Be Mine

by Rick Mofina

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “What risks did you take for me?”

  She ran after him as he headed for the door. He stopped and turned.

  “He knew.”

  “What?”

  “Cliff knew about us.”

  “How could he? I never told him. I never told anyone. How could he know unless--” She looked at Beamon, unsure of what she was seeing. God, no. Her hands flew to her face.

  “Good-bye.”

  “Tell me what’s going on. Ray!”

  He left and Molly steadied herself against the wall. What was happening? The ghosts of her life swirled around her, like a gathering storm. She slid to the floor.

  She sat alone in silence for the longest time, understanding nothing. What was Beamon talking about? She had to know. She had to force him to explain. She deserved to know. Sitting there, Molly lost track of time until she was exhausted. She collected the cups and began rinsing them in the sink.

  She looked out the window, down to the street, and froze. She clutched the neck of her robe. A man was standing on the sidewalk in the shadow of a tree.

  Staring directly up at her.

  Molly’s skin prickled with anger.

  She couldn’t see him clearly. Couldn’t get a good look at him. Had no idea who it was, but damn it, she’d find out. She’d find out right now.

  She’d had enough of his crap.

  Molly yanked on her jeans and a sweater. She grabbed her pepper spray, personal alarm, and cell phone. Furious, she flew down the stairs and out the front door.

  But when she got to the tree, no one was there.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Bleeder’s heart pounded as he strode down the street away from Molly’s building. By the time he got to his car, his ears were ringing and his head was throbbing. He drove across the Bay Bridge to seek sanctuary, somewhere out of the way where he could think.

  The Dead Horse Bar.

  It was a squat building on a forgotten corner near the edge of Berkeley, a few blocks inside of Oakland. It had cracked weatherworn bricks and windows painted over and barred. Inside, large TVs glowed over the sweeping horseshoe-shaped bar. Except for a couple of sad cases shooting pool, the place was empty. Bleeder took a stool and ordered a beer.

  Relax, she didn’t see you. If she did, so what? She knows you, knows the mask you wear. How could she suspect anything more than a friend watching over her? That’s right. Relax, she didn’t see you.

  But it wasn’t working out the way he’d planned. Hooper was gone, yet Molly was taking too long to grasp the truth. How much longer would he have to wait before she realized the magnificent thing he’d done for her?

  Give her a little more time.

  How much? He yearned to reveal himself to her. He’d been so careful. He’d earned his right to her. Earned it. Be patient.

  Remember how it started with Kyle? Remember?

  Far from perfect.

  In the weeks after Kyle and Rowley had beaten him into a coma, Bleeder had kept his word to take care of everything. By day at school, Bleeder endured the taunts and teasing, which eventually faded with his bruises. As expected, he vanished back into being less than nothing. Invisible again. Only this time he was roiling under the surface. This time Bleeder took control, honing his anguish, meticulously sharpening it into his sword of vengeance.

  At night Bleeder put Kyle under surveillance, as if he were an insect in his personal lab. He studied Kyle’s life away from school, analyzed every move he made. His routine, his habits, his chores, where he gassed his car, where he went for burgers and shakes with Amy. Bleeder probed for points of vulnerability.

  But it didn’t go well at first. In fact, the whole thing almost blew up in his face.

  On the nights he could get his father’s car, Bleeder would track Kyle, study him, and anticipate where he was likely to go with Amy on a given night, at a given time. Like on Friday nights, around nine-thirty. It was Big Duke’s Diner. They’d sit in their booth by the big front window. Amy usually got a shake and Kyle got the works, a cheeseburger, fries, and cherry cola.

  Bleeder would park where the lot lights barely got through the branches of the stand of creaking trees. But he could see them. One night Bleeder watched Kyle leave the booth to go to the restroom. But he’d lost sight of him and he grew anxious.

  Kyle’s face appeared at his door.

  “Bleeder, what’re you doing sitting here all alone in the dark?”

  “Finishing my rings.” Bleeder nodded to the dash. He always arrived early and ordered something to eat while he watched them.

  Kyle placed his hands on the car’s frame and leaned in to Bleeder.

  “Amy saw you.”

  “So?”

  “Says you’re being creepy. Spying on us. She doesn’t like it.”

  “It’s a small town and I’m just sitting here minding my own business.”

  Kyle’s hands moved lower. Bleeder saw Kyle’s big football ring.

  “Yeah, well, get over her. She was just fooling around with you to get at me. Got it?”

  “I got it. She never meant it when she told me you were an asshole?”

  Kyle laughed.

  “That’s a good one. A real good one. I sure had it coming. And, man, I’m sorry if me and Rowley were a little rough on you,” Kyle slipped his hands in his jeans. Laughed some more. “You know, I like you. See, it’s good we can joke. Let bygones be bygones. Be men about this, right?”

  “Right.”

  Kyle’s big right hand shot into the car for Bleeder to accept as a peace offering. “No hard feelings. We understand each other?” Kyle was all charm.

  Bleeder looked at Kyle’s hand, debating whether to shake it. Deciding to take it, he shifted his body to raise his hand. Kyle’s arm vanished to return in a blur, his fist and ring smashing like a steel piston against Bleeder’s left temple.

  Lightning flashed before Bleeder’s eyes and a million volts charged through his brain. He nearly passed out, the punch resurrecting every measure of pain from his previous beating. Kyle grabbed Bleeder by the hair, then leaned into his ear and hissed, “Stay away from us, shithead. Got it?”

  Kyle took Bleeder’s onion rings, then rejoined Amy.

  Bleeder gripped the steering wheel. Breathing evenly, he held on with both hands until his vision cleared. As he sat blinking at the night, everything moved in slow motion. Kyle’s Camaro rumbled by him. Kyle was eating and raising Bleeder’s rings like the victor’s trophy. Amy was grinning pitifully at Bleeder, then gave him a mocking finger-wiggling wave.

  Alone that night in his room, Bleeder put his bandage back on to hide the fresh bruise, telling his mother the next morning that his head had started to hurt again.

  Now, a lifetime later, as he sat in the bar rubbing his temples at those painful memories, Bleeder assured himself that he had learned from his mistakes.

  “Hey, pal,” the bartender said.

  Bleeder shook himself from his thoughts. He’d been staring blankly at the basketball game on TV.

  “I’d like to switch it to the news, if you don’t mind,” the bartender said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Closing time in fifteen, you good with your beer? Hardly touched it.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “Need a cab?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Sure?”

  “Put the news on.”

  A five-car pileup with a tour bus near the San Mateo Bridge was the top local story, followed by a building contract scandal at City Hall, then the next story was an update on Hooper’s case.

  “The murder of San Francisco Homicide Detective Clifford Hooper remains steeped in mystery, but according to a report in the San Francisco Star, the SFPD Management Control Squad, which investigates internal police affairs, has indicated an interest in the case, along with the Office of Citizens’ Complaints... .”

  Bleeder smiled.

  Almost immediately after Hooper’s death, h
e’d arranged for certain dangerous information about Hooper to make its way to Citizens’ Complaints. Didn’t need to be true. Bleeder knew it would cause a stink for the zealots in OCC and MC to go to the homicide detail and mess with them. He knew it would raise the flag of alleged corruption, turn up the heat on the investigation.

  And now it was paying off, bringing him closer to his prize.

  Molly Wilson.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Driving downtown to meet sources the next morning, Tom used his cell phone at every red light to try to contact Sydowski. No luck. He tried Molly Wilson’s home, then her cell. Nothing. He tried a few cop sources knowing they’d go mute because of his story. He was right.

  Damn.

  He sensed something was brewing, something happening on this story. There had to be a way to bust it wide open. Tom had learned long ago from Sydowski that Internal Affairs and OCC’s intelligence usually flowed from two streams: pissed-off cops and the street. He jabbed in a number he kept in his head. It took seven rings before a man’s rasping voice answered.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Tom. Is Lois around?”

  “Hello, Tom. I’ve seen her around, yes.”

  “Is she well?”

  “I don’t think so. Not at the moment.”

  “When she feels better, would you please contact me? I’ve been trying to reach her.”

  “Yes. I will do that.”

  “Thank you. It’s very important.”

  Tom took advantage of the next red light to try another call. Man, it was obvious. Why didn’t he think of it earlier? He’d call Ray Beamon. No one had gone after Hooper’s partner for data, or an interview. Maybe he’d react to his OCC story.

  Before he could call, his phone rang.

  It was Tammy, the newsroom receptionist, and she was whispering.

  “It’s happened just like you said. Irene’s called a meeting on the cop murder but she told Acker not to tell you.”

  “Of course, she’s trying to bushwhack me. When is it?”

  “Thirty minutes.”

  “Thanks. I owe you.”

  The instant Tammy spotted Tom in the newsroom she directed him to the boardroom. Acker, Lepp, and Della were just seating themselves when he arrived. Pepper had her back to them while pouring coffee at the credenza. When she turned to see Tom, crimson rose on her cheeks.

  “Oh, I’m glad someone reached you,” she lied.

  Acker’s attention pinballed between them. Whatever thoughts he had, he kept to himself.

  “All right,” she said. “This will be a very short meeting on the Hooper case to see how we can advance the story.”

  “Hey,” Acker said to Tom, “great piece on the OCC.”

  Ignoring the compliment, Pepper plowed ahead.

  “Della, you’re mining the neighborhood and Hooper’s friends,” she said.

  “Yes, I’m close to putting together a long take on Hooper’s last twenty-four hours,” Thompson said. “From the moment he rose, until Molly found him. I just need to talk to a few more friends.”

  “And, Simon, how are you doing?”

  “I’ve been going through Hooper’s old cases, see if anyone threatened him, gauge his enemies. By the way, looks like you reported on the majority of Hooper’s cases.” Lepp turned to Tom.

  “You find anything?” he asked.

  “A few things but I’m going to need more time.”

  Tom noticed that Pepper was focused on her doodling when she asked him, “And what are you working on?”

  “I’m still pushing the investigation angle. And following my OCC story and I’m working on street sources.”

  Pepper said nothing about Tom’s exclusive story. She’d been drawing circles on her pad, keeping her attention on her doodling. “Where’s Molly? What’s she doing?” she asked Tom.

  “I don’t know.”

  “So you have no idea if she’s working on that first-person account of the night she found Hooper?”

  “No, I don’t think she’s up to it. But I don’t speak for her.”

  Pepper’s eyes went to Tom.

  “Okay, thank you, everybody. We’re done for now.” She stood and opened the door but she closed it before Tom could leave. “I’d like a private word with you.”

  He sat and sighed.

  “What else are you chasing?”

  “I just told you.”

  “You’ve got a direct link in the chair beside you into the heart of San Francisco’s top crime story and you’ve gotten nowhere on it.”

  “What’re you talking about? I’m breaking stories.”

  “Not the stories I want.”

  “What is it? What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to break news on the Hooper murder. I want blistering exclusives that will rock this town.”

  “I’m doing that.”

  “Not fast enough for me.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Everyone had overlooked it except Sydowski.

  It was one of those things he’d filed away. A note he’d scrawled on a canvass report.

  The timing was good.

  Sydowski was alone when he wheeled into Upper Market to a well-kept stucco bungalow bordered by a thick stone wall and the requisite security system. It was three doors from Hooper’s building.

  The residents, a Drug Enforcement Administration Agent and his son, had left for a trip to San Diego the morning after the murder.

  They were back now and expecting Sydowski, who’d called ahead.

  The night Hooper was murdered, the agent’s son was on the street talking about cars with a friend. Neighbors said the son was a “car nut.”

  His name was Ryan. He was in his twenties, well built, and had a small broken heart tattooed on his forearm. He also had a firm handshake, Sydowski noticed when Ryan answered the door.

  “Thanks for agreeing to see me right away,” Sydowski said.

  “Sure.”

  Ryan’s father, a thick-necked man with a brush cut, set fresh coffee on the living room table. Sydowski pulled out his notebook and got straight to business.

  “Before you left, you and your friend were in the street near her house in front of Clifford Hooper’s.”

  “Sounds right.”

  “Did you see anybody, hear anything out of the ordinary?”

  Ryan shook his head. “Like what?”

  “The whole time you guys were out there, did you talk to anybody, see anybody?”

  “Just the Barracuda guy.”

  Without any reaction, Sydowski asked him to elaborate.

  “He comes walking down the stairs from the second floor of the building.”

  “He was on the property?”

  “Definitely. He comes walking out, crosses the road, right by me. I’m leaning against my pickup talking to my friend Nathan and this guy’s walking right by me to his car across the street. A Barracuda.”

  “Did you talk to him?” Sydowski asked.

  “I followed him and asked him about his Barracuda. I have a friend who wants to buy one and this thing was in mint condition. A ’66 Plymouth Barracuda Fastback. That ride purred.”

  “Tell me about the guy,” Sydowski said. “Describe him.”

  “White guy, mid-thirties. Trim build. I’d say he was uptight, the way someone is when they’ve got something serious going on. It was like I shouldn’t have bothered him.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I just asked him if he would ever consider selling because I had a buddy who might want to buy it. I think I asked what he had under the hood. He said it was a V-8, 273 cubic inch, but he didn’t want to sell.”

  “Okay, Ryan.” Sydowski reached into his jacket pocket. “I’m going to show you some photographs. I want you to tell me if you see the man you talked to, the Barracuda guy, among them, all right?”

  “Sure.”

  Sydowski began setting down on the coffee table six color head and shoulder shots of different white males in their
mid-thirties. Ryan leaned forward. Sydowski never needed all six. When he snapped down photo number three, Ryan jabbed it with his finger.

  “Him. Definitely him. He’s the guy.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Sydowski slid the picture into his shirt pocket.

  “And ...” Ryan went to the kitchen, talking from there. “I just remembered something else.” He returned with a slip of paper with a California license plate number. “Took that down for my buddy, to let him know I found a classic Barracuda for him. You can have it.”

  Sydowski copied the number in his notebook, then tucked the slip of paper into the pocket holding the suspect photo. In the car, Sydowski ran his hand over his face and looked to the distance.

  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.”