Blood of Others

by Rick Mofina

  “Why’s that?” The ice clinked in his glass.

  “This is our fourth time together.”

  “You’ve been counting.”

  “You came to the shop to check our security. Then Colma where you had me under surveillance. The other day you joined me for lunch at the Square and tonight. Four.” She patted his arm. “We’re practically an old couple.”

  “Well this old man’s getting hungry.” He smiled. “Where would you like to eat?”

  They found a place near the marina with a view of the bay. Wyatt was comfortable being with her. Talking, hearing about her day, enjoying her smile at his small jokes.

  “It must be exciting being a detective, catching criminals,” she said.

  Wyatt shrugged. “At times, maybe. Mostly, it isn’t.”

  “But it can be pretty dangerous?”

  He looked for an answer somewhere on the bay. Is this the time to tell her? He didn’t know and heard himself saying, “It can be dangerous. A friend of mine got hurt on the job.”

  Olivia grew concerned, searching his eyes for a moment. He changed the subject.

  After dinner they walked along the waterfront watching the sun set on the Golden Gate and the sailboats clipping along the bay. They talked about growing up in San Francisco and other things they had in common, like both being only children.

  “My dad was a firefighter,” Wyatt said. “Folks are retired. They moved to South Carolina. How about you?”

  “Both passed away. Left me the house.”

  “It’s a lovely house. How long have you been at the shop?”

  “Since college. Mrs. Caselli is going to sell it to me. It turns a nice profit and I plan to expand it, maybe with outlets around the bay.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  “Ben, this is kind of strange,” Olivia said, remembering the advice from her Internet friends: Be yourself. Be honest with a guy and expect the same from him. “I don’t know how to say this, but at the restaurant, I got a feeling that maybe you had something on your mind.”

  “I guess you remember it all from the news?”

  “Remember what?”

  “What happened with my partner a while back. It was in the press.”

  “No, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Is this something to do with Iris Wood’s murder case?”

  “No.”

  They stopped walking.

  “I like you very much,” he said.

  “I like you too.”

  “I’d like to keep seeing you.”

  “I’d like that too, Ben.”

  “Then before we go any further, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  They sat on a bench. As gulls cried overhead and the lights of the Golden Gate lit the night, he told her how Reggie Pope got shot and still refused to see him. He told her of his futile search for the boy, how he was pulled from street duty, lost his fiancée, how the SFPD never believed or forgave him, leaving him to endure their scorn, even now as he tries to help them find Iris Wood’s killer.

  “But there was a kid, I swear Olivia,” he said. “That’s how it is with me. I wanted you to know. I would understand if you wanted to end it here, before things move along or anyone gets hurt. I would understand.”

  Olivia was staring at the Golden Gate Bridge, thinking of herself, Iris Wood, the people who come to the shop, of what Ben just told her; realizing for the first time in her life that everyone has some measure of pain hidden in a private corner of their heart, and that she was no different. No. And this was a good thing for her to know. It connected her to someone who was honest and had risked his heart. She began shaking her head, saying, “No. No, Ben, I don’t want to end things with you at all.”

  “No?”

  “No, because I believe you.”

  Wyatt felt something awaken in a long lost region of his soul and warm him as she took his hand.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Reed’s line rang at his desk in the newsroom.

  “Reed, Lou Del Grachi from the Daily News.”

  “Lou. How are things in the Apple?”

  “Don’t ask. Molly still at the Star?”

  “Sitting right next to me.”

  “Yeah, what’s she wearin’ right now?”

  “An engagement ring,” Reed lied with a smile.

  “Listen, pal, I’ve been following your bride-in-the-window murder. Bizarre case but you’re all over it, right?”

  “All over it.”

  “This Sydowski, he the lead detective?”

  “Yup.”

  “He any good?”

  “He’s legendary.”

  “Any word on how close he is?”

  Christ, Del Grachi was sniffing around in Reed’s backyard.

  “No, I got nothing on how close they are. They’re playing it tight,” Reed said. “Why? You hearing something?”

  “No, but it looks like some old cases in my time zone and some unsolveds in other cities across the nation compare with the bride. I’ve been assembling a file.”

  “I’ve started poking around too, going through the news data files, making a few calls.”

  “I’ll share with you, if you share with me.”

  “I don’t know. I got to think about it.”

  “What’s to think about, Reed? Huh? You forgettin’ who tipped you to that New York crack dealer who iced your two undercover cops in San Francisco when they grabbed him in the Bronx?”

  “And who tipped you to the Unabomber arrest?”

  “We work well together. So here’s the deal. I’ll fax you stories on the cases, along with some notes of stuff I know from sources. You compare my package with what you know, see what fits, what you can find out. In exchange, we keep each other posted.”

  Reed was thinking. He could not risk getting beat and this story was shaping up to go national.

  “Tom,” Del Grachi said, “we both know they’re chasing a serial.”

  “Yeah.”

  “No telling how big it could be, or if it will fizzle.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And you know that at this point we don’t know which cases they’re looking at right now for a signature.”

  “How do you know I don’t already have them?”

  “ ’Cause it would’ve been in the paper by now.”

  Del Grachi was right. There was a reason he had been short-listed for three Pulitzers. He was good. Still, Reed was suspicious. If Del Grachi had an edge he would have gone with it, he would not be sharing. “Tell me, why haven’t you killed some trees with your story, Lou?”

  “For one it’s not developed. And, I’m up to my neck covering this mob informant trial. I’ve been on it for months and it’s all coming down now, with some new twists. I can’t leave that story.”

  “So why not pass on your murder stuff to someone else at your paper?”

  “That one’s mine too. I’m not giving it up. Trouble is I’m jammed with this mob story. But your San Francisco case is fresh. You know it better than me, know your cops better than me. You got stuff, I got stuff. I think we’re on the right trail. Come on Reed, remember how we worked together in Colorado and South Carolina?”

  “How do I know you haven’t cooked the same deal with the Chronicle?”

  “Because I am swearing to you on my dear grandmother Rosa Del Grachi’s grave that I am working only with you. Unless you are refusing my offer? Are you refusing my offer, Reed?”

  “No. It’s a deal.”

  “I have your word?”

  “You have my word.”

  “Good. Now give me a fax number.”

  Reed stood over a rarely used Sports department fax machine as it churned out Del Grachi’s forty pages of data. He slipped it into a file folder, which he put into his soft leather briefcase, then headed for a small bar across the street and down the block from the Star building. He found a corner booth where he ordered a ginger ale and a plate of nachos, then scanned Del Grachi’s entire file. Very i
ntriguing stuff. Reed began by reading the gruesome details of the case of a Manhattan office worker. Her corpse was found --

  “What are you up to, Reed?” Molly Wilson, her bracelets chiming as she pushed back her hair, slipped her bag from her shoulder, then slid into Reed’s booth.

  “You stalking me again, Molly?”

  “You wish.” She rubbed her eyes. “So, is that the little present Lou sent you? You know, I heard the San Francisco end of your little talk on the phone with him. Sounds like you worked a little deal there.”

  Reed’s order arrived, prompting Wilson to request a Heineken. She crunched on a very large cheese-dripping nacho. “In case you forgot, Tommy, I’m on this story too.”

  Reed slid the file to Wilson, then began eating his nachos. “Mea culpa,” he said. “Lou wants to team up on the story. He thinks there’s a New York connection. According to his cop sources, our bride murder could fit with some other unsolveds across the country. A travelling serial killer. But Lou has no link and nobody’s talking. I think it’s all cop theory, inspired by the bride case.”

  Wilson’s bracelet chimed as she held up her hand, immersing herself in the information. “Give me a minute.”

  “I’m heading to the washroom. Don’t eat all my nachos.”

  When Reed returned Wilson had skimmed the file. She was flipping through her notebook and checking details with the cases.

  “Hey, you ate my nachos.”

  “I ordered more. I think there might be some common factors here.” Wilson swallowed some of her beer, then slid into Reed’s seat beside him shoulder to shoulder, tapping a glossed fingernail on the file at points she had made in some of the homicides. He could smell her Obsession.

  “See, Tom. All of them are single white females, early twenties to forties. From large urban centers with clerical type jobs in the core.”

  “Right, but keep in mind this is all general.”

  “Look at the bits of bio on them. It suggests they lived quiet lives, almost socially detached, isolated. Someday-my-prince-will-come types. I mean it’s general info here, but we don’t have prom queens, community leaders, high-earning professionals with big social networks. I mean by what the data is here.”

  “Right. So we have a type. Say, vulnerable, insecure, lonely.”

  “Easy prey.” She swallowed some beer. “And look here, in Boston, Cleveland, Charlotte, Seattle, Detroit, and Atlanta, investigators seized computers. Suggesting to me on-line dates, lonely-hearts. I just finished a feature on that.”

  “Yeah, I read it.” Reed was thinking.

  “Tom, we know Iris Wood had a home computer, but nobody has said much about it, right? Turgeon told me that it’s SOP for them to check everything. She implied it was no big deal. You know much more on that, Tom?”

  “I get the sense that they’re concentrating on scene stuff, physical stuff. I think they picked up something and are looking at comparisons.”

  “Could be, we don’t know their hold back stuff, so…” Wilson shrugged and drank her beer. Reed caught the time on her watch.

  “Uh-oh. I have to go.”

  Reed saw no sign of Ann’s car when he arrived home. The house was dark, empty. A thought tapped at the back of his mind in a futile attempt to remind him of something. He grabbed an apple from the kitchen, changed into shorts and a T-shirt, entered his small office and turned on a reading lamp next to his cushioned chair, where he dove into Del Grachi’s file.

  He returned to the case of the Manhattan office worker. Liandra Morrel. Thirty-five years old. Lived alone in a small studio apartment. No family, hardly any real friends. Read romance novels and belonged to on-line book-club discussion groups. Eleven months ago, her corpse was found in a waterfront warehouse for discarded mannequins from the fashion district. Discovered by two homeless men. Del Grachi’s notes said: They found her among the mannequins, her face was shredded, her heart nearly carved out of her. No sexual assault. She was posed, tied to a rod, dressed in the same office clothes she wore to her job as a secretary for a New York company on Wall Street. Cops figure maybe lured or stalked by--

  A hand touched Reed’s shoulder and he nearly jumped from his chair.

  “Tom?”

  Light filled the dark room. Ann and Zach stood before him.

  “I didn’t hear you guys come in. Where were you this late?”

  “Where were we?” Ann turned to Zach. “Go get ready for bed and I’ll be in to give you some medicine.”

  “But, Mom.”

  “Zach. Go.”

  Zach left. Ann closed the door behind him.

  “Where were you? You were supposed to meet us at the doctor with his file this evening.” Ann saw the lost look in Reed’s eyes. “Tom, we talked about it this morning. I called you, you actually talked to me on the phone about our squeezed-in seven o’clock appointment. You were supposed to bring the file listing the material from the contractors.”

  “Ann, I was on my way --”

  “Oh, I’m too worn out to go through this now.” She extended her hand. “Just give me the file.”

  Reed looked at the file folder containing Del Grachi’s pages. Reed did not know how it happened but he had used the folder Ann had given him with their son’s records. Reed remembered that Zach’s report was splayed on his desk back at the newspaper.

  “No, Ann, you go on to bed. I’ll take care of it all tomorrow.”

  “Give me the file.” Ann took it from him, opening it, reading. “What’s this? What’s this doing in Zach’s medical file? Where’s Zach’s file?”

  “Ann, it’s at work, I’ve still got a few more calls to make on it and -- what are you doing?”

  Ann was sniffing it.

  “This smells like Molly Wilson’s perfume. Tom, did you? You went to a bar with her to work on this and forgot all about us, didn’t you?”

  Bingo.

  “No, Ann, I --”

  The file came flying toward him, the door slammed, and he was alone in his small study. A few moments later it opened. His pillow and a blanket were flung inside. His office had a small couch with a pullout bed. Reed got the message. He sat there for the longest time, letting things quiet down. Then he left the office, passed by the master bedroom with its closed door, and went to his son’s room to say goodnight.

  Zach was in his bed reading a Spiderman comic book with a flashlight. They whispered.

  “Sorry I missed your appointment, I got tied up.”

  “It’s okay, Dad, I know you’re on that big murder case.”

  “What did the doc say?”

  “Said I am allergic or reacting or something to something in our house.”

  Reed inventoried Zach’s room wondering what the hell it could be in this house that was making him sick.

  “Hey, Dad, can we go to a ball game some time?”

  “Sure, soon as I get a break. Go to sleep.” Reed kissed Zach’s forehead.

  Back in his office Reed collected the scattered papers of Del Grachi’s file. He pulled out the bed, undressed, catching a glimpse of the one-inch-thick manuscript of his aborted crime novel on the shelf near his home computer. He blinked, knowing how badly Ann wanted him to leave crime reporting, stay home and finish his novel. Maybe he should think about it. Really think about it, he thought, settling into bed with the file, which smelled of Molly Wilson’s perfume.

  He flipped through some of the cases again. All were generally similar. The common link might be so obvious. Reed yawned, thinking of Ben Wyatt at the cemetery. Wyatt on the case. Wyatt who was yanked from the street after his partner got shot up. Wyatt back working. Where was he all this time? Computer Crimes. Computers. On-line.

  Reed was drifting toward sleep.

  But something was -- noises -- under him -- scraping -- scratching in the floor -- noises.

  Something alive under him, under the floor.

  Something scratching under the floor, moving toward Zach’s room.

  Naw, must be dreaming.


  Reed fell into a deep sleep.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The routine morning shriek of her boiling kettle summoned Belinda Holcomb to her kitchen.

  Wrapped in a pink terry-cloth robe, her hair pulled back and held up with a scissor clamp, she padded barefoot and sleepy-eyed from her bedroom.

  “Coming,” she said to no one.

  It was Saturday. She took her time making her tea this morning, then stepped outside to her apartment’s balcony, enjoying her 25th-floor view of downtown Toronto from the west end near High Park.

  The morning was clear as she looked at the CN Tower, which spiked a quarter mile into the sky dominating the city’s skyscrapers. Sipping her tea, she picked out the big ones including Commerce Court West where she worked.

  Five days a week she rose to begin the daily ritual of fretting over what to wear, of rushing to suit up for the charge to the subway to commence jostling for a seat on the train where people hid behind newspapers, books, or icy masks of indifference. Sometimes she grew weary knowing her tomorrows would be no different from her yesterdays. When she first arrived in the city this never concerned her. She had preferred being on her own after being jilted by the only man she had ever loved. But as one year followed the next, she had begun to desire male company. So several months ago, she had set out to change the direction of her life.

  Today would be her first test.

  Her first date in four years.

  It was a blind date. Sort of. His name was Mark. She was meeting him later this morning for coffee. Can I do this? She peered into her empty teacup, then gazed at the vast green expanse that was High Park. It was set for 11 A.M. at a café on Bloor, a short walk from her building. You could always cancel? No, that would be wrong. Maybe he’s canceled?

  She went inside and sat at her computer, logging on to the chat site where she met Mark, entering her username, citygirl89, and checking her Internet e-mail. Nothing new from him. Likely on his way.

  They’d become on-line friends several months ago. Mark was her favorite. She felt comfortable with him, as if she’d known him all of her life. Like a smitten teen rereading old love letters, she reviewed bits of their earlier exchanges.