Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  “No. Not today. But soon.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “This is the biggest story in the state right now, we own it, and I’ll be damned if we’re going to blow it.” Pepper checked her watch.

  At that moment Violet Stewart, the managing editor, interrupted them on her way to the meeting. “Excuse me, Irene.” Stewart turned to Tom. “I heard how you recovered our fumble on the detective murder. Nice work.”

  “Thanks.”

  Before leaving them, Stewart shot a cool glance at Pepper, who responded to her supervisor with an equally cool smile.

  After Stewart was out of earshot, Pepper said to Tom, “I want Molly to do a first-person feature.”

  “I think you’re overcompensating for us missing the jump on the story.”

  “Watch it, Tom. Just remember to inject your piece with emotion.”

  “Emotion.”

  “Make readers feel something,” Pepper said. “Put them in her footsteps when she makes her sensational discovery. Take them where the competition can’t. Give me every minute detail. Make my hair stand on end. Got it?”

  Tom nodded and went to his desk where he loosened his tie and went to work crafting a lead. The minutes ticked by as he carved out the first sentences. He paused to consider them along with Molly’s empty desk and the bouquet that had arrived that morning. Letters and gifts were common in the newsroom and Molly received more than her share--Tom assumed because of her great looks and regular TV spot. But these flowers were unusually gorgeous and expensive for your run-of-the-mill reporter groupie. Where did they come from? he wondered, just as his computer beeped with a story sent to him from Simon Lepp.

  A cradle-to-grave 1,200-word obit-bio on Hooper. It had tributes from academy buddies, guys who’d played football with him at San Jose State, Hooper’s sister, and a high school teacher. It even included his hobby of collecting Civil War postage stamps and his shooting score at the range. It wasn’t bad, Tom thought, as Lepp stopped at his desk.

  “Irene said to send you a copy, so you could pull what you like for your piece.”

  “It’s good, thanks. I’m sorry we brushed you off at the Hall earlier. It was crazy, you know.”

  “How’s Molly doing?” Lepp slipped on his jacket.

  “Well, she’s pretty tough.”

  “It’s terrible what’s happened to her, but she’ll survive it.”

  “Hope so.”

  “You two are pretty close, huh?” Lepp adjusted his tie.

  “Yeah, we’re good friends. We’ve been through a lot on this beat. She’s a good reporter.”

  Lepp nodded, nudged his glasses while taking stock of Molly’s desk.

  “Didn’t you guys date for a bit?” Tom asked.

  Lepp’s face flushed, and he smiled as he looked off self-consciously.

  “Yeah. It was a long time ago. We went out several times. She was so nice. It was fun.” He shrugged.

  “She’s dated a lot of guys. But I thought she was getting serious about Hooper. They’d been going out for a few months, but in all the time I’ve known her I don’t think she was ever as serious about anyone.”

  “I guess that’s what makes this so tragic.”

  Tom nodded until something occurred to him.

  “There’s a group from the paper going to see her shortly.” Tom wrote Molly’s address on a clear notebook page.

  “Thanks. I’ll be over to offer my condolences, see how she’s doing.”

  Tom resumed writing, incorporating a few lines of Lepp’s material into his piece. Then he came to the point in his story where Molly had entered Hooper’s bedroom. She’d said she’d found items placed in a certain way. What were those items? She’d refused to tell him. Didn’t want to jeopardize the investigation.

  “Hey, big guy, you’d better hurry up and file.”

  Della Thompson stopped to smell the flowers on Molly’s desk. She was one of Molly’s closest friends. Grew up in Sunnydale where she’d helped raise her little brother after her father walked out on her sick mother. Della had worked as a waitress and a UPI stringer to put herself through college before becoming one of the Star’s best reporters.

  “Irene said to send you my stuff.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  The history of Bay Area cop deaths. It started with the case before Hooper. The cop who was killed during a jewel heist in the Richmond District several months ago. That one was still fresh in Tom’s mind.

  “Who sent Molly these roses?” she asked.

  “Don’t know. They came this morning as I was heading out.”

  “This morning? That was early.” She hunted for a card. “I’m going over to Molly’s now with Carmine. You coming?”

  “I’ve got to finish this. Maybe I’ll catch up.”

  “All right.” She collected the flowers. “We’ll bring these with us.”

  It took nearly an hour before Tom wrote the last sentence and sent the story to the metro desk editing queue, minutes under the first edition deadline. The night editor asked him to stick around in case they had any questions. Standing to stretch, he spotted the small card that had accompanied Molly’s flowers and retrieved it from the carpet. He looked at the little envelope, contemplating his temptation to open it.

  Finally, he decided he’d give it to Molly later. Unopened.

  SEVEN

  “Even if it turns out we pried an SXT Talon from Hooper’s wall, it doesn’t mean a whole hell of a lot right now,” Sydowski said. “It’s a commercial caliber, not exclusive to the SFPD. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “To be honest, I don’t know what I’m thinking anymore. It’s nearly three-thirty in the friggin’ morning.”

  Turgeon dropped off Sydowski at his home in Parkside after a futile night of re-canvassing in Hooper’s neighborhood.

  Might as well look in on the birds. Sydowski headed for the aviary he’d built under the creaking oak tree in his backyard. His grandchildren loved how it looked like a tiny cottage from a fairy tale. His late wife had made the curtains. Twenty-five years ago, a friend had given them a singing finch, which eventually led to Sydowski’s love for breeding and showing the birds.

  He flipped on a soft light to check the water and seed supply of his newest fledglings. Fife fancies, less than two weeks old, about the size of a baby’s thumb. He was optimistic for this group. He didn’t like the trend toward gargantuan budgerigars. He was a traditionalist who favored graceful, tiny treasures, classic original border canaries. Everything looked good.

  He deposited himself into his recliner to rest amid the tranquility. He always found comfort here where the velvety cooing soothed him while he analyzed his darkest cases.

  Like this one.

  Sydowski remembered the time Hooper had accepted a rare invitation into his aviary after a Niners game. “This is your little fortress of solitude.” Hoop slapped him on the back. “I always knew you were Superman.”

  This case hit him in the heart. And with OCC and Management Control perched like vultures on his shoulder, Sydowski, for the first time, didn’t know if he had the strength for this battle.

  “I always knew you were Superman.”

  Nothing ever remained the same. Time was a thief, stealing everything sweet in his life. The girls had moved away. Basha was gone. His old man was in death’s grasp. Now Hooper. He was too tired to even dream of happier times.

  A few hours later, he was at the Hall of Justice, in the medical examiner’s autopsy room. Clifford James Hooper’s naked corpse lay on a stainless steel table. His clothing had been examined, his body had been weighed, measured, and X-rayed prior to the procedure.

  Male. White. Six feet one inch. One hundred eighty pounds. Forty-one years old.

  In San Francisco, homicide detectives were not required to witness an autopsy. But Sydowski’s reputation for thoroughness usually meant watching, if it was his case. He and Turgeon said little as Julius Seaver, the forensic pathologist, performed the pro
cedure.

  Right off, the autopsy yielded a revelation. There was a large contusion on Hooper’s lower left jaw. Given the body’s posture, the detectives wouldn’t have spotted it at the scene, Seaver said.

  On Hooper’s right side, Seaver began examining the bullet’s entry into the head. He noted that the star-patterned contact wound had seared into Hooper’s right temple. Then he started his bone-cutting saw and opened Hooper’s skull to track the course of the bullet and retrieve it. It took several moments before Seaver located the spent round. It had not been damaged much and clinked like a coin when he dropped it in the stainless steel tray.

  Sydowski never liked the autopsies. Maybe it was the chilled room, or the overwhelming smells of formaldehyde, ammonia, the eggy odor of organs, their shades of red and pink, or the pop when the calvarium was taken, opening the skull to reveal the brain and dura, or seeing the primary Y incision across the chest, as the pathologist worked through the examination of the body.

  Sydowski knew autopsies were critical. He just never liked them. Later, when the procedure was completed, they all met in Seaver’s office, where he set the bullet in its plastic evidence bag on his desk.

  “Looks like a .40 cal. A Talon,” he said.

  “Like the one Crime Scene dug out of the wall,” Turgeon noted. “What can you tell us?”

  “The victim died of a single gunshot wound to the head. No other gunshot wounds, defensive wounds. Nothing.”

  “Except for the bruise on his jaw,” Sydowski said. “Correct.” Seaver checked his notes, then entered and retrieved data from his computer. “The contusion would be consistent with someone punching him.”

  “There was a fight?”

  “Well, there were no defensive wounds. No scarring on his knuckles.”

  “Sucker punch?”

  Seaver shrugged. “The contusion appears to have been recent and could easily fall within time of death.”

  “Can you give us more?”

  “Theoretically the bruise on his jaw would fit with a right-handed person slugging him, like this.” Seaver closed his right hand into a fist and touched it to Sydowski’s left jaw. “It’s conceivable the person who hit him would have bruised or scraped knuckles.”

  Like Ray Beamon, Sydowski thought.

  EIGHT

  In the moments before she woke, Molly struggled between consciousness and her lingering nightmare that Cliff had been murdered.

  Only a bad dream, she told herself until reality seized her from the fading darkness and forced her eyes open. She was in a field of white crumpled tissues. Dozens. Like headstones in a cemetery. This was no dream. It was true. Cliff was dead. The images of his apartment swirled. She struggled to keep from screaming.

  It’s real.

  Through her bedroom doorway she focused on her living room sofa bed, unfolded, covered by a thick comforter with Della Thompson’s hair spilling from the top.

  “No use in arguing. I’m not letting you face this alone,” Thompson had said last night as Molly assured her friends she’d be okay after they left.

  It was a lie and she was glad Thompson had stayed. You could count on that girl, she thought, pulling on her robe, padding to her bathroom, then to her kitchen to make morning tea.

  Molly tried to remember the last words Hooper had spoken to her, but it hurt because she must’ve loved him in some way. Her thoughts drifted to the distant spires of the Golden Gate, the twinkling red and white lights of its early morning traffic. As the kettle boiled she ached to be in someone else’s skin.

  She summoned the courage to go to her door for the Chronicle and the Star. She glanced at their front pages. Cliff’s murder was the lead story. She touched her fingers to Hooper’s smiling face. Setting the papers on the coffee table, she slid into her favorite chair and pulled her knees to her chest, sipped her tea and tried not to think of anything.

  “How you holding up, hon?” Thompson said from under the blanket.

  “I don’t know. I made tea for you.”

  “Thanks. You feel like talking?”

  “I’m just numb. It doesn’t feel real.”

  “Yolanda from Human Resources told me to tell you that they can set you up with a shrink if you want. Want me to call her?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Hold off. I don’t know.”

  The two women sat in silence with their tea. It was calming. Thompson examined the Star’s front page.

  “You know, Irene was leaning all over Tom to torque his story right up to final deadline, saying how she wanted the paper to own it because of your connection to Cliff.”

  Molly changed the subject.

  “I think I want to go for my morning run.”

  “It wouldn’t be against the rules to miss today.”

  “No, I need to run. I think it will help.”

  “Want company?”

  “No, thanks. You’ve been great pulling duty like this, giving me a shoulder. I’ll go alone.”

  “You sure you’re good with that? I mean feeling safe and all?”

  “It’s my neighborhood. It’s practically full light, I’ll be damned if I let whoever did this take everything from me.” Molly stood to go change when a sob exploded from her, doubling her. Thompson caught her.

  “Oh God,” Molly gasped. “I just can’t believe it. It was horrible.”

  “Hang on.” Thompson held her tight.

  “It was so cold-blooded and Cliff was such a good man. A decent man. I don’t understand.”

  “I know.”

  “And the way I found him. Why? Who would do this? Why?”

  “It makes no sense.”

  “And it all happens just when I--” Molly stopped herself.

  “What? It all happens just when you what?” Thompson asked.

  Molly shook it off, regained her composure. “I should run. I need to run.”

  “All right.”

  “Would you do me a favor?”

  “Name it.”

  “Stay here, until I get back, see how I’m doing?”

  “Sure.”

  Molly left Thompson to digest the papers and catch the breakfast newscasts. By the time she emerged in her jogging clothes, Thompson had finished reading the Star’s stories on Hooper.

  “Tom did a nice job.”

  “I have to go,” Molly said, collecting her keys, heading for her door just as her phone rang.

  “I’ll screen it for you,” Thompson said. “It’s probably a reporter.”

  “Hello...yes ...” She covered the mouthpiece. “It’s Cliff’s sister, you want to take it?”

  She took it in her bedroom.

  “This is Molly.”

  “I’m sorry for calling so early. I’ve been up most of the night.”

  “Me too.” Molly had never met Hooper’s sister, Andrea Carroway. She lived in southern California. “Are you in San Francisco, Andrea? Would you like to get together?”

  “We’re downtown, at a hotel. Gosh, I don’t even know the name. Molly, I’m calling because the medical examiner is supposed to release him to the funeral home here this afternoon. I would like it if you would help us with arrangements later today.”

  “Me?”

  “His partner is joining us. You know Ray?”

  Molly squeezed the phone. “Yes. I know Ray.”

  “I don’t mean to put you on the spot, it’s a difficult time for all of us,” Andrea said. “We would like it if you’d consider saying something at his eulogy.”

  “Of course I’ll help. Please give me the time and place where I can meet you.”

  Andrea gave her the information, then before ending the call she said, “Molly, I was talking to him on the phone a few days ago. He always talked about you. I know he loved you. You made him happy. So happy.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

  Why, why, why did this happen? Molly asked the sky as she ran through the steep streets of Telegraph Hill, her feet pounding in time with the clanging of the cable cars. Gulls cri
ed as she weaved through her neighborhood, drinking in the bay views, inhaling the morning air, taking stock.

  Dear God.

  Who would do this to Hooper? Commit such a cold-blooded act. Such an outrage. Anger shuddered through her as her feet hammered the street. He was executed in his home. His gun and wallet displayed like some sort of twisted victory memorial.

  The story stared back at her from the newspaper boxes she passed. Like a Greek chorus. Sydowski had to hunt the animal down and bring him to justice. Emotions swirled through her. Hooper was her boyfriend. Last week he’d asked her to think about moving in with him.

  “Just think about it is all I’m saying, Molly.”

  Why did he have to push it? She liked him. Maybe even loved him. She must’ve loved him a little. But she wasn’t ready to move in with him, or anyone else.

  A horn blast pulled her from her thoughts and she veered from a car she hadn’t seen while she skirted North Beach. None of that mattered a damn anymore. Molly came within inches of colliding with an elderly Asian woman carrying bags laden with vegetables.

  “Sorry.”

  She kept running, nearly finishing her route, knowing that it was stupid to feel any guilt. Yet she did. Or maybe she felt bad because she was going to end things with Hooper that night. God. She punched at the air, gaining a second wind, driving herself with a ferocity she’d never known.

  Yes, she’d wanted to tell him that she wanted to cool things. See other people. But there was more going on. The truth was she’d already started seeing someone else. Ray Beamon.

  She’d committed no sin. But now their date, their one date, haunted her and it was all so stupid. Come on. She’d warned Hooper not to expect a serious relationship. And now he was dead. Who the hell did this? Molly covered her face with both hands to keep her fury from escaping.

  That’s when she noticed it.

  The sedan parked down the street. The same one she’d almost stepped into. Had that guy been following her? She stared hard at the car, at the guy behind the wheel. She couldn’t make him out. His face was in shadow. He was wearing a ball cap and dark glasses. Who was that? A cop? Molly held her gaze. By his body language he knew she’d made him. A reporter? Sydowski had said there was nothing to indicate she was in danger, but they might ask district people to swing by her address.