Be Mine (23 page)

After Tom finished
his story on Ray
Beamon’s final interview he sent it through the computer system to the night
desk for editing.

It was early evening.

Exhausted, he loosened his tie and bit into a chocolate bar. The
questions troubled him. Who was hunting the city’s homicide detectives? And
why? How did Molly figure into it? Who knows?

Tom leaned back, dreading Sydowski’s reaction to the story tomorrow.
He was the one forever pushing Sydowski to swap data. But now that Irene Pepper
had forced him to go with Beamon’s last words before Sydowski was even aware
the tape existed, any chance of using it as leverage for a story from him was
dead. Brilliant news judgment, Pepper, he thought.

Tom crumpled his wrapper and brushed his hands just as she
materialized at his desk, holding a bunch of white roses.

“Just read your Beamon story. Not bad.”

He looked at the flowers. They were wrapped in blue pin-striped
paper.

“I saw these arrive for Molly early this morning long before the
other flowers.” Pepper nodded to several bouquets on Molly’s desk. “Someone put
these in the fridge and must’ve forgotten.”

He said nothing.

“Would you please give them to Molly tonight?” Pepper smiled. “Pass
along my condolences and let her know I’m extremely interested in a
first-person story from her. It would be fantastic and we could syndicate it
nationally. I’m not talking about her writing right away, of course. But very
soon. Especially given that she figures so prominently in the murders of two
detectives and the killer’s still out there.”

Tom said nothing.

“I’m assuming you’re going to see her.”

“Police have taken her someplace. No one knows where.”

“My word. They must fear for her safety.” Pepper saw others
approaching. “Think about what I said, Tom. Maybe Della or Simon can help you
get these to Molly.”

Della Thompson and Simon Lepp watched Pepper return to her office.
Thompson picked up the new roses she’d left on Tom’s desk.

“More flowers. Who’re these from?” She read the card affixed in
plain sight. “ ‘Molly, leave the past in the past and look to the future.’ ”

She passed the card to Tom. “What do you think?”

After reading it he said, “Another strange note for the collection.
And as I recall, the same wrapping as the bunch she got right after Hooper’s
murder. And these came early just like the other bunch did with Hooper’s
murder.”

Tom fished around in his drawer for the earlier card.

“It had a strange note of condolence, too. Listen. ‘Please think of
me. I’m thinking of you.’ And I think another bunch wrapped in blue pin-striped
paper arrived after the first bunch. She got three strange ones. You’re shaking
your head.”

“You’re thinking it’s the guy?” Thompson asked.

He shrugged.

“Well, I doubt it,” she said. “First of all, it looks to me like a
woman’s handwriting on both cards.”

“Sometimes the flower shop people write the cards for you,” he said.
“So you couldn’t assume anything from the handwriting.”

“All right. I just don’t see anything that strange about them. She’s
received quite a few flowers since this all began,” she said.

“But where are these from?” Tom asked, examining the other flower
bunches on Molly’s desk. “See, these all have logos, or names of the stores
somewhere, on the card or wrapping. But not these. Just blue pin-striping,
which is distinct from the others.”

Thompson kept shaking her head.

“Molly received a lot of flowers from everybody,” she said. “They’ve
come here, or her apartment, from cop friends. Some went to Hooper’s place and
now Beamon’s too. I heard quite a few went to Vince Vincent’s show. A lot of
folks out there send flowers with cards.”

“You know,” Lepp said, “it’s been getting out how she knew both
guys. Maybe some crazy out there is jealous and is trying to woo her now.”

“Maybe.” Thompson half smiled. “This is San Francisco. No shortage
of wackos. But I think the theories you guys have aren’t that solid.”

Lepp changed the subject. “So, how do you think the investigation
will go now?” he asked Tom.

“I think they’ll follow two basic tracks. Again, they’ll go back on
Beamon’s and Hooper’s old cases looking for beefs, any link, and they’ll go
back on Molly’s networks, disgruntled ex-boyfriends, and anyone who had the
potential to be pissed off at her for any significant reason.”

“I’ll keep doing what I’m doing,” Lepp said. “I’ll search old
stories. Beamon was in Robbery. I’ll talk to the guys there about old beefs.
And Hooper worked in Taraval and Mission, which I haven’t checked yet.”

“And I’ll press my sources.” Tom watched Thompson stifle a yawn. “As
for the flowers, all I’m thinking is maybe we should check this out when we
have the time. I’m just curious to know who’s been sending them.”

Thompson collected them. “I’ll take them home and keep them for her.
I’m wiped.”

“Hold up, I’ll walk out with you,” Tom said.

At home Ann had left him a plate of burritos, refried beans, and
rice warming in the oven. It was good. After eating he had a hot shower, which
melted away enough fatigue for him to spend time with Zach before the evening
ended.

They worked together on his model of the U.S.S. New Jersey, passing
the time talking quietly about the battleship. But Tom sensed Zach had
something more troubling than World War Two history on his mind.

“Is there anything else you want to talk about, son?”

“Well, there’s something I wanted to ask you but it’s not about the
ship.”

“Go ahead. Shoot.”

“It’s about the murders you’re writing about.”

“The murders.” Tom hesitated. “Okay...what about them?”

“The guy’s just killing cops, right? I mean, I’m sad for them and
their families, but he’s not going to be mad at you for writing about him,
right?”

Tom looked into Zach’s face. This was the toll. The price exacted on
his family from his job. He swallowed, then brushed Zach’s hair.

“No. He’s a sick person who seems to have it in for detectives.
Maybe he’s a bad guy from their past. I don’t think we have to worry about it.”

“But Molly Wilson’s your friend and she’s kind of part of it.”

“Yes, and she was friends with the detectives. So was I, a little
bit. It’s good that you’re sympathetic. But don’t worry, okay?”

Zach nodded.

Afterward when Ann was getting Zach off to bed, Tom crouched by the
shelf holding her library of books on flowers, plants, and gardening. He
inventoried the spines of her books. He was searching for one he hoped would be
the key, one to the door that would bring him closer to the truth behind the
murders.

The flower angle gnawed at him. He refused to give up on it. Where
was that reference book? Despite the challenges of San Francisco’s climate, Ann
had been working hard on creating a rose garden at their house. And after her
recent ordeal she’d followed through on her intention to join a local rose
society. She’d also devoted more time to studying the history and language of
flowers. She’d become an amateur expert.

“What are you looking for?”

“I need to know something about roses. Like what does it signify
when you give someone white roses? You know, the deeper meaning, that kind of
thing.”

“You’re talking about the language and symbolism of flowers.”

“That’s it.”

“That’s easy. First off, giving someone white roses can mean a lot
of different things, but generally it means silence, secrecy. Or that you want
to share a secret with someone.”

“Really?”

“I wouldn’t get too worked up over it.”

“Why?”

“Most people have no idea about the significance.” Most people don’t
go around killing homicide detectives, Tom thought later that night as he tried
to sleep. The meaning of white roses gnawed at him.

Secrecy.

It fit with the fact that the cards were unsigned. There could be
something here.

Molly’s pain was his pain.

Like everyone, Bleeder saw the news pictures of her being escorted
by the detectives from Ray Beamon’s house in Bernal Heights. Absorbing the
images filled his heart with expectation. He was getting closer.

And closer.

Bleeder yearned to see her. Ached to see her. As dangerous as it
was, he’d promised himself a glimpse as his reward for taking care of another
obstacle. It was inspiration to keep going. He’d been so exceedingly careful,
so exceedingly patient. Something would happen.

He’d earned it.

Bleeder snapped to attention. Here we go.

An unmarked Chevy Impala braked to a stop in front of Molly’s
building. Inspector Linda Turgeon got out to talk to the uniform keeping vigil.
The rookie officer had barely kept awake after polishing off his submarine
sandwich, then working his way through the sports pages of
USA Today
.

Bleeder was invisible to him.

He was in a rented car with dark windows parked two streets over
where he had a perfect line of sight on Molly’s building. He was near a small
park next to a vacant lot. He drew no suspicion from any neighborhood
busybodies. He had a small parabolic microphone aimed at the cop. It boosted
sound some seventy-five times. Bleeder heard every bite and crunch it took the
officer to down his sandwich. He heard every radio dispatch. And he had a
high-powered night-vision scope.

He saw and heard everything.

“I’m just going in to pick up a few things for her,” Turgeon told the
officer before she entered Molly’s upper apartment. A few moments later she
trotted out with a shoulder bag.

“Inspector?” the officer called to her. “How much longer we going to
sit on her house?”

“Likely until after the funeral when things cool down. Hang in
there.”

Turgeon wheeled her car from the edge of Telegraph Hill, making her
way to the freeway south out of the city. Bleeder came alive. His fingers
squeezed the wheel as he followed her. Along the drive, he thought of Molly as
the most important question ate at him.

Why?

Why haven’t you realized who I am and what I’ve done for you? It’s
dangerous for you to wait too long. What’s it going to take for you to
understand that we belong together? Bleeder tried to relax.
Be patient.
It’s going to happen. The press is doing its thing. The police are doing
theirs. And you’re doing your thing. Keeping vigil, waiting until she sees the
light.

And she will see the light.

He thought of Molly’s soft skin against his, her scent, and the
curves of her body.

In his mind, their souls had fused.

He was helping her to understand. Removing all obstacles. Hooper was
an obstacle. Now he was gone. Beamon was an obstacle. Now he was gone. Bleeder
wouldn’t allow any more obstacles. How long before you realize that you’re mine?

Just like Amy was mine.

Yes, well, that whole matter was unfortunate.

As they headed south on the 101 to the San Mateo Bridge, Bleeder
thought of another bridge, one from his past, and he journeyed back. After the
fiasco with Kyle at the diner, he’d changed his strategy. The town was too
small for effective surveillance, so he’d decided to craft an in-country
operation.

The answer was simple.

Amy’s family lived at the edge of town, inside the county line, down
a narrow one-mile stretch of blacktop, nicknamed Hangman’s Lane. It was the
site of the county’s last execution in the 1800s, according to the local
history in the library. Bleeder had looked it up.

One punishing winter, a mute, demented hermit named Lud Striker tore
off his clothes, sharpened his ax, then chopped up his animals. His six cows,
his horse, his pigs, his chickens, his dogs. Even his cats. Then he covered his
body with their steaming bloody entrails and roamed his fields to the home of
his neighbors, with whom he’d had a bitter and long-standing feud over property
and water access. Striker murdered them all in their sleep. A farmer, his wife,
their three children. They found him in the farmer’s bed, asleep among the
corpses. Striker was hanged from a tall oak tree.