Be Mine

by Rick Mofina

  “Like Narcotics, Vice, the Tac team.”

  “Yes. That’s a lot of looking. Any suggestions?”

  “Well, I’d drop Tac. They don’t really interact with people. Narcotics would be a good start. Excuse me.” Tom spotted Acker. “Go back on stories about drug busts when Hooper was in Narcotics. I recall a lot of sparks during that time. Sorry, I have to go.”

  As Tom went across the metro section he noticed Acker was holding a coffee and a clipboard and looking mournful.

  “You won’t believe what I’ve got,” Tom said. “We have to talk.”

  Acker glanced at his watch.

  “Is it something for tomorrow’s paper? Because I don’t have much time.”

  “No. I want to hold this for a bit and make it stronger. Let’s go here.”

  Tom pulled Acker into the office of a columnist who was on a three-month leave of absence. Tom snapped his Beamon tape into his cassette. It was cued to the quote he wanted Acker to hear.

  Tom noticed Acker seemed to be grappling with some kind of personal problem and was more interested in the full-color poster of Fiji on the wall until the tape clicked on.

  “Listen to this. ‘I sure as hell wish I knew, because if I ever caught the guy who did it, I’d put one in his head. I’d kill him. No question.’ ”

  Acker stared at Tom.

  “That’s Beamon. And it’s our exclusive.”

  “That is dynamite, Tom. Fantastic. You’re hot on this story.”

  “I want to hold it.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got a strong feeling that something’s happening on the case. Something huge.”

  “How long do you want to hold this?”

  “I’ll go through it all tonight. Then I need to go to Molly to see if she can help me with anything else.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “You’re the only one I’ve told. Don’t tell Irene. Run interference for me for just a bit.”

  “I’ll do my best but these aren’t the best of times to be pulling things like this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ll talk about it later. Good story. A partner’s revenge. Hell.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Emma Highgate of the D.A.’s office clicked her expensive pen over and over as Sydowski first rolled the police surveillance videotape of the mourners who’d attended Cliff Hooper’s funeral.

  The techs had highlighted footage of Ray Beamon, enlarging frames showing his scraped knuckles. Then Sydowski played the security tape seized under warrant from the Moonlight Vista Hotel in Half Moon Bay.

  When it ended, Highgate listened carefully to Sydowski’s summary of the investigation. She jotted notes on her yellow legal pad, then regarded the officers at the meeting. Along with Sydowski and Turgeon were Bill Kennedy, deputy chief of investigations, Captain Michelle Stroh, and Lieutenant Leo Gonzales.

  “Short answer,” Highgate told them, “you don’t have enough to take this case to a grand jury.”

  “The tapes are strong, they’ve got impact,” Stroh said.

  “Maybe if you wanted to prove infidelity.” Highgate shook her head. “You’ve got two consenting adults having a romantic fling in Half Moon Bay. It’s not enough.”

  “Wilson dated Hooper. Cheated on him with his partner,” Kennedy said. “Beamon betrayed Hooper and Hooper found out on the day he was murdered. That’s a powerful motive.”

  “I agree. It’s a morality thing. But you can’t indict him on that alone. The rest is all circumstantial.”

  “What about Beamon’s contradictions?” Gonzales said.

  “What about them?”

  “Beamon says he stayed home, worked on his car, and scraped his knuckles. We can prove he lied. Put him at Hooper’s building with scraped knuckles. His injury is consistent with the autopsy,” Stroh said.

  “Circumstantial. No one witnessed Beamon strike Hooper.”

  “We got witnesses who saw him exit Hooper’s building the night of the murder,” Gonzales said.

  “You have no physical evidence to put him in the unit. He could have called on Hooper, rung the bell. Left. He could’ve dropped by. Naturally he would have been seen by witnesses,” Highgate said. “He’s a friend. It’s natural he’d be seen.”

  “What about those scraped knuckles?” Gonzales said. “Weak. Beamon’s account of that night can be expected to be shaky.”

  “We can put him there and prove him lying about it.”

  Highgate underlined some points in her file.

  “Guys.” She flipped through the report. “You’ve got witnesses saying he was wearing a black T-shirt and witnesses saying it was a white T-shirt. A defense team would feast on that. I could just hear it, ‘It’s black, it’s white, it’s black, it’s white. Ladies and gentleman of the jury, clearly it is not black and white.’ ”

  “But we’ve got a license number of his Barracuda, a unique car we can put at the scene the night of the murder.”

  “But Ray was Hooper’s partner. Again it’s not unusual for him to be there. Heck, he and Molly Wilson would have plenty of trace evidence there. You’ve left plenty of opportunity for the defense to raise a lot of reasonable doubt.” She flipped through her pages. “So far, your physical evidence is all but nonexistent. No match to a suspect on the bullets, no fingerprints, no DNA. Not much. No blood, hair, fibers.”

  Highgate began flipping through some of the scene photos, reports.

  “What about the blood message on the wall? The placement of Hooper’s gun and police ID? Did you exhaust all other avenues?”

  “Writing analysis gave us nothing on the blood. We chased down all the other aspects,” Gonzales said.

  “And?”

  “We think Beamon, being an expert on homicide scenes, threw that stuff down as a distraction.”

  “In other words, nothing. All right,” Highgate said. “There are reports alleging Hooper had made enemies with criminals who may have had motive. You got OCC and Management Control watching you. Has all of that been ruled out?”

  “Cliff wasn’t dirty.”

  “And you can prove this beyond any doubt?”

  Turgeon stared at her, holding her words.

  “Look,” Highgate said, “I have to play devil’s advocate here. You need a linchpin to hold it all together solidly. It’s just not there yet.”

  Hating every moment of it, Sydowski slid a Tums in his mouth. Thinking back on the night Turgeon came to the hospital to tell him, Sydowski feared the sick feeling that bubbled in his gut would never leave him. This case took them into hell. In all his years on the job, he never thought he’d face something like this. Hooper and Beamon were like his younger brothers, or his sons. Now it was his job, his sworn duty, to build the case to prove one had murdered the other.

  Sydowski swallowed the remains of his tablet. His gold crowns glinted as he gritted his teeth. He knew what awaited him, for he had been performing some mental sleight of hand to make the inevitable disappear. To avoid the unavoidable. But his fear had materialized. It was sitting there before him, a psychological Hydra, ready to do battle.

  “Emma,” Sydowski said. “I know what we have to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve got to challenge Ray with what we know.”

  “You think you can get him to confess?”

  Kennedy shook his head.

  “You’re new to the D.A.’s office,” Kennedy said. “Walt’s got the highest clearance rate of any homicide investigator in California.”

  Highgate’s eyes met Sydowski’s.

  “Given the emotional mine field here, the question I have to ask is, are you up to it?”

  He couldn’t answer.

  Highgate was smart to exercise respect as she gathered her material into folders, indicating the meeting had ended.

  “I hope you are, because a confession would seal it, Inspector.”

  When they were alone in the elevator, heading back to the homicide d
etail, Gonzales turned to Sydowski.

  “What do you have to challenge him on?”

  “His statement and my first notes.”

  “Your first notes?”

  “I took notes after talking with him the morning after. Took down everything Ray told me in conversations about his whereabouts, his knuckles.”

  “That enough for you?”

  Sydowski nodded.

  “Where’s Ray now?” Turgeon asked.

  “Out with Harry Lance and Shrader, helping on their case,” Gonzales said. Unease rose in his face. “This is going to tear up our squad once this gets out. I want you to go at him as soon as you can. Get it over with.”

  Back in the detail, Gonzales saw Lance on the phone. Shrader was getting coffee. No sign of Beamon.

  “Where’s Ray, Harry?”

  “He took off.”

  “Took off where?”

  “Just said he had something to do.”

  THIRTY

  Hot coffee flooded over Ray Beamon’s cup, scalding his hand. He winced as he wiped the puddle on the counter of the homicide detail, feeling the heat of someone’s stare. He turned.

  Sydowski was watching him.

  “I’ll get out of your way,” Beamon said.

  “You seem to be having a hard time there. Need some help?”

  “Thanks, I can manage.”

  Gonzales had reached Beamon on his cell phone and asked him to come in to go over some files. The lieutenant and Sydowski wanted to ease into an interview with Beamon casually, apply the challenge slowly or see their case collapse like a house of cards.

  Sydowski inventoried Beamon. His hair could stand a few more strokes with a comb. His jacket was wrinkled, as if he’d slept in it. His tie was loosened, his collar unbuttoned. Strain in his eyes. Lines cut into his face around the small patch of lower chin stubble his razor had missed.

  He’s living in torment, Sydowski thought.

  “You getting enough sleep, Ray?”

  “Barely.”

  Turgeon arrived and reached for her cup.

  “Hi, Ray, where’ve you been? Card and Shrader and the guys you were helping lost track of you. Are you all right?”

  “Getting by.”

  “Where’d you go?” Sydowski asked.

  A moment passed.

  “Drove up to Tamalpais. By myself.”

  “What’d you go out there for?”

  “Stared at the sea and tried to figure out who did this to Cliff.”

  “Any leads for us?”

  “No.” Beamon took a hit of coffee. “I just want to step back from it all. It’s hard. It feels like half of me is gone.”

  Beamon contemplated the black ripples in his cup while Sydowski and Turgeon helped themselves to coffee, exchanging virtually imperceptible glances, saying little, waiting for the right moment. For their chance to go at him. The squad room was empty. Dead silent, except for Lieutenant Gonzales. He was in his office, the door open, talking softly on the phone. Sydowski and Turgeon waited, until finally Beamon raised his head from his cup. “Would you guys bring me up to speed on where you’re at?” There it was.

  Sydowski and Turgeon made a point of having Beamon see them exchange glances, intentionally letting his request hang in the air.

  “I mean, if it’s all right?” Beamon added.

  Sydowski rubbed his chin, looked around the empty room.

  “I suppose we could give you a little update, if that’s what you’d like. We’ll get our stuff and go in one of the interview rooms.”

  “Interview room?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can’t you just brief me here?”

  Beamon eyeballed Sydowski, cognizant of the ramifications, the implications, the psychological tactics at play. Going into the interview room would take it all to another level, raise the stakes. Oh Christ, he thought, running his hand through his hair. He knew this was coming.

  “Ray, take it easy,” Sydowski said. “It’s a good place to update you. No one will interrupt us there.”

  Beamon thought for a moment before he said, “Fine.”

  Unlocking his wooden cabinet drawer for his files, Sydowski glanced at Gonzales, telegraphing the message that this was it.

  The shot.

  In the small white room, Beamon intentionally, or maybe by habit, took the chair he’d always occupied whenever he and Hooper worked on a witness, or a suspect. Turgeon sat across from him, Sydowski beside him, in Hooper’s spot.

  Chairs squeaked, papers were shuffled, throats cleared as they began with a general update, harmless publicly known stuff and the speculation from the press arising from OCC and Management Control, alleging that Hooper’s murder was linked to corruption on the street.

  “We don’t know where that’s coming from, Ray, any thoughts?”

  “Cliff wasn’t dirty, you know that.”

  “I know. But the way I see it, this was not a stranger thing.”

  “Really?”

  “No sign of struggle.”

  “A burglar?”

  “Not likely. No forced entry. Nothing missing.”

  “But what about--” Beamon halted.

  “What about what?”

  “Physical evidence. You released that he was shot. What about casings, the round--ballistics? Must be something from imaging?”

  “There’s not a heck of a lot we can tell you.”

  “So that’s it? That’s where you’re at?”

  “Pretty much,” Sydowski said. “Can you help us?”

  “Help you how?”

  Sydowski opened his file. So did Turgeon. Sydowski slipped on his bifocals; Beamon felt the air tighten.

  “We’re still piecing together his last movements. I want to go over some things again. Once more, when was the last time you saw him?”

  Beamon stared at Sydowski. Turgeon’s pen was poised over her notepad. They probably were recording this interview, Beamon figured.

  “Sure, but I already told you everything.”

  “When was the last time you saw Cliff?”

  “Here at the detail. I asked him if he wanted to go for a beer.”

  “And?”

  “He didn’t have time.”

  “What was his demeanor?”

  “Fine. Happy. Like I already told you, he said he was going to see Molly, like a date. So we never went for a beer.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Went home. Had dinner, worked on my Barracuda.”

  “Did Cliff call you or did you call him?”

  Beamon shook his head.

  “So after seeing him here, you never saw him again?”

  “Right.”

  Sydowski studied Beamon’s body language.

  “You’re sure?”

  Beamon nodded.

  “Did he indicate if he was maybe going to meet someone else before his date with Molly Wilson?”

  “No. Not to me.”

  Sydowski noted that the scrapes on the knuckles of Beamon’s right hand had faded.

  “You got those scrapes from working on your car, right?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “I do.”

  A chill descended on them.

  Sydowski flipped though his notes. “I wrote it down after talking with you the morning after Hooper was found. You told me you scraped your knuckles working on your car.”

  “You wrote it down? What is this?”

  “We’ve got people who can put your Barracuda at Cliff’s place the night he was killed.”

  “Well, I may have driven over to see him. He liked looking at the car.”

  “But you said you never left your place. Stayed in all night.”

  “I think I told someone I may have gone for a little ride. Christ, I can’t remember every word of a conversation with you.”

  “That’s right. I’m just trying to clarify things as to who may have been seen near Hooper’s place. I want to be clear on what you told me.”

  Beamon licke
d his lips and said nothing. Sydowski went back to his file.

  “How would you describe Cliff’s relationship with Molly Wilson?”

  “Good.”

  “Did Cliff ever discuss her with you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His plans, dreams, the future. How serious was he?”

  “He really liked her, talked about settling down with her.”

  “And how was she with that?”

  “Ask her.”

  “Did you ever date Wilson?”

  “Sure, I mean, with Cliff we doubled, or sometimes just all visited. We were all friends.”

  “I see. But you never dated her like just the two of you?”

  “She and Cliff were an item. Come on.”

  “So if you were at Cliff’s house that night, did you go inside?”

  Beamon said nothing.

  Sydowski eyed him for a long time over his bifocals, taking stock of Beamon’s face, his eyes, his hands. His breathing. His brow was beginning to moisten. “I know you’re working me here, Walt.”

  “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.”