Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  Neither woman spoke for the longest time. Then Bowman took Emily’s hand and their eyes met in the night.

  “Emily I--”

  “We both know what it’s like to lose someone, Tracy.”

  Bowman nodded. “Uhm. You know, Frank and I must talk to her first. It’s not officially closed yet.”

  Emily nodded. “Yes,” she whispered, with a half-smile, before returning to bed.

  Tracy stared into the night, remembering Carl, then thinking of Mark.

  The doctors summoned the FBI when Paige awoke. Zander and Bowman entered her room. Her bed was blanketed with stuffed toys. She was drinking orange juice, an IV connected to her arm. Hair in a ponytail, face dotted with some scrapes but radiating with the bright aura of a happy little girl. The agents introduced themselves and chatted for several minutes with Paige, joking about all the presents she received.

  Eventually, Bowman asked, “So what happened?”

  Paige knitted her brow. “What do you mean?”

  “Tell us how you got separated from your mom and dad,” Zander said.

  “Kobee chased a chipmunk. I went to find him and got us lost.”

  “That it?” Zander smiled. “Was your dad mad or anything?”

  Paige chewed her straw, nodding. “Cut his hand chopping wood.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I went to find my mom and got lost. It was Kobee’s fault.”

  “The man who found you,” Bowman asked, “other than at the cliff, did he harm you in any way?”

  Paige shook her head. “He killed a bear that was trying to get me. He saved me.”

  Bowman and Zander exchanged glances.

  “Can I see my mom and dad now?”

  Zander patted Paige’s shoulder. “Absolutely.”

  In the hall, Zander informed the doctor they were done. Bowman’s cell phone began to ring. Zander walked to the empty lounge at the end of the hall, searching for something in the Rockies that crowned the horizon.

  “You made all the right calls, Frank.” Walt Sydowski had followed him.

  “Ah, well, I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Look what you were confronted with, the time frame, the circumstances, the politics. You’re a helluva cop. I’d be honored to work with you again.”

  Zander looked down and accepted Sydowski’s hand. They shook.

  “Heading back to San Francisco?”

  “Got a flight tonight.” Sydowski smiled. “There’s a date I got to keep and some money I have to win back in a card game from a wily old fox who claims to be my father. How about you? Any plans after this?”

  “Maybe take some time off to think things over.”

  “Listen to me. We never know how a case will twist. Believe me, I know. I also know you are a good investigator, Frank.”

  Sydowski gripped Zander’s shoulder, then left him alone with the mountains.

  Zander sat staring at the sky for some time when he heard someone say his name. It was Emily Baker, standing in the doorway of the lounge. Doug was next to her. Zander stood, searching his heart for the right words. Emily spoke first.

  “We understand.”

  “It was very complicated,” Zander began.

  “Frank,” Doug said. “I know it looked very bad because it was very bad. For everybody. Inspector Sydowski told us everything, including the Georgia case.”

  Emily had tears in her eyes. Her face was a portrait of kindness. She embraced Zander. “In your way, you were fighting for Paige too.”

  “Yes, I was,” Zander whispered. “I’m happy for you.”

  “Paige turns eleven in two months. We would like it if you and Tracy would consider coming to her birthday party.”

  Zander blinked. “You bet.”

  Emily told him that before returning to California, they were going to go to Buckhorn Creek. “Going to put things to rest,” she said.

  Zander nodded. “Sounds like the right thing to do.”

  Doctor Veras entered, pushing Paige in a wheelchair. Kobee was in her lap. “I think they’re ready downstairs,” Veras said.

  Emily dabbed her eyes. Smiling, they left for Paige’s press conference.

  Zander decided to watch it alone on the TV in the lounge.

  The hospital had turned its cafeteria into a press room. Nearly three hundred newspeople had crammed into it for an event broadcast live on virtually every channel in the United States.

  It began with Emily and Doug Baker thanking the rangers of Glacier National Park, the search and rescue people, everyone involved.

  “In particular,” Emily Baker said, “we want to thank agents Frank Zander and Tracy Bowman of the FBI, who performed a difficult duty with the utmost respect, courtesy and professionalism under the most challenging circumstances.”

  Exhausted and watching alone, Zander put his hand over his eyes.

  Where do they find the grace?

  Reporters began asking Paige to recount her ordeal.

  In Helena, Montana’s governor and his staff watched with relief.

  The injured prison guard and crew of the Mercy Force helicopter watched from their rooms in Kalispell.

  David Cohen watched from his lonely Deer Lodge motel room, where he would wait until a local funeral director provided him with Hood’s ashes. Cohen would return to Glacier National Park, and disperse them there. Maybe he would take Maleena Crow up on her offer of lunch in Kalispell. Cohen planned a long, soul-searching drive across the western United States back to Chicago. It would give him time to decide what to say in his letters to the Baker family, the governor, Lane Porter, and to his firm. He wanted a year’s sabbatical.

  The news conference was ending when Bowman entered the lounge.

  “There you are, Frank!” Her smile lit up the room. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “We?”

  “That’s right. Got someone here I’d like you to meet.”

  A boy, about the same age as Paige Baker, entered.

  “This is my son, Mark. My friend drove him over this morning. Missed his mom. Marshal, say hello to Frank Zander.” She looked straight into Zander’s eyes. “One of the best there is.”

  “Hello, sir.” Mark extended his hand.

  Young eyes met his.

  “Well, hello yourself, Mark.”

  “Watcha doin’ here all glumlike, Frank? Mark and I are going downtown later. We know a place that makes the best cheeseburgers east of the Rockies. We’re going to celebrate. Join us.”

  “What are you celebrating?”

  “A happy ending and the fact my Los Angeles job came through.”

  “We’re moving to California,” Mark said.

  “Sunshine, surf and movie stars.”

  “Will you come with us?” Mark said.

  “Sure,” Zander said. “Guess I could use a burger.”

  Later, as they ate, Zander felt unbelievably comfortable with Tracy and Mark. It was as if he had found something he had lost long ago. Something that he needed. Over apple pie and ice cream he told her he had an offer from the SAC in L.A. to join the Division.

  “Do you think it would be a good thing if I accepted, Tracy?”

  She licked her ice cream spoon and considered his eyes.

  “I think that would be a very good thing, Frank.”

  For my father

  Pray for me; and what noise so ever yea hear,

  come not unto me, for nothing can rescue me.

  --The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus (1604) by Christopher Marlowe

  ONE

  Iris Wood studied death every day of her life. Helping people confront it was what she did for a living. But tonight she was facing her own fears head-on. And she was losing.

  Driving home after her first night course at San Francisco State University, Iris was adrift in the darkness. She rarely travelled this far south in the city. Her world was limited to the boundaries of her apartment in the Western Addition and her researcher’s job in a downtow
n office building on Montgomery.

  Her decision to attend an introductory astronomy class at SFSU was a brave new personal step. Not because she was interested in the stars, but because she needed to venture beyond her solitary universe, something made painfully clear to her weeks ago at the last office party where the resident busybody cornered her before she could escape.

  “You never stay at our parties, Iris. You’re so mousy in your cubicle, most of the time we don’t even know you are here. Have some wine, dear.”

  “No, I really should be going. I have someone waiting at home.”

  “Like who? You live alone, don’t you?”

  “No. I don’t. I’m living with somebody. My boyfriend.”

  “You have a boyfriend? Since when, Iris? You never told me.” Miss Busybody grinned as she sipped her wine.

  “Well, I --”

  “What does he do?”

  “Works at home. He’s the quiet type.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Jack.”

  “Jack? We’d love to meet him. You should --”

  “Really, I have to go.”

  In the elevator Iris’s face reddened, stinging with the realization of how pathetic she was. That night at home she fought her tears while working on her computer. Jack, the four-legged male in her life, plopped himself in her lap, purring and nudging at Iris to overcome her shyness and wade into the real world.

  Now, here she was, lost in it. This was exactly what she had feared. She left the map she had made back in the lecture hall. Her attempt to navigate from memory was futile after a dozen blocks or so. She took the wrong exit from the campus, meandering on Lake Merced, Middlefield, Sloat, and Crestlake. How did this happen? The fog from the Pacific didn’t help. This was silly. Getting back should be a no-brainer. If she could just get back on Nineteenth Avenue, it would take her right to Golden Gate Park, and from there she knew she could find Fulton, then east to her apartment near Alamo Square, in time to curl up and watch Sleepless in Seattle.

  Where are you Nineteenth Avenue?

  Could ask somebody for directions but the streets seem deserted tonight. Besides, she didn’t really want to approach anybody. She pressed the automatic lock button again before seeing a flashing emergency light in her rear-view mirror. It came out of the shadows. She pulled her car over and was bathed in pulsating red from the dash-mounted police light of the unmarked car that stopped behind her.

  Iris had never encountered traffic police before.

  “Evening, ma’am,” said the man’s voice from behind the intense flashlight beam.

  “Did I do something wrong, Officer?” She squinted.

  “Your license and registration, please.”

  Iris switched on her dome light, producing the items from her wallet. The officer put them on his small clipboard, then directed his flashlight on them.

  “You drove through an intersection, missed the stop sign.”

  Stop sign? What stop sign?

  “I guess I didn’t see it. Sorry.”

  “Happens all the time. Where are you coming from tonight, ma’am?”

  “A class at SFSU.”

  “You consume any alcohol tonight?”

  The flashlight was directed at her face.

  She squinted. “No. I don’t drink.”

  “Drugs?”

  “No.”

  “Would you please shut off your ignition and step out of the car.”

  “Why?”

  “Roadside sobriety check, ma’am.”

  Iris saw a pale half-moon peeking through the clouds as she stood before the tall officer. His face was darkened by the night, distorted by the strobing red light of his patrol car. From what she could see amidst the fog, they were situated near a heavily treed park.

  “Would you please count aloud backwards from one hundred while walking heel to toe in a straight line for me, ma’am?”

  Iris accomplished it without difficulty.

  “Thank you, ma’am. I am going to have to cite you for the stop sign. You can wait in your car, or in my cruiser. It won’t take long, but I will require your signature after I run a check on your particulars.”

  The area was a little creepy so Iris opted to wait in the police car then get directions home. The officer opened the rear right passenger door.

  She thought it odd how the car did not seem to have a police radio crackling or any other police equipment. In fact, it had that new-car smell and a plastic recycle bag from a rental agency. The red emergency dash light was almost blinding. She still couldn’t see the officer’s face as he wrote up her ticket from behind the wheel.

  “Ma’am, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “I guess so.”

  “What exactly do you look for in a man?”

  She had heard this question before. But where?

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Yes, you do. Tell me something, Iris. How’s Jack?”

  Iris Wood froze. “Excuse me?”

  “Jack, the guy you’re living with. Or should I say, cat.”

  She was dumbstruck. Paralyzed. How could he possibly know…

  “I think I’ll wait in my car.”

  “The back doors have child-safety locks. Won’t open from inside.”

  Iris swallowed, meeting his eyes in the rear-view mirror.

  “You know, Iris, people shouldn’t lie to other people. It always catches up with them in the end.”

  Iris could not speak. Her blood was pounding in her ears. The stranger grunted, turning in his seat, gripping a device that looked like an electric razor, suddenly pressing it against her neck, instantly overwhelming her neuromuscular system, disorienting her until she collapsed.

  He switched off the red light, then drove away, vanishing into the fog with Iris Wood in his back seat.

  TWO

  Julie Zegler was talking on her cell phone while disarming the security system at the rear of Forever & Ever, her bridal boutique near Union Square.

  “You’re sure it’s finally done, Ronnie?”

  “Completely. I stayed until nine last night to finish it.”

  Zegler could hear the bells of the cable cars on Powell Street clanging as the control keypad beeped an all-clear. She entered her shop, switched on the lights.

  “You know, she’s picking it up this morning. In two hours.”

  “I know.”

  Zegler went to the work room to get the completed gown.

  “Any problems, Ron?”

  “The bodice. Her recent augmentation complicated things. Of course, there was her attitude.”

  “What? Sorry, I can’t seem to find --”

  “Don’t you remember? Her attitude. Rhymes with rich.”

  The store phone began ringing. Please. We don’t open for another hour. Zegler rustled through the finished orders. Brannigan, a size-four chiffon mermaid. Dodd, trumpet skirt in a ten tall. Lorenzo, an organza affair, size seven.

  No Carruthers.

  “Ronnie it’s not --”

  “Remember, she invited me to lunch at her favorite French restaurant on Belden two months ago. Never once saying Christoban is in a Malibu detox center. In her phony baby-girl voice she says: ‘Oh, Ronnie I just have to have you! I want the best Veronica Chan ever! Transform me….’ ”

  Zegler bit her bottom lip and kept searching. Li, petite princess, size two. Shire, a size-eight readingcoat. Tannenbaum, five, a classic taffeta. Wong, a size four, a bouffant.

  No Carruthers.

  The phone stopped.

  “…she goes, ‘Ronnie, you’re the artist. Create. I just insist on some teeny things.’ Teeny things? She unfolds her three pages of hideous sketches of Christoban knockoffs.”

  “Ronnie, where did you put --”

  “Nothing to do with my themes. Then the way she kept snapping her fingers at me: ‘Oh Ronnie, make it magical, make it divine.’ Julie, I feel sorry for her dot-commie millionaire beau. You can take the girl out of the trail
er park but you can’t --”

  “Ronnie! It is not here!”

  The phone started again.

  “Julie. It’s there. It’s with the others.”

  “Well, I can’t find it.”

  “I placed it with the others, Brannigan, Dodd. Did you look?”

  “Yes! What time did you leave last night?”

  “Nine. I told you.”

  “What about Clarice?”

  “Left at eight. I was the last to leave. Look again.”

  “I am telling you it is not here!”

  “I am telling you, it is there!”

  Zegler rubbed her temple. The security system was properly activated. Nothing was amiss. The store phone continued ringing.

  “Ronnie, I cannot find it.”

  “What do you want me to do, Julie?”

  “Get your butt down here and find the goddamn gown, Veronica!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a six-thousand-dollar order! We flew in the satin from Paris, the tiara’s from Italy.”

  “Julie, I am on the Golden Gate Bridge, late for an appointment in Marin. I will be back in time.”

  Zegler snatched the ringing store phone, slamming down the receiver. An icy silence passed between the cell phones of the two women. Veronica Chan saw San Francisco’s skyline in the rear-view mirror of her sapphire Mercedes 450 SL. She resented Zegler’s tone. She was Zegler’s partner, not her employee. It was Chan’s artistry that attracted the top-end clients, not the cobwebbed reputation of a senile Bay Area seamstress.

  Outside the shop a police siren sounded. Loud. Near. Very near.

  “What’s that?” Ronnie asked.

  Someone began banging on the front door.

  “I don’t know, Ronnie. I have to get the door. Something’s going on.”

  “You deal with this. I’ll be there within two hours.”

  Making her way to the front, Zegler took calming breaths, inhaling the fragrance produced by the automated aroma machine. It simulated an English country garden, accenting the shop’s elegant European motifs and plush carpet. Was she losing her mind? She was rude to Veronica. Perhaps it was time to consider retiring. She should have answered the store phone. It might have been Clarice. Maybe the order was picked up after closing. Or delivered. But Clarice was dependable, always leaving a clear note at the back. This was not good.