[Tom Reed and Walt Sydowski 04.0] No Way Back

by Rick Mofina

  “Look who I got for company.”

  John was peering into his black coffee as if it held answers for him.

  “You fellas have a safe trip,” she said. “Cook’s wrapping up your takeout. You can pick it up at the cash.” She snapped the check from her pad.

  After she left, Del started on John again. “You going to tell me what’s really going on?”

  John sipped his coffee and looked beyond the window at the darkness.

  “I want to know, John. You’re taking risks, acting like it’s some kind of game now,” Del said. “My life is on the goddamned line here. You’re pushing it to the edge and I want to know why.”

  “I got my reasons.”

  “You got your reasons!”

  Del’s jaw began pulsating as he stared at John, then began gnawing on a thumbnail. “What’re your reasons?”

  “I’ll tell you when the time’s right.”

  “That might be too late.” Del got up. “I’ll meet you at the truck.”

  John watched him walk across the big parking lot and figured sooner or later he’d have to tell him the truth about why things had changed; make him understand why it had to go down his way. On one point, Del was right, they were putting it all on the line, but it was no game. Not for John.

  He glanced at the headlines before gathering the newspapers and the check, chuckling to himself at the irony. For the first time in his life, he was in control.

  The truck was at a remote dimly lit section of the lot, bordering a wooded rest area with outdoor washrooms. Probing his teeth with a toothpick, Del glanced back at the restaurant and thought of the waitress, the curves of her body, the way strands of hair had slipped from her ponytail, the dark grove of trees where nobody would hear her scream. But there was no time.

  Del spat and kept walking. He faced a bigger problem with the heist as he tried to assure himself that, despite complications, they were going to pull it off. They’d been smart, careful to adjust to things on the run. They’d left no paper trail by using cash. It was dumb luck that lady at the jewelry store had so much. It meant no friction on the road.

  The SUV was obtained through Driscoll’s connection at a parking lot near LAX. The truck’s owner was out of the country on a three-week vacation. They still had sixteen days before it would even be reported stolen. It was John’s idea to get a couple of small magnetic signs for the front doors that read SUPERVISOR, NATIONAL LANDSCAPE SERVICES. Meant you could store just about anything in the back without attracting suspicion.

  Del checked to be certain no one was nearby in the remote area of the lot, then slid the key in the tail door and opened it. The rear had been adjusted to accommodate several items.

  Del took inventory under the huge tarp, pleased that nothing looked out of place among the few large bags of sod, wood chips, seed, large rolls of silver duct tape, canvas bags, shovels, a pickax, chains, ropes, a circular power saw. A close inspection of the sawblade’s teeth would reveal flecks of dried blood, mixed with minute traces of bone and viscera.

  The largest item, a full-sized sleeping bag, was zipped closed. It writhed slightly and issued a muffled whimper, prompting Del to bite down hard on his toothpick.

  “Don’t worry, darlin’. I’m going to get to you. Just like the other one. Only with you, I’m going to take my time.”

  28

  Reed stepped into the elevator at the Hall of Justice and leaned against the wall, unprepared for whatever awaited him as he ascended to room 450.

  Homicide.

  How many times had he taken this ride in pursuit of a murder story? How many times had Ann begged him to quit? He shut his eyes to think clearly. He’d refused Sydowski’s and Turgeon’s offer to pick him up when they called him to come down. He was still angry over the incident with Tia Layne before Sydowski explained that it wasn’t Ann.

  Was she still alive?

  Turgeon was the first to meet him. She was wearing a dark business suit and holding an empty mug. “I’m getting fresh coffee, would you like one, Tom?”

  “No.”

  Turgeon offered him the chair next to the metal desks where she worked alongside Sydowski. The same creaky chair where he’d sat so many times and pumped them on someone else’s tragedy.

  Sydowski was on the phone, leaving Reed to take stock of the homicide detail, a place of battle. He reflected on the city’s motto, Oro enpaz, fierro en guerra. Gold in peace, iron in war. The filing cabinets, the shelves laden with binders, the walls papered with memos, notices, lookouts, clippings, some with his byline. It was as if he were seeing it all for the first time. A dark jacket matching Sydowski’s pants was draped on Sydowski’s chair. His desk was cluttered, there was a fanned poker hand of phone messages. He hung up.

  “Sorry, Tom. Let’s go in an interview room where it’s private.”

  “Whatever you have to tell me, you can tell me here.” Reed drew looks from the people working nearby.

  “We’ll go where it’s private,” Sydowski said.

  The barren room where inspectors questioned murder suspects and witnesses was a white cinder-block rectangle. Not much larger than a prison cell. It had chairs and a small table with a wood veneer finish. The only uplifting things were the roses on Turgeon’s coffee mug.

  “Tom.” Sydowski unbuttoned his collar. “What that reporter did was unconscionable. We want you to know—”

  “I just can’t believe,” Reed said, “that nobody gave me so much as a hint on the condition of the victim. Not you. Not Gutteres. Not the FBI. And you all knew, didn’t you? That’s the thing. You all knew yet no one told me. You went with the assumption it was Ann. Prepare for the worst, you said. Left me to plan a funeral and tell my son his mother’s dead. Then this woman comes to my door and throws details in my face. Details I should have been given.”

  “Nobody’s happy about what happened,” Turgeon said. “How in hell did she get that sheriff’s report?”

  “Stolen,” Turgeon said. “San Bernardino says she worked something out with a cleaning lady. There may be charges.”

  “Stolen?” Reed shook his head.

  “Nobody had control over this,” Sydowski said. “Everyone’s sorry for what happened. Look, if you’ve got questions on anything, we’ll try to answer them.”

  Reed took a breath. Fatigue replaced his anger. “Do you have any leads on where Ann is?”

  “Nothing solid yet,” Sydowski said.

  “Do you think she could be alive?”

  “Honest to God, we just don’t know.”

  “You have anything on the suspects who took her?”

  “Nothing more than their voices,” Sydowski said.

  “Did you get an ID on the desert victim?”

  “Not yet. It’s going to take time, given the circumstances.”

  “What about the task force? Is anybody any closer to anything?”

  “The FBI’s entered details of the items from the heist into JAG.”

  “The jewelry and gem database?”

  “Yes. A lot of the stolen stuff has the jeweler’s mark.”

  “That might save the jewels.”

  “Tom,” Turgeon said, “everyone’s going flat out.”

  “My wife’s been abducted in a triple homicide and you think I should cheer up because you didn’t take a nap.”

  She let Reed vent. A moment passed before his next question. “Anything more on Driscoll, the dead driver?”

  Sydowski opened a file folder.

  “Latest from CDC is after he did his time in Folsom, he was on supervised parole for three years. That ended a few years ago. They’ve gone through LEADS, the registry, community services, his addictions treatment counselors, talked to his former PA. No violations. No drugs. No crime. On paper, he was clean. FBI’s going through his visitor-contact history, last addresses list, phone records.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing official, but something lit up.”

  “What?”

  “They got
a line from informants through the LAPD and LA County that just before the robbery here, he was shopping for something from an auto-theft ring hitting the less reputable lots near LAX,” Sydowski said.

  “It’s a small piece of the puzzle,” Turgeon said.

  “What about the suspects? Don’t you have a shred of a trace?”

  “There’s no paper trail,” Sydowski said. “No clear latents in the van, the heist, or the wheelchair. Nothing so far from the shell casings. We’re still going over a lot of areas but we’ve got nothing solid right now.”

  Reed stared at his empty hands.

  “Tell me why. Why did they take her? Why take her when they just needed a car? Why make it look like her in the desert?”

  “There are a million possibilities,” Turgeon said.

  “It’s like they’re playing with you, with me. A game to inflict the most pain. When I saw them remove that corpse, I—” Reed’s shoulders began to shake and he covered his face.

  Turgeon touched his arm until he regained his composure.

  “So why did you need me today?”

  Sydowski traded a quick glance with Turgeon before pulling a cassette tape from his breast pocket

  “What’s that?”

  “The voices of the suspects picked up on Rod August’s radio.”

  “I’ve already listened to it.”

  “We know. But it’s been cleaned up even more. Much of the background noise is gone, or reduced. We’d like you to take it home, listen to this enhanced version.”

  “Do you know how hard it is for me to hear Ann’s voice?”

  “We know,” Sydowski said. “But we’d like you to take your time and listen to it, please.”

  “Why? We’ve been over this.”

  “The voices are much better. Maybe you’ll recognize one of them from all the crime reporting you’ve done over the years.”

  “Now you think there’s a connection to me? What’s changed?”

  “No.” Sydowski’s eyes met Reed’s. “Tom, at this point we’re not certain of anything, which means we’ve got to check everything. All we need is a break.”

  “A break? And you think I’m the one that’s going to give it to you? After all that’s happened? This”—Reed nodded to the tape—“this is the best you can do?”

  “Dozens of people are working round the clock on this case,” Sydowski said. “You know how these things go. All we need is one break to lead us to the suspects. It’s not important how we get it, or where it comes from. I know it’s difficult, but would you please just listen to the tape again?”

  For the first time, Reed noticed a postcard-sized agenda sticking from the side pocket of Turgeon’s jacket. It was for August’s funeral service.

  It dawned on Reed that Sydowski and Turgeon had lost a member of their police family. At least he had a glimmer of hope of seeing Ann again.

  Reed reached for the tape.

  “All right. I’ll listen to it.”

  29

  A dark somber river of uniformed officers flowed into St. Mary’s Cathedral for Officer Rod August’s funeral. Their polished badges were crossed with black mourning bands, their polished shoes shuffled on the expansive stone entrance steps as police pipers droned a series of dirges into the clear blue sky overlooking San Francisco.

  “Must be a thousand of them. It’s never going to end.” Tia Layne gnawed on her second wad of gum to fight her unbearable cigarette craving. “This sucks,” she whispered to Cooter.

  His right eye was tight to his camera’s eyepiece as he recorded the massive procession entering the church, known for its striking parabolic arches that swept toward the heavens.

  Layne and Cooter had been careful to take a position near the cathedral but at some distance from the other Bay Area news crews covering the funeral service.

  The San Francisco police, the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s office, and the FBI had all lodged formal complaints against her to Worldwide. No charges had been filed yet for taking the San Bernardino police report.

  “Any word?” Cooter said.

  “Nope.”

  Layne was told by Worldwide New York that the matter might be mitigated because she and the show had volunteered their uncut footage to the police. But there was no guarantee. She checked her watch. The district attorney’s office and Worldwide’s lawyers in New York should’ve wrapped up their long-distance discussions on the stolen report by now.

  “Seth will call.” Layne indicated the cluster of news crews and chatty cops nearby. “Look at them. Looking over here, laughing at us. Screw ’em.”

  “It was your idea to come.”

  Layne was searching for Tom Reed, hoping he would have attended.

  “I’m not going to back off now,” she said. “We’re just as good as they are and we have just as much right to cover this story as they do.”

  “Maybe, but there’re less risky ways to earn bread.”

  “I’m not going back to making movies, Cooter. I’m through with that part of my life. Got it?”

  Cooter repositioned the camera. His shoulder ached and he cursed himself for not bringing his tripod to record the pageantry, the hearse, the scores of black limos, the honor guard. He was counting the one hundred gleaming police motorcycles marshaled for the procession to Colma when Layne felt her cell phone vibrate.

  “Tia.” She kept her voice low.

  “It’s Seth.”

  “Well?”

  “It’s not good and they’re not done yet.”

  “That’s it?”

  “They’re very serious about charging you.”

  “You’re kidding. After we played ball with them on our footage? Look, I explained what happened. I was invited into that police station and saw that report in plain view and asked for a copy.”

  “Tia. Come on.”

  “Didn’t the lawyers tell them about freedom of the press?”

  Layne recognized California’s attorney general entering the church.

  “Tia, the show was flooded with calls and e-mails after the news wires reported what you did. London isn’t paying you the sixty thousand.”

  “Why?”

  “Inaccurate reporting.”

  “We clarified that in the next report. Get me my money, Seth.”

  “The damage was done. You pissed off a few people, Tia. The lawyers are working hard to prevent charges. For now, you and the show will send formal letters of apology to everyone aggrieved. Worldwide will quietly send sizable donations to several nonprofit groups that aid crime victims. And they’ll settle out of court, five thousand, I think, with that maid who claims you extorted her to obtain the report.”

  “That’s a lie. She was stealing from me.”

  Layne saw San Francisco’s mayor enter flanked by a couple of police commission members.

  “Doesn’t matter now. That’s how it’s going down, Tia.”

  “This sucks. Now what?”

  “They’re going to talk some more later next week. The DA’s people have a major case in court. You’re not off the hook yet.”

  “So what do I do here?”

  “Some of the editors in New York wanted you off the story. London overruled them after Nigel pointed out that Worldwide News Now is not CNN, or 60 Minutes, or the BBC. That this is more about ratings, public appetite, and product than credibility.”

  “Well, duh. I knew that from the get-go, Seth.”

  “I sent them our numbers since you started reporting on this case.”

  “And?”

  “They’re soaring. London was intoxicated by them. You’ve got them a share of the U.S. market. The story and your controversy are drawing a crowd. I sent them today’s op-ed piece in the Post, citing our cop-murder footage and your doorstep ambush of Reed. The usual harping on ratings-driven tabloid sleaze. It was golden. It led to more attention. “I told them this would happen. So what now?”

  “Stay with it, but try to stay out of jail.”

  “What about my
money?”

  “You’ll get what you’ve earned legally.”

  “And the terms for future work?”

  “It’s negotiable, but I told London that because of your ratings your fee is likely to start at one hundred for each exclusive and legally obtained report they want. I mean this will be hot around the world for them.”

  “What did they say to that Seth?”

  “I really shouldn’t tell you.”

  “Come on, Seth.”

  “They didn’t even blink.”

  “Beautiful, because this story is far from over.”

  She hung up. One hundred frigging thousand dollars. Layne grinned from behind her dark glasses just as a group of officers and San Francisco’s police chief escorted the murdered officer’s ex-wife and little boy into the church.

  30

  The Dodge pickup swerving into town on 87 caught Winslow City Police Officer Ken Flannagan’s attention.

  The driver was flashing his high beams, honking his horn, had his arm out the window waving his hat at his patrol car. Looks like Dexter Pratt from A.J.’s, Flannagan thought, pulling alongside the truck.

  “What’s the trouble, Dex?”

  “Out by Clear Creek. I’ll show you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Come on.”

  Truck tires squealed. Flannagan followed him. He hadn’t smelled alcohol. Young Dexter was never any trouble but he looked like he’d seen a ghost. What could it be? Flannagan wondered, pulling off at the spot near the oak tree. Dexter stayed in his truck and pointed to the bag.

  “It’s inside. I haven’t touched anything. You look at it.”

  Flannagan stepped from his cruiser.

  “You going to tell me? ’Cause if this is a prank—”

  “No prank, I swear.”

  Flannagan walked to the bag. He’d been on the job two years. In that time he’d seen suicides, fire victims, traffic fatalities, and such. He knew the gagging stench of natural deaths, an odor that hit him as he reached for his baton and pen to spread the bag’s sides apart.