Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  Sydowski sipped his coffee. “This is not to be published.”

  “Sure.”

  “Because of his drug problems, he was sloppy with his burglaries near Stern and St. Francis Wood. He was busier than he led you to believe. Left prints at the house closest to where she was stopped. He was an easy pick up. We recovered most of the stuff. We’ll talk to the DA because what he saw is a link. He’s not getting a medal, but we’re sorting things out.”

  “He’s scared to death, convinced it’s a cop.”

  “He’s a drug addict and a thief.” Sydowski downed the remainder of his coffee. “I got to go.”

  Returning to the Star, Reed was taking stock of what he knew of the case. A ritualistic murder of a single downtown office worker who barely existed beyond her little world; a drug-addicted thief on parole who claimed he witnessed a cop abduct her in the hours before her death.

  A cop?

  Ascending the elevator to the newsroom, Reed thought Sydowski’s reaction to the cop theory was not right. If they truly thought it was a cop, Walt would be enraged. But someone posing as a cop? Reed shook his head. What did it matter? A killer was a killer. One thing Reed was convinced of, this crime was so choreographed, that Iris Wood couldn’t be his first victim.

  And if they didn’t catch him, she wouldn’t be his last.

  Stepping off the elevator, Reed nearly bumped into his wife.

  “Ann?”

  “Hi. Had a coffee meeting near here with a client and thought I’d drop in. Can I buy you lunch?”

  Reed saw the time on the clock in the reception area, then studied his wife. Her short chestnut hair was pulled up into an attractive bun. She was wearing a lilac designer suit, with a pleated-front skirt, a pearl necklace which worked well with the jacket’s V-neck. She wore little make-up. She didn’t need it. Her full lips and sculptured cheeks set off her brown eyes, as she stood before him, gripping her slim briefcase. He knew that lately they’d had so little time alone together, that Zach’s sickness was worrying them, especially Ann because her sister had scores of allergies. Seeing her standing there, so beautiful, knowing that she was too good for him, made it easy to set his murder story aside for an hour.

  “Let’s go.”

  She smiled.

  They went to a crowded little trendy place a few blocks away. Ann ordered a salad. Reed found the thing that passed for a burger platter.

  “Tom, I’m worried about Zach.” Ann produced a small file from her briefcase. “I talked to the allergist, again. She faxed me some forms and questions this morning.”

  “What do they figure it is?”

  “They don’t know. He is reacting to something.” She opened the file, studied it, twisting her wedding rings. “His diet hasn’t changed. She said it could be anything but is leaning to something environmental.”

  “We renovated the house, including his room.”

  “I told her. She said that it could be something in the material.”

  “Like what?”

  “She doesn’t know. She said we have to find out what’s new in the house. Tom, how do we do that?” Ann handed the file to him.

  “Well, we call the contractors and get a list of everything they used, from the wood, the material, the paint, everything. We break it down and provide it to her. Maybe it’s the type of wood, paint, or something in the flooring.”

  A cell phone trilled softly in Ann’s briefcase and she reached for it. “Sorry,” she blinked at him. “This is Ann,” she said into the phone.

  Reed looked over his son’s medical file. What was making Zach sick? He spotted the server coming from the kitchen with their order.

  “No, no. That’s too much,” Ann said to her phone, then after listening, “They are?” The server set their orders down. “I’ll be right there.” Ann ended her call. “I’m so sorry,” she said to the young woman serving them, “could you make the salad to go?”

  “Not a problem.”

  Reed tried to flatten the two-inch thick slices of bread keeping him from his burger while Ann stood and pecked his cheek, then tapped the file.

  “I’m sorry. I have to run,” she said. “Crisis with a supplier trying to double an order. Tom, you take the file and, please, can you call the contractors, and get the material? Please?”

  He worked his mouth around his burger, nodding to her.

  When Reed returned to the newsroom, he set Zach’s file down, listening to Molly Wilson, bracelets chiming as she typed at her work station next to his.

  “Brader’s been looking for you, cowboy.”

  “He can’t seem to function without poking me with a stick.” Reed was exhausted, pulling off his jacket.

  “He wants to be sure you have a good story today on our bridal shop of horrors.”

  “I do. What are you doing?”

  “A feature that is sort of a follow to your big take on Iris Wood. On-line dating, that sort of thing. Keys off her lonely life and some recent studies about love on-line. A little edge but not much. How about you?”

  “A witness told homicide he saw a cop in an unmarked car stop Iris Wood near Stern Grove where they found her abandoned Ford.”

  “I like that! That’s hard. All ours?”

  “All ours.”

  “Should keep Brader happy.”

  “Nothing would keep him happy. He’s nuts.”

  “I almost forgot.” Wilson stood. “Remember Lou Del Grachi from the Daily News in New York?”

  “Met him in Montana on that story in the Rockies. Seemed like a real sharp guy. What about him?”

  “Oh, he’s very good. He called today. Wants to talk to you. So call him.” Wilson’s bracelets clinked as she flipped through the pages of her notebook, then tore out a page. “Here’s his direct line.” She glanced at her watch. “He should still be there.”

  Reed studied the number. “He say what it was about?”

  “Said there might be a New York link to our bride-in-the-window murder.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Olivia made a breakfast of mixed fresh fruit, whole-wheat toast, and tea. As she ate, she fetched the long article she had saved a few days ago from the San Francisco Star, the one on the life of Iris Wood. She read every word and again her eyes glistened. Poor Iris. Olivia’s heart ached for her, looking at the pictures. One of the photographs accompanying the article was taken at her funeral. The caption listed the cemetery in Colma. Olivia called the office there and obtained Iris Wood’s plot location, writing the details down on the border of the news article. She went upstairs to her computer, went on-line and printed off a map. Quickly, she logged on to a few of the chat sites she had visited the previous night for responses and made some updates. She showered, applied some make-up, then dressed in a dark navy skirt and jacket. Then she collected some flowers from her garden, her map, got into her bronze Saturn, slipped on dark glasses and headed for San Jose Ave. She preferred it to the busy interstate.

  Driving south, Olivia attempted to sort out her feelings. It was confusing, maybe it would be better once she arrived. She needed to perform a solemn duty as much for herself as for the dead stranger she mourned.

  Goodness, look what I am doing.

  Olivia surveyed the city flowing by her window. She had left her house, broken from her routine. Got her hair fixed, was actually having conversations with other human beings. Her on-line friends had helped her step into life, talk to people, take a chance with her heart. She’d come a long way from her dark night on the Golden Gate. Olivia pushed the memory from her mind, brushing the tears from her cheeks as she entered Colma.

  Most Bay Area residents were familiar with the little town at San Francisco’s southern edge. It had at least ten cemeteries located side by side, covering a mile-wide expanse that stretched nearly two miles.

  Following her map and directions, Olivia found the cemetery. Using the Hillside entrance she located the section and the grave of Iris May Wood. She parked in the shade of a eucalyptus tree, stepped
out, surveyed the area, collected her thoughts, smoothed her skirt.

  Why have I come?

  It was a beautiful spot. Some gulls cried overhead. The traffic sounds were a distant low hum, like a church organ softly reminding you that life does continue.

  Olivia gazed at Iris Wood’s grave, its fresh mound some thirty yards away. She breathed deeply, exhaled, then collected her flowers from the car and started toward it, the soft grass swishing under her dark dress shoes. No stone marked the spot. The brown slopes of San Bruno Mountain ascended a quarter mile into the sky in the hazy distance.

  A memorial wreath of white roses from her coworkers rested on the mound. A silk banner read: ALWAYS IN OUR HEARTS.

  Olivia bent her knees and placed her vase near the wreath, neatly arranging the flowers that had shifted, realizing that she was gently weeping.

  I don’t know exactly what I want to say, only that I knew I had to come. We never met, but I think we knew each other because I think we fought the same fears, endured the same pain, dreamed the same dreams, and lived the same desperate lives, up until the day they found you. Olivia touched her fingers to the flowers, gently caressing them. Maybe we were star-crossed, I don’t know. But we both have left those lives now, and I believe in my heart that your death somehow lit the way for me. I’ll never forget you, Iris May Wood.

  Olivia brushed a tear from her cheek, arranged her flowers, then left. The gulls shrieked as she walked toward her car, stopping to sit on a wrought-iron bench under the eucalyptus, and reflect.

  She remained there a long time, enjoying the serenity. Coming here felt right, it helped her understand that she had a kinship with Iris Wood, who in death had played some cosmic role in saving her life. She had come not only to pay her respects, but, in her own way, to thank her.

  Olivia stood to leave but held her breath.

  A man was standing next to her car.

  She didn’t hear him approach. Standing there, hands in his pockets, looking at San Bruno Mountain. Olivia saw some vehicles in the distance. If she needed help, would they hear? She swallowed, then headed to her car.

  The man faced her when she neared. Dark suit, no tie. Ray Bans. Late thirties. About six feet, solid build. He looked --

  “Ms. Grant?”

  He knew her? His voice was familiar.

  “Yes?”

  “Ben Wyatt. San Francisco police. We met the other day in your shop.” He removed his glasses.

  “Oh yes. Hello.”

  They shook hands, his large strong hand swallowed hers comfortably.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

  “You have more questions?”

  “Yes, sort of.”

  “Here? I’m a little curious, well, a lot actually, how did you find me?”

  He indicated a van nearly fifty yards away barely visible between some shrubs and large stones. “We’ve been working with local police, kind of keeping an eye out, watching who comes and goes, in case someone we haven’t interviewed surfaces.”

  Olivia nodded.

  “Think I could talk to you a minute? My shift is nearly over and there’s a diner not far from here. Won’t take long. I’m sorry to impose.”

  “No. It’s fine.”

  “Good. Just follow my vehicle.” He raised an arm, signaling his good-bye to the van. Then he walked to his car, an unmarked Chevy sedan, parked close but out of sight behind a small mausoleum. Olivia had not even noticed it there, she thought as she followed him out of the cemetery.

  It was a new cozy place on Serramonte Boulevard. They slipped into a booth. She ordered tea. He took a coffee. Black. Wyatt placed his notebook on the Formica table top but did not open it, twirling it slowly, thinking how best to break the ice here.

  “I was a little surprised when I saw you arrive Ms. Grant --”

  “You can call me Olivia.”

  He returned her little nervous smile. “Olivia. Ben. I was surprised when I saw you out there because the other day you told me you did not know her at all.” He opened his notebook. “I’m sorry, I have to note this.”

  “No problem,” Olivia dripped cream into her tea. “That’s right. I never met her. But after I read the story about her life, and the fact I pass by the bride shop every day…It’s so close and the more I thought about it, the more I felt connected. It’s like I knew her. You know, it’s all so sad, and it just made me take stock of my own life, and well…” She waved a hand.

  “Are you married?”

  Olivia blushed. Smiled. Shook her head.

  “Boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Life partner?”

  “That’s not my orientation,” she said over the brim of her cup. “This part of the investigation?”

  He was making notes, nodding.

  “Actually, it is. I never asked you in your shop and because you visited the cemetery, it’s required.” He yawned. “Excuse me, I was up very late the past few days going through her --” He stopped himself. “I’m just a little tired.”

  “The whole thing is such a tragedy. There must be a lot of work to do. Can you say if the police have any idea who did it?”

  “I wouldn’t know, the lead detectives keep everything pretty tight. I just complete the assignments as requested, and there are many.”

  “Well, Ben, I hope you can get some rest.”

  He nodded, gulping his coffee.

  “What about you?” she asked. “Married? Got a girlfriend?”

  He shook his head.

  “Boyfriend?”

  “Not my orientation,” he said, checking his watch, finishing his coffee. “I should go. Sorry for the imposition, Olivia. You’re the only person who dropped by on my watch. I have to put it in the file.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Olivia liked him. He sounded kind. Very nice eyes.

  He closed his notebook, left a few dollars on the table, and stood. “Know your way back to the city from here? You can take El Camino Real, or back on Hillside. I’m heading back and could lead you out.”

  “I’m fine.” She smiled over her tea. “Got my map.”

  Slipping his notebook into his jacket, he hesitated. “Can I ask you a personal question, Olivia?”

  She laughed softly. “Why not? You’ve already asked a few.”

  “For me, I mean. Well,” he said, “would you like to have coffee with me sometime when I’m off duty?’

  “You’re asking me for a date?”

  “No. Just coffee.”

  “We’re sort of having coffee.”

  “I guess I’m asking for a date. Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to --”

  “I’d love to go on a date, Ben.”

  “Good.” He smiled then his cell rang. He shook her hand. “I’ll call you, Olivia, I’ve got your numbers.”

  “All right,” she said.

  He waved to her from the parking lot before driving off.

  Olivia ordered another tea and sat alone in the diner, in the heart of Colma, a city where the dead outnumbered the living, where she had come to bid farewell to a life she had buried. Now, she had a date. Just as one of her on-line friends had predicted.

  I don’t think you’ll have to wait for the right man much longer.

  Really? Why?

  He’ll find you.

  How do you know?

  It’s destined.”

  A shiver shuddered through Olivia. She sat there a long time, trying to make sense of her life, Iris Wood’s death, and the flowers she placed on her grave on this heartbreakingly beautiful day.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Eugene Vryke’s fingertips were tingling.

  He was racing against his own death, peering into the night from the belly of a 737. The jetliner had just completed its climb and was levelling off. Below, the lights of cities and towns sweeping by like glittering rivers of the night.

  The seat beside Vryke was empty. In the seat next to it, a small woman in her eighties was asleep. B
ehind Vryke, a teenaged university student was listening to a portable CD player, soft rhythmic ticking leaking from her headphones.

  The time left on Vryke’s life was evaporating. He could feel each second, each minute, peeling down to his heart as he struggled to complete his monument. His message through which the world would forever know his true identity and secure his place in history.

  Time to review.

  Vryke switched on his laptop.

  The file came to life with her face. He had studied it over and over for hours. So many files, so many days. The top candidates he had interviewed were impressive. Qualified. It was a difficult choice. But he had to make his decision. Was he absolutely certain about her?

  Yes.

  It had taken him all of his life to reach this point. To understand his fate. To embrace it.

  Such a long journey.

  Eugene Vryke let his head sink into the pillow of his headrest, rubbing his fingers over his face, over the scars, cut deep into his skin as if a misshapen spider’s web had been branded into it.

  At that instant a razor sharp wild current sizzled through his brain delivering pain that knifed down his spine to his toes, slamming his heart against his ribcage, forcing Vryke to clench his jaw, slam his knees together, and grip his armrests.

  Not now. Please not now.

  It passed.

  He prayed he had not screamed out like the other times. He had conditioned himself to suffer in silence. He took deep breaths, blinking rapidly. No one came. His heart rate slowed, his fingers brushed his medical bag, assuring him. An injection was not needed at this time, but it was within reach. In the calming, soft light of his section of the cabin, Vryke’s brain patterns swirled and he became that sad boy again, lost in the world, never knowing he had been chosen for a special purpose. He closed his eyes, his thoughts carrying him back.

  Florida.

  Near the Cape. Sun. Loving, warm breezes caressing him as the Atlantic laps against the sand. A shimmering sheen of perfection with each wave.

  Vryke’s mother is drunk. Passed out on a blanket, still gripping the bottle. His father sits dutifully beside her, brush cut, horn-rimmed glasses, his tie lifting in the wind, his face a mask of defeat as he strokes her hair. Vryke is just a boy. When his mother passed out, he had taken a coin from her purse, went to the nearest public telephone and called his dad at his job.