by Rick Mofina
“When do you need it?”
“I’m going out shortly. So how about for tomorrow morning?”
“Okay. I’ve got to do some filing in the back. It’ll get real quiet later, so I’ll likely finish it tonight.”
“Sounds good. And, Lil, let’s keep this search between us.”
Heading back into the newsroom, Tom chided himself for not jumping on Yarrow’s name sooner. Well, he sure as hell wasn’t going to sit on his hands waiting for anyone to feed him stuff on Yarrow.
He’d launch his own full-court press now.
FIFTY-TWO
Since he’d arrived at Della Thompson’s house in Glen Park, Tom was anxious to talk to Molly alone about Frank Yarrow.
He’d considered pulling her aside but rejected the idea, deciding it would be better to wait until the others left. She might be inclined to open up to him a little without a small audience.
The evening wasn’t what you’d call a party but rather a gathering of trusted colleagues and friends who’d come to support Molly in the wake of the tragic events. The wine, finger food, and inside jokes seemed to help. It was good to see her smile and hear her laugh, Tom thought.
Violet Stewart and Acker left early. As well-respected managers, they kept a professional distance, never discussing rumors about pending corporate strategy, leaving the hard-core gossip for the staffers.
“What I hear is that the corporation’s debt has ballooned and there may be cuts,” Mandy Carmel said.
“That would explain why they’d put Irene Pepper in charge of Metro, the largest news department with the most fat,” Simon Lepp said.
“She’s lethal with the cost-cutting knives,” Tom said.
“Well, when all is said and done, my girl Molly’s going to be just fine.” Thompson patted her knee. “I’ve been screening her messages. Agents have been calling about a book deal when this is over.”
Tom mentioned that Pepper was pushing for Molly to write a first-person story for the Star.
“No way! Save it for the book, girl.” Thompson poured more wine for herself and Molly. “Listen to me. Don’t give it away to Pepper. Take a leave.”
Lepp was taken by Thompson’s home and how she’d gotten it for a steal.
“Your place is a gem. Mind if I take a tour?”
“Be my guest,” Thompson said.
Not long afterward, Henry Cain, a Star photographer, and Mandy Carmel left. As Tom helped himself to another ginger ale, he noticed white roses in a vase near a corner window. Had to be the most recent ones from Yarrow. He was inspecting them when Lepp decided to go, leaving him alone with Molly and Thompson.
Tom wasted no time.
“I’ve got a story on Sydowski’s suspect list coming out tomorrow. I’m not naming people. But mostly all your old boyfriends, the ones you dated for more than a month, are on it.”
Molly said nothing as Tom assured her he was not publishing the names but wanted to review them with her. They discussed the likelihood that Duane Ford, Rob Glazer, Cecil Lowe, Manny Lewis, Steve Murdoch, Pete Marlin, or Park Williams could’ve killed Hooper and Beamon. On the face of it, none seemed a plausible candidate, Tom agreed.
“It could be some head case who’s seen me on the show,” Molly said.
“Do you know who’s been sending you the white roses with these cryptic notes?” he asked, showing her copies he’d made.
Molly poured more wine, looked at them, and shook her head.
“I got so many flowers, and I get strange stuff through the paper and Vincent’s show. So no, not really.”
“I did some checking and I found out. It’s Frank Yarrow. I didn’t recognize his name, but he’s on Sydowski’s list. You know him?”
Molly nodded, then set down her glass and said nothing.
“Aren’t you concerned he could’ve had something to do with the murders? Look at his strange notes and the timing of the flowers,” Tom said.
“I told Sydowski all I know about Frank a long time ago, right after Cliff’s funeral. I told him that he’d come to talk to me.”
“He came to see you after Hoop’s funeral! Jesus! That’s chilling timing. What did he talk about? Did he threaten you?”
“No. Nothing like that. Frank doesn’t even live in California. It was coincidental that he was in town on business. It’s a little complicated with Frank and me.”
“Uncomplicate it for us. Tell us about him.”
Molly cupped her face with her hands and gazed at the small flames dying in the fireplace.
“We were teens in Texas when I got pregnant. It all ended badly.”
This part of Molly’s life was a revelation. Thompson exchanged glances with Tom. After hesitating, Thompson said softly, “You were pregnant?”
Staring at her glass, Molly journeyed back through the years of her life.
“I was seventeen,” she began. “Frank was the father. He wanted me to keep it. I didn’t know what to do. I was torn. Frank and I argued during this whole time. God, he wanted to talk about wedding plans. I was seventeen. He came by my parents’ home one night and picked me up in his truck. Said he wanted to drive to the river to talk but we argued. I started running from him and I fell and I lost the baby.” Molly drank more wine.
“We broke up and moved on with our lives. I went off to college. I think he, or his family, moved around Texas, then around the country. Sometimes he would write and call me. I always put him off. Anything I ever shared with him died years ago on that riverbank. I left it all behind and moved on. We were kids. It was sad. It’s over.”
“So after all these years he comes looking for you in San Francisco at your boyfriend’s funeral?” Tom asked.
“He was in town on business when he’d learned of Hooper’s murder,” Molly said. “Wants to take up with me again. He got divorced recently. He wanted me to consider starting over with him. I told him no, get on with your life. He was just reacting to his divorce. He’s kind of shy and withdrawn. It makes sense that he would send me the flowers with these odd little notes.”
“What does he do?”
“Corporate security consultant or something like that.”
“You’re not concerned that he could be linked to the murders?”
“I really think his problems coincided with mine,” she said. “Frank’s not violent. How would he even know about Cliff and Ray after all these years? He doesn’t even live in California. I told Sydowski all about him. I doubt he’s a serious suspect. It makes no sense.”
Tom looked at her for a long moment as he considered her history with Frank Yarrow.
“Nothing in this case makes sense,” he said.
FIFTY-THREE
Ida Lyndstrum was awakened at her large home in the Western Addition. The green digits on her bedside clock glowed 2:45 A.M.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.”
It had to have been her upstairs tenant with his comings and goings at all hours. She was becoming disappointed with him. He had been so well mannered and quiet. A nonsmoker who kept to himself. A gentleman, really. But he was always trudging up and down the outside stairs to the apartment at such ungodly times.
Don’t you ever sleep, Mr. Night Owl?
Ida had a vague memory of a car door thudding.
She drew back her curtain on the window facing her driveway. His car was gone. It must’ve been him. Where was he going at this hour? My word. Oh, what did it matter? Ida sat up. He had every right to come and go as he pleased, but he might try to be considerate some of the time. If he kept this up she was going to have to speak to him about it.
Ida slid her wrinkled fingers along her quilted bedspread for Clementine’s soft fawn and white coat. But her fat tabby cat wasn’t there. She was likely off prowling, or sulking.
“Where are you, Clemmie? Did Mr. Noisy wake you too?”
In the silence, Ida heard a distinct but distant meowing and immediately knew she was in trouble. Her old house had a sealed-off interior stairway and air duct system. Clementine c
ould slip into the passageway where she occasionally prowled for mice. It led to the upstairs apartment. And judging from the meowing, Clementine had used it tonight. It sounded as if she’d intruded into the apartment and was crying to be rescued.
Ida knew Clemmie would not come back out on her own. She also knew she was a big baby who’d be frightened in the apartment. Her fear would lead to damage, which was the case three years ago.
That had cost her six hundred dollars to repair a tenant’s sofa.
“Oh! Clemmie!”
Ida was forced to break a rule, and likely some sort of law. She grumbled as her feet found her slippers and she pulled on her sweater. She snatched her keys from the kitchen peg, trudged outside and around her house to the backstairs. Her intention was to enter the apartment, scoop up Clementine, and leave.
No one would be the wiser, Ida reasoned, hoping her naughty cat had not wreaked havoc in the premises. After knocking and ensuring that no one was home, Ida entered. “Clementine,” she whispered. “Come here this instant.”
There was no sign of her. Ida heard a meow from the bedroom and switched on some lights. The one-bedroom apartment was very tidy and clean. Ida approved. The walls were bare, save for a nice landscape painting of the coast. A laptop computer on a desk. Some orderly files. A few newspapers set neatly to the side.
Oh, that’s nice, Ida cooed like the grandmother she was, as she bent down to examine a framed photograph of a man and a pretty woman. It was taken some time ago. It looked like her tenant. And the girl looked familiar. Ida squinted, didn’t have her proper glasses.
She straightened and tapped her finger to her lips. Now, why did that woman look so familiar? She was pondering that question when something nudged her from behind. Her breath caught in her throat.
She turned to find her cat. “My Lord! You bad, bad cat!”
Ida collected Clementine into her arms, locked the apartment, and hurried downstairs back into her house. She continued wondering about the woman in the picture for nearly an hour before she fell asleep.
FIFTY-FOUR
Driving home from Della Thompson’s house, Tom was still troubled by Molly’s history with Frank Yarrow. Showing up the way he did at Hooper’s funeral was disturbing. Even if a man were traumatized by a divorce, he’d have better sense than to hit on his old high school girlfriend at a time like that. And the flowers with those cryptic sophomoric notes.
Yarrow was a whack job.
Tom stopped at a red light. The more he considered Yarrow the more it concerned him. He checked the time. It was late but he was too jacked up to sleep. He’d swing by the paper and see if Lil got any hits from her search.
He signed in at security.
“You’re working late, buddy boy,” Lester the guard said.
“Always working, pal. Whether I’m here or there, I’m always working.”
The night desk staff was gone.
The building trembled ever so slightly with the hum of the Star’s big German presses several floors below. The newsroom was deserted except for Josh, the twenty-two-year-old news assistant-slash-intern. He was listening to a portable police scanner and watching From Here to Eternity.
Tom waved as he strode by to his desk, taking in San Francisco’s skyline from the windows at the far end of the floor. At his desk, Lillian had placed a blue library folder on the seat of his chair, with a note that said This is all I could find so far, Lil.
It contained two pages. A printout of a color photo. About a dozen smiling men and women wearing ball caps, jeans, and T-shirts. The credit was the Bryan-College Station Star-Journal. Texas, Tom thought. The undated cutline identified the players as members of the Barner County Sheriff’s Department. Lillian highlighted a name, Deputy Frank G. Yarrow.
Yarrow’s a cop?
Tom studied the team shot and Yarrow standing among the men and women grinning from the back row. Good looking. Tall. Well built. Then he went to the next page, a printout of a short news hit well over ten years old, from the Star-Journal.
BEAUTY FINALIST ALLEGES BARNER COUNTY DEPUTY STALKED HER
STAR-JOURNAL STAFF REPORT
A 26-year-old former Miss Texas finalist has lodged a formal complaint alleging a Barner County deputy sheriff followed her home, then made calls to her after a routine traffic stop.
Stacie Dawnne Lehe, of College Station, was returning from a church meeting Friday, traveling westbound in her 2002 Chevy Blazer on U.S. Highway 190, she said in her statement filed Monday.
Lehe was about 15 miles from Bryan when she was pulled over by Barner County deputy sheriff Frank G. Yarrow. Lehe alleges that after Yarrow issued her a traffic ticket for speeding, he followed her to a mall, then later followed to her home.
Yarrow then telephoned Lehe at her home in College Station the next day, Saturday. He was also witnessed parked near her residence Sunday, Lehe, said in her statement.
Lehe was not available for comment. Nor was Yarrow.
It is believed that Lehe’s vehicle had faulty equipment and Yarrow was ensuring her safety, a spokesman for the Barner County Sheriff’s Department said, adding that Lehe’s complaint was being investigated.
Man, oh man, that’s a heck of a thing, Tom thought. Stalking a Texas beauty contestant. Molly never said a word about her old boyfriend being a cop who stalked pretty women. Tom didn’t care about the time. He had to tell her.
Now.
Tom punched Della Thompson’s number.
FIFTY-FIVE
In the darkness Bleeder slowed his breathing.
His heart was beating so fast, slamming against his rib cage. His ears roared with pulsations so deafening he feared his enemies would overwhelm him.
But nothing happened. Not a single thing.
Because right now, at this moment, Bleeder owned this part of the world and everything in it. Standing as still as a corpse in a darkened corner, he waited a full twenty minutes for his breathing to relax. For his eyes to adjust. For his ears to become attuned to every tick and creak of Della Thompson’s home at a secluded edge of Glen Park.
Molly’s time had come.
Never in his wildest fantasies had he believed it would be like this. This was not what he’d envisioned. But his project had endured so many obstacles he could not risk another. The line of empty wine bottles and glasses on the coffee table assured him that the women would be sleeping the deep sleep of the inebriated.
Bleeder’s senses were tingling beyond his expectations. Excitement shot through him like an electrical current. Look at what he’d accomplished for Molly. He’d eliminated two homicide detectives and left their grieving compadres bewildered. What was their little Boy Scout slogan, “Gold in Peace, Iron in War”? Well, this was war. And check out the graves.
You’re losing. Big time.
No longer was Bleeder the watcher from the shadows. The timid voyeur in the distance. He was the power and the glory. The undefeated champion who’d come to claim his prize.
Get ready, Molly.
Bleeder adjusted his latex gloves and moved down the hall to the bedrooms. Even before he got to Thompson’s door he heard her snoring. He entered her room and stood over her. She was a veritable sawmill. He could’ve dropped a pyramid of wineglasses on the floor next to her bed without waking her.
Carefully, he pulled Thompson’s bedroom door closed after he left.
He glided into the room where Molly slept and crouched beside her. He drew his face next to hers until he felt her soft breathing against his skin. He was ecstatic. His heart swelled as he slowly moved his hand near her brow, aching to touch her, to celebrate this moment with her. He closed his eyes and drank in her aura. His skin and scalp prickled. God, he was enthralled.
Not a moment to waste.
Be right back.
In the kitchen, Bleeder examined the knives in the butcher’s block. He selected a ten-inch chef’s knife. Looked like it had a strong, thick forged blade. The wooden handle was secured with brass rivets and felt good i
n his hand. This would do nicely.
Bleeder returned down the hall to the bedrooms.
Gently he swung Molly’s door shut, then inched toward Thompson’s closed door. He stood motionless, slipping into a trance of preparation. Holding the knife with both hands, he bowed his head.
Swift and sudden fury.
He repeated it like a prayer.
Swift and sudden fury.
He’d use his left hand to seal Thompson’s mouth. Swift and sudden fury. His right hand would drive the blade into her heart with every ounce of his strength. Swift and sudden fury. To the hilt. Swift and sudden fury.
She’d be dead before she awoke.
With the last obstacle cleared, Molly would be his. Bleeder spread his fingers against Thompson’s door.
The instant he touched it the phone beside her bed rang.
Bleeder froze.
It rang again. He heard stirring from Thompson’s bed. It rang a third time and he heard her mumble. Then the rattle of plastic as she groped for the phone.
“What is it?” she said. “Damn it, Tom, do you know what time it is?”
Bleeder stepped back into the darkness and disappeared into the night.
FIFTY-SIX
Short spikes of orange hair shot in every direction like pyrotechnics, embodying the explosion of pain in her head, her bones, her soul.
It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts so bad.
Her knees buckled and she caught herself on a Market Street trash can.
The clonazepam had taken the edge off but its effects had faded long ago. She didn’t have the strength or the will to go back to the clinic for more this afternoon. She craved her stuff. God, she needed it. Snot flowed from her nose, mixing with her tears. Droopy-eyed, she stumbled toward the corner hoping Gator would be there. She barely sidestepped a used condom in a pool of urine. It forced a reflex gag and she fell against somebody in an alley.