by Rick Mofina
“No.”
“Then I will.” He shook his head. “I don’t hold it against you. I mean, two of your own.” Williams bit his bottom lip. “How’s Molly doing?”
“This isn’t a social call,” Sydowski said, passing Williams his card. “Fax over the information as soon as possible. Until then, your name stays on the list.” Williams looked at the card as Sydowski added, “I understand the press is sniffing around Molly’s old boyfriends.”
That should speed things up, Sydowski figured on their way back to the Hall of Justice. During the drive Turgeon reviewed their progress on the list. Glazer was on location with a film in Toronto where he’d been for the last four weeks. Toronto police confirmed it. Cecil Lowe and Pete Marlin were on assignments and wouldn’t be available for at least a day. It was going to take longer for Steve Murdoch. He was in town during the murders. But he was now flying over Europe. Duane Ford and Manny Lewis had been cleared. Yarrow was out of town and, so far, unreachable.
When Sydowski and Turgeon returned to the detail, a padded sky-blue envelope from Breaking News of the World Inc. was waiting on his desk.
“Vincent’s producer from Crime Scene sent it over,” Gonzales said. “She said it’s a cassette tape, volume one, of nut-bar voice mails left for Wilson on the show. She’s got more material coming for us later.”
Impressed, Sydowski raised his eyebrows. The producer sent a data sheet with dates, numbers, times, call durations. He collected his tape player and the information and went to the interview room.
“Coming?” he asked Turgeon. “There’s only a few.”
“Let me get my muffin.”
The tape hissed, then began with call number one, which started with a long silence before a male voice said: “Yes, this is for Molly. I watched you the other night and I just want to say that you’re a coldhearted bitch. You’re such a bitch. The way you just sit there so smug. If you were my girlfriend, I’d slap you, you bitch!”
Turgeon glanced at Sydowski, shaking her head. The next message echoed as if the man were calling from a cave. “Ms. Wilson, uh, yes. Enjoy the show...but one thing, uh, yes, you ever wonder, I mean really think about what it’s like to off someone? I mean, uh, yes, kill them? You and Vinnie talk about crime so much, but do you have any concept of what it feels like to kill, to end a life? Yes, uh, just wondering...maybe you should address this on the next program.”
Sydowski’s face revealed nothing as the third one began.
“This is for Molly. Why haven’t you called me!” the caller was screaming in a voice that was hard to identify as male or female. “You’re such a lying whore! You sit there and I watch you and I beg you to call because we belong together. And don’t you lie to me, you know it too! But you don’t call! You’re such a lying little whore who should be taught a lesson. Maybe I should come down there and instill in you some respect! An appreciation for decorum! For human dignity! You lying, cheating--”
The tape ended.
Sydowski was motionless, thinking.
“We’ll get General Works to run the numbers down, get names and addresses. Background. Meanwhile, we’ll get Molly to listen in case she recognizes any of these heroes. Frankly, I don’t think our guy is among this selection.”
Sydowski’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten all day.
After finishing with the tape he went downstairs to the cafeteria and grabbed an orange, sat down, and began peeling it while reading over his notes. Peeling helped him think. He wanted to go back on his driving records, check for Frank Yarrow in Kansas and Missouri. Molly thought he was from Kansas City, possibly even Denver. Better query Colorado too. And call Yarrow again, he decided, tossing his peelings into the trash.
Sydowski’s check for driving records had produced three hits for Frank Yarrow.
One Frank A. Yarrow in Joplin, Missouri, aged eighty-two.
One Frank Traynor Yarrow in Golden, Colorado, aged twenty.
One Frank F. Yarrow in Lawrence, Kansas, aged seventy-four.
Sydowski looked at the ages, sucking air through his teeth. No way is my Frank Yarrow among this trio. He went back to his notes. Molly had passed him a cell phone number for Yarrow. When he had tried it before, it rang about eleven times, unanswered. Might as well try again.
Illinois area code. Sydowski noted that, dialed, and waited. It rang once. Twice. Three times, then--
“Hello?”
“Mr. Yarrow? Frank Yarrow?”
“Sorry, he’s out at the moment, can I take a message?”
“Oh, any idea when he’ll be back? I need to reach him.”
“I think he’s in Costa Rica on business. Been there for a few weeks. I expect he’ll be back in another week or so. Who’s calling?”
“It’s an old friend. I’ve been trying to reach him. Who’ve I got?”
“Len. Frank’s partner. Can I help you or take a message?”
“No. I’ll call again.” Sydowski circled the area code. “Are you working out of Chicago?”
“No, I’m on the road right now. Somewhere in Texas or Oklahoma.”
“I see, and how’s business going for you guys?”
“Oh, not too bad. Could always use more, you know how it is.”
“Sure do. Look, I’ll call again real soon.”
That was an odd conversation, Sydowski thought, after hanging up. He made several notes. For starters he wanted a trace on that cell phone number.
FIFTY
Across San Francisco, Frank Yarrow studied his cell phone after talking with the stranger who was looking for him.
Who was that guy?
The caller’s number had been blocked. Yarrow had been caught off guard. Hoping the call was from Molly, he’d answered without thinking.
Saying that he was “Len,” and that Frank was in Costa Rica, was quick. But he’d likely blown it. The stranger sounded smart. Said he was an “old friend.” Yarrow didn’t recognize the voice and the guy didn’t give a name. He was smooth. Too smooth. And now he knew about Chicago.
Assume the worst, Yarrow told himself in the shower.
He didn’t know who’d called or how the guy had gotten his number, but he had his suspicions. His ex must’ve somehow put them on to him and they were getting close. He’d likely been sloppy along the way, probably with bank or credit cards. Sometimes he just didn’t think clearly. Old habits die hard.
His mouth went dry.
He forced himself to be calm. Relax. He needed to think now and it was difficult to think. He’d always known that sooner or later they’d pick up on something from Chicago.
And then they’d get the whole story about him.
Things had gone so bad back there. It was just a question of time that they’d lock on to him. But he couldn’t let it happen before he accomplished what he’d set out to do.
Yarrow needed to get through to Molly. Needed to convince her of the deeper significance of their current circumstances. For chrissake, she had to have given some thought to what he’d told her. About what she meant to him. She had to realize, especially now after everything that’d happened, that she needed him as much as he needed her.
He got dressed.
She had to look into her heart the way he did and accept the truth. That they had something once. It wasn’t perfect but it was good and they could get it back and make it stronger than ever before.
It was meant to be.
Why couldn’t she see that?
Why, Molly?
How many ways and how many times did he have to communicate to her that she was not merely the right answer for his crisis?
She was the only answer.
If she would only understand that this was how it was supposed to work for them, then he could fix everything in the past. He could repair all the damage because he’d have her. And once he was secure in her love, there was nothing he couldn’t do.
If she rejected him, then there was only one thing he would do. It was his final option. Yarrow gazed into t
he small framed photograph. A nice shot of him with Molly, both smiling. Happier times. He could make her happy again. If she would only realize it.
Without her he was no one. Nothing.
A zero.
He knew about all the high-powered guys she’d known.
The lawyers, the movie people, the pilots, the federal agents and detectives. How she’d met all kinds because of her profession and her work on the TV crime show. Exciting glamorous stuff. But he also knew her upbringing. Knew she was intelligent enough to accept that it was not the job, but the man, that counted.
A corporate security consultant. That’s what he was doing now. It wasn’t a lie. Not really. He looked across the room at his uniform hanging in the closet. He was an eleven-dollar-an-hour security guard.
Hold on. This was just temporary. He’d done better. And he’d do better again. The important thing was that he was here, close to her. Using all he knew to watch over her, to ensure that she was safe while she considered his proposal and their future together.
He was so vigilant.
At times when he watched her from a distance, it hurt. He wanted to get closer. Molly had to realize that no one needed her more right now than he did.
She was his only hope.
Molly had to admit that she needed him as much as he needed her. She had to understand that together they could get through this.
Yarrow closed his eyes and dreamed of the days when it was good for them. Days when he would take her hand and pull her close. It was a time when he believed he would always be with her and they would live forever. Then his life took a few wrong turns, forcing him on a long, hurt-filled road that led him back to Molly.
It was crystalline to him.
Molly had to see that he would help her through her pain as she would help him overcome his.
She was his answer. Now more than ever.
Yes, the call just now was upsetting. It had unnerved him. They were looking for him because of Chicago. It was such a mess back there. They were closing in and time was running out.
He met Molly’s eyes in the picture.
If time was running out on him, then it was running out on her too.
FIFTY-ONE
After considering the situation all day long, Tom Reed finally decided it was time to offer up a story about the San Francisco Police Department’s suspect list.
He would not publish the names on it.
That’s where he’d draw the line if Irene Pepper pushed him.
On one level it was straight-up reporting of basic homicide procedure. Detectives were going to Molly’s ex-boyfriends and eliminating them as suspects. That was homicide investigation 101.
Most people in the city’s police and press networks knew whom Molly had dated over the years. And if he crafted it carefully, the story would be fine. Solid. The angle would deepen the intrigue once Star newsprint was stained with something like this. He began to write:
The hunt for a suspect in the murders of two homicide detectives is reaching into the ranks of the SFPD, the U.S. Marshal’s Service, the ATF, the FBI and the district attorney’s office, sources have told the Star.
Tom pondered the first draft of his lead. He liked it. After further consideration he recognized how Sydowski had skillfully played him. This story would tick off the agencies named to move fast to get their people cleared, if they hadn’t already. It was an effective way to tighten a key aspect of the investigation while letting the bureaucracy know the homicide detail was pursuing the case with righteous vengeance.
It was also a hell of an exclusive.
Della Thompson read over his shoulder when he finished. “It’s wild.”
“Think so?” Tom made a few adjustments before sending his lead to Acker, who would add it to the afternoon’s story sked.
“Oh yeah. They ought to line that baby on front. You got a nice touch, maestro.”
“Thanks. So how’s Molly?” He reached for his coffee.
“You can find out for yourself tonight.” Thompson bent down and quietly invited him to join others to visit with Molly at her house in Glen Park. “You’re sworn to secrecy.”
“What about Irene Pepper?”
“She knows, but apparently can’t make it. Violet Stewart and Acker will drop by. Simon, Mandy Carmel, Henry Cain, you. That’s it.”
“I’ll be there. I’d like to talk to her.”
After he finished writing his story, Tom called Ann and told her he was going to join some newsroom friends after work.
“That’s fine,” she said. “I’m taking Zach with me to the Berkeley store. We’ll get a pizza and he’s going to help with some inventory.”
“He loves doing that.”
“Did you find out what you wanted to know about roses?”
“The roses. Right. Not yet. Thanks, you just reminded me. I have to make a call. I’ll let you know. Take care.”
He began searching through stacks of newspapers, notebooks, press releases, and outdated police district reports for his map and notes on the flower shops. He was supposed to call back. He found the map. Which one was it? Here it was. He’d drawn a large asterisk beside The Pacific Dreams Flower Shop. Call and ask for Alice. Leeshann was very helpful, his notes said.
He reached for the phone.
“Pacific Dreams.”
“Hi is Alice there?”
“No, she’s not. This is Leeshann. May I help you?”
He explained how he was the guy who’d dropped in a little while back playing that office detective game.
“I remember. Office game boy. You gave us the list, the ‘suspect’ list.”
“That’s me. Did Alice ever get the chance to check it out?”
“I think so. Just a sec. She told me which guy it was. She marked it. Now, where did I put it?”
His fingers squeezed a little harder around the phone. “Here we go. Now wait a sec, what do I get for helping you beat the other team?”
“Depends on if you can help me take it to the next level. We get extra points. But I doubt that you can.” He smiled.
“Try me.”
“What’s the name?”
“Yarrow.”
He circled the name on his suspect list.
“Frank. Frank. We should’ve known it was Frank.”
“So what’s the next level?”
“Well, did Frank walk in or phone in an order? And did he pay with cash or plastic?”
Silence. Tom held his breath thinking he’d lost Leeshann. Then he heard the clicking of a keyboard.
“He phoned it in, but look, I’d be fired if I gave you his card number.”
“I know. Don’t worry. I don’t need his card number. Actually, what I’m looking for is his middle initial.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Are you absolutely sure no one’s going to know?”
“Going to know what?”
Leeshann let a long moment pass. “So is it there?”
“G.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s G,” she whispered.
Tom wrote it down after thanking Leeshann and assuring her that no one would know how she’d helped him.
Frank G. Yarrow. Gotcha, flower boy.
He wanted to learn everything he could about Yarrow and he was reaching for his phone just as Irene Pepper landed at his desk.
“I read your suspect story. Page one wants it.” Tom waited for the problem.
“It’s not bad. Do you have names of the suspects?” she asked.
“Some but not all. We’d be irresponsible to run a partial list.”
“But we’re casting suspicions on entire agencies.”
“No. The story says Molly dated individuals from those agencies and police are going to talk to them. You’re asking for trouble if you publish names.”
“Can’t you go to them and see if they’ll confirm that they’ve been questioned by homicide detectives?”
“Tried t
hat already. No one’s talking. Understandable when you consider the stakes. It’s serious stuff. Look, if you want to hold the story and read about it in another paper, that’s fine with me.”
Pepper bit her lip and thought. Then she reached for Tom’s phone and punched an extension. “Hi, it’s Irene. Let Reed’s story go as is. Right.”
Pepper hung up, then crossed her arms, leaned against his desk, and lowered her voice.
“I understand you might be seeing Molly tonight?”
He nodded.
“I think it would be a good opportunity to nudge her on doing a first-person account for me, now that some time has passed.”
“She knows about your request. I think she’d come to you when, or if, she agrees to do something.”
“Consider it an assignment from me to persuade her to do this.”
Another shot for challenging her, Tom thought after Pepper disappeared. He shook his head and took a deep breath. Then he headed to the counter of the Star’s news library, buoyed to see that Lillian was pulling the late shift. She was twenty-eight with a PhD in library science. The paper’s best librarian for what he wanted.
“Lil, I need you.”
“What do you need, Mr. Reed?”
She smiled, then poised her pencil over her notepad as Tom looked to the left, then right to ensure that no one else would hear.
“I was going to do this myself at my terminal but you’ve got access to more data banks. And you’re better than me.”
“Quit sucking up, buddy.”
“The guy I’m interested in is Frank G. Yarrow.” He spelled the name. “I want to know everything about him.”
“What do you need?”
“Run a shotgun search of all news sources, big and small. All archives. I want any hits fitting him. Anything and everything, like Little League, school science fairs, arrests, car wrecks, cutlines, obits, family tree, military duty. Online newsletters, community papers. Nothing’s too small. The guy should be in the mid-thirties range and might be involved in security of some sort. But don’t limit the search to that.”
“How far back?”
“As far as you can go.”