by Rick Mofina
Reed gazed out at the night.
“But I never kept it. Until now, I never started searching for her and no one, not you, or the people who took her, will stop me. No matter what has happened to Ann, I’ll find her and bring her home.”
Sydowski nodded, then checked his watch.
“I have to get to the Hall, Tom. One of the uniforms will drive you to your house.”
At home that night, Reed looked in on Zach, who was asleep in their bed. Doris had fallen asleep on the sofa. He covered her with a blanket, then went to his study to think about his encounter with Caesar, pushing aside the fact of how close he’d come to the edge.
Noticing the enhanced police tape, he slipped on headphones and set it to play. Ann’s voice vibrated against his eardrum.
“Oh God, please let me go!”
Then the suspects’ voices.
“I told you to shut up! Where’s your car! I told you to shut up!”
It played over and over. Reed was certain he’d heard that voice before.
“I told you to shut...”
He was sure of it Folsom. Jorge went to Folsom.
“I told you to...”
He was falling asleep with the tape running, voices swirling in his brain.
I told you. I told you. I told you.
Folsom.
42
Somewhere in America, Ann Reed sat motionless in a motel room.
John sat on one of the queen-size beds watching her.
She was bound to a hard-backed chair with quarter-inch yellow nylon rope. Duct tape masked her mouth and bound her wrists.
Ann kept her eyes on John's right hand, the one holding the large pair of scissors. His thick thumb caressed the blades while he studied her face.
Please don’t hurt me.
She was still groggy from the driving.
They must’ve put something in her soda to make her sleep. She had no idea where they were today. She tried hard to find details that might save her but each motel, each cabin, each horrible second, was the same. They always removed the phones and any information identifying their location. They kept her bound and gagged, careful to kill any hope she had of escaping; leaving her to live in terror, never knowing what they intended to do at any moment. Like now.
Why was he holding the scissors and staring at her? Del was gone. Likely to get food. It was the routine. Ann never felt she was any safer alone with John. He stood and approached her.
She held her breath as he raised the scissors to her head.
“Don’t move.”
The comb in his left hand bit into her silky hair and offered a bouquet of it to the scissors, which began their work. Her locks fell like large snowflakes on her shoulders, her top, her lap, to the green plastic trash bags John had slit open and arranged like a drop sheet underneath the chair. Ann’s beautiful jaw-length hair was sliced away above her ears; then he hacked at her bangs. Her eyes stung at the violation. When he finished he brushed the cuttings from her face with a towel. She felt naked. Smaller. Less than what she was.
“Be still.”
He lifted her, chair and all, biceps bulging his tattoos as he carried her easily to the bathroom where he placed her in the large shower stall.
He fashioned a hair salon type of apron out of the plastic bags that allowed her head to poke through but was snug around her neck. He produced a large drugstore bag from which he withdrew bleach, a quick-hair-dye kit, latex gloves, vaseline, shampoo, tub and tile cleanser, and several other items.
Ann glimpsed the packaging as John worked on her hair. Sunset Blond. Blondes Have More Fun. The picture on the box showed blond tanned twenty-some-things frolicking in thongs at a volleyball net near the beach. Ammonia vapors invaded her nostrils.
When he finished, John cleaned everything up, stuffing it into a trash bag. Then he cut Ann’s bindings, startling her when he sliced off her clothes, leaving her in her bra and panties. He indicated the travel bag of women’s clothes. “Shower, shampoo, scrub the stall clean of any dye. Dress in fresh clothes and hurry up.”
He left, closing the door behind him.
Ann was numb, degraded as she carried out his orders, sobbing in the shower, feeling for hair that had been replaced by chopped straw, refusing to face the reality, dreading to see the truth as she scrubbed at the walls, the floor, the water spray mingling with her tears.
After dressing in capri pants and a T-shirt she forced herself to confront the mirror. She wiped the steam clouds and was hit full force with what had befallen her. She no longer saw herself. Short blond stalks replaced her brunette waves. Fear lines cut like furrows into her skin. Tears spilled from her bloodshot eyes.
Who was this woman? This specter?
Ann Reed was gone. Dead to the world. They had obliterated her identity. Just as they did with the dead woman whose clothes Ann was now wearing. How much longer before they put her in a shallow grave?
God. Please help me. Ann covered her mouth with her hands. Oh, Tom. Oh, Zachary.
John called Ann several times before she emerged from the bathroom. He regarded her the way an artist regards a finished painting.
“Here.” He reached into his breast pocket. “Put these on.”
Sunglasses. Dark, non-reflective in the style of movie stars from the 1940s and ’50s. Ann slipped them on and sat stone faced in the chair. Everything had been cleaned up and cleared away. The air conditioner hummed as John sat on the bed staring at her. Satisfied with his work. Twenty minutes later Del returned with bags of food that smelled like deep-fried chicken. He stopped dead in his tracks.
Ann was identical to the woman in the color snapshot John had kept in his cell at Folsom.
The picture of his wife.
43
Retired cable car gripman Jed Caverly waved to his neighbor the morning after he returned from his trip to Europe. He stepped outside to take stock of his tidy bungalow in the southern San Francisco community of Excelsior.
“Welcome back, Jed,” Lil called from her porch. “Got your mail here. I’ll put the kettle on and we’ll catch up.”
“Be right over, Lil. Just have to tend to a few things.” Jed didn’t feel too jet-lagged. Probably get hit with it later, he thought, while inspecting the dells of ferns, roses, and red rhododendrons that flourished in his yard. It might not be like the stately manicured lawns of Crocker Amazon but it was just fine for him.
An avowed bachelor, Jed loved meeting people from around the globe who marveled at San Francisco as he ferried them up and down its rolling hills. He was rewarded with countless names and addresses of people to visit in nearly every country in the world. He’d always thank them. “I’m savin’ my pennies, so when I retire I’ll come see your town.” Jed had always been frugal. The first thing he did when he bought his house all those years ago was build a very large garage in his rear yard. He rented it to people to store vehicles. He’d had all types of clients. Collectors, bikers, racers, enthusiasts who restored classics. He rolled the income into accounts that yielded nice returns.
He whistled as he strode along his tiled walkway to his garage. In recent years it was generating $400 monthly, allowing him to travel in style. He’d have to rent it out again. His last tenant had assured him he’d have his vehicle out by the time Jed returned from Europe.
“Let’s just see how much of a cleanup job we’ve got here, Percy,” he said to the calico cat threading around his ankles.
Jed shaded his eyes to peer through the barred window, not understanding what he saw inside. What the heck was that?
“What’s going on?” Jed grimaced, then scratched his head. He looked again, as if a second glance would have a different result.
Strange. The young fella had guaranteed he’d be out. Everything would be gone by the time he got back so he could rent it out. Even paid cash up front, which was the only reason he decided to let the guy have a two-month deal. He’d usually insisted on a six-month minimum.
Jed had gotten a weird re
ad off the guy, with his beard and tattoos. He didn’t really like how he’d bring a couple of friends around to sit in the garage and talk long into the night. But they kept to themselves. If there’s one thing Jed had learned, you can’t judge people by their appearance. He shook his head. He’d have to call the guy to see what his plans were.
Before visiting Lil, Jed got her gift from his house. A painting he bought from a Parisian artist who produced street scenes near the Seine.
“This is for you, Lil, for watching my place and taking care of Percy.”
“I love it. Thank you so much, Jed.”
Lil draped the canvas over a wicker chair to admire it while she poured tea, passed him a bundle of mail, then began updating him on community gossip. Jed nodded politely, not really caring who had a hip replacement or a pacemaker installed. He sipped his tea, nodding for what he thought was sufficient time before he indicated the stack of Chronicles she’d saved for him in the box in the corner of her porch. Jed was an avid newspaper reader.
“Any big local stories while I was gone, Lil?”
“Some stink over a city contract scandal. And the Forty-niners gave a fortune to some player. It’s beyond my understanding what professional athletes earn these days.”
“So pretty quiet then?”
“Mmm.” She caught herself in mid-swallow. “Oh, terrible, dreadful armed robbery at a jewelry store a few days ago.”
“Where?”
“In the Richmond District. A big story actually. The police are still looking for the robbers. A police officer was shot dead, an accomplice too. Murdered in the street. A woman customer was taken hostage. Might be linked to another woman murdered in Death Valley."
“Wow! I’ll have to read that one.”
Lil’s phone rang. “Excuse me, Jed. I’m trying to make an appointment with a specialist for my arthritis. It’s in the papers there.”
She went inside to take the call. Jed set his teacup aside and began scanning the papers. He didn’t have to go far into them to catch up on the jewelry store case. Most of the articles were on the front page.
It was an engrossing story, Jed thought, flipping past the headlines and photos backward from the most recent item. Unbelievable. Like some kind of thriller movie. Sensational million-dollar heist, deadly shootout on the streets in broad daylight, corpse in the desert, a San Francisco businesswoman abducted, a national dragnet for the unknown suspects.
“Good Lord!”
Jed’s blood chilled the way it did when he had almost lost control of a Powell car one foggy winter near Mason and California. All the spit vanished from his mouth. He was staring into the eyes of the young man who’d rented his garage. His color photo was on the front page, identifying him as the robbery suspect killed at the scene.
“Jesus H. Christ!”
Jed stood. Unable to take his eyes from the photo.
“Lil! Damn! Lil, I need your phone. I gotta call the police!”
44
“You said you’d have something to us last night. It’s now mid-morning. What’s the holdup?” Sydowski said into the phone.
At the desk next to him, Turgeon had finished talking to Los Angeles County on a tip that was shaping up to be nothing. Not quite accustomed to her new pancake hip holster, she shifted uncomfortably.
“Right,” Sydowski said. “Just be damned sure you alert us the second you’ve got something.” He hung up, removed his glasses, rubbed his tired eyes, then turned to Turgeon.
“Linda, somewhere there has to be a trace, a latent, something to identify these guys. I can’t believe it’s taking us this long to get a lock.” He shuffled his reports, then reached for his coffee. “Anything from LA?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you call CDC and Sacramento again? They must have something on little Jorge Merida’s prison friends.”
“They’re working on it.”
“The FBI or our robbery guys determine who their buyer is?”
“Not yet. They figure it’s gone deep underground because of all the attention on the heist.”
“You don’t pull off something like this without having a buyer lined up.”
“Walt. You’ve had the lead on over four hundred homicides, you know that sooner or later it’ll break. We’re on the edge of something.”
Sydowski shoved his glasses into his pocket, folded his big arms and stared at nothing. “I know the profiler has his theories, but this thing makes no sense, Linda. Why take her?”
“Insurance?”
“For what? You take a hostage if you’re trapped in a standoff. They’re your shields, your bargaining chips. These guys got away.”
“Ransom? She’s a businesswoman. Reed’s got some profile.”
“But we haven’t had a single demand. And why make Addison’s murder look like Ann Reed’s?”
“Throw us off. Buy time. It was a quick discovery. It could’ve been weeks or months before the Death Valley find.”
“Why not let Ann Reed go from the outset? It’s easier to travel without her. It’s better to travel without her.”
“It’s possible they’ve killed her and we just haven’t found her yet.”
“True. Three homicides with special circumstances, they’re facing the death penalty. They’ve got nothing to lose.”
“Maybe they want her as insurance for something later.”
“This thing is out of control,” Sydowski said. Lieutenant Leo Gonzales appeared before him with a slip of paper.
“Walt. Linda. This came through 911. Sounds solid.” Sydowski studied the note.
“Jed Caverly. Address near McLaren Park.”
“Lives in Excelsior. Thinks he rented his garage to the dead driver. Says the guy and his friends left something in there that we should see.”
45
Tia Layne offered her most assuring smile and a little cleavage to the manager of the San Francisco Deluxe Jewelry.
“Look, David, we just want to get some pictures to show you’re getting back to business. It’s happy news.”
The manager guarded the front entrance, keeping the door open a crack. Curtains inside the shop’s street windows were drawn. He didn’t return Layne’s smile and was indifferent to her V-neck T-shirt. He eyed Cooter’s hand on his camera. “I’m sorry, no,” the manager said. “It’s been too tragic.” Layne’s gaze through her sunglasses went beyond him to the staff inside arranging jewelry in the new display cases. The people who knew details on the link to the dead clerk. If she could just get to them. Get them talking.
“Everyone’s trying to move on with their lives,” the manager said. “We’re praying Ann Reed is reunited safely with her family.”
“But that’s the kind of stuff we need, David.”
“How about outside?” Cooter offered.
“Outside?”
“Yeah,” Layne said. “You and your staff can tell us how you’re trying to cope and, more important, are praying for everyone else.”
“I don’t know.” He glanced to the spot where Officer August died.
“We could do it with you as a group,” Layne said. “Let the world know that you refuse to let criminals keep you down.”
“I don’t know, it’s very hard. Carrie was an employee. We tried to work it out with her. We had no idea about the degree of her addiction.”
“Hold it,” Layne said. “David, see, you’re already talking about it. It’s a natural thing to want to talk about it. Let’s just do it with the camera on, okay? And you just look at me like we’re just talking.”
“Wait, I think—”
The cell phone clipped to Cooter’s battery belt rang. He grabbed it, saying, “I’m tied up now, can I call you—what’s that?” He set his camera down and jotted notes. “Just now!” Cooter said. “Got it, thanks.” He hung up, then pulled Layne’s upper arm and his camera.
“Cooter!”
“We have to go now. Something’s come up.”
“What’s going on?” Layne said
as he rushed her to their SUV.
Cooter squealed from the curb after tossing Layne a folded city map and an address he’d scrawled on his notepaper. “It’s in Excelsior, near McLaren Park. Find us the fastest way there.”
“What is it?”
“Security guard next to our building listens to police scanners. I slipped him a few bucks to keep me posted on the case.”
“Okay.”
“That was him. Says he caught on something related to ‘the Deluxe 187s,’ the SFPD code for murder. Found in a garage at this address.”
“He say what?”
“Doesn’t know. But he said it sounded good. They’re sealing it. Homicide and crime scene are rolling. It’s all happening now!”
“What do you think it is?”
“I dunno. Directions! Directions!”
They arrived within thirty minutes to a tangle of black-and-whites, lights wigwagging in front of a stucco house. Other police cars were in the rear. Yellow crime scene tape bordered the neat double-wide garage. Cooter got his gear.
Kids on bikes did laps in the alley around the police cruisers and the tape while neighbors gathered at the edge of the yards to speculate on what police had found in Jed Caverly’s garage with the canary-yellow door.
A couple of newspaper photographers and more TV camera operators had gathered a few houses away. A small car with the call letters and logo of a Bay Area radio news station was creeping to the scene. Within minutes more than a dozen news-people had collected near the garage. Cooter and Layne stood near them, eavesdropping.
“You guys hear about the takedown in the Mission last night?” a female TV reporter said.
“I heard something about it,” a newspaper reporter said. “One of our producers is married to an SFPD officer. She heard an army went out to grab the dealer who sold to Carrie Addison.”