at the bar were now grinning, offering Molly little waves. She shrugged them off.
She’d been on the show for over a year. She loved doing it but there was a downside. It was more than a magnet for jerks like those two. Since Crime Scene had been picked up by a statewide cable network it had attracted more whack jobs. Sickos of every description tried contacting her. Comes with the territory. She shrugged.
Molly could handle the pair at the bar. There was little she couldn’t handle. But not tonight. She wasn’t up for these two. Not now. One was headed her way. That was her cue. She grabbed her bag, tossed a few bills on the table.
Outside, an evening breeze rolled up from the bay and she was struck by an odd sensation. It was as if somebody was just waiting for her to leave Jake’s.
And now they were watching her.
This was stupid. She took stock of the street. Nothing but a few window shoppers. She was being silly, put off by those drunks at the bar. And Cliff. Where was he? She waved it off and flagged a cab.
“Upper Market,” she told the driver.
The lights of San Francisco rolled by and Molly thought of Cliff. He was so good to her. Nothing like some of the creeps she’d dated and dropped. Like the hair puller who called her a “stupid bitch” and the weirdo who went mute and just glared at her. She bit her lip wondering if cooling things with Cliff was a mistake. He was considerate, intelligent, had a sense of humor. A decent handsome guy. Nothing was wrong with him. They’d only started dating a few months ago. She just wasn’t ready for a long-term relationship.
She considered her friend Tom Reed, the reporter who sat next to her at the Star. Look at what he had with Ann, his wife. The real thing. They had Zach, their beautiful son. They were far from perfect but they had a fire that could melt steel. They’d endured heartbreaks and emerged stronger. Maybe someday she’d find something like that. She just wasn’t ready to settle down yet.
“Miss?” the driver said. “The address, please.”
Molly recited it as the cab climbed the neighborhood’s serpentine hills. She liked the way the fog rolled up the steep streets of Cliff’s little oasis. He’d joke about being sheriff when she pointed at the community signs that demanded suspicious persons be immediately reported.
The creak of brakes echoed in the stillness as the cab stopped at the small Queen Anne–style house. Cliff’s apartment was upstairs at the back.
“If you shut off your meter and wait, I’ll go back with you,” she told the driver.”
“How long, miss? I gotta make a living.”
“Not long. Please. I need to see if my friend’s home.”
He slid the gearshift to park and killed the motor. It ticked down.
Molly approached the front. The exterior lights were on, but the place seemed oddly dark. No interior lights. The wrought-iron gate squeaked as she took the tiled walkway to the rear stairs. The yard was lush, private, bordered with rosebushes, shrubs, eucalyptus trees. A couple of sturdy-looking palms.
Her footsteps echoed as she ascended the wooden staircase to his door. Inhaling the fragrance of the flowers rising from the boxes on his balcony, she pressed the buzzer, heard it sound through his apartment. Then nothing. She buzzed again. Waiting, she put her ear to the door. Not a hint of movement. She knocked. Waited. Nothing.
Strange. She reached into her bag for her key to his apartment, slid it into the slot. It went in too fast. What the-- The door was unlocked. She turned the handle. It opened. Inviting her to enter.
“Cliff?”
No one responded from the darkness. She reached inside, flipped on a light.
“Cliff?”
The first room was the kitchen. She saw his jacket draped over a chair. His car keys were on the counter, along with his cell phone, wallet, loose change, unopened mail.
“Cliff, it’s Molly.”
She moved to the living room. In the darkness the red message light of his answering machine was blinking like something terrified. She switched on a lamp.
It was too quiet.
Something began to stir deep in her gut, telling her this was all wrong. The next room across the darkened hall was his bedroom. Instinct warned her to leave now but her hand hovered over the doorknob. The driver out front had blasted his horn and her skin nearly exploded.
“Jerk.”
She took a breath and opened his bedroom door. The room swam in a surreal dim blue glow from the digital clock on his nightstand. Her stomach tightened.
Oh God.
Cliff was on the bed. Facedown. She inched toward him.
He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. A huge damp, dark blue halo encircled his head. Something resembling wet raw meat had erupted from the side, glistening in the eerie blue light.
Resting on Cliff’s lower back was his service weapon, a .40-caliber Beretta. Next to it, open for display, his official San Francisco police identification. It read:
CLIFF HOOPER INSPECTOR OF POLICE HOMICIDE DETAIL
TWO
Across San Francisco, Walt Sydowski looked upon his father sleeping in the hospital bed.
Johnny.
Born a Polish peasant, he was a potato farmer and village barber who’d kept his family alive in a labor camp during the Second World War by cutting the hair of Nazi officers.
Now his heart was deteriorating. The doctors gave him a year.
Sydowski saw San Francisco’s skyline glittering in the night. Several years ago he’d lost his wife, Basha. She died in this very hospital calling his name. His first years without her were dark. He nearly gave up. His daughters helped get him through it, visiting from the East in shifts. Sydowski wished they’d visit more but he’d endured. Kept going. He had his work. It was his salvation.
Visiting hours were over. He kissed his old man’s head. Then popped another Tums into his mouth. As he neared the hospital’s main exit he nearly bumped into his partner, Linda Turgeon, as she was rushing in.
/> “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Leo said you might be here.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Cliff.”
“What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
Sydowski steadied himself against the wall. Turgeon gripped his shoulder.
“It can’t be. How?”
“Appears he was shot. In his apartment.”
“In his apartment.”
“Leo wants you to be the primary. We have to go now.”
Sydowski stared at Turgeon, not believing what she’d told him. Then they hurried to where she’d parked their unmarked Chevy. A crumpled tissue was on the passenger side. She drove.
“A few hours ago in the detail Cliff’s goofing around, holding my coffee mug hostage for a Hershey bar, and now he’s dead,” Turgeon said.
Alarm bells screamed in Sydowski’s ears until he got control of himself. He ran his hand over his face, then shook his head.
Hooper’s dead. Christ almighty. Hoop.
The city blurred by like Sydowski’s life. Over twenty years in San Francisco’s homicide detail. Four hundred and ten murder investigations. The highest clearance rate in the state. He could retire anytime. And some days he thought about it. Dreamed of a fishing cabin in British Columbia, and raising his birds. But no matter how he looked at it, he could not get his head around the idea of hanging it up. He needed the job. It was how he defined himself. Yet, he knew it wouldn’t last forever. Nothing does.
His wife. His old man. His job. Now Cliff.
Sydowski had investigated the deaths of police officers. Some were his friends. But nobody this close.
In the coffee room that afternoon, Cliff had patted his shoulder. “My best to your old man. See you tomorrow.”
In the Upper Market, Sydowski and Turgeon came upon a knot of radio cars, their flashing lights painting the rubberneckers who’d crowded at the yellow scene tape cordoning off Hooper’s house. As he stepped from the car, it dawned on Sydowski: Cliff’s girlfriend was Molly Wilson, one of the Star’s crime reporters. He pulled out his notebook and started a case log as he and Turgeon approached the first officer on the scene, who briefed them from his own notes.