by Rick Mofina
Vryke had done his homework.
There was nothing he did not know.
Then he had stepped into the frame, enshrouded head-to-toe in a hooded white bio-chem jumpsuit, complete with goggles, gloves and surgical mask.
He knew how she had dreamed of the special day she would come here for her gown. But she had lied, laughed at him, laughed at his face like all the others since his childhood. You are not worthy to join me in eternity.
He had gripped his scalpel.
Liar.
Vryke switched the movie off. He knew the ending. An icon on his screen said Iris in San Francisco. He dispatched it to the file that contained the others who had failed him.
He had to find his One True Heart.
He had narrowed his list.
Ah, the piano player. Averted disaster in Orange County. Could he risk returning to Santa Ana after such a close call so soon after Iris? The little gang bangers had interrupted him, forcing him to abort. Police spoke with him. It was too dangerous.
He tapped his lip. Now which one?
All of them strong candidates, all promising to wash away the sins of his past life. Like this one: I truly mean it from the bottom of my heart.
He had to choose. Time was running out.
TWENTY-FIVE
Wyatt watched the sun kiss the Pacific while waiting on the street outside of Iris Wood’s building. He checked his wristwatch.
Where were they?
He’d been there for over an hour. Since he was assigned to this homicide, every cop he met had treated him with contempt. He didn’t know how much more he could take. Maybe he should demand to be pulled from the file. Just head back to CFU. Let the homicide dicks play their games. Sydowski was determined to ignore his work. Wyatt looked both ways down the quiet street.
Sydowski and Turgeon were supposed to be here over an hour ago. Screw this. Wyatt began pressing numbers on his cell phone when an unmarked Caprice roared around the corner, squeaking to a halt in front of the house. Turgeon was by herself, slamming the door, face taut as they moved quickly along the walk.
“I got tied up.”
“Save it, Turgeon. I know what’s going on.”
“What?” She stopped to eye him. “Hey, I was tied up. Don’t get all paranoid on me. I am one of your satisfied customers, Wyatt. Or did you forget?”
He did forget.
“Fine,” he said.
Turgeon fished out the key and they headed for the stairs to Iris Wood’s apartment.
But along the way, Wyatt could not contain his frustration. “I can’t understand why this has taken so long. Why Sydowski has practically ignored her computer.”
“It’s not like that.”
“No? Sure looks that way to me. I chalk it up to the fact your partner loathes me. Because unless he’s got something up his sleeve, something you guys are holding back, I can’t figure out why he is overlooking a cyber-stalking line of investigation.”
“We’re not overlooking it.”
They crested the stairs to the apartment.
“We should have been all over it from the beginning, Linda.”
Turgeon had to bite her tongue because she agreed with Wyatt, but respected Sydowski.
“We’re still at the beginning, Ben. Now you’re investigating for any cyber angle.” Turgeon unlocked the apartment and pushed the door open. “It’s all yours.”
Wyatt went directly to the computer, set down his briefcase, and switched on the machine.
“I’ve already poked around on it a bit,” Turgeon said. “Enough to guess that she spent a lot of time on-line, has hundreds of bookmarked sites for dating, singles chat groups, matchmakers, lonely-hearts clubs, advice stuff. You name it.”
“You know the last sites she visited?”
“Booksellers, I think.”
“Her last e-mails? Sent or received?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
The keyboard clicked. In seconds Wyatt was into another realm of Iris Wood’s machine, reading the technical properties of her system that appeared on her monitor.
Turgeon was impressed but she had to leave. She told Wyatt that Crime Scene had cleared the apartment, that Leo had cleared Wyatt to seize Wood’s computer here.
“The landlord’s pretty broken up. Went to Key West to see his sister. The other tenant’s in Europe. You’re alone here. We put Jack, her cat, in a shelter until the landlord returns. He may take him. Call me and Sydowski when you’re done. Okay?”
Wyatt was absorbed in his work. He did not answer and did not hear Turgeon go.
He fired up his own laptop, connecting it to another cell phone he had in his briefcase. He removed his shoulder holster, draping it over the chair, and worked. He scanned Iris Wood’s specifications, then inserted a specially designed diagnostic disk into her computer and began a quick series of checks, typing certain data he pulled from her computer into his laptop.
Soon he had her passwords and usernames, IW02 was a favorite for the various on-line clubs she had joined. Wyatt started working on the sites which Iris had visited most recently.
Careful to use his police laptop, he signed on to a number of them and began reading the message boards, studying their content, tone, trolling for clues about Iris. Wyatt was cautious. Waiting until he found a site where someone mentioned IWO2. A so-called lonely-heart from San Antonio was asking if anyone had heard from her lately.
Wyatt made a note to watch that site, then moved on to begin trolling the scores of others, knowing it could be futile. What exactly am I looking for? He didn’t know. Nothing surfaced that indicated she had been lured to a meeting. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack without knowing what the needle looked like. And it turned out that Iris used many sites, varying her user name on each one. She must have spent all of her free time on-line.
There were things he could try, but it was going to take a lot of work and a lot of time. For now, he inserted another disk, which would take several minutes to do its work. As it softly hummed and whirred, Wyatt left the computer to explore the apartment, discerning the desperation of a lonely life, something he had come to know firsthand.
He recognized it in the longings of the on-line groups Iris Wood had joined. Hell, he was no different. He had tried a few himself. Everybody’s looking for somebody. But he could never seem to find the right person, and spent much of his time staring at the city lights from his apartment, or watching old Bogart movies, or driving San Francisco’s streets searching for answers to the shooting. Searching for salvation. Searching for someone to know the truth. That he didn’t fail his partner. That he was a good cop. Searching for someone to understand that in a heartbeat people can face a life-defining moment and must make a decision, and that they will be judged by that decision.
I made my decision.
The shooter had taken a kid hostage on the stairs. There was a kid. I saw his eyes. I could not fire.
He longed to tell somebody who would just listen to the truth. Instead he ended each day as it began, a prisoner in his empty apartment, living an empty life. Facing nothing with nothing. Some days it seemed so futile. Maybe he was just tired. They had him running all over the place chasing nickel-and dime-stuff. Wyatt was standing in Iris Wood’s bedroom staring at the twinkling city lights. He shoved his hands in his pockets, suddenly feeling the business card from one of the shops he had visited near the murder scene.
He retrieved the card, staring at it. It was from Caselli’s, the little gift shop on Maiden near Union Square. Manager, Olivia Grant. He remembered how she seemed like a nice person. So quick to help him and smart, punching up Iris Wood on her computerized client list. Running a name like a cop would, inviting him to stand near her while they searched. When was the last time he had been that close to a woman? Ms. Grant was not wearing any rings. Kind eyes, a warm smile. Made him feel comfortable. He turned her card over, to her neatly penned home number. Maybe, he could call --<
br />
A muffled thud sounded from downstairs.
Wyatt held his breath and pricked up his ears.
Turgeon said he was alone. He expected no one.
Another sound. A creak. Drawing near fast.
The second floor.
Wyatt’s gun was in the living room, in his holster draped on the chair near the computer. It seemed like such a long way.
Someone was approaching the apartment. Wyatt moved to his gun. The door handle was turning.
In a heartbeat.
He reached his gun. The door opened to Sydowski, glaring at him, eyeing his gun, in his right hand, lowered next to Wyatt’s leg, barrel pointed at the floor, thumb on the safety.
“Put that away, Wyatt.”
“You could have called, or at least knocked.”
“Why, so you could bake a cake?”
Wyatt holstered his gun.
“Sit down and listen, Wyatt, because I don’t wish to be in your company any longer than necessary.”
“I’ll stand.”
“We’re still maintaining cemetery surveillance. Your next shift is tomorrow morning.”
“But I’m working on her computer.”
“You want off this case, Wyatt?”
“No. I think you should let me finish what I am trained to do.”
“Oh, and what’s that?”
“This.” Wyatt indicated the computers.
“Well, have you found anything, Inspector?”
“Not yet, I just got started. But she’s been all over the Web, talking to everybody.”
“Talking to people? Well this visit was worth my time. That’s why I dropped by. To see a real cop finding real evidence.”
“What century are you in, Walt? What city are you in? Take a look around. You know cyber-stalking is real. You know on-line murder is real.”
“I know what’s real.” Sydowski invaded Wyatt’s space. “The bullet in Reggie Pope is real.”
“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? It’s all about me and Reggie. Nothing I do will ever be right by you.”
“You’re getting warm.”
“You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgement. This is dangerous for the case.”
Sydowski stabbed his forefinger into Wyatt’s chest. “Some things can’t be forgiven.”
Wyatt said nothing.
Sydowski’s face remained tense; then he left.
Wyatt stood alone in Iris Wood’s apartment, thinking of nothing, listening to Sydowski descend the stairs, leave the building, then drive off.
It was late but Wyatt was in no hurry. No one was waiting for him. His eyes inventoried the living room when he realized the disk he had inserted into Iris Wood’s computer had completed its initial check. Wyatt typed a command.
A message appeared on the screen.
Cannot read from drive A:
Christ. What the hell? It was a new updated disk. This had never happened before. Wyatt tried a few commands.
A is not accessible. The device is not ready.
He tried something else.
Serious disk error writing to drive A:
This was not good.
Disk has been formatted.
What the hell?
Somehow, his most powerful disk had just been destroyed.
TWENTY-SIX
Reed entered the San Francisco Star newsroom a little after eleven A.M. The news receptionist spotted him flipping through a back issue near the front desk.
“Tom, some guy’s been calling for you every half hour. Wouldn’t go to your voice mail and said your cell phone was off.”
“It’s charging. He leave a name?”
“No. It sounded urgent. He said he’ll keep calling.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Reed threaded his way through the metro news section to his desk with one thought on his mind. Coffee. He felt the stirrings of a headache from his lack of caffeine. The upside: No sign of Brader.
Reed’s phone rang as he loosened his tie, pulled off his jacket, then grabbed the call.
“Tom Reed.”
“I trusted you, asshole.”
“Is this a radio contest?”
“You know who I am?”
“Afraid I need a clue.”
“Slim. As in witness.”
“Slim! Man. I’m sorry. What’s up?”
“What’s up? You gave me up, asshole.”
“Time out there, pal, because I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. You gave me up.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how come I just spent the last forty-eight hours as a guest of the SFPD. I’m a dead man thanks to you.”
“I did not give you up. I took your information to them, like you wanted. Sure, they wanted to meet you but I didn’t give you up.”
Silence.
“So, Slim, tell me what happened.”
“When we finished in Golden Gate, I went back to Stern Grove. Replaced the jewels I boosted. Clean. But like the next day, at the auto-body shop at my day job, two detectives, a pretty woman and a big mean-mother old guy, show up, take me away quietly. They got paper to go through my stuff at work at the halfway house. Got their evidence people going through my stuff. Kept pumping me on what was I doing at Stern Grove at that time. Told me it was no use lying because they had me and were sending me back inside if I didn’t cooperate.”
“What did you do?”
“Told them the truth, which is what I told you. That I saw a cop stop her car.”
“What did they say?”
“Asked me for details, describe the cop, the car, her, what happened. They kept going over and over exactly what I saw, repeating details.”
“Did they try to put the murder on you, say they had you at the bridal shop, anything like that?”
“No.”
“Where are you now?”
“Pay phone around the block from my job. They let me go and told my boss and my parole officer I was helping them on a major case, like everything was cool.”
“Then that’s a good thing,” Reed said, adding, “I never gave you up.”
“Then how did they know?”
“Probably saw you take the jewels back. They’ve likely been surveilling and canvassing the area where they found the car. Probably ran a routine check on all area burglaries. Anyway, you’re okay.”
“How do you figure that?”
“They told your boss you were helping them with a case. They cut you loose. You’re not a suspect. You’re a hero.”
“Soon to be dead.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because the killer is still out there and I saw him.”
“It’s time to write about you. No one will touch you then.”
“Right, tell that to Lee Harvey Oswald,” Slim laughed. “I’m just a small-time addict.”
“I got to write about you.”
Slim was silent.
“I did not give you up.”
Slim was thinking.
“Your boss and parole officer already know you’re helping the police. A news story is insurance for you, which is why you came to me in the first place.”
“No names, no pictures, no burglary details. I am just a witness who was there that night, Reed.”
“Deal.”
Slim hung up.
Reed turned to see Brader standing two feet from him, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, hands on his hips. He’d been listening.
“Mind telling me what deals you’re brokering there, superstar?”
Reed swallowed, thinking fast, head throbbing from lack of coffee.
“Oh, that was just some nut case. Claims the CIA and some militia groups are behind the bride shop murder.”
Brader stood there, obviously not buying Reed’s explanation. “Really. Bet it’s funny then.”
“A real knee-slapper.”
“Then let me hear your tape.”
“My tape?” Re
ed reached for his recorder. “Sure.” He pushed EJECT, then dropped the machine. “Darn it. Just a sec.” He bent over, swiftly hooking a finger around the ribbon of tape. “Darn. I’m all thumbs.” Some two feet of the tape unwound, got tangled and snapped. “Oh, I am such a dope of a reporter.”
Brader stomped off, hurling an order over his shoulder. “I’ve got you down today for a news exclusive on the bride case, Reed. Deliver, or you’re covering the dog show this weekend!”
Reed left the newspaper for the Hall of Justice.
Sydowski emerged from the homicide detail. “Let’s grab a coffee, Tom.”
They were alone in the elevator.
“I am going to write a story that says a witness told investigators on the Wood homicide that he saw an unmarked police car stop her, then vanish with her.”
“Sounds like a good story.”
Reed was surprised. He had expected friction.
“We don’t think it was a cop. Believe me, we have done some deep checking and cannot verify exactly what the witness saw.”
“Can you place the witness there?”
“Yes, but we cannot verify what he says he saw.”
“Someone posing as a cop?”
“It happens, but again, we’ve got nothing.”
They headed for the cafeteria.
“Are you still investigating his report?”
“Certainly.”
“Will you release the witness’s name?”
“Absolutely not.”
Sydowski paid for two coffees and they sat at an isolated table. Reed loaded his with sugar and cream. “Guess now that you talked to Slim, my story won’t hurt your case?”
“Depends what you write.”
“How did you grab him?”
