Tom Reed Thriller Series

by Rick Mofina

  “This is a simple thing we need to clarify. Were you there and did you go inside?”

  Beamon dropped his head, stared at his hands, the remnants of bruises on his right knuckles, the veneer tabletop, Sydowski’s and Turgeon’s files. He noticed how in Turgeon’s folder, pages of the scene report were exposed. He could see one clearly and began reading upside down until Sydowski noticed, reached over, and slowly tilted Turgeon’s file. Turgeon reacted by pulling the file closer to herself. Sydowski let his question go unanswered and went to another.

  “The night before Hooper was killed, I saw you with him. In the detail, remember?” Sydowski said.

  Beamon didn’t remember.

  “You’d followed him outside our office to the elevator. I’d just stepped off. You’d said something to him that appeared to deflate him, take the good humor from his face. What did you tell him?”

  Staring at his hands, Beamon grinned the grin of a man who realized he was trapped. He began shaking his head.

  “It appears to me that Hooper’s murder was personal. His killer had some connection, or link, to him. Maybe a direct link.”

  Beamon shrugged.

  “Maybe it was a robbery. Or payback from some 800 we nailed in an old beef, some nutcase.”

  “I know but we’re sure we can rule that out. It just doesn’t look like it went that way to me. You see, my thinking is that Hooper knew his killer. This was personal.”

  Sydowski reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small videocassette tape. He set it on the table. Sydowski’s fingertips caressed the tape as if it possessed a powerful force.

  “Now I want you to think carefully how you’re going to answer, because I’m going to ask you this one more time: Did you ever date Molly Wilson?”

  Sydowski turned the tape slowly. Beamon’s eyes locked on to the label identifying it as security footage from the Moonlight Vista Hotel in Half Moon Bay, dated one week before Hooper’s murder. A rivulet of sweat trickled down his back, as if it were a terrified living thing attempting to flee. All the spit dried in his mouth.

  “Did you ever date Molly Wilson behind Cliff’s back?”

  Beamon stared at the tape. Stared as if it were his life, slipping from him.

  “Make it easy on yourself. You owe it to yourself. To Cliff.”

  Beamon’s eyes glistened. He blinked.

  “Here’s what I think happened,” Sydowski said. “Cliff found out you and Molly Wilson, the woman he loved, were cheating on him behind his back. You tried to talk to him about that night. That’s what was going on when I saw you at the elevator. He was supposed to see Molly at Jake’s, but once he’d learned the truth about you and Molly he was devastated. In no shape to see anyone. So you went to see him. You drove over to try to talk it out. Smooth it over. But it was worse than you’d expected. Hooper was out of his mind. On the day he wanted to ask for her hand, he learns this. Can you imagine? Maybe he suddenly lost it, or things got out of hand real fast. Maybe he came at you, you had to do what you had to do, right? Maybe it was an accident, or self-defense. Anyone in your shoes would do the same thing. But, God Almighty, you didn’t want to kill him, he was your partner. Your brother. You didn’t mean to do it. You got scared. You fixed the scene to send us off helter-skelter. Maybe tipped OCC to some bullshit corruption line from the street.”

  Beamon covered his face with his hands. Tears filled his eyes. He stared at the white cinder-block walls. Time ticked by. He blinked at Turgeon, at Sydowski.

  “Ray,” Sydowski said, “you spoke at his funeral. Placed a rose on his casket. Now’s the time to unburden yourself. Ease your conscience. Be a man. Do the right thing. For you. For Cliff, for everyone.”

  Beamon stared at the walls for the longest time before he cleared his throat.

  “Walt.” His voice was a whisper. “You haven’t Mirandized me.”

  “You’re not in custody.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “No.”

  “You going to charge me?”

  Sydowski waited a beat before he said, “I’d like you to take a polygraph first. Then we can help you to help yourself. We can talk to the district attorney, explain how it was self-defense, no special circumstances. No death penalty.”

  Death penalty.

  Beamon’s head snapped up.

  “I want a lawyer and I want my rep.” Beamon’s voice grew louder as he stared at the mirrored observation window, knowing he was being watched. “Hear that, Leo? I want my lawyer and I want my rep.”

  “We understand.”

  “Nobody knows what happened. I’m not telling you another thing until I have my lawyer and my rep beside me,” Beamon said.

  “I understand. We want to help you do this right.”

  Beamon left. Turgeon shook her head as she finished taking notes. Gonzales stepped into the room.

  “You did good. I know it was rough, but you did good.” Sydowski shoved a Tums into his mouth, nodded while chewing on it. Then he headed for the elevator.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Tom was at his home near Golden Gate Park studying his options and frustrating his son.

  “There’s nothing you can do, Dad. You’re trapped.”

  He didn’t respond.

  Staring blankly at the chessboard, he’d lost sight of the game, for he was ruminating upon another battlefield. It was getting late and Molly had not returned his call. His cell phone was on. Fully charged and waiting for calls among Zach’s throng of captured pieces.

  “Dad, it’s been five minutes. Come on. It’s your move.”

  “Mmm.”

  He wanted to listen to his tape of Ray Beamon again. He had a bad, bad feeling about this. Beamon sounded as if he was hiding something. And why hadn’t Molly called, or answered the messages he’d left?

  Tom looked over to Ann curled up on the sofa reading a book. It struck him to ask her about the meaning of roses when their home phone rang with a call for her.

  “Time for bed, Zach,” she said after cupping her hand on the phone. “Let’s go.”

  Zach pulled himself to his feet and kissed his mother.

  “Good night, champ. We’ll do more work on the battle-ship tomorrow.” Tom rubbed Zach’s hair, reached for his cell phone, then headed to his study.

  After closing the door he sat in his chair, slipped on headphones, and played his interview with Beamon. Through his home system he could enhance the sound and adjust the speed so he could concentrate on every word and the tone.

  He was convinced there was a better story than Beamon’s emotional vow to kill his partner’s murderer. While Tom was no expert on stress and voice analysis, he’d conducted enough interviews in his career to develop strong instincts about what people told him. And Beamon sounded as if he was under extraordinary stress. Not grief or mourning, but as if he was facing some overwhelming crisis.

  It was during the segment where Tom had asked him about Molly. He’d missed it the first few times. It was quick, subtle, almost lost when Tom had started the next question.

  “And what about the relationship with Molly Wilson?”

  “What about her? What did she tell you?”

  That was it. Tom replayed it.

  “What about her? What did she tell you?”

  What did she tell you?

  Beamon’s tone was guarded to the point of deception, as if he was trying to hide something about Molly and himself.

  Tom needed her to hear this tape.

  He reached for his phone and tried her number one more time.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Beamon could run to Canada, or Mexico, he thought. But he didn’t like his odds. It was time to face the truth. He owed it to Hoop.

  After Sydowski had taken a run at him, Beamon had left the Hall of Justice. He got in his Barracuda and just drove, south along the Pacific Coastal Highway. He was north of Los Angeles when he realized it was futile. Deep in his heart he knew he couldn’t run. It was just that Sydowski had gotten to hi
m.

  In a roadside diner near the ocean Beamon nursed a black coffee, admitting that Sydowski had the key pieces. And he’d put most of them in the correct place. The only thing he didn’t possess was the truth. Beamon held on to that card, reluctant to play it because no one would believe it. Not Turgeon. Not Sydowski. Nobody, except one person.

  Maybe.

  Molly would believe him. What choice did she have? She was the spark that ignited this inferno, he thought, returning to his car, heading it to San Francisco and his chance at redemption.

  Night was falling when he rang her bell.

  “Ray, where’ve you been?” Molly said, opening the door. “I went to your house. You weren’t home. I’ve been trying to reach you. What the hell’s going on with you?”

  “Sit down. I’m going to tell you everything.”

  She was wearing sweatpants, a T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, worry lines pressed into her face. She wore no makeup. Her eyes searched his with anger and fear.

  “Sydowski’s probably working on getting warrants to search my house, my cars, probably yours, too. He’s coming at me hard. He knows that I went to Cliff’s apartment that night.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “Just listen to me. This is going to be hard, but I’m going to tell you everything.”

  Molly’s phone rang. She let her machine get it.

  “A few weeks back, before he died, Cliff told me he was serious about you. He was going to propose to you. He was talking about getting a ring, had asked me to be his best man. He wanted to marry you.”

  “I never knew this. I told him all along I didn’t want a long-term relationship.”

  “I know. He was in love with you and thought he could win you over to wanting to be with him.”

  “No. No, I never felt like that, I--”

  “On that day, his last day, he told me how he was going to pop the question to you that night. How you were the best thing that’d ever happened to him, he wanted children, he worshiped you.”

  Molly groaned.

  “He started going on how he had it all planned, was going to pick you up at Jake’s in a rented limo, take you across the Golden Gate to some special restaurant near the bay in Sausalito, then pop the question.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Then he bumped into Arnold Desfor from San Jose, who told him he’d seen us at the hotel in Half Moon Bay. It destroyed him. It happened at the end of our shift and he barely left the Hall without taking me apart.”

  Molly stared at the floor.

  “So I go home and work on my Barracuda. But this thing’s just killing me. So I drive over to his place to see him.”

  Molly’s head snapped up. Beamon swallowed. His throat tightened, his eyes stung, and his voice weakened. He stared off and traveled back in time, back to Hooper’s apartment.

  “I told him that Desfor was right. I told him the truth. I tried to couch it. I said, yes, it was a one-time thing. And he should talk to you because maybe it showed you weren’t ready to settle down. But I’m making a bad thing worse and I’m just babbling and he’s, he’s--”

  “What--what did he say?”

  “He was devastated. I’d never seen a guy free-fall so fast. He started saying things that didn’t make sense. Then he calmed down, said he’d be okay, just needed to think, and that I should go. We heard the phone ring, that must’ve been you. It set him off. He disappeared into his bedroom, I followed him, then boom, he’s got his Beretta aimed at me.”

  Beamon shook his head.

  “I put up my palms, walked toward him, and talked him down. He starts crying, acts like he’s going to surrender his weapon to me, but then whips the gun to his temple and scares me to death. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I yell and jump him. I grab at the muzzle with my left hand, punching his head with my right. To jolt him out of it, you know. We fall on the bed. It takes every bit of strength to get the Beretta from him, but I do.”

  Beamon inhaled, then exhaled.

  “I manage to coax Cliff to his sofa, where we talk. I clean up the place, try to be cool. Talk to him. I tell him I’m so sorry. That I thought you’d made it clear to him that you weren’t committed to him. But he’s such a sensitive guy. He was crazy about you.”

  Molly said nothing.

  “Then we hear his cell phone going, it must’ve been you again. He doesn’t answer but we talk for a long time. At one point he says he’d suspected maybe something was up with us but had dismissed it. He collected himself. I know he’s got an off-duty gun somewhere, but he won’t tell me where. We keep talking. He assures me he won’t shoot me or himself and holds out his hand for his weapon. He’s my partner. He’s calmed down, his breathing’s fine. So I give it to him, knowing he’s got another gun somewhere in his place anyway Then he asks me to leave. Again, I’m wondering if I should go. I’m still a little jumpy. But Cliff starts insisting I leave. And to be honest, I’m so torn up I can’t bear to see his pain. By this time he seems rational, like the worst has passed. So I leave.”

  Beamon looked into his empty hands.

  “I get halfway to my house and I think, I’ve made a huge mistake. I should go back. I should take charge. I shouldn’t have left him like that. I get home and spend the rest of the night torturing myself about leaving him. Was it right? I wasn’t thinking clearly. Maybe part of me wanted desperately to get away from the ugliness of the situation, maybe that’s why I left him. At home I couldn’t sleep. I was tossing and turning until I got the call that you’d found him.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Turgeon. When she told me over the phone, the first thing I thought was that Cliff had committed suicide and it was my fault. I was overcome with guilt. That’s why I kept everything inside. I felt it was my fault.”

  A long moment passed with Molly hugging herself.

  “Tell me, Ray. Did you kill Cliff, even by accident?”

  “No, Molly, I swear to God.”

  Absorbing his words, she paced about the room, then said, “All right, we have to tell Sydowski. Fill in the blanks for him.”

  “I know.”

  “We have to lay it out for Sydowski that Cliff’s killer is out there. We’ll tell him the truth.”

  “Sydowski will think I’ve come to you to back up my line.”

  “No. He’s wasting too much time pursuing you when you didn’t do it. We should call him right now and tell him, tell him everything. You said he knows most of it. This way, Sydowski can eliminate you and focus on finding the real killer.”

  “All right. I swear to God, I thought Cliff had taken his own life after the blowup with me, but when you found him on his bed with his gun on his back, his ID and star displayed, then obviously someone had organized the scene.”

  Molly’s breath froze in her throat. Her eyes widened. She stared at Beamon.

  “How did you know those details, Ray? That’s Sydowski’s hold-back.”

  “I’m not sure. I think you must’ve told me.”

  “No, I didn’t. I haven’t told anyone, Ray.”

  Beamon said nothing.

  “The only people who know are Sydowski and Turgeon. Ray, how did you know I found Hooper on the bed with his gun and ID displayed?” Molly went to Beamon, pressing him. “Sydowski wouldn’t tell you. No one knows, Ray, so how did you know?”

  He stood, passed his hand through his hair, stared at the floor. Maybe he’d seen it in a file. He was unsure. Over the last few days, he’d been overwhelmed, unsure of anything. He started shaking his head. He didn’t know how to answer her.

  “Molly, I must’ve picked it up somewhere.”

  “Ray? Answer me, goddammit. Where did you get that?”

  Ray stared coldly into her eyes, then left.

  Molly screamed after him, racing down the stairs to the street, trotting after him, pounding on the window of his car as he drove off.

  “Ray! Ray!”

  Molly stood helplessly on the street watching his
taillights disappear into the San Francisco night. She made her way back into her apartment, closed the door, leaned back against it, and slid to the floor, sobbing.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Come on, girl, be strong.

  The tear tracks had stiffened on her cheeks by the time Molly drove down Mission Street to Bernal Heights.

  It was late. She’d spent the last few hours calling Beamon. It was futile. She adjusted her grip. She’d find him if it took all night. She needed to convince him that he had to go to Sydowski and tell him everything about that night.

  Everything.

  Waiting at a red light, Molly felt faint. Had to be stress. She had no time to worry about that, she told herself, as she continued south.

  Turning east off Mission, she grabbed her cell phone and tried Beamon’s home number again. It rang and rang. Come on. She squeezed her phone, cursing when his machine answered. Again, she tried his cell phone. Again, no answer. Damn. She tossed her phone into her passenger seat and accelerated up the hill to Beamon’s street before skidding to a stop in front of his bungalow.

  The living room curtains were drawn. The bungalow waited for her in darkness. She went up the walk, pressed the doorbell, and heard it echo through the small house.

  Nothing.

  Aside from the distant din of traffic drifting up from the 101, it was quiet. She went to the garage, looked through the security bars of a side window. She saw the glint of the Barracuda’s chrome.

  No Beamon.

  She went around the house to the rear. A galaxy of city lights stretched below to the skyline glittering in the distance. No sign of Beamon. Molly’s head felt light again. She steadied herself against the house. Blinking, she took a few deep breaths.

  Okay.

  She returned to the front. He’s got to come home sometime. She’d sleep on his doorstep if that’s what she had to do to make him face the inevitable.