by Rick Mofina
“I called there. Her answering machine is jammed. Can’t take any messages. Did she take her cell phone with her?”
“Not when she jogs. She was going to jog. Is she in danger?”
“We just want to talk to her as soon as possible.”
“Miss--would you please--”
Thompson whirled to face the old woman. “Step back, Grandma! Just step the hell back!”
SIXTY-SIX
At home in her shower, Molly scrubbed herself raw while struggling to regain control of her world.
A dark, overwhelming fact crouched like a wild thing in the back of her mind. The person who’d killed Hooper and Beamon, the person who lived in some perverted fantasy that involved her, was still out there.
She refused to cower, curl up, and die for him.
Not for this bastard. She demanded her life back. Her jog through her neighborhood this morning was her first since Sydowski had moved her. It was therapeutic, recharging her will to fight this nightmare. Not one minute passed without her struggling to figure out who the creep was. Was it one of the guys she’d listed for Sydowski? Or some jerk she’d interviewed for the paper? Or maybe a psychopath who’d seen her on the show, or on the street?
Or anywhere.
God. She didn’t know. How could she know? Sydowski didn’t know. No one knew.
Molly toweled off with such ferocity she burned her skin and she cried out. She realized her unease--admit it, her fear--at suddenly being alone in her apartment was manifesting itself as rage. She switched on her hair dryer, then gritted her teeth. If it’s me you want, then come on, asshole, but I’m not giving up without a fight, she told her reflection as she dressed quickly.
Before heading back to Della Thompson’s house, Molly closed her fingers into fists. Took several deep breaths and calmed herself.
Anger is good. You have every right. Don’t let him win.
Molly steeled herself. She was a strong woman. A fighter. A survivor. She would get through this. One minute, one hour, one day at a time.
Hurrying, she grabbed her cell phone, purse, and keys and trotted down the stairs to her car in the street. She never heard her apartment phone ringing behind her. She turned the engine, engaged the transmission, and began to inch away when tires squealed, brakes thudded and a motor roared. Out of nowhere a strange car T-boned her path, blocking hers.
Molly’s heart stopped.
A man emerged, approaching her car fast. Molly locked her door and scrambled for her cell phone. It had spilled to the passenger floor, along with the contents of her purse. Pepper spray. She had pepper spray. She’d taken self-defense. Frantic, she probed the litter on her floor.
Phone. Spray. Phone. Dial 911. Find it. Find it.
Her pulse raced when there was a knock on her window. Her name? He was calling her name. Her fingers found the spray. Holding it up defensively, she turned to the glass and met his face.
“Frank!” Molly caught her breath. “Molly, please.”
She dropped the window.
“What the hell are you doing here? Are you out of your mind, stopping me like this? You scared me to death,” she said.
“I need to talk to you, please.”
“We’ve been over this. I told you to go home.”
“I know but please.”
She scanned the neighborhood, keeping her voice down. “This is the worst time. I told you, nothing will change.”
“I’m begging you, Molly.”
He looked upset. His eyes seemed red as if he’d been crying. She didn’t want to risk a scene in the street. She didn’t smell any alcohol on him. Collecting herself, she said, “I’ll give you two minutes. First, move your damn car.”
Inside her apartment, she refused to let Yarrow sit. She stood near the door.
“Did you just get back into town? Did you talk to Sydowski?”
Yarrow didn’t answer. He was staring at her.
“You’d be smart to call Sydowski and talk to him so he can cross you off his list. Frank, did you hear me?”
“Listen,” Yarrow said. “Please, you’ve got to say there’s hope. I’ve made so many mistakes in my life. Finding you, seeing that you’re hurting too means we can help each other. We can get through our rough times together.”
“Stop this. How many times do I have to tell you that there is no future for us, only a past that I want to forget?”
“No, I think it was meant to work out like this. If you would only see things the way I do.”
“I don’t.”
His face tightened.
“You’ve got to give us one more chance.”
“I don’t.”
“I told you, I’ve got nothing. How can you stand there and be so cold to me when I’m begging you for understanding?”
“Stop it. I don’t owe you anything.”
Yarrow dropped to his knees.
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“We conceived a child together.”
“Stop it. Stop it. Stop it!”
He raised his head to hers. Then slowly stood. Veins in his temple and neck began throbbing. She noticed how the tight shirt he was wearing emphasized his powerful shoulders, upper arms, the scar on his chin.
“Everything behind me is in ruin,” he said. “Without you offering me hope, I’ve got nothing. You’ve got to give me one last chance.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Don’t say that.”
“You are crazy for acting this way. Let’s see, how can I make this clear to you? Stay the hell out of my life.”
It was as if the wall jumped from behind and slammed against Molly’s back and head before she realized Yarrow had shoved her. His power and swiftness were terrifying.
“Calling me crazy is a mistake.”
The blow had winded her. Molly blinked at the stars swirling around her. She stood against the wall gasping for the longest time before her breath returned. Her fingers slid into her bag and probed for her pepper spray.
“You’re going to regret this,” he said, “because the second I walk out that door, everything will be set in motion. And once a thing is set in motion, there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Nothing.”
Gripping the spray, she stared at him until at last she found her voice.
“You’d better go now, asshole.”
“Just remember.” He held his finger a quarter inch from her face. “I begged you not to make me do this.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
As he drove across the city to Molly’s apartment building, Tom could barely contain his fear. Stopping at a traffic light, he punched Molly’s home number again. It went unanswered. He tried her cell phone. Still no answer. The light turned green.
He didn’t like this.
He put in calls to the newsroom in case she showed up there. Messages were sent to Star photographers working throughout the city to search for Molly. Pulling up to her building, Tom saw no sign of her car. He parked, went to the front, and buzzed her unit.
Nothing.
He walked around the back in case she’d parked there. No sign of her car. He returned to the front. At that moment, a man and woman who appeared to be in their seventies had returned from a walk and were entering the building. They looked familiar. Politely, he stepped aside.
“You’re a reporter.” The woman smiled at him. “One of Molly’s friends. We’ve seen you here before. We chatted a few times.”
“That’s right. Tom Reed.”
“See your stuff all the time in the Star, Tom.” The man’s keys jingled.
“If you’re here to see Molly, I don’t think she’s here,” the woman said.
“Oh no,” the man said, “I saw her out jogging this morning.”
“Well, you just go on up,” the woman said after the man opened the door for Tom.
“Thanks.”
Arriving at Molly’s door, he knocked softly, cocking an ear for any movement inside.
Silence.
He knocked
again, a little harder. Nothing. Turning to leave, he looked at the door frame and froze.
He saw a dime-sized reddish smear about waist-level on the pearl-white wood. He drew his face near. It looked like a finger had trailed something. It glistened in the soft light streaming into the hallway.
Wet blood.
SIXTY-EIGHT
Come on girl, be strong.
The tear tracks had stiffened on Molly’s cheeks as she drove her car south to Della Thompson’s house. Adjusting her grip, she noticed her hands were sticky on the wheel from touching the damp spot at the base of her skull.
Blood.
From Yarrow slamming her against the wall. Violent asshole. He was lucky he left before she sprayed him. She should have him charged. The idiot was stuck in a time warp. Blubbering to her that his life was nothing because he couldn’t get over their high school years. What happened to Frank Yarrow? He was a sweet, sensitive boy. Considerate. Protective. That’s why she’d fallen for him.
That was another time. Another life. And now. Now this?
She couldn’t deal with Yarrow’s stupidity.
Truth was, he’d terrified her. She would tell Sydowski everything and swear out a complaint. She tried calling him on her cell phone but the battery was dead. Her spare was in her bag at Glen Park.
Molly’s heart was racing as she pulled onto Thompson’s street. Nearing the house, she felt faint. Did she have a concussion? Blinking rapidly, she massaged the back of her head until the feeling passed. Couldn’t be serious. She wasn’t bleeding much. Had to be stress.
What’s with the black-and-whites? she wondered as she stopped at the house and got out of her car. Keys jingled from the utility belt of a uniformed officer who rushed to her.
“Ma’am, you’re bleeding from your head.” Paramedics were called.
They said Molly had suffered a mild concussion and a few tiny vessels were broken. When Sydowski arrived he called it an assault and initiated a Bay Area alert for Yarrow.
SIXTY-NINE
Less than three hours after Yarrow had confronted Molly, news crews crowded into the Police Commission Hearing Room at the Hall of Justice.
By now, everyone in San Francisco’s press circles knew the events.
Frank G. Yarrow’s Chicago Police Department ID photo had been enlarged and posted on a corkboard to the left of the podium. On a corkboard to the far right, emphasizing the distinction between the hunted and the heroes, were pictures of homicide inspectors Ray Beamon and Cliff Hooper.
Yarrow was the suspect who’d emerged in the ritualistic murders of the two homicide detectives. National news networks were going live. The story of a disgraced violent ex-cop turned multiple-murder suspect, with overtones of sex and betrayal involving two detectives and a San Francisco crime reporter, would play large across the country.
San Francisco’s police chief, accompanied by sober faced senior officers, took his place behind the mountain of microphones and cassette recorders.
“The San Francisco Police Department is seeking the public’s assistance in locating Frank Gregory Yarrow, age thirty-five. He’s wanted on a charge of assault involving an incident that took place a few hours ago. As well, Yarrow is regarded as a witness to the murders of Cliff Hooper and Ray Beamon, inspectors with the department’s homicide detail. Both men were found in their respective residences.
“Anyone with any information as to the whereabouts of Frank Gregory Yarrow is cautioned not to approach him, but to immediately contact law enforcement authorities. That is all we can say at this time. For members of the press here today, we’ve provided some further information on fact sheets being distributed now. I will not speculate or discuss case details. I will take no questions at this time.”
As the chief stood to leave he was deluged with a barrage of questions.
He didn’t stop to answer any.
Across San Francisco, Ida Lyndstrum set a saucer of milk before Clementine, her cat, sulking on the sun-warmed windowsill of her apartment in the Western Addition.
“Who could sleep with Mr. Noisy coming and going last night? And then all the hullabaloo upstairs today. My word.”
Ida slid her wrinkled fingers along Clementine’s soft coat, sighed, then settled into her winged-back chair with her tea and needlepoint. She found her remote and switched on her TV to her favorite morning talk show. The racket from her tenant had displeased her. And the man had seemed so considerate. Said he’d worked in security in the Midwest. Weren’t people from that part of the country supposed to be quiet types? Just went to show you really couldn’t know a person’s true nature.
Ida’s tenant was still settling in upstairs after moving from his first San Francisco address, a hotel by the airport. Hadn’t even connected his telephone yet. Oh, how she hated to sour things, but she couldn’t tolerate inconsiderate behavior. Not one bit.
Clementine purred.
“Yes, I know, dear. I’ll discuss it the next time we see him.”
Ida’s attention went to her television. It had flashed a BREAKING NEWS BULLETIN, then broadcast a terse report on the murders of the homicide detectives.
“My word.”
The station cut to San Francisco’s police chief with newspeople, and Ida abruptly felt the earth shift. The face of her upstairs tenant stared at her from her TV. Alarm rang in her ears. Good Lord. She fumbled with her remote to increase the volume in time to hear:
“... Police Department is asking the public’s assistance in locating Frank Gregory Yarrow. He’s regarded as a witness to the murders ...”
Murders! Ida gasped.
Her first reaction was to go upstairs and inform Mr. Yarrow the police were looking for him when she heard:
“... cautioned not to approach him, but to immediately contact law enforcement authorities ...”
Her mouth went dry as she lifted her head to the ceiling. “Dear Lord. Oh, dear Lord, Clemie.”
Ida patted her thighs. Clementine, sensing her unease, padded from the window and leaped into Ida’s lap. She slid her arms around her cat, hugging its warm body to battle her sudden chill.
“Dear Lord,” Ida repeated, transfixed by the news conference. When it ended she collected herself, reached for her telephone, whispered a prayer, then pressed three digits.
SEVENTY
In the San Francisco Star newsroom Tom and Acker hunched alongside the intern listening to the emergency scanners.
Acker’s face was taut. Tom was jotting notes fast.
“That’s a lock on Yarrow’s address,” Acker said. “It’s a good one. They’re calling for the Tac unit.”
“Alert photo! Get Della, Simon, everyone you can spare,” Tom called, heading for the elevator. “Every shooter we’ve got before they seal the neighborhood. Call me with any updates.”
Across town in the Western Addition, the tactical unit’s equipment truck lumbered through the neighborhood as every available officer in the district and from across the city offered to help with the takedown.
Everyone moved quickly without lights or sirens. Marked units set up an outer perimeter around the hot zone, shutting off all traffic a few blocks away. Plainclothed female officers quietly escorted Ida and Clementine from her building. They walked several blocks to the far end of a cross street, where the equipment van had squeaked to a halt next to a clutch of police vehicles that stood as the command post.
The officer in charge, TAC Lieutenant George Horn, spoke with Ida. Between talking on his radio and his cell phone, he studied street maps, blueprints, and the detailed floor plan sketches he’d asked Ida to make of her Victorian home not far from Alamo Square.
“And Yarrow lives alone in your two-bedroom apartment, on the top floor?”
Looking at photos, Ida nodded and hugged Clementine.
“And he has no phone, correct?”
“He told me it hasn’t been connected yet.”
“What about a cell phone?”
“If he has one, I don’t have the numb
er. Please, Lieutenant. This is all so frightening.”
“I know, I’m sorry, ma’am,” Horn said as Sydowski and Turgeon arrived.
“How’s it look, George?” Sydowski asked.
“Just setting up. His landlady, Mrs. Lyndstrum here, is certain he hasn’t left his apartment. His car’s still there and she heard him making noises last night, then only a few hours ago.”
“What kind of noises?” Sydowski withdrew his notebook.
After evacuating every resident within the line of fire of Lyndstrum’s building, Horn’s tactical team set up an inner perimeter around the house. Armed with copies of Ida’s sketch, scouts went in first, to determine safety points for other team members. They were followed by the utility man, the breacher, the gas team, and sharpshooters. Without making a sound, they used an aluminum extending pole to place a fully operational cell phone at the rear entrance to Yarrow’s apartment.
The large rear window came into sharp focus, filling the rifle scope of the sniper on the roof of the house nearby. He’d taken cover behind a brick chimney, while in front another sharpshooter put Yarrow’s front window in his crosshairs.
“No movement inside,” the rear sniper said through his headset.
“Nothing in front,” the second sharpshooter radioed.
The third sniper, who had his rifle trained on Yarrow’s south-facing window, also picked up his car in the driveway. He recited the Illinois tag to Horn, who relayed it to dispatch, to run through NCIC. It came back registered to Frank G. Yarrow of Chicago.
“Okay, it’s time to talk to him,” Horn said over the radio to Sergeant Dave Davis, his team leader, who was near the house. He’d taken cover by a neighbor’s garage.
Davis raised his bullhorn, which crackled at the Lyndstrum building.
“Frank Yarrow, this is Sergeant Davis of the San Francisco police. We want to talk to you about an important matter. For your own safety, would you exit from the rear with your hands raised, palms forward, please.”
