Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  Ray Beamon’s picture was in his breast pocket and it felt as if it were burning a hole through his heart.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  That same morning Molly Wilson was in a taxi bound for the Hall of Justice.

  She’d called Ray Beamon at the homicide detail and was told he was in court. After passing through the security check she searched among the lawyers, prosecutors, and cops for someone she knew to point her to the trial he was on.

  “That would be in Judge Ortiz’s courtroom, the Jennings case,” a tall man with a baritone voice said.

  “Thank you, Judge Larredy.”

  Molly studied the docket. Jennings was on the next floor. It was thick with police, D.A. people, public defenders, bleary-eyed relatives of victims, and suspects looking confused, dazed. Shrader from Homicide, who was sitting on a bench, looked up from the sports section he was reading.

  “Hey, Molly. How you holding up?”

  “Doing the best I can. Is Beamon in there?”

  “Yeah. He should be coming out now.”

  Two other detectives, Fred Keeler from Robbery and Donna Beckwith from Vice, approached her as the courtroom doors opened. Gonzales stepped out with Beamon. Both men nearly halted when they saw Molly.

  “Ray, do you have a second?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He put his hand on her shoulder, then turned to his colleagues. “I’ll see everyone later.”

  “Take care, Ray,” Beckwith said.

  Beamon led Molly far down the hall to a bench out of hearing range of the other detectives. “Is everything all right?”

  “We have to talk.”

  “Listen.” Glancing around, he kept his voice low. “There’s nothing to talk about. You made it clear there’s nothing for us. I apologize for last night. I was in bad shape. I have to get going.”

  “No, wait.” She yanked hard on his wrist, taking stock of the detectives down the hall. “I want you to give me some answers.” She was not going to back down.

  “Fine.”

  At first she wanted to ask him if he’d hung around her place last night. But in the sober light of the Hall, it now seemed less important than what Beamon had said to her last night.

  “You told me Cliff knew about us. How did he know?”

  “Molly, this isn’t the place for this.”

  “I deserve an answer and I want it now.”

  He stared hard at her, his eyes narrowing like they did the other night. Beamon considered her question for a long tense moment.

  “I told him.”

  “You told him.”

  Letting it sink in, Beamon looked down the hall, knowing the others were watching.

  “But why? I don’t understand. Why would you tell him?”

  “I had to. Trust me. I had to.”

  “Why?”

  “On that day, Hooper’s last day, he bumped into Arnold Desfor, a retired San Jose cop here at the Hall. Desfor told Hooper that a few weeks earlier he’d seen me with you at the hotel restaurant along the peninsula. You know, the weekend Cliff was out of town. Desfor said that he’d come over to our table but we’d taken the elevator to the rooms. He told Hooper about everything.”

  Molly’s mind spun.

  “If this happened on Cliff’s last day--and you talked to him about us--it had to be just before--” She turned to him as a horrible question swirled in her stomach.

  “Cliff took Desfor’s news real bad.”

  “I told him I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship.”

  “But he was. That’s why he took Desfor’s news so hard, because it was you and me.”

  “When did you tell him?” Beamon grew uneasy.

  “I have to go. I’ve got to sort things out.”

  “But when exactly did you tell him?”

  Beamon rubbed the back of his neck and blinked at the ceiling.

  “I can’t talk about this now. I have to decide things.”

  “What things? What happened when you told Cliff about us?”

  “Jesus, don’t do this. Don’t do this here.”

  “The other night you said, ‘Sydowski’s going to come after me.’ Ray, what does that mean?”

  “I was upset, I was drinking. I’m sorry.”

  “Tell me what happened when you told Cliff about us. You told me you took risks. What risks? Tell me.”

  “For chrissake. We’re in this together. So just stop and think. Don’t do this here, goddammit.”

  “Jesus, what did you do?”

  Beamon didn’t answer. He walked to the elevator, leaving her alone. Molly looked down the hall at the detectives and considered telling them everything.

  Now.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Ray Beamon’s socket wrench clicked as he tightened his Barracuda’s spark plugs.

  “Excuse me, Inspector?”

  The clicking stopped.

  Beamon adjusted his head around the car’s raised hood. Tom Reed stood at the entrance of his garage. Beamon eyed him. He didn’t like this.

  “Sorry for showing up unannounced, but you’ve been hard to reach lately. You didn’t return my calls.”

  “I really don’t have anything to tell you.” Beamon went back to working under the hood. The clicking resumed.

  “Just a few minutes for a short interview, Inspector, please?”

  The chinking of metal against metal underscored Beamon’s silence.

  “You must have some theories. A story might yield a critical tip.”

  Beamon weighed everything. Tom could’ve been sent by Molly. Even Sydowski. He didn’t know what Tom knew. Beamon thought maybe he could turn things around. Use an interview to put a few small things right, maybe make a slight alignment. It might be okay, if he kept his guard up, kept things natural. He tapped his wrench in his palm.

  “I don’t know much,” he said, “and what I might know, I might have to hold back for the case, understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Okay, a few questions.”

  Tom pulled out his mini-cassette recorder. After testing it, the two men leaned against Beamon’s Barracuda.

  “Tell me about that last day. Walk me through it.”

  Beamon’s summary of the day got him talking, but when he indicated he wanted to wrap things up, Tom brought out his most important questions.

  “So who do you think wanted your partner dead?”

  Beamon’s head snapped up.

  “I sure as hell wish I knew, because if I ever caught the guy who did it, I’d put one in his head. I’d kill him. No question.”

  Beamon read the surprise on Tom’s face.

  “Those are pretty strong words. Do you stand by them?”

  Beamon let a long moment pass, then looked at the cassette, seeing the tiny reels on the recorder rotating, knowing that he couldn’t take back what he’d said.

  “I do,” Beamon said. “I want to know who did this. I’ve thought about it over and over. Who would want to kill Cliff? Why? It makes no sense.”

  “What do you make of the fact OCC and Management Control showed up in the detail shortly after Hooper’s homicide? Isn’t that odd?”

  “Yes.” Beamon was careful. “It puts a cloud over things.”

  “There’s the impression, or suspicion, that Hooper was involved in something corrupt and that his murder arose from that.”

  Beamon shook his head.

  “No way. Cliff was a decorated, decent, honest police officer.”

  “What about a vendetta from an old case?”

  Beamon doubted it. Tom pressed him to reflect on some of their worst cases, including ones he and Beamon had worked on while in other details like Robbery and Narcotics.

  “There’ve been threats but those who make a lot of noise never come after you. If someone’s serious, you’ll never hear them coming.”

  Beamon said he knew of no one specifically who’d try anything. Then after letting several moments pass, Tom changed the subject.

  “And what about
the relationship with Molly Wilson?”

  Beamon didn’t move. He looked at Tom as if he’d cocked a gun.

  “What about her? What did she tell you?”

  “How did you get along with her, her being Cliff’s girlfriend and a reporter?”

  “Fine. We all got along fine. Like I said, I know her, like I know a lot of the other reporters who are on the police beat. I also know her because of Hooper. We sometimes went to parties together.”

  “Like friends?”

  “Yes, like friends,” he said, ending the interview.

  Long after Tom drove off and long after the sun had set, Beamon felt as empty as he did when they lowered Hooper’s coffin into the ground. He sat alone on his balcony contemplating his life and the city lights.

  Things were closing in on him.

  He drank some beer, then went back to looking at the pictures Hooper’s sister, Andrea, had sent him. Beamon stared at one of Molly, tracing her smiling face, recalling their time together, never dreaming where that moment would lead him.

  Again he thought of Hoop, out in Lodi by the cherry orchard, then he thought of Molly. His hand shook slightly as he raised his bottle to his mouth.

  God, help me.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Sydowski opened the small fridge in the far end of the homicide detail, selected a bottled water for Molly, then led her to an interview room and opened the door.

  “We’ll talk in here. It’s private. Make yourself comfortable, I’ll get Linda. She’s finishing up in the lieutenant’s office.”

  Molly sat down, twisted off the cap. She knew all about this small, barren room made of white cinder block. It had hard-back chairs on either side of a table with a wood veneer finish. The room was wired to record conversations. Taking deep breaths, she glanced around. She’d felt empty since Hooper’s murder. Now that she feared Beamon was responsible, she was afraid.

  Could she do this?

  These bare white walls. This was where detectives questioned murder suspects and witnesses. Where the truth was pursued with righteous fervor. Not much larger than a prison cell, designed so you could feel the walls closing in on you.

  Molly rolled the water bottle in her hands.

  Sydowski had called her a short time ago requesting she come in. “A few follow-up questions,” he’d said. “Routine stuff.” It had to have arisen from her accosting Beamon at court in full view of the others, she thought, as Sydowski and Turgeon entered. They were carrying ceramic mugs.

  Files were tucked under their arms. Chairs scraped as they seated themselves.

  “Thanks for coming by.” Sydowski leaned forward to study her for a moment. “Anything we can do?”

  Half smiling, Molly shook her head. He slipped on his bifocals and opened his manila file folder, then wet his forefinger and took his time going through pages. Molly forced herself to focus on mundane things: the bottle cap, Sydowski’s watch, his bifocals, the flash of his gold crowns when he spoke.

  “It’s been a while since we took your statement of what happened that night. We’d just like to go over a few areas. Make sure we have a clear picture of everything.”

  She nodded.

  “You’ve said the last you heard from Cliff was when he called you near the end of his shift that night.”

  She nodded.

  “How did that conversation go?”

  “Brief, something like, we’re still on for tonight, right? I’ll see you later at Jake’s. Like that.”

  “How was his tone, his demeanor? Anything unusual?”

  “No. He was upbeat. Nothing unusual.”

  “I want to go over something again. It’s very important.”

  “Okay.”

  “When we talked right after you’d found Hooper, I asked you about your ex-boyfriends and the chances any of them would have been jealous enough to go after him. You gave us some names. We checked them out. Then there is this.” He lifted a page in the file, stared at it for a long time. “You said a lot of jerks contact you because they see you on Vince Vincent’s show, Crime Scene.”

  “That’s true. They write or call.”

  “But nothing stands out?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s go back to ex-boyfriends. Of all the guys you’ve known, not one would’ve had any reason to have a run-in with Cliff?”

  Molly said nothing.

  Without taking his eyes from his file, Sydowski said: “And what about Ray Beamon?” Then he peered over his glasses. “Ever go out with him?”

  Her breathing quickened. Tell him. Now is the time. Tell him everything. She began but the words died on her tongue and Sydowski leaned forward.

  “Don’t hold back on me, Molly.” She blinked.

  “This is the time to get it off your shoulders.”

  She felt something deep inside weaken and fracture.

  “Is there anything you want to tell us?”

  Molly could no longer look into Sydowski’s eyes. Tears fell as she nodded her head slowly, feeling the hard white walls closing in on her.

  “Yes, I dated Ray. Recently.” Molly cleared her throat. “Cliff found out the day he was murdered. I think Ray told him and something happened. Something went wrong.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The creamy morning fog smothering the coastline haunted Sydowski as he drove the unmarked Impala south of San Francisco on Highway 1.

  The Chevy had been tuned up recently and was running quiet. He had opened the windows a quarter of the way, picking up the occasional crash of waves, the screams of gulls, the sounds of things unseen out there in the thick clouds, wrapped in mystery.

  Like the truth about Hooper’s murder.

  He rolled up the windows and finished the last of his coffee as they drew closer to Half Moon Bay. It was cradled between the breathtaking coastline and rolling green hills. It offered everything you’d expect of a small seaside town: art galleries, restaurants, crafts, quaint bed-and-breakfasts, golf courses, motels, hotels, spas, and new resorts, like the Moonlight Vista Hotel.

  Molly Wilson had told them they’d find evidence there.

  The Moonlight Vista was a new two-story Mediterranean-style complex, with two hundred rooms on a cliffside overlooking the ocean. Tall palms bowed over the entrance canopy, their fronds hissing in the breeze as Sydowski and Turgeon entered the darkened lobby. Within minutes a man wearing a blue suit appeared.

  “Eduard Sanchez,” he said after Sydowski and Turgeon showed him their identification. “We spoke. This way, please.”

  Sanchez’s office was dark. There was a state-of-the-art flat-screen computer on one side of his large mahogany desk.

  “You have the warrant?”

  Turgeon opened her valise, unfolded the papers, and passed them to Sanchez. He read carefully, thoughtfully. He turned in his chair to his computer keyboard and began typing, stopping from time to time to consult the information on the warrant.

  Sanchez studied the screen as his printer kicked to life. He retrieved the printed documents, handed them to Sydowski.

  “These are all the charges to Beamon’s room for this date. Room service charges indicate a meal for two people. Breakfasts,” Sydowski said.

  “Yes. Two guests. As you are aware, most hotels don’t require identification of additional guests. Please follow me for the other matter.”

  Sanchez led them to a room behind the main desk that was jammed with monitors, computers, and control panels. Nick Miller, the man in the swivel chair, shook hands with Sydowski and Turgeon. “I’ve got what you want here. Watch number 12.” Tape was rolling at high speed.

  “We watch the lots for car thefts, accidents, you name it. The pool. All entrances, exits, lobbies, common areas. Elevators and hallways. We archive the footage for one year. We get all kinds of claims, ‘I slipped in the hall, I’m suing,’ or, ‘Our kids never destroyed the paintings in your hotel hallway, prove it.’ It’s in the fine print that we monitor all public common areas for security. Most places do.”<
br />
  The tape on monitor 12 stopped blurring.

  “The hallway where your subject was a guest at the time of check-in.”

  Sydowski and Turgeon watched a clear color recording of Ray Beamon, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, entering the room with Molly. She was in shorts and a T-shirt. No luggage. Several hours after that, Beamon and Molly exited. Sydowski checked the restaurant receipt. The time fit with credit card records.

  The tape raced. Miller stopped to show them returning to their room. The tape raced again. Time blurred. Miller slowed it to show a staff member dropping copies of newspapers at doors. A few hours later Beamon’s door opened and Molly wearing only a loose-fitting white robe emerged. As she bent down, her breast spilled out and she pulled the robe tight, laughing. Behind her, bare-chested and wearing only a towel around his waist, Ray Beamon playfully pulled Molly back into the room.

  “Stop it right there,” Sydowski said.

  There it was. The image of Molly bent down, the robe barely covering her. Her attractive smile, her tousled hair, and behind her Beamon, his broad chest with forests of hair, wearing only a towel, his hands gripping Molly’s hips. It burned into Sydowski’s gut. He saw disgust on Turgeon’s face as he popped a fresh Tums into his mouth and bit down on it.

  “All right,” Sydowski said.

  After they’d finished viewing all the tapes they seized them, thanked Sanchez and Miller, then left.

  Outside, they didn’t go to the car but went to the beach, stopping to lean on a large rock warmed by the sun. They looked out at the ocean as the surf rolled in and gulls cried.

  “You know, I thought I knew Ray,” Turgeon said. “I thought we were family. I got to like Molly, too.”

  Sydowski’s face hid his overwhelming sadness.

  “That tape of them in the doorway.” She stopped. “Why? Was this all about jealousy? Sex?”

  “We’ve seen people do worse for less.” Sydowski shook his head, unconsciously detecting other birdsongs, terns, and whimbrels, sounding like a requiem over the rush of the sea.

  “You know they sat together at his funeral. They dropped roses on his casket,” he said.