Be Mine

by Rick Mofina

  “Christ.”

  “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “My other phone’s ringing. Just get in and we’ll figure something out.”

  Sydowski hung up his office line and answered his cell phone.

  “It’s Reed. Where are you?”

  “At the detail.”

  “Check your fax, I just sent you something.”

  “Tom, this is not a good time.”

  “You have to see it.”

  Sydowski went to the machine and studied the note.

  “What is this?”

  Tom explained as quickly as he could.

  “Hold the line, Tom. Leo!” Sydowski waved the fax at Gonzales, then told him about the OCC tip, about Simon Lepp and Molly. Then got back on the line.

  In the newsroom, Tom’s finger traced down a coffee stained staff list pinned on his half wall, stopping at the Ws. He first recited Molly’s address.

  “We already have hers. Give me Simon Lepp’s.” Sydowski shouted the addresses to Gonzales, who got on the line to the emergency dispatcher to send cars to Molly’s building. Sydowski called Turgeon as he hurried to the elevator.

  Gonzales called the Northern and Central District captains to send bodies into the area. And he alerted the Richmond District to send units to Lepp’s address and called communications to put out a Bay Area lookout for his car. Then they alerted the California Highway Patrol’s air unit.

  Outside the Hall of Justice, Sydowski flagged Turgeon as she pulled up. They drove to North Beach, coming upon five SFPD units in front and two behind Molly’s building. The flashing lights and excitement drew a crowd, which grew with the arrival of the TV news trucks.

  Uniformed officer Luke Dinson was standing just inside the door taking notes from Molly’s landlady. Sydowski and Turgeon arrived and saw the fear etched in her face as Dinson took them aside.

  “Mrs. Collery got a glimpse of Wilson. She’s positive it was her, getting into a light-colored sedan with a white male in his thirties,” Dinson said.

  “How long ago?”

  “About an hour.”

  “Does Mrs. Collery know this guy? Get a look at him? Did Molly look cooperative or compelled to go with him?”

  “It was casual, she said. No, she didn’t get a good look at the guy or recognize the car.”

  Turgeon stepped aside to use her cell phone to update Gonzales. He said units in the Richmond District were setting up on Lepp’s house near Golden Gate Park and there was a lookout for Lepp’s car. Out of the corner of his eye, Sydowski saw Tom Reed approaching. He turned and spread out his hands to calm him.

  “Is she all right?”

  “Hang on, Tom.”

  “I’ve been trying her cell phone. I can’t reach her. Is she here?”

  “No.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She may have left with Lepp. We’ve got people looking and people at Lepp’s home.”

  At the southeastern edge of where the Richmond borders the Haight, eight uniformed district officers toting shotguns took points on the house rented by Simon Lepp. The University of California, San Francisco, was not far and music strained from a student building. An old song by The Who.

  No movement was seen around, or in, the small tidy bungalow. Lepp’s car was not present. Letters and magazines peeked from the mailbox. A call placed to the phone inside went unanswered.

  Officer Russ Rutledge, a fifteen-year veteran, took charge of the takedown. He spoke into his shoulder mike for the others to confirm their positions and scene status.

  No movement was reported as the music echoed eerily.

  Rutledge radioed his supervisor and apprised him of the situation, expecting to be ordered to hold their positions and await the tactical unit.

  “Russ, this is a hot pursuit. Kick it. Go.”

  Rutledge swallowed, then alerted his team at the rear.

  “On three. One...two...three ...”

  Rutledge and his partner kicked the front door open, while two other officers entered through the rear. Outside, four other officers held positions around the bungalow. Guns drawn, Rutledge and his crew completed a swift room-by-room search. The house was empty but for the menace that filled it.

  “Hoe-lee shit.”

  All the blood drained from Rutledge’s face as the officers stared wide-eyed at what greeted them.

  One entire wall was papered floor to ceiling with pictures and news clippings of Molly Wilson. Closer examination showed photographs of Molly jogging, driving, shopping, entering the Star. Their grainy quality indicated they were taken using a long lens. The array of pictures also included several photographs from news stories about murders. Pictures of Cliff Hooper and Ray Beamon.

  “I don’t believe it,” Rutledge said. “First it’s Yarrow, freak number one, stalking her. Now this, freak number two. Jee-zus.”

  In every picture, Hooper’s and Beamon’s eyes had been blacked out.

  The big-screen television dominating the living room was on. Molly’s pretty face filled the screen, frozen from a videotape of an episode of Vince Vincent’s show, Crime Scene.

  Her head was circled with a thick line in red marker, which had bled onto the words scrawled below.

  TIME’S UP, MOLLY

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  “This is a nice car, Simon,” Molly said after they pulled away. “I thought you had a Ford. When did you get this? And how can you afford it?”

  “It’s a rental.” He turned to her. “Part of my surprise.”

  “Any hints?”

  He eased to a stop at a traffic light and thought for a moment.

  “All right, what’s the one thing you told me would save you, if your world was falling apart?”

  “Gosh.” She thought. “I can’t remember.”

  “Ice cream,” he said.

  Molly blushed and a smile bloomed on her face.

  Her beauty electrified Bleeder, turned the key in the vault of his unfulfilled desires. He ached to slide his arm around her at that very moment, pull her to him, and reveal who he really was.

  Tell her. Remove your mask. Tell her now.

  “Ice cream? Is that my surprise?”

  “Part of it.”

  The light turned green.

  “Ice cream.” She giggled. “You’re so sweet for remembering, considering we only went out two times.”

  “Three times.”

  “Three times.” She nodded, then touched his shoulder. Her warmth was incredible, like that sweaty night in the gym and Amy’s cherry-candy kisses. Molly kept smiling.

  Good. Very good.

  The ice cream shop was at the corner of Hyde and Union. After finishing their cones, they went to Golden Gate Park. Then they headed south along the coast driving for some time without speaking until Molly thanked him.

  “I’m glad I came.” She looked out at the shimmering waves of the Pacific. “This whole thing has been a living nightmare.”

  He said nothing.

  “You know, I’m sorry that I ended things so abruptly when we went out. You know. You’ve been great.”

  She was beginning to understand. Tell her. Tell her now. Molly searched the horizon, saying, “I don’t know why these horrible things have happened. Cliff, Ray--what Frank did.”

  “What he did?”

  “I mean he was--he was--insane.”

  “No, he wasn’t.”

  “He had problems.” She turned to him. “Not everything about him made it into the news stories.”

  “Like how he wanted you to keep the baby?”

  Molly caught her breath.

  “Did Della or Tom tell you that?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you--?”

  “Frank Yarrow told me.”

  “Frank told you?”

  “Before I killed him.”

  Her heart slammed against her rib cage.

  “Yarrow was an obstacle, like Hooper and Beamon. They were all obstacles between us.
I removed them. For you.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “No. Not at all.”

  This can’t be real. No. No. He’s fantasizing. Delusional. Maybe off some type of medication. This can’t be. She held her breath and struggled to be calm.

  “Would you please pull over at the next gas station?”

  “I’m afraid we’re not stopping.”

  “I really would like you to stop. Please, Simon--”

  “Stop calling me Simon. Simon’s a pathetic loser. Do you see any losers here?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I want you to listen and I want you to understand.” Her skin prickled at his calmness.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Day after day after day, I sat near you. Close enough to hear you flirting on the phone, close enough to know you wear Obsession. I love the chime of your bracelets whenever you slide your fingers through your hair. And in those rare times when you talked to me in the newsroom, sometimes you’d touch me. Sometimes you’d share the little dramas in your life. You never knew how much you meant to me. You were the sun in my life. I needed you but feared a woman like you would never actually go out with me. But you did. Being with you changed me. I realized we were meant for each other and prayed you’d realize it too.”

  “But we hardly went out at all.”

  “You’re not listening!”

  Molly’s mind raced. Think hard. Find a way out.

  “You never gave me a chance. You never got to know who I am. I handed you my heart and you threw it away. I waited, thinking you’d discover your mistake and come round. But you didn’t. You dated others. Less worthy men. Do you think for one goddamned second that they would’ve done the things I did for you?”

  “Please. I’m sorry.” Surreptitiously she tried her door. He’d locked it from the driver’s control panel.

  “You left me no choice but to prove that I am the only man for you. And I had to keep proving it.”

  “Please.”

  Her bag was on her right, resting against the door. She slid her hand into it, unseen. Oh God, she’d forgotten her spray. Wait. She had something else.

  “I had to prove it with Hooper. With Beamon. With Yarrow. Over and over. I left you messages asking you why? Why? Why wasn’t I getting through to you?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Frantically she probed her bag’s contents. Where is it? Where? Please be here. Brush, compact, gum. There. There it was! The familiar shape. Present in her hand. Concentrating with every fiber, she delicately explored the surface with her fingers. This was her only hope. She began pressing the sequence.

  “You wounded me deeply, treated me as if I were a bad movie you walked out on. It was as if you’d used me as a diversion between other men. Only one other person in my life did that to me. Humiliated me. She’d refused to rectify matters. So I worked on a special way of enlightening her. Unfortunately, things went awry.”

  Glancing off, his thoughts took him to another time until Molly found the words to ask, “What happened?”

  “I killed her.”

  Oh Jesus. All the saliva dried in Molly’s mouth. This isn’t happening.

  “It was a mistake. Her name was Amy. How was I to know that she was sitting in the car next to her ‘boyfriend’ when it went over the bridge on that night? Don’t get me wrong, Kyle was an asshole. He had it coming to him. I enjoyed watching him die.” He pounded the steering wheel. “He had it coming!” he screamed, then his voice softened. “But Amy was an accident.”

  Molly felt his hand patting her lap.

  “I won’t be making any mistakes with you.”

  He hadn’t paid attention to how she’d shifted her open bag until it was resting on the console between them.

  “I know what I’m doing. Older and wiser, as they say. I’ve worked so hard at this. After you ended it with me, I watched you. Praying you would see how wrong you were about me. I watched you with the others. It tore me up.”

  She had to think. Find a way out. She studied the rental company’s tiny elegant seal near the console. Golden Pacific Luxury. This has to work.

  “I watched every move you made. I watched you that night at Jake’s where you waited for Hooper. I watched you weep over him. Then who did you turn to? Beamon. You grieved for Hooper and turned to Beamon? Then Yarrow pops up. Pathetic Frank. He needed to be put out of his misery. You let these obstacles get in the way. It was all wrong.”

  He turned, saw her attention flicker to her bag, and followed it inside to her cell phone! And the goddammed thing was on!

  “What the hell is this!” Rage twisted his face. “What the hell are you doing!”

  “Let me out! God, please let me out!”

  SEVENTY-SIX

  Tom was waiting on the other side of the police tape stretched around Simon Lepp’s rented house in the Richmond District. TV news helicopters were approaching when his cell phone rang.

  “Reed.”

  Loud highway noise spilled into his ear. “Hello?”

  Pushing the phone against his head, he heard the highway rush and the faint voices of people talking in a car.

  “What happened?”

  “Molly?” Christ, it’s Molly! Reed could barely hear. He increased the volume, plugged his finger in one ear, then pressed the phone against the other.

  “I killed her...it was a mistake--”

  That’s Lepp! Jesus! Molly’s put out a call! Tom scanned all the uniforms and suits until he spotted Turgeon. He covered his cell phone’s mouthpiece, then waved at her, holding up his phone, pointing at it. Turgeon trotted to him.

  “What is it?”

  Tom mouthed the word “Molly.”

  Moments later, Sydowski, Turgeon, several other detectives, and crime scene techs huddled around Tom over the hood of a police car. The whooping of the news choppers distracted them.

  “This is no good! Move it into our truck! Quick! Let’s go!” said one of the Tac team’s electronics experts.

  The Tac officer set a speaker amplifier next to the cell phone, boosting the sound after he’d taped over the mouthpiece. Tom switched on his microcassette tape recorder, placing it next to his phone.

  “I’ve worked so hard at this--”

  IT’S LEPP & MOLLY! Tom scrawled in big letters for the others.

  “After you ended it with me, I watched you. Praying you would see how wrong you were about me. I watched you with the others. It tore me up--”

  No one spoke. They held their breath. Sydowski called Gonzales at the homicide detail. Whispering, he got him to flip through Molly’s file for her cell phone service carrier, knowing in his gut that it was unlikely they could pinpoint the location of the call.

  “It’s Ocean AirNet Systems,” Gonzales said. “I’ve got Emergency Communications making the call now. Stand by.”

  Helpless to do anything, Tom and the others continued listening to Molly’s call. How the hell did he miss that it was Lepp? A nice guy who gave off a weird little vibe, which Tom had dismissed because Lepp probably possessed the highest IQ at the Star. That was the joke. Lepp should’ve been a rocket scientist, not a reporter. He blinked at Lepp’s house.

  Three homicides. Two detectives. An ex-cop. Now he had Molly. And there wasn’t a damned thing anyone could do. Tom knew the odds were fifty-fifty the cell phone carrier could track Molly’s exact location. Some systems had the capability, some didn’t. Come on, Molly, give us something. A landmark. An address. Anything.

  “I watched you that night at Jake’s where you waited for Hooper. I watched you weep over him. Then who did you turn to? Beamon. You grieved for Hooper and turned to Beamon? Then Yarrow pops up. Pathetic Frank. He needed to be put out of his misery. You let these obstacles get in the way. It was all wrong.”

  Gonzales gave Sydowski the verdict. Ocean AirNet Systems had no way to locate Molly through her cell phone. Sydowski cursed. Turgeon stared off at nothing, just as Lepp discovered what Mo
lly had done.

  “What the hell is this! What the hell are you doing!”

  “Let me out! God, please let me out!”

  Static crackled through the line, causing the sound to break up.

  “How long has this--give it--”

  “No--we’re in siller...ced...50 S...entel...den Pacific...stop please--”

  “You stupid...ruin everything--”

  Silence. The call went dead. The faces of the investigators tensed with concentration.

  “Replay your tape, Tom, the last bit,” Sydowski said. They heard the same garbled exchange as they strained to listen.

  “Again,” Sydowski said. “Adjust the speed, slow it down.”

  “We’re in a silver...450 SL rent...golden--”

  “Again.”

  “We’re in a silver Mercedes 450 SL--”

  “Again.”

  Tom replayed it several times at varying speeds. Until they’d finally determined the last thing Molly had screamed. “We’re in a silver Mercedes 450 SL rental from Golden Pacific Luxury--”

  One of the cops listening was Harry Saguer, a bomb expert with OED working with the tactical unit.

  “A car like that should have Global Positioning Satellite or cellular tracking,” Sauger said. “We can get them to activate the system as if the car were stolen, but don’t shut it down until we’re on them.”

  Turgeon called emergency communications. The 911 operator called Golden Pacific, alerting the company to a life-threatening police emergency, then patched Turgeon through.

  “Who’ve I got?” Turgeon said.

  “Mark Jepson, district supervisor. How can we help?” Turgeon passed the vehicle information to Jepson, hearing him typing on a computer keyboard before reading to her from his screen.

  “We’ve got twenty 450 SLs, Inspector. Eight of them silver. All of them rented. Do you have a name?”

  “Lepp. Simon Lepp.”

  The keys clicked. Then stopped. “Sir, I’m not sure I can do this.”

  “Read off the rental agreements.”

  “We have privacy issues. Maybe a warrant would--”

  “We’ll get one. But if we’re too late, you’ll face a wrongful-death lawsuit. Your call, Jepson.”