by Rick Mofina
“What the hell are you doing?”
The hands withdrew.
“I’m sorry, this is not what you think.”
“You were going through my things. I’m calling the manager.”
“No. Please. It’s not what you think. Let me show you.” The maid’s hands plunged into Layne’s clothes, sifting, until she produced a tiny bottle of the motel’s shampoo. “See? I forgot to leave one here when I made up this room. I came back, it slipped from my hand and fell into your bag.”
She was in her mid-twenties, a little overweight, had ill-fitting clothes, stringy hair, bad skin, and a bruised cheek. A sad case. Still, Layne didn’t believe her. She picked up the phone.
“I’m calling the manager.”
“No, please. If I lose this job, he’ll hit me again.”
“Who?”
“My boyfriend.”
“Cry me a river, hon.”
“I’m begging you. Please. Please listen.”
Layne held the phone on her hip, letting the maid plead. “I’ve got a kid, a little girl, and I’m leaving him. I got two jobs. I’m saving up. I got to get away but if I lose this job, I’ll lose my other one too.”
“What’s your other job, pickpocket?”
“Cleaning the sheriff’s office at night.”
Layne replaced the phone in its cradle.
“You clean the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s office here?”
“Yes.”
Layne hit on an idea. “You know all about the body in the desert?”
The maid nodded.
“What’s your name?”
“Lucy.”
“Lucy, I won’t call the manager.”
“Oh, thank you.”
“If you agree to the deal I’m going to offer you.”
“What sort of deal?”
It was simple, really. Nothing illegal or even wrong, Lucy kept telling herself that night as she began cleaning the sheriff’s office. Layne just wanted a few minutes to go through the trash and recycle bins. Stuff that’s already garbage, Layne had reasoned. But if she found anything useful, then she’d forget about the misunderstanding in her room and she’d give Lucy six hundred dollars in cash for her help. It would go toward that dealer’s course in Las Vegas and a chance for Lucy and her daughter at a new life. No more searching luggage for loose cash.
Lucy began her routine. First she checked to see if they had any customers in the cells. Thankfully, they were empty tonight. Next, she watered the plants. Then she began cleaning up the coffee station, which was messier than usual given all the extra detectives in on the big case. She began humming “Suspicious Minds,” her favorite Elvis song, while scrubbing the sink, but stopped when she heard a knock at the door. It was Layne.
“We’re alone,” Lucy said. “You’ll hear the police radio and the highway patrol going. It’s an hour before the deputies’ shift change.”
Layne took stock of the small office. Lucy had lined up several recycle baskets on a meeting table. Layne began a flurry of paper rustling, finding highway traffic reports, court schedules, notices on changes to state legislation, county regs. Absolutely nothing relating to Ann Reed’s case.
In what looked like the boss’s office, Layne found vacation schedules, memos on equipment, memos on new pension matters for county employees. Nothing to give her a jump on the story.
She went to the trays for the fax machines and computer printers.
Nothing. Her heart sank when she saw a shredder. That’s what they did with the important stuff. Layne bit her lip. She could switch on some computers. Forget that, too risky.
“Find anything?” As much as she wanted Layne to leave, Lucy was secretly counting on the money.
“Nope.”
Both of them held their breath when one of the fax machines beeped to life just as the headlights of a car shot into the office.
“It’s a deputy.” Lucy opened the back door and Layne stepped outside.
Brad Roup, the rookie Baker deputy, breezed through the front.
“Hi, Brad.”
“Hey, Lucy. Looks like they left you quite a mess.”
“No problem. Everyone’s been busy.”
“Thought I had extra flashlight batteries in my car. Wrong. Hey, what’s with the fax machine?” Roup went to it, his utility belt making leathery squeaks, keys jingling.
“I don’t know. It just started beeping. I didn’t want to touch it.”
“Out of paper. No biggie.” Roup refilled the machine, pressed a reset button, then began rummaging through desks. “Batteries. Batteries.”
“All quiet out there, Brad?”
“Yup. Here we go.” Roup found batteries and began loading them into his flashlight when the fax machine came to life extracting pages. Roup, still loading his flashlight, bent over the tray to read the information.
“Something wrong, Brad?”
“Naw. It’s the latest specialized investigations stuff on the big case south of DV Park. Just spit out an extra copy for us. I’ll leave it with the boss.”
Roup grabbed it, put it on the supervisor’s desk, then took a call on his radio. California Highway Patrol wanted to meet him for coffee.
“Remember to lock up now, Lucy. See ya.”
After his lights disappeared, Lucy let Layne return. She photocopied the fresh report from the fax machine, sat down, and began flipping pages, not believing what she was reading. “We’ve got an exclusive here.”
“I’m not sure you should—” Lucy stopped at the sight of the cash Layne pulled from her purse.
“Hold out your hand.” Layne piled twenties in Lucy’s palm, stopping when she’d counted to six hundred dollars.
Layne went out the back door and hurried to the motel to wake Cooter and show him the report. Once he’d read it, they checked out and set off for an all-night drive to San Francisco.
“Tia, I had it all wrong,” Cooter said as they drove. “Without a doubt, you own this story, babe. Did you ever talk to Seth, see what he wanted?”
“He said that the numbers were so good on our first exclusive, William Banks feared we’d go elsewhere with our next one. So the show will double our fee for each additional exclusive on the story.”
“Double! Hot damn, Tia. Then this is it!” Cooter slapped the stolen report on her lap.
“Yes, when we get Tom Reed’s reaction on camera, we’ll have it”
Layne gazed into the desert night, feeling the words, the details and facts of the report hot on her lap. She couldn’t bear to read it again. God, the unspeakable horror Tom Reed’s wife faced out there in her final moments. Then Layne thought of another sixty thousand dollars and hated herself for smiling.
23
At home Reed lay on his bed running his fingers over Ann’s robe.
Dread hammered inside his chest so hard that he knew he was losing his grip. Something had fractured, was going to shatter, something that could never be repaired. His fingers began tightening on the pink terry cloth.
Be strong.
Reed picked up the phone and called Ann’s mother, working to move the words from his mouth, not letting go of Ann’s robe.
“I’m back, Doris.”
“Was it Ann?”
“There was a body. It’s at the coroner’s office. They’ll let us know when they’ve confirmed identification.”
He couldn’t believe he’d said the words.
Ann’s mother gasped.
“Doris, I need to be alone at the house just now, I’m sorry.”
“I know, Tom.”
“Are the counselors with you and Zachary?”
“Yes.”
“Please don’t tell him anything yet. I’ll do it. I’ll join you there as soon as I can. There are some things I have to do now, then some things we need to do together.”
“Oh, Tom.”
“I know.”
Reed hung up, released Ann’s robe, stroked it, then looked at the ceiling and swallowed until he f
ound the strength to stand. Exhausted, he moved through the empty house like a man sinking in a black ocean. Most of the detectives had been reassigned, or had afforded Reed some privacy by waiting in their cars, or in the rear yard where earlier Sydowski and McDaniel had dropped him off, out of sight of the cameras in front.
“Tom, you must be prepared for the worst, brace yourself for it,” Sydowski had said.
Reed knew from all of his years of crime reporting that’s how police, who always knew more than they revealed, alerted the relatives of victims, to psychologically move them toward the horror before they drew back the curtain. “Nothing’s been confirmed, but you should prepare for the worst.”
Reed knew.
Leaving the bedroom, he went to Ann’s small office in the house and sat at her desk. He saw her pen, her business stationery, saw her handwritten calendar notes, meet distributor, then Zach’s scout meeting and charity dinner. He traced his fingertips over the words she’d written.
The San Bernardino County Coroner, their SID people, had Ann’s medical records, and the list of her personal items, her mauve suit, her pearl earrings, necklace, watch, her silk blouse, her shoes. They were checking it all against the scene and the TV footage. The FBI again confirmed no calls had been received from her or the suspects. Her cell phone, her bank and credit cards, had not been used. There was nothing to hope for other than to pray she did not suffer, had not been in pain. That they hadn’t—Stop it.
He glanced at the pamphlet Marv Gutteres, the San Bernardino detective, had handed him before he left Baker. Crumpled and creased because he had jammed it into his pocket. Reed smoothed it. It was from the coroner’s office and explained procedure. Reed glimpsed, We extend our deepest sympathy to you at this time.
Keep moving, he told himself. He reached for the Yellow Pages on Ann’s desk, plopped the book in front of him, and flipped through the Fs. Flooring, Furniture, back, Funeral.
Funeral.
It came upon him, crawling through his insides, scraping out his soul.
Ann is gone.
In the street the news-people waiting in front of Reed’s house were bored. The officers in the marked patrol unit were discussing the 49ers and the Giants with some of the TV guys. No one noticed the dirty four-by-four that rolled to a halt a few doors down.
Tia Layne stepped out, crushed a cigarette under her shoe waiting for Cooter to grab the camera from the rear, check its battery, slam in a fresh tape, do a quick balance.
Layne opened her mouth to three quick pumps of breath freshener. She grabbed her hand microphone and her file. “Ready, Cooter?”
“Let’s go.”
Hearing the doorbell, Reed lifted his head from the Yellow Pages, rubbed his eyes. He didn’t move, hoping whoever it was would go away. The bell rang a second time.
Reed opened the door to a woman, and a man who was squinting behind a camera lens aimed at Reed. He recognized the woman and the look in her eager face. Something cold and terrible passed between them.
She was that reporter from Worldwide News.
“Mr. Reed,” Layne began.
Reed shook his head, closing the door. “I’ve got nothing to say right now. Please leave.”
“Tom, just a statement on the confirmation from San Bernardino.”
“What?” The door stopped. “Nothing’s been confirmed.”
“Yes, it has.”
“No. No one’s told us yet. We have nothing official yet.”
“I have it.”
“You have it? But—”
“It’s been confirmed. I’m sorry but it is your wife.” Reed’s eyes drilled into hers.
“Here.” Papers rustled as she handed them to Reed.
“What’s this?”
“A police report. I’m sorry. You have my sympathies.” Standing there, his face unshaven, hair messed, eyes reddened, shirt untucked, he began reading the words under the San Bernardino County letterhead, a summary by the homicide detail on the discovery by Jill Fuller, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, of unidentified female human remains. His pulse began galloping at the list of items that matched Ann’s—mauve suit, silk blouse, pearl earrings, necklace, shoes; then the pain burning inside him began raging as the next phrases screamed at him.
Indications of violent sexual assault...victim’s head and hands removed. Not located at scene...
Jesus God Almighty. Reed’s heart stopped.
“Do you have a statement, Tom?”
His legs were weakening, he stepped back as if he’d been punched, gripping the door.
“Tom.”
Spotting Reed at the door, the other news-crews were approaching, cameras were hoisted onto shoulders. Reed retreated into his house, slamming the door shut, his back thudding against it as he slid to the floor, everything going black.
Through the door, the small press pack heard an anguished groan. The youngest-looking reporter among them, a twenty-something with traces of acne, turned to Layne.
“What was that? We miss something?”
Layne gave him a half smile, then walked back to her four-by-four with Cooter. When they were alone inside, she exhaled, then lit a cigarette.
“Looks like we’ve nailed another exclusive, Cooter.” He said nothing. He just stared at Reed’s house.
Layne let go a stream of smoke, then reached for her cell phone to alert New York.
24
Reed rubbed his face and the memories swirled.
That night on the campus after taking Ann to see Casablanca. Her brown eyes in the moonlight after he kissed her. For the first time. Then on their wedding day. Then in the delivery room, kissing her as she held Zach.
Then the other morning.
Seeing Ann in her suit, looking good, smelling so nice. He was reading the paper, eating an orange. She grabbed his chin to turn his head to hers before she set out for the day. She rubbed his whiskers. “Good luck telling them at the paper and don’t forget to shave, pal.” An extra moment in the good-bye; then she added, “I love you.” She kissed him. For the last time. I love you. For the last time.
No. Not for the last time. Please. She was fine. This was a dream. A wild dream. It just seemed real. Like the report in his hands. Felt so real, man, it was scaring the hell out of him. He had to shut this nightmare down. Reed got to his feet. Only one friend could help him now. That was J.D. He rubbed his lips. Find him because this was a bad one.
These papers in his hand were so real and their words were eating into his heart. J.D., it hurts bad, you gotta help me.
Reed went to a top shelf in the bedroom closet. So high, Ann needed the chair to reach it. He rummaged through it, knocked things over, magazines, old papers, Ann’s old cassette tapes, hats, old purses. Ann smiled at him from the old snapshots spilling from the photo albums. Opening her first store. Stop it. Painting the nursery. Stop it. Hands searching, reaching into an old purse. Nothing there. Ann with her arms around Reed and Zach. Laughing. Come on. Fingers feeling inside a canvas bag until he gripped his neck. J.D. Old friend. A hidden bottle of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Sipping Whiskey.
The report fluttered from his hand as he caressed the label, the glass, while sounds and images exploded in his brain. Ann in the wheelchair. Gunshots. Muzzle flashes. Voices on the police tape. Ann’s plea searing him.
Please. Don’t, just please!
Seeing them lift the dirt-covered corpse in the desert.
God, help me. Pull me out of this. The images, the sounds from the tape. Ann’s pleading, piercing him, making his ears ring. The phone. The phone was ringing. Thank God. It’d wake him up. It’d end now. The ringing continued. Reed was underwater, swimming to the ringing phone. Wake up. You’re supposed to wake up now, damn it.
“Dad?”
His son’s voice staggered him.
“Dad, are you there?”
Reed couldn’t wake up. Why? Jesus, wake up!
“Dad, please answer me.”
Reed’s words crashed together in his throat co
ming out in a liquidy bubble. “I’m here, Zach.”
“Dad, when are you coming to Grandma’s to get me?”
Reed’s fingers tightened on the phone and the bottle.
“I’m on my way now. I’ll be there.”
“Hurry, please, Dad. I need you here.”
Reed hung up.
His breath came in hot, raw gasps as he hurled the bottle, the glass shattering, its contents blossoming, bleeding down the bedroom wall, dripping like tears from Ann’s nightstand to the floor and the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s report, unable to douse the words burning on the pages.
Indications of violent sexual assault...victim's head and hands removed. Not located at scene.
Sunlight strobed through the steel girders of the Bay Bridge as Reed drove east on the lower deck, a few hundred feet above the blue-green waters of San Francisco Bay.
The skylines that necklaced the Bay Area would never again be the same for him. During his years as a crime reporter Reed had seen every manifestation of evil. In each case he’d edged as near as he could, feeling its power brush against him, enjoying the privileged access of an avid observer while in the secret, darkest regions of his heart, he had thrilled at its touch. Now the karmic wheel had turned full circle on him, coiling around him with a hold so overwhelming that every moment Reed had lived until this point evaporated in the presence of its awful majesty.
Just don’t get too close.
Be strong for Zach, Reed urged himself in Berkeley, after pulling on to Fulton and parking in front of Ann’s mother’s house. He found strength in their presence.
“There’s some place we need to go.” That was all he said to Zach and Doris after a tearful embrace.
Few words were spoken as they crossed the Bay Bridge, taking 101 South through San Francisco. Reed found a classical music station and they listened to Mozart as they continued south on Highway 1 at Daly City.
Columns of sunlight shot through the clouds above the ocean as they rolled along the coastline of the peninsula beyond Sharp Park, passed Pacifica, the curling highway hugging the coast. Then somewhere after that, Reed stopped at a quiet stretch of beach and shut the car’s engine off.