by Rick Mofina
There was a small Indian rug near the glass-top coffee table and couch; above it was a large framed painting of a girl alone on a beach, cutting a forlorn figure gazing at a vast azure ocean and an eternal horizon.
“Hi, Iris.” A strange woman’s voice broke the silence. “It’s Mel at the office. Are you coming in today, dear? We haven’t heard from you.”
Turgeon was replaying calls on the telephone answering machine.
“It’s the only message,” she said.
Sydowski nodded to the desk, computer, and work area.
“You take this room, Linda. I’ll start on the others.”
The bedroom walls were yellow cream, a framed Van Gogh print over the four-poster bed. Neatly made with a quilted bedspread and throw pillows. A telephone and paperback were on the nightstand. Sydowski slipped on his bifocals. Gone With the Wind. The tassel of a bookmark protruded at the halfway point. Jack meowed from his regal spot on the bed.
Sydowski went to the four-drawer wooden dresser against the wall. Cotton pajamas. Panties, socks, bras, shorts, T-shirts, pullover tops, a swimsuit. All neatly arranged. Nothing unusual. Nothing kinky to indicate a secret life.
He opened the jewelry box atop the dresser to find Iris Wood looking at him from a snapshot framed inside the lid. Far removed from the bridal shop, the cold autopsy room, and her driver’s license. His first unofficial glimpse of her alive.
Iris, part of a trio of women, was standing behind an office desk and a small cake with lighted candles, waves of white icing. Congratulations, Jan looped elegantly across the top. The woman in the center looked to be in her early twenties and pregnant. She was beaming. The other woman, early thirties was grinning. And there was Iris. Living her life. Wearing a beige skirt and matching top. Smiling as if forced to. Standing stiffly. Self-conscious. Sad. A hint of desperation in her pretty eyes.
Sydowski blinked behind his glasses. The photograph was smeared with fingerprint powder from the crime scene crew. He tucked it inside the breast pocket of his jacket, sifted through the small collection of earrings, necklaces and bracelets. He closed the lid on the jewelry box, then opened the folding doors of her closet, to the modest wardrobe of Ms. Iris May Wood. Single, working woman. Sleeveless sheath dresses, button-front cotton prints, embroidered jacket, dress suits, knit tops, pleated twill pants, some stretch pants. Fat pants. Not that she needed them. Jeans, shorts, a floral-print kimono. He imagined her in the kimono snuggled on her couch watching a girl movie, Jack curled on her lap. Sydowski surveyed the shoes on the closet floor, fabric pumps, scuffed flared-heeled loafers, white joggers, and frayed thong slippers. He detected a plastic bottle of foot deodorizer pushed nearly out of sight in the closet. She was sensitive about foot odor. Sydowski closed the door and headed to the bathroom.
It was clean and bright with a pleasant trace of lavender; tumble-stone floor tiles, matching rose-tinted wall tiles, a soaker tub, pedestal sink with brass fixtures, shampoo, conditioner, wheat germ soap, skin creams, bath oils, candles, potpourri on the toilet’s water closet, thick towels hanging from the wall rack. He opened the medicine cabinet over the sink. One tooth brush. No regular boyfriend, or girlfriend, he figured, studying the bottles and boxes, aspirin, cough syrup, eye drops, calcium, over-the-counter sleeping pills, vitamins, the usual array of women’s hygienic items. No prescriptions. Sydowski closed the vanity, scanning the glass shelf under it, antiperspirant, toothpaste, mascara, lip gloss, eye shadow, hair spray, moisturizer, baby oil, nail-polish remover.
He studied the mirror for a long moment, the very mirror she had stood before in the final hours of her life. Sydowski looked beyond his own reflection, staring hard as if he could retrieve the face that was once there for a message, for a clue, for direction on where to search to avenge her death.
How did he know you? Tell me that and I will find him.
He felt the cat weaving itself around his ankles; then Sydowski moved on to the kitchen.
“Already went through it, Walt.” Turgeon was seated before the computer clicking and typing. “Single-girl fare.” Sydowski looked. Healthy frozen low-cal single-serving dishes, vegetables for salad, flavored tea, juice, bottled water, comfort food like gourmet ice cream and microwave popcorn. And take out menus for Chinese and pizza. Stuff for Jack under the sink.
Turgeon was concentrating on the computer screen.
Sydowski looked through the living room. He scanned her CD player and flipped through her music, Bruce Hornsby, Jann Arden, Bruce Springsteen, Van Morrison, Annie Lennox, Neil Young, some old Beatles stuff. Then he went to the titles of hardcovers on the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. Contemporary best-selling novels, a smattering of literary classics, Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hugo, Tolstoy, Pasternak. He pulled some from the shelf. They looked as if they had been read. Sydowski then selected a worn Bible, the kind found in most hotels. Fanning the pages, a notation blurred by. He stopped, found it in The Book of the Prophet Isaiah, chapter forty-two. A small, neat hand-written note penned in the blue ink of a fountain pen, said Comfort in time of loneliness, and underlined the passage: Fear thou not; for I am with thee.
She was lonely and self-conscious. Hiding her foot powder. Sydowski was almost certain she was not the victim of a random crime. Because of the specific mutilation, the way she was displayed, her death had been organized, planned, calculated. It was ritual. He had selected her because he knew her, or knew her type.
But how did he know you, Iris?
Sydowski replaced the bible.
He saw Iris Wood’s phone bills, credit card bills, and other papers stacked next to Turgeon near the computer and shuffled through them. They already had people running down her most recent phone calls, credit card purchases, and the status on her bank accounts.
Sydowski checked his watch. “We should head to her office.”
“I hear your wheels turning, Walt.”
“At this point, Linda, I’d say she lived a quiet life.”
“Lived much of it on-line. Look.”
Screen upon screen of bookmarked sites all relating to lonely-hearts clubs, on-line dating, chat rooms and cyber-clubs for singles scrolled down the monitor, reflecting on Sydowski’s bifocals as he bent down for a closer look.
“It’s massive,” Turgeon said. “She’s locked on to hundreds and hundreds, maybe in the thousands, of sites.”
Sydowski’s eyes widened slightly as he realized the potential number of people around the world that Iris Wood could have had contact with. He stood, shaking his head.
“We’re going to need help with this aspect of the case,” Turgeon said.
“Yup.” Sydowski, removed his bifocals, muttering something about computers.
“Now, I’m not an expert but I know who is, Walt.”
“Who, Linda?”
“Ben Wyatt.”
FIFTEEN
Pulling his Taurus out of the Star’s parking lot downtown, Reed decided Geary, then Divisadero would be the best route to his secret meeting with his anonymous source who promised to tell him who killed Iris Wood.
The caller had offered no details. Wanted to meet Reed within an hour at a specific bench at the northeast corner of Golden Gate Park, near the hospital.
Reed had nothing on at the moment, so he figured he would give it a shot. He dropped the Ford’s front windows, switched on his favorite rock station in time to catch the beginning of “Layla.” He pumped up the volume.
This guy sounded like a nut who’s seen too many bad conspiracy movies. He is either going to want money, a favor, or demand the Star publish his ten-thousand-word manifesto on the parallel universe. Reed shook his head. He had met all kinds.
Upon arriving, Reed’s chief concern was not meeting a stranger, but parking. It was damned near impossible to find a spot anywhere in the city and he was afraid he’d get nailed after he slipped his Ford into a vacant slot in a restricted area.
Ah, to hell with it. Reed hurried to the park carrying a rolled-up newspaper, as his caller h
ad requested.
He found the bench and immediately set a twenty-minute deadline for Mr. X to show up. He really should be chasing Sydowski right now. The only thing this would achieve would be a parking ticket.
Reed took stock of his immediate area. A couple of neo-Haight types playing guitars, a mom with a baby in a stroller. Nothing. Bored, he unfurled the papers, the Chronicle and the Star, to once again study the reports on Iris Wood.
A shadow fell over him.
“You Tom Reed from the paper?”
Reed recognized the voice of the caller, now standing before him. A slight man in his late twenties. About five feet nine inches. One hundred forty pounds. White, head shaved. Goatee. Black jeans. Black T-shirt. A candidate for state time. Spider web tattoo on his right forearm. Stud in his left lobe. Grey eyes. Runny nose. Cokehead.
“Yeah, I’m Tom Reed.”
“Got ID?”
Reed produced his press photo ID and a business card.
“No tape recorders, I want to check you.”
Reed stood. “What’s your name.”
“Slim. Call me Slim.”
“Listen Slim, you are not touching me. I’m not recording this. You called me. Now say what you’ve got to say because I’ve got to be somewhere.”
“Okay.” Slim rubbed his chin, sniffing. Looking around, licking his lips. “You got good police contacts for the district down near Stern Grove?”
Reed nodded. That was where they had found Iris Wood’s car.
“Listen, I had nothing to do with what happened to that woman.”
“Take it easy.”
“I am so jammed up, man. I don’t know where to turn. I don’t know. They’re gonna put this crap on me.”
“Slow down. Who is going to put what on you? Slim sit down beside me.”
Slim fished matches and a pack of Camels from his pocket, lit one and drew on it deeply, before sitting next to Reed.
“I’m on parole, okay? The program ain’t workin’ for me. See, I got a bad habit and I’m down near the south side of the Grove. I had been scoping out some houses down there and I got a line that some people are going to be on vacation, okay?”
Reed nodded.
“So I am going to move on this place, but I got a curfew, so I got to do it early.”
Reed felt pieces of his story coming together.
“It’s a great night for me, fog is thick, area secluded. I’ve got the jewelry maybe, three, four grand in quick cash. I’m cutting out clean, heading for the street when I just about have a heart attack.” Slim dragged on his cigarette. “I’m leaving when I see an unmarked police car throw the red right on the street in front of me. Hell, I thought I was busted. But he’s making a stop. Stopping a car.”
Reed’s newspapers rustled as Slim tapped them with his cigarette hand. “Her car. The cop is stopping her Ford Focus.”
“What did you do?”
“I step back slowly near a tree. I mean like, I am there. It’s dark and they are like shadows, but I just hear their voices. The cop stops her and begins to write her up. Then he hits her or something, and drives off with her.”
“Why didn’t you call it in?”
“Give me a break.” He pulled on his cigarette. “Listen, I didn’t know what happened. I thought, okay. Cop makes a stop, woman gets sick, or faints like or something, and he takes her to the hospital. Then I see the news. I read the papers. I start to figure it out.”
“Are you sure it was a cop?”
“I’m a con.”
“You get a plate number?”
“No.”
“What kind of car?”
“Full-sized unmarked sedan. Ford or Chevy.”
“But you’re not certain, Crown Vic, Impala, Caprice?”
“No.”
“What about grill lights and a flash pattern, like strobe or wigwag, notice anything like that?”
“I can only say that it was an unmarked car.”
“So you think they’ll somehow implicate you?”
Slim tossed his cigarette. “Listen, if that cop who murdered her finds out I was boosting jewelry at the very time I saw him, then I am a dead man. Dead. I am a thief. I ain’t no killer. They’re gonna put it on me. They can do that. The guys inside have told me stories, man.”
“Take it easy. What do you want from me? If your information is true, I want to report it. And who’s to say the police don’t already know this?”
“That’s just it. Find out. You’re my protection. I have to go.”
“How do I reach you?”
“I’ll call you.”
Slim turned to walk away.
“Wait,” Reed said. “How do I know you didn’t kill her?”
He was gone.
So were the other people in the area.
Reed sat there for a moment trying to comprehend what he had just heard. It was astounding. A cop. Unless Slim was the killer. Reed stood up and made the one-block walk back to his car, glad he had alerted the photo desk at the Star prior to this thing.
Reed drove six blocks away to a Burger King, the rendezvous point with Henry Cain, a news photographer. During Reed’s meeting with his source, Cain had positioned himself some sixty yards away with a telephoto lens -- the same long lens he used at 49-er games -- taking pictures of Reed with his source. Between bites of his Whopper, Cain showed them to Reed on his digital Nikon. A series of crisp shots clearly identifying Slim.
Picture after picture.
SIXTEEN
The coffee in Wyatt’s take-out cup rippled at the surface as he sipped from it, swallowing hard.
It had been a long time since he had been on the street. Waiting at the rear of Forever & Ever, he was jittery, feeling the weight of his gun in his shoulder holster and everything it signified in the rubble of his life.
Wyatt took another hit of coffee. As nerve-shattering as this was, he needed to do this. There was no escaping it. At any moment he could again be forced to draw his weapon and make another life-and-death decision.
I hope not.
He had already paid an enormous price. He was an outcast. Scorned. Expected to fail. It was killing him. Rage seethed in his gut but he wrestled it down with the realization that this case was his only hope, his last chance to make it all right again. To prove he was a solid cop. If he failed, he failed completely, because he had nothing left to lose. Fate had him by the balls. He crumpled the cup and tossed it in the trash.
No sign of Veronica Chan.
Wyatt nodded to the uniform posted at the rear and went inside to look around while waiting for her. This assignment Sydowski had spat at him was superficial. Wyatt’s job was to review the bridal shop’s security videotape which showed nothing, according to Sydowski and the crime scene people who had already watched it about a dozen times before putting Wyatt on it. After that, he was told to go find out why the shop’s security cameras apparently malfunctioned, and to try to obtain the video security tapes of surrounding businesses, in case one of them picked up something.
Wyatt and every other detective on the case knew full well much of that had already been done. He figured they were just keeping him out of the way, ensuring all he did was annoy people by asking them questions they’d already answered.
So here he was staring at mannequins in wedding dresses, his world hanging by a thread, a man alone in his skin, nothing waiting for him at home but a can of beans in an empty fridge. And this was a good day.
“Inspector Wyatt, is it?”
He turned to a stunning woman, in a tailored suit. Model’s figure. In her early thirties. Cleopatra shoulder-length hair framing a stone-cold face.
“Yes.” He extended his hand.
She offered hers. Small. Same warmth as her face.
“Veronica Chan,” she said. “We’ve been through all of this with your colleagues and I really don’t appreciate the police department’s repetitions.”
Wyatt nodded, removing a notebook. “I know. I’ll try to be specific
and quick.”
Her eyes went to the internal tarp protecting the display window.
“Do we have to do this here? I can’t stand being so close to where she was,” she said, taking him to the office. Chan dropped herself in a chair. “My business partner, Julie is under a doctor’s care. Told me she’ll never set foot in this shop again. Our staff’s been traumatized. One has resigned. Orders have been canceled. The Carruthers party is threatening to sue us. I just came from seeing our lawyer. She’s not certain if our insurance covers us. So who do I sue?”
Wyatt passed her a tissue. “I don’t know, ma’am.”
Chan touched her eyes, collecting herself. “On the phone you said you needed more information about the security system?”
“Just tell me about it.”
“We forbid shoppers to come in and photograph our gowns. The cameras remind them we’re serious.”
“Protection of your designs?”
“Exactly. Take a picture, then have a friend do a cheap knock off, almost an infringement.”
“Can you show me the control and monitor?”
Chan took him to a rear room, explaining there were four cameras, including one with a fish-eye lens for the rear entrance.
Wyatt monitored all perspectives from the device that had a small TV-like monitor and a recorder that resembled a high-tech VCR player.
“And it’s run on a slow speed seventy-two-hour loop? That is, all four cameras are recording nonstop?”
Chan nodded.
Wyatt opened his file folder and the report from Crime Scene. The system was operated by Digicamwatch. The company attributed the failure to suspected grit on the recording heads, but was doing further checks. Wyatt looked at the report and punched the number of Digicamwatch’s contact person into his cell phone.
“DCW, Tony Dekka.”
The guy sounded as if he were twelve. “Tony, Ben Wyatt with the SFPD. You’re the contact for the system at the bridal shop down at Union Square?”
“Yes, sir. Glad you called.”
Wyatt wedged his phone between his ear and shoulder, pulling the system from the wall. “Why’s that, Tony?”
