by Rick Mofina
“No. Thirty. You consider this: thirty thousand and you tease it all over the U.S. tomorrow. We bury it two-thirds into the show, pull in more numbers, spike your ad rates a bit. After we air this stuff—and you damned well know it’s good—every major American news network is going to want to use it. You license it to them stipulating full duration credit to Worldwide News Now and you’ve just got more free advertising in your critical market than you could possibly dream of. You consider this, you got advertising twerps in New York you pay more than thirty thousand a year and they couldn’t come close to touching what I’m giving you: the recorded murder of an American police officer, the kidnapping of a celeb wife. It’ll be controversial, there’ll be national newspaper editorials. The day after you use this, Worldwide News Now will be the most talked about show in America. So you want to dick me around for thirty thousand and then watch what you could’ve had, flashing in your face on CNN or FOX? I think shareholders would love knowing about that after they read it in the Wall Street Journal. You’ve got thirty seconds.”
There was nothing but silence all the way around. Cooter was shaking his head, wondering if this was the same woman he had recorded in more sexual acts than he could remember. “Agreed. Thirty thousand, Ms. Layne.”
“On one condition.”
“No conditions.”
“Fine. You do get CNN over there?”
There was a tense audible sigh.
“What’s your condition, Ms. Layne?”
“Thirty thousand for each additional exclusive portion of footage we deliver to you on this story.”
“Fifteen.”
“Thirty.”
“Thirty. But it must be exclusive.”
“Agreed. Then you’ll make today’s payment for sixty. We’ve got Tom Reed exclusively picking up his son at school minutes after Ann Reed was taken hostage.”
“Fine. And, Ms. Layne?”
“Yes, Mr. Banks?”
“This deal is null and void if we determine your footage is not exclusive at airing, or if a single frame has been previously shopped. I’ve got your contract in front of me too.”
“Then we have a deal.”
“Indeed we do.”
After the calls ended, Tia Layne and Cooter watched their exclusive footage again, the murder of a San Francisco police officer, the kidnapping, Tom Reed picking up Zachary.
“Hold it, Cooter, run that again. See? Look at the kid’s face.” Tia bit her thumbnail. “People are just going to eat this up.”
Tia lit another cigarette, watching and thinking of any way to keep this story going. To her, Tom Reed’s anguish and his wife’s life were mere articles of commerce. Product. And she was determined to produce more.
ELEVEN
Ann Reed smiled at the reporters packed into the Police Commission Hearing Room in the Hall of Justice for the first press conference.
News cameras pulled in tight on her photo, which had been reproduced from her driver’s license, enlarged, and posted on the corkboard. Nothing in her pretty face betrayed the fact that death was so near. On the board next to her were the pictures of SFPD Officer Rod August and Leroy Driscoll, the dead suspect from the van. The cameras tightened on them too.
As they settled into chairs, reporters gossiped, sharing their disbelief and theories over what had happened to Reed, scanning the pack to see who the Star had assigned to cover the story of one of its own. The reporters who knew Reed wanted to convey their sympathy. Those who didn’t wanted an inside angle.
Lieutenant Leo Gonzales of the homicide detail began by summarizing the case. He pointed to the color photos, on the board, of a car identical to Ann Reed’s. He detailed her physical description, including the clothing and jewelry she was wearing at the time of her abduction.
The last time she was seen alive.
Then Gonzales cleared his throat, leaned into the mountain of microphones, and dropped a stunner.
“We’re hoping Officer August’s final radio call will help us solve his murder and find Ann Reed. We’re going to play the last seconds of those dispatches for you. We believe the voices in the background are those of Ann Reed and the suspects. We hope someone will recognize them and we’re appealing to the public for help.”
The revelation rippled through the room. Gonzales explained how, in the moments after August had called in his location and a vehicle check, SFPD dispatchers received a 911 call from a barbershop of a 211, an armed robbery in progress. The caller reported gunshots in the neighboring jewelry store. When the dispatcher tried to alert August, who was in the area, she maintained an open line to his unit radio. It recorded the gunfire that killed him. It also recorded the seconds that followed and what detectives believed were the voices of the suspects passing by with the hostage.
Gonzales nodded to an officer who set a tape player before the microphones. The tape rolled, its volume boosted. First came deafening popping, then crashing, glass breaking, then chaos, and then August. “Four, oh, six—request—” then his death gasps, then his dispatcher’s frantic futile calls to raise him over radio cross talk. “All units report of a 211 and 406—in the—” Arising from the static hiss between recording beeps came new voices from the street. Distant but clear, beginning with a woman, her cries growing louder as they neared the police car.
“Oh God, please let me go!”
“Shut up! I told you to shut up! Where’s your car?”
“Please. Don’t, just please!”
“Are you sure you got him?”
“Christ, it’s all going to hell!”
“Keep moving, come on!”
The voices faded, drowned out by police alerts, people shouting in the street, then sirens. The tape clicked off. Silence filled the room. Gonzales was now ready for questions from the press.
“Do you have any leads on the whereabouts of Ann Reed?”
“Nothing so far.”
“Any contact or demands from her abductors?”
“Nothing.”
“What are the odds she’ll be found unharmed?”
“We won’t speculate. This is a priority. We’ve got several agencies working together on the case.”
“A task force?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have anything on who the two male suspects are?”
“Nothing concrete so far, it’s only been a few hours.”
“The dead man in the van, Leroy Driscoll, how did you identify him?” asked a young man from an Internet magazine, who looked to be in his teens.
“Fingerprints.”
“His picture has a CDC number. Is it a prison photo?”
“Correct. He did time in Folsom.”
“His offense?”
“He stole cars.”
“Can you confirm who shot Driscoll? Was it August?”
“Officer August never discharged his weapon.”
“This is for Lieutenant Darnell,” a columnist from the Chronicle said. “Sir, what can you tell us about Officer August? How many years of duty?”
Lieutenant Moses Darnell swallowed hard and gathered his thoughts, before his words came out in a deep baritone as if he were giving a eulogy.
“Rod August was sworn in five years ago. He was an outstanding officer who was on his way to becoming an outstanding detective. He was a devoted father to his six-year-old son, who was supposed to meet him at the station today when he finished his shift. He was thirty-two years old.” Darnell swallowed, looked away. A few awkward seconds passed before a reporter from the Associated Press asked if investigators knew how much had been stolen in the heist.
“We’re still doing inventory with management. It will take some time.”
“Given the average jewelry store take is upwards of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, where would you put this one?”
“Substantial.”
“Seven figures?”
“Substantial.”
“Does the fact grenades were used suggest terrorist involvement?”
“We don’t think this is a terrorist act, but we can’t rule it out yet.”
“What’s the robbery history of the store?”
“This is a first-time hit.”
“How would you rate its security?”
“First-rate. But this was a planned, brazen, violent attack. As we told you, the suspects were disguised. They destroyed all security cameras and took the tapes with them.”
That bit of information on video hit home with Tia Layne. “Officer, are you saying you have no images from any security cameras or amateur video of the suspects?”
“We’re still checking cameras in the area, but nothing’s surfaced so far. We’re asking anyone with any information to contact us.”
Layne immediately collected her bag and headed for the door. She nearly tripped over the feet of some woman who appeared to be out of it. As if grief-stricken by the story. Taking this a little personal there, aren’t you, hon? Layne thought as she brushed by her. Then, passing Cooter at the back of the room amid the fence of tripods and TV cameras, she shot him a barracuda’s grin. He winked back.
Both knew the police tape with the dead officer, his killers, and the hostage would enhance their exclusive footage with dramatic sound.
In the hallway, Layne found a private corner and slid into it. Indifferent to public smoking regs, she lit a cigarette, then pressed her cell phone’s speed dial for Worldwide in New York. They’d love this. A “worldwide exclusive,” that’s what they called their hottest stuff. Layne dragged hard on her Camel. It’s going to be so out-of-this-world compelling. Damn! She exhaled. Be there, Seth. Got to get started promoting this. More important, you got to cut me that freaking check. Layne tapped a glossed fingernail to her teeth. The way that woman was screaming, pleading in the audio. Beautiful.
Absolutely beautiful.
TWELVE
Molly Wilson drove from the Hall of Justice to Reed’s home near Golden Gate Park, brushing at the tears drying on her cheeks.
Reed was her best friend at the Star. Her confidant. They sat next to each other, worked with each other, knew the details of each other’s lives. She stopped at a light, hands tightening on the wheel. Get ahold of yourself.
But nothing made sense. In a matter of hours everything had gone nuts. It started when she stomped back into the newsroom searching for Reed so she could rip into him for acting so weird at the scene. Then Acker, the deputy assignment editor, rushed up and told her. Tom’s wife was the hostage.
Molly was dumbstruck, standing there staring at Tom’s empty desk, his computer, the framed photo of him with Ann and Zach, as the news exploded around her and frenzied editors put more people on the story. At the news conference she could barely take a note. She sat there in shock catching her breath when they played that tape of the gunfire, the officer, the killers, then Ann pleading.
A horn blast startled Wilson. The light had turned green just as her cell phone rang. It was Acker, even more frantic since watching the press conference, which TV had carried live.
“Molly, did you get to Reed yet?”
“No.”
“You’ve got to get to him. How far away from his house are you? TV’s going live from the house. Everybody’s there.”
“Acker, listen to me.”
“We called his house, his cell, her stores, relatives. Nothing.”
“Stop phoning him at home. Homicide told me he can’t talk now, the FBI has a trap on his phone in case Ann calls, or they make demands.”
“He’ll talk to you.”
“Acker, his wife’s been kidnapped.”
“And that’s news, Wilson. This is the biggest story in the state right now. It’s ours and you better not drop the ball.”
Another horn blast Wilson pulled over.
“Acker, what does Shepherd say? Let me talk to Bob.”
“He’s in meetings. They want you to get to Tom, Molly.”
“Acker, are you listening to me? He won’t talk to anybody.”
“You’re his friend. Get in his house as his friend, Molly, and get us the edge on this story.”
“Acker, I just told you—”
“Did you see the press conference?”
“What?”
“Hear that tape? It was unbelievable. Did you hear the tape?”
“Yes, I heard the damned tape. I was there. You sent me there.”
“Then you get to him and get us an interview before deadline.”
“Acker—”
He hung up.
Wilson’s bracelets chimed as she thrust her phone into her bag, cursed, her eyes burning as she left six feet of rubber and squealed back into traffic. Emotion rolled over her, forcing her to admit her problem.
Wilson came to the Star from a Texas daily, where she’d worked on the police beat after finishing her master’s degree in English literature. In San Francisco, she was assigned to the crime desk with Reed. After years of intense stories together, Reed had become more than a mentor. And there were so many times she wanted to tell him.
Especially during Reed’s dark days when he was drinking and Ann had taken Zach and left him. Wilson reached out to Reed, made her desires clear, but he worked things out with Ann. Wilson was happy for him. She was. But as time and superficial relationships wheeled by, she thought of Tom.
It’s wrong. You’ve got to stop this, she told herself as she came upon the knot of police cars, news trucks, and neighbors in front of Reed’s house. Part of her could barely stand being here, yet part of her didn’t want to be anywhere else. A couple of uniformed officers held the press back on the sidewalk in front of the house.
“Latest word is, Mr. Reed’s not making a statement,” a cop told reporters.
Wilson scanned the area, relieved to spot Sydowski from homicide approaching from down the street. She went to him.
“Hi, Walt.”
“Wilson.”
“Have you been in?”
“In and out a few times.”
“It’s so horrible. Any word on Ann?”
Sydowski eyed Wilson. He was looking for a notebook or tape recorder. Didn’t see one. “No word on her.”
“How’s Tom doing?”
“It’s rough, Molly. Sorry, I gotta get inside.”
“Please, Walt. Can you tell him I’m here, that I want to see him?”
“I don’t think this is the best time.”
“Please.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Wilson watched him enter the home through the same door Ann Reed had opened for her so many times in the early days, when she and Tom hosted parties. Or when she’d drop by to visit. So long ago.
Wilson walked behind a TV news van, hugging herself to wrestle down the truth that was gnawing at her.
THIRTEEN
Zach Reed stood unnoticed at the kitchen doorway listening to his mother’s pleas hissing on the tape police were replaying for his father.
“Dad?”
The detectives and FBI agents at the table turned. The tape was switched off and Reed’s red-rimmed eyes met his son’s.
“Yes, son?”
“Maybe they’ll let Mom go when they get far enough away, you think?”
Reed was at a loss. The investigators exchanged glances to see who among them had the right answer.
“It’s a pretty good theory,” Sydowski said.
Zach nodded.
“Zach,” Sydowski said, “the most important thing now is to keep working on positive theories like that one. Think you can do that?”
“Yes.”
Ann’s mother, Doris, came to the doorway. She put her arm around her grandson. Lines of worry creased deep into her face.
“Zachary, some pizza’s just been delivered. I’ll bet you’re hungry.”
“Not really.”
“I think it’s your favorite with extra cheese and there’s cherry soda.”
Reed found the words to say, “Go with Grandma, Zach. Have something to eat.”
Outside the Reed home, satellite trucks and a small crowd lined the street. Inside, technicians put in extra phone and fax lines. Uniformed officers and detectives came and went. People worked on laptops, talked on cell phones, drank coffee, consulted files, shared notes, and monitored TV and radio news reports. As they worked, not one cop in the house dared breathe a word of the horrible reality behind cases like these: that the odds of Ann Reed contacting them were astronomical. The odds they would find her were even greater.
Reed’s home phone rang. All activity ceased.
“It’s coming from within the city,” said an FBI agent reading from a computer screen. “It’s a business. Stand by.”
The FBI had put a trap and trace on the Reeds’ home phone to immediately give them the number and a fix on details of any incoming call. Tape recorders connected to the line were rolling. Sound-level needles bounced. An FBI hostage negotiator wearing a headset was ready to listen in. He had a clipboard and pen, prepared to jot instructions. Reed looked at the negotiator, who nodded. Reed grabbed it on the third ring.
“Hello.”
“Is this Tom Reed, of the San Francisco Star?”
“Yes.”
The FBI agent working at the computer screen indicated it was a press call. McDaniel and Sydowksi nodded.
“Tom, it’s J.D. Mark with Bay Action News Radio.”
“I’m sorry. We can’t really say anything right now.”
“But if you could tell the cop killers who took your wife one thing, Tom, what would it be?”
“Please.”
“Tom, just a few words.”
“Release her. I’d say just release her. Please. And, if anyone has any information, just call the police. Please.” Reed hung up, then plunged his face into his hands. It was the thirty-ninth press call since the news conference. When Reed regained his composure, McDaniel passed him a thin file folder on the dead suspect, Leroy Driscoll.
Reed studied the information, glancing at Driscoll’s NCIC number, his CDC data. Served time for stealing cars. Driscoll’s profile, then his mug scowled at him. Chin tilted, stone-cold expression, three small tattoos running like tear tracks under his left eye.
