by Rick Mofina
DeGroot cleared his throat. “Christ almighty, Walt. We got to find these guys. Got anything on them?”
“Working on it.”
“We got to go flat out on this.”
“Harm, I got a task force meeting coming up. Got to go.”
“Thanks, Walt.”
Sydowski removed his bifocals, rubbed his eyes, then reached for Leroy Driscoll’s file. Car thief. Armed robbery suspect. Murder victim. August and Driscoll. Honored hero. Convicted felon. Later, Sydowski would be witnessing the autopsies on both men.
Inspector Linda Turgeon set a mug of fresh coffee before him. Reading that faraway look in her partner’s face, she attempted conversation to bring him back. “So, Walt, you and Louise getting hitched?”
“Thinking about it. How about you?”
Turgeon sipped her coffee. “Thinking about it.”
Sydowski drank some coffee. It was strong, the way he liked it. “This case delays things. I called Louise. We’re putting Las Vegas on hold.”
“She good with that?”
“She’s got no choice, Linda. Can’t get married alone, can she?”
“Easy there.”
Sydowski popped a Tums into his mouth. That was breakfast. He collected his files. “Time to go to the meeting, Linda.”
In room 400 of the Hall, enlarged photos of August, Driscoll, Ann Reed, a 2003 silver four-door Jetta, Driscoll’s van, and the San Francisco Deluxe Jewelry Store were posted on wheeled corkboards. FBI agents and SFPD detectives from homicide, auto theft, and robbery took places around the table, others lined the wall. Several dozen investigators in all. As information sheets were circulated, Bill Kennedy, Deputy Chief of Investigations, kicked it off.
“The department took a hit on this. It hurts. But until we arrest the suspects we’ve got a deadly situation here. Let me remind everyone in this room that we have concurrent jurisdiction with the FBI. They’ll focus on the abduction of Ann Reed, we’ll focus on the homicides and robbery. We’ll work together on everything. Leo, bring us up to speed.” Lieutenant Gonzales listed major steps taken so far. The SFPD Special Services Unit went to their street sources, the unit in state parole on fugitive parolees was shaking down all avenues. “We’ve got nothing on the two suspects. No prints, not even a composite. No security video. Nothing so far. We hope that will change. We’re checking traffic and toll cams,” Gonzales said.
“We’ve got August’s final transmission, and we’ve got the tape of Driscoll’s last words in the ambulance. He was incoherent and there was a lot of background noise. Voice analysis is trying to clean them up,” he said.
“We’re talking to Driscoll’s parole agent, working through his employers, his associates, inside and out. We got an address but it’s outdated. We haven’t got any clean latents yet from the van, which was stolen out of Fresno.
“Or the plate. Stolen from Bakersfield. Preliminary work at Hunter’s Point shows the cartridges found in the van are the same as the casings found in the store and on the street. The thinking is the bullets recovered from the autopsies will match, which will link the van to the heist and shootings.” None of Ann Reed’s credit or bank cards had been used since the heist.
“She had a large amount of cash in her car at the time. She apparently was en route to make an unscheduled bank deposit from one of her stores that raised money through a sales event for charity.”
Gonzales said robbery detectives were going through the jewelry store’s employee lists for the last several years. They also inventoried the jewels stolen in the robbery to put out on the FBI’s jewel and gem database, which would alert police and jewelers’ associations nationwide.
“The take was above average, nearly one million. They’re going to want to unload this stuff, or it could have been a commissioned job. Either way we need a fix on a buyer pool. Might give us a lead on their destination.”
The FBI was working with ATF, military police, and records on the grenades used. ATF was trying to trace the dead suspect’s weapon.
“Last night we got a lead on the wheelchair. Stolen from a hospital in San Jose. We’re checking with security there,” Gonzales said.
FBI Agent McDaniel left the room to take a call after his cell phone began vibrating on his belt. A few moments later, he returned to the meeting. “Excuse me,” he said, interrupting the discussion. “We may have something.”
“What do you have?”
“Anyone hear of the TV show Worldwide News Now?”
“It’s a new show,” Turgeon said. “Dishes up trash on the stars. Why?”
“Our liaison office at the U.S. embassy in London says the program has footage on our heist.”
“So what,” Sydowski said. “So do all the local stations, I don’t get it.”
“No, not after the fact, Walt, actual footage of the shooting on the street. The whole thing, start to finish. Our people say the show is set to air it.”
Sydowski grabbed one of the room’s phones.
“Who you calling, Walt?” Turgeon asked.
“Our media people. I think this outlet had a reporter at the news conference. Seems to me someone asked specifically about security cameras or amateur video of the suspects.” Sydowski jabbed at the extension. “Damn! We learn about this a day later. I don’t believe it.”
18
Reed woke, clawing his way through the fog of not knowing where he was, then remembering why Ann’s side of the bed was empty and cold. It was his first morning without her.
He sat up, fingers gripping the sheets. Still wearing the clothes he wore when he’d rushed to the jewelry store, he went to the living room, which adjoined the kitchen. Investigators were poring over reports faxed from the case meeting, working on their laptops, talking on their phones. Zach sat before the TV with an FBI agent. Doris was making scrambled eggs. The aroma of coffee was in the air.
Reed braced himself, then said, “Anything?”
“Nothing, sir,” a young FBI agent said.
Reed went to the window, saw more news crews outside, then went to the kitchen. Doris hugged him. He hugged her back.
“Did you get some sleep?” he asked.
Doris ignored his question with what he thought was a chilly wave of resentment. He dismissed it when she said, “Have some breakfast, Tom.”
He wasn’t hungry. Headlines from the Bay Area papers screamed at him from the counter. The heist was the lead item in every one. Huge news pictures. In the Star, Molly’s story ran across six columns. It began:
His assignment was to take you inside yesterday’s deadly jewelry store heist but when veteran Star crime reporter Tom Reed arrived at the scene of a murdered police officer and a dying suspect—
He couldn’t read it.
“Dad.” Zach came to him. “Maybe with all the news, it will help find Mom.”
“Maybe.” Reed put his arm around him. “I’m going to take a shower. I’m really not hungry right now, thanks, Doris.”
Somebody’s cell rang.
“Tom, it’s McDaniel for you.” A female agent held out her phone.
Reed’s stomach tightened. Was this it? Was this the call? “Tom, do you have a VCR?”
“Yes, why?”
“We’ve got something to show you before the whole country sees it.”
The FBI in London had taped the San Francisco heist report from Worldwide News Now, then bumped it to FBI headquarters in Washington. Technicians there fed it to the San Francisco field office, where it was transferred to a VHS tape, which McDaniel inserted into the machine at Reed’s home, then told him what to expect. Reed and Doris had decided to let Zach see it with them. He should know and see what everyone else would see.
The show’s generic intro rolled with a montage of some of the world’s most famous faces, fading to Amanda Christianson, the hostess. She smiled from Worldwide’s glittering set in London.
“Welcome back. Now, our world exclusive report of a shocking tragedy. Somewhere in America the kidnapped wife
of one of the nation’s top crime journalists is facing a life-and-death struggle with the cold-blooded killers of a police officer. The drama began yesterday when jewel thieves launched a commando-style robbery on a San Francisco boutique that left two people dead and sparked an intense manhunt.” Footage of the scene rolled in slow motion next to Christianson’s pretty face. Then Reed saw himself talking to detectives. “But the story takes a bizarre turn as the horror was compounded for Pulitzer Prize-nominee Tom Reed, a newspaper reporter dispatched to cover the robbery. Please be warned, the images you’re about to see may be disturbing. With more, here’s our San Francisco correspondent, Tia Layne.”
The show threw to Layne, standing in front of the jewelry store.
“Amanda, Tom Reed is a newspaper reporter for the San Francisco Star, whose work put him on the short list for American journalism’s greatest award, the Pulitzer Prize. For years he has covered the toughest of all beats, crime on the streets of San Francisco. But yesterday when he rushed from his newsroom to cover this terrible case, he found himself facing the story of his life. One that is still unfolding....” Layne detailed events.
Reed was stunned as the pictures rolled. Ann handcuffed in the chair, the suspects, like players in some freakish macabre production, one popping his handgun at the van, the other rattling his M16 at the officer, the police radio crackling with their voices, their faces disguised in brilliant red and white, Ann’s pleas ripping into him.
The item showed Reed getting Zach at school, the police press conference, news crews keeping a vigil at Reed’s home, the report ending with a fading ghostly image of Ann’s face.
Zach was transfixed. His jaw muscles pulsed. Reed pulled him tighter, his heart breaking for his son. Reed was helpless to protect him. Zach still held the tiny photograph of his mother. Refusing to let go. Refusing to give up.
“This segment airs tonight at 7:30 P.M. Pacific time,” McDaniel said when it ended. “Three hours sooner in the East.”
They played it several more times for Reed in the hope he might notice something the detectives missed. They slowed parts. Froze frames.
“What about their shoes, Tom, anything familiar?” McDaniel asked.
“No.”
“Their walk? Body build? Clothes?”
Reed concentrated but recognized nothing.
“Their voices?”
Over and over, as he had the previous night, Reed listened to the tinny scratchy blasts of conversation. “No. Nothing.”
“Body movements? The wheelchair?”
“Nothing.”
“Is that definitely her car?”
“Yes.”
“Is Ann trying to communicate anything?”
“No.”
After they finished, McDaniel stepped away to make calls. Reed sat alone in an alcove, on a love seat at a bay window overlooking the flower garden Ann tended. This was her favorite spot to read, or just sip tea. She’d wanted to put in more roses. No. Don’t think of her in the past tense. That footage. He wanted to reach into it and pull her to him. But it was futile. How do you fight a nightmare? How do you battle a hurricane? She’s gone. He saw her face, heard her voice entangled with the voices of those who took her. Did he recognize them? He searched his memory but found nothing. He ran his hand over his face. His eyes burned and the flowers Ann had nurtured began to blur.
19
In the San Francisco bureau of Worldwide News Now Tia Layne was typing on her keyboard with the phone pressed between her ear and shoulder.
“I told you. My account should show a large deposit. I called the bank in New York, they’ve assured me the money’s there, but I don’t see it, hon.”
Someone knocked on the door.
“Cooter, get the door,” Layne called out but heard no movement. “I have to go,” she said into the phone. “I’ll call you right back and when I do my damn money better be there.”
Layne slammed down the phone, cursing the bank and Cooter’s absence. She opened the door to Sydowski and McDaniel. They held out their identification. “Can we come in, Miss Layne?” McDaniel said.
She considered closing the door. Instead she swung it open.
The two men positioned two cheap stools in front of Layne’s desk. She lit a fresh Camel and rocked in her chair. “What’s up?”
Sydowski looked her over. “Why didn’t you alert police to the fact you had pictures of the murder of a police officer and abduction of a citizen?”
“Why? Because I don’t work for you, that’s why. Freedom of the press.”
“You cost us twenty-four hours. Critical time that may have saved a life.”
Layne dragged hard, thinking Sydowski wasn’t bad looking for an old fart. She was wondering about his stamina when McDaniel said, “Miss Layne. We’d like you to volunteer us your raw, unedited footage.”
“Would you?” She flicked ash on the floor. “What’s in it for me?”
Sydowski leaned to her. “We don’t go looking up your name on Interpol, your alleged links to organized crime in Thailand. Your acting career.”
“My, my.” Layne smiled. Sydowski was dangerous. She liked that. “The tape’s not my property. Being competent investigators, you’d know that.” She opened a drawer, tossed two business cards on the desk. “You have to call the show in New York.”
Sydowski ignored the cards. “How about I call the DA right now and get a warrant?”
Layne crushed her cigarette in an empty container for take-out food. “There’s a coffee shop around the corner,” she said. “You go there and give me thirty minutes to make some calls.”
“Fifteen.” Sydowski popped a Tums in his mouth. “Then I’ll make some calls.”
After they’d left, Layne grinned as she reached for her phone. This was good, she thought, waiting for the connection to Worldwide's New York office. The cops must have zero leads. She lit another cigarette.
“Mr. Morten’s office.”
“It’s Tia Layne in San Francisco, put me through to him.”
“He’s on another line, Ms. Layne.”
“Tell him it’s me.”
“But he’s on another call, Ms. Layne.”
“Now, please.” The line switched to elevator music. Three seconds of something from a Broadway musical. “Seth Morten.”
“It’s Tia in California.”
“Tia, I just got off the line with London. They loved your item. Networks are already calling. It’s fantastic.”
“Yeah, listen. A couple of Joe Fridays just paid me a visit. They want our raw footage, all the uncut stuff, or they’ll get a warrant. I think I should volunteer it.”
“Why?”
“We can capitalize on this. In my next piece we can say police need our pictures to help solve the crime. It reinforces us as owning the story.”
“Let me call legal.”
“There’s nothing in it we haven’t used.”
“I don’t know. It’s the show’s property. What if it gets leaked?”
“Seth, the police will want to take their time going through it. There’s nothing there. The best pictures are in the piece. If we refuse, they’ll get it with the warrant in a few hours anyway, believe me.”
“All right. My other line’s going. Tia, I’ll talk to legal. You stall the cops, suggest they view it in your office with the promise of all unedited tape after the show airs in the Pacific zone. That should cover us.”
“Fine. There’s one more thing.”
“What?”
“Tell the editors to insert a super of our toll-free tip line for viewers with any information to call us at the end of my item.”
“Why? We’re not a crime and cop show.”
“Do it, Seth. This story’s going to be huge.”
20
Jill grabbed a water bottle and a beer from the fridge, then stepped from her boyfriend Warren’s tent trailer. Tell him tonight, she thought, squinting into the sun sinking over the caravan of four-by-fours that had settled in for the
night at the southern edge of Death Valley, California.
“Thanks. You sure everything’s fine?” Warren touched the can to his moist forehead.
“It was a long haul today. I’m just going to stretch my legs.”
“Where’re you going?”
“I’ll walk for a bit down the prospector’s trail to the old cabin.” Jill held up the map. “It’s not far at all.”
“It’s not. I thought the plan was for all of us to go there in the morning after breakfast?”
“Thought I’d have some alone time.”
“You need to be alone?”
“I’m restless. I’ll get a sneak preview of the cabin.”
He regarded her for a long moment. Whatever was bothering her, Warren realized that he would never pry it out of her, so he resumed preparing chili, his contribution to the group’s potluck campfire dinner. “Be careful, Jill. I think the girls ran over to see the Murrays. If you see them, remind them, we’ll be eating in an hour.”
“Will do. But they’re vegetarians, dear. Remember?” He didn’t return her smile. She pecked his cheek, adjusted her sunglasses, and set out alone, knowing that their relationship had ended long before this adventure to the desert with his daughters.
Jill took a pensive pace along the sandy trail, a miner’s road from the 1890s, snaking through a series of rocky hills at the fringes of the barren Silurian Valley near the Mojave.
What am I doing here? She was a thirty-four-year-old corporate lawyer for a conglomerate in Philadelphia. Never married. Devoted to her work. A fitness freak who held a black belt. A curious soul who loved reading mysteries. Warren was the attorney for a large private humanitarian foundation in Pasadena, ten years her senior and recently divorced, he had told her over dinner in Chicago at the conference where they’d met several months earlier. They commenced a cross-country romance. At times it was intoxicating, with an intensity that had burned itself out. Or had it?