Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  “Good work,” Sydowski said. “That it?”

  “There’s more.”

  Horace displayed a clear picture of a small item that had been stuck to the suspect’s shoe. It had been found in the bridal shop. A small sticker, creased, tattered, torn, dirty but with markings in ribbon-like repetition. They were legible, reading: BWI.

  Turgeon repeated the letters, then jotted them down.

  Sydowski’s eyebrows climbed. “I’ve seen that style of sticker before. Looks like an airport code.”

  “Baltimore-Washington International,” Horace said. “Judging from the tear, I would bet there is more of this sticker embedded in the shoe.”

  “Damn,” Turgeon said. “This is good.”

  “I did extensive work on the fibers found on the adhesive side of this BWI sticker. They sort of collected and rolled up in a sample. What I found are some traces, here” -- Horace displayed a picture -- “fibers of flock carpeting, the type of carpet used in commercial aircraft. It is long lasting, crush resistant, easily treated for flammability, stands up to stains and repeated commercial cleaning. I’ve already sent a package to the FBI for further analysis.”

  Turgeon studied the monitor. Sydowski was thinking. “But aircraft manufacturers all likely use the same product.”

  Horace shook his head. “Not always. They install as per the customer’s requirements. These fibers” -- Horace nodded to the monitor -- “are from a Malaysian producer. Zorilio. Largely supplies airlines in Africa and the Pacific Rim. I made some calls to textile experts, then contacted Zorilio. Their carpets were installed in the jets of two U.S. companies. A charter line that connects New York, Boston, and Orlando. Nothing to Baltimore and California.

  “What about the other company?” Turgeon said.

  “An upstart commercial carrier, called Five Star Skyways.”

  “Well, Horace,” Sydowski said, “does Five Star have flights connecting Baltimore, Washington, and San Francisco?”

  “Six flights daily.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  In the Star newsroom at his desk, Reed dialed a number in Kentucky. A woman answered on the fourth ring.

  “Hello.”

  “I am calling for Dolores Finch.”

  “I’m Dolores Finch.”

  “The mother of Amy Finch?”

  Her voice now guarded. “Who’s calling please?”

  “Tom Reed. I’m a reporter in California with a newspaper, the San Francisco Star.”

  “Why are you calling here?”

  “You’re Amy’s mother? Amy worked in Cincinnati?”

  “Yes. Why are you calling?”

  “Well, ma’am, I am doing some research on unsolved cases and came across the reports on Amy’s death --”

  “Has something happened? An arrest?”

  “No, nothing like that. We’ve had a recent case here, a young woman murdered in a wedding dress shop. Perhaps you heard of it?”

  “No. Maybe I saw something. Look, I don’t know. Why are you calling?”

  “Well we’re hearing from sources, just speculation, that our San Francisco case could be linked to some others across the country.”

  Reed left the question open, gazing at the printouts from the Enquirer of reports on Amy Finch’s murder. OFFICE GIRL SLAYING GRUESOME, read one headline. Her color mug shot showed a plain, small-town girl. Thirty-one. Single. Lived alone. Worked in a downtown Cincinnati office tower. Data entry for a national marketing firm. A locator map pinpointed where her corpse was found in an abandoned meat-processing plant. A fact absent from the articles was that Amy Finch was stabbed with such fury the broken blade of the steak knife the killer used was found imbedded in her heart, according to a source of Reed’s.

  “How would I know if Amy’s case is connected to others? How could I know about a thing like that?”

  “Has anyone with Cincinnati homicide, or the FBI, mentioned to you recently any theories or anything about the possibility of your daughter’s case being linked to others?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Did Amy have any friends in California?”

  “No, she didn’t have many friends. She was -- no.”

  “Did the police tell you if they have any suspects?”

  “No.” Dolores Finch thought. “Mr. Reed, if you know something about my daughter’s death, I think it would cruel of you to keep it from me. We’re trying to put it all to rest here.”

  “I understand. I don’t know anything. It’s just that there were rumors arising from our case here that similarities are being compared with other cases.”

  “What similarities?”

  “Well it seems from the news reports Amy and Iris Wood, the woman in San Francisco, both kept to themselves, worked in large cities, lived alone, regularly used their computers on-line, that sort of thing.”

  Dolores Finch let a long moment pass. Reed heard her sniffle.

  “Sometimes,” she said, “I used to tell her to go out with the people in her office and meet somebody. But Amy told me she had all the friends she needed on the Web.”

  “Did she ever try to meet with any of them?”

  “I don’t want to talk to you anymore. It’s been a bad day. Good-bye.”

  The line went dead in Reed’s ear. He hung up, reflecting, then put an asterisk in his notebook beside the line Cincinnati -- Amy Finch.

  “Any luck?” Molly Wilson called from her terminal.

  “Zip. How about you?”

  “Same. Cross off Boston, they told me where I could stick it. And I’ll call Detroit back. The mother was incoherent,” Wilson said. “Tom, we’re only working on theories here.”

  “I know. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a link.”

  Reed went down his list from the files faxed by Lou Del Grachi at the Daily News. The list had swelled with others Reed and Wilson pulled from news data banks. The Seattle case was already crossed off. He still had calls out to the relatives of women murdered in Charlotte, Phoenix, and Atlanta. Wilson’s bracelets chimed, as she prepared to leave, coming to his desk, shoving her tape recorder and notebook in her bag.

  “Look out,” she said. “Brader’s headed our way.” Reed kept his attention on his computer. “He has no idea what we’re doing, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’ll drop by the FBI and see what I can squeeze out of my friends there before I go to the news conference on the drug bust.”

  “I like that one. Using crucifixes from South America to smuggle dope. You would think with the Lord as your mule you would have some kind of divine immunity.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Wilson,” Brader said. He smiled. “Make sure Photo has the correct time and place for the cocaine Christ story. We’re liking it for front.”

  “Already done,” she said, then left.

  “Reed, what do you have for me today?”

  “Chasing some leads on the bride shop murder.”

  “Like what?” Brader invaded Reed’s space, installing his butt on the corner of Reed’s desk, stretching his lanky legs out. He folded his arms, his yellow pad listing the names of reporters with a short entry on their stories. Reed gleaned it.

  Wilson - Cocaine Christ with pix front??

  Reed -- Bad cops -- tie in to bride murder.

  Brader’s attention was on Molly Wilson’s departure. He was patting his perfectly groomed hair, while his eyes were locked on her rear end. His nostrils flared. “So, Reed, what leads are you chasing?”

  “Trying to get a line on our bride murder being connected to others across the country.”

  “Is it?” Brader turned to him. “What are you hearing?”

  “Just theories mixed with rumors. I want to check them out. I need some time. I think it’s worth pursuing.”

  Brader pulled a fist to his face, chewed on a thumb nail, then examined the results of his gnawing. “I think for today you can build on your story about the witness who saw the cop in an unmarked car stop Iris Wood.”


  “A witness who says he saw a cop,” Reed said. “Remember after my story, the SFPD issued a press release dismissing the cop angle after checking with every law enforcement agency in the Bay Area on the whereabouts of their vehicles?”

  “All the same, I got a feeling on this cop angle,” Brader said. “I want a piece on what makes cops go bad. Get psychological experts, et cetera, get the number of recent high-profile cases, maybe interview that East Bay cop in prison for robbing banks. Make it contextual. Peg it to the bridal murder.”

  “Just like it says in your little note there.”

  Brader spit out a piece of thumbnail. “You got a problem with this assignment, Reed?”

  “Not at all. But the cop thing is going nowhere.”

  “Your story said your witness said it was a cop.”

  “The story also said it could have been someone posing as a cop. I think the story you’re suggesting is premature.”

  “Premature.” Brader’s face was tensing.

  “Give me time to follow my leads about other links. I’ve got a gut feeling that this could be huge.”

  “You have a gut feeling?”

  Reed’s phone rang.

  “Reed just do the story I’ve assigned you.” Brader started to leave. Reed’s phone kept ringing.

  “It’s a pointless story, Clyde.”

  Brader halted, turned. “What did you say?” Reed reached for his phone but Brader’s hand covered his, preventing him from answering.

  “Hey!”

  “In my office, Reed. Now.”

  Brader marched off, Reed swiveled in his chair, ran a hand over his face. His phone was in the middle of its third ring, about to click into his voice mail, when he grabbed it.

  “Tom Reed.”

  “This is Glen Spivey.” He was on a cell phone; a power saw and hammering were loud in the background. “You left me a message this morning for a list of materials we used on the job at your house.”

  The line was crackling with static.

  “Yeah, Glen, right. We’ve got a weak connection though.” Reed searched frantically through the heap of papers, files, news articles on his desk for Zach’s medical records containing the specific questions he needed to ask the contractors.

  “Reed!” Brader called from his doorway.

  “I said, is there a problem with our work, Mr. Reed?”

  “No, nothing like that, Glen. My son may be having an allergic reaction and I need your help -- hello? Hello, Glen?”

  Nothing.

  Reed slammed his phone down. He’d lost his connection and his patience. Damn! Each step he took to Brader’s office stirred his anger; anger at how he had hurt Ann and Zach by obsessing over Iris Wood’s murder; anger at his need to chase the monster that had displayed her in the bride shop window. He was angry that he had betrayed his family to pursue this story and so many others like it before. It was his affliction, compelling him to sacrifice everything while dealing with people like Brader. Look at him, standing in his office, loosening his tie, putting his hands on his hips. Reed had to laugh, thinking back to their early days at the AP and how he had respected Brader, actually liked the guy. Now look at what he had become. A middle-aged middleweight manager, who made passes at women and wore too much cologne. Brader’s office reeked with it.

  “Shut the door, please, Tom.”

  Reed remembered Al Booth, a senior night editor, laughing to him in the washroom last week at how Brader had boasted after several beers in a bar that he was “going to nail Wilson within three months.” Reed’s eyes went to the small framed photo of Brader’s wife and daughters. He felt sorry for them, then ashamed, wondering if he was really much different, because instead of lusting after other women, he lusted after stories.

  “You know what your problem is, Tom?”

  “I’m looking at it.”

  “You can’t take direction.”

  “You know how many city editors told me that before you skipped in here, Clyde?”

  Brader held his thumb and forefinger less than a quarter inch apart. “You are this close to being gone.”

  “You know what your problem is? You think you’re still a reporter.”

  “Admit that it burns you that I know the truth about you, Reed. You’re just not that good.”

  “The truth is you’ll never let go of me getting shortlisted for a Pulitzer. You’re still competing with me, so you can somehow say, ‘I win’. Well, it doesn’t matter, Clyde, because you’re not a reporter. That ended when you left the street. Your job is budgets, vacations, filling your little pad with story slugs, and convincing yourself you’re still part of the news craft.”

  Brader sat down, glaring at Reed.

  “Clyde you’re desperate to prove you’ve somehow beaten me, but you haven’t. If you want to battle me, you have to get back on the street.”

  Brader’s left eye twitched as he steepled his fingers.

  “Are you refusing this assignment?”

  “No.”

  “Then get on it. You’ve got two days.”

  “It’s not a story. Not now.”

  “Reed.” Brader’s line rang. He took the call. “Brader. Hi. No, I didn’t forget.” He glanced at his watch making Reed guess Brader’s call was from home. Reed noticed Brader’s wife and two girls watching them from the small framed photo, recalling Al Booth. “Going to nail Wilson within three months.” Noticing the cologne, Brader’s crisp suit jacket hanging so neatly on a wooden hanger, his perfect hair and gleaming smile. He shook his head as Brader placed a hand over the phone’s mouthpiece.

  “Two days Reed, or you go to Lifestyles, I swear.”

  Reed headed for the newsroom vending machines, walking off his tension, buying a soda and a bag of potato chips. The red message light was blinking on his phone when he returned. The first was Glen Spivey, the contractor. Reed returned the call, resuming the search for Zach’s file among the clutter on his desk. He could not locate it. He got Spivey’s voice mail. Cripes.

  Reed’s next message was from Roland Snell, returning his call from Phoenix. Reed immediately called him back.

  “Mr. Snell?”

  “Yes.” A deep, baritone voice.

  “Tom Reed, San Francisco Star.”

  “Yes, I got your message.”

  Snell sounded friendly, intelligent. But there was something else in his tone that puzzled Reed. Like he was expecting the call.

  Snell’s thirty-three-year-old daughter Elinor, a clerk in Arizona’s tax department, had been murdered several months ago. Her Sunfire was found in a far corner of a mall parking lot in the city’s Cactus Park area. Her body was in the trunk. Elinor had been single, lived alone. Attended church every Sunday. She had volunteered at a local homeless shelter. It was thought a drifter might have followed her to her car one night but that theory was weakened by the fact she was not sexually assaulted, nor were her cash, credit cards, or apartment keys missing from her purse, according to reports in the Republic.

  “Yeah, I heard about that bride shop case in San Francisco,” Snell said after Reed explained why he was calling. “At the time, I think I was in Sacramento, delivering a load of lumber from Spokane.” Snell was a trucker. In one early story, he told the Republic how when Elinor was young, he would take her with him on some trips. “My little girl saw America from the passenger seat of a Freightliner and to see her life taken in this way just tears a man to pieces.”

  Snell told Reed his timing was good.

  “Why?”

  “Well I just got home from business downtown. Had to see a lawyer about Elinor’s affairs, so I dropped by Phoenix homicide to see if Bill Sample was around.”

  “Bill Sample?”

  “The detective on Elinor’s case. I dropped by to see if they had anything new. I figure that’s why you’re calling from San Francisco, because of the new lead?”

  The new lead? Reed’s mind raced. What new lead? Just bluff it. Pretend you know.

  “What do y
ou make of it, Mr. Snell?”

  “I’m hopeful. Bill said he should not be telling me, but we’ve put back a few since my daughter’s death, and he was pretty encouraged by the break.”

  “I bet.”

  “ ’Course he didn’t tell me the details, just what the FBI relayed to him, you know, that San Francisco might have something that could connect their case to Elinor. And all those others.”

  All those others.

  Reed swallowed. Jesus.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Olivia looked through Caselli’s storefront window and happened to see a uniformed police officer strolling by. Her attention went to his holstered gun and she thought of Ben.

  It concerned her, seeing how deeply troubled Ben was at being blamed for his partner’s wounding, how he desperately needed someone to believe him.

  She believed him. He was a good man. An honest man. She saw it in his face, his eyes, felt it in her heart. She sensed he somehow needed to be forgiven, to be free of the terrible weight of being wrongly accused.

  It was funny, Olivia thought while tidying the greeting card selection in “Forgiveness.” She had long ago given up on the possibility that someone like Ben would ever need someone like her for anything. But here he was, reaching out to her, risking his heart. She would help him, even if it meant risking hers. Because she wanted to, because she needed to. And if it meant her heart would be broken in the end, well, so be it.

  The transom bells chimed and Mrs. Caselli entered to relieve Olivia for lunch.

  “How is it today?”

  “Very good, Mrs. C., forty-one orders.” Olivia went to the back room, returning with her lunch and purse.

  “Olivia, wait. I don’t like this,” Mrs. Caselli was behind the counter. “When are you going to tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “You change. You change your hair, you talk more to people. Now you have a new boyfriend, but you don’t tell me. Juanita from the coffee shop told me she saw you with a man just the other day. She says he’s a very nice-looking man. But you don’t say anything to anybody.”