Be Mine (25 page)

After an hour or two, the blast of tugs and cries of shrieking gulls
overhead were the only sounds Tom had picked up from the waterfront. No sign of
Angela. He’d try again tonight, he reasoned, after crossing back over the
bridge and heading for San Francisco’s Mission District and another source,
Lois Hirt.

He parked a few blocks from the Sixteenth-Street BART Station, began
walking the streets while bracing for frustration. Lois was one of his best
sources. In all the time he’d known her, she’d never once lied or misled him.
Her information was dead on the money. Every time. But finding the college
dropout was about as easy as reaching the summit of Everest.

Lois Hirt was a heroin addict.

And at times she was as elusive as the wind.

After nearly ninety minutes of checking the usual places, of asking
and waiting around, he’d recognized that sinking feeling. He’d struck out. No
way was he going to connect with her today. After packing it in and heading
back to the car, his cell phone rang.

“Reed.”

“Got your message,” Sydowski said. “What do you want? I’m busy and
grouchy.”

“Sounds like two of the dwarves.”

“Reed.”

“I’ve got to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“You know what.”

“By the by, your story pissed me off.”

“I just want to talk.”

“I don’t have much time for you, pal.”

“It might be useful for you to meet me. We can trade things.”

Sydowski emitted a long, tired sigh.

“Nick’s. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

Nick’s Diner was a short walk
from the
Hall of Justice and a hangout for crime fighters who favored greasy fried food
and strong coffee. Tom found Sydowski alone in a corner and ordered a cup for
himself.

“How’s Molly doing?” Tom asked.

“Think of the circumstances and draw your own conclusions.”

All right. Sydowski was pissed off.

“You know, I was planning to come to you with Ray’s interview before
we ran it.”

“But...?”

“An editor made me go with it as soon as she found out.”

“Just following orders, huh?”

“Come on.”

“Hey, what was it you said at the beginning of this thing? How we
could ‘cooperate’ because of the
Star
’s connection here?” Sydowski
grunted, then grabbed a wellread copy from the counter and spun it on their
table. “This is you cooperating? You’re the one always asking me to leak you
stuff, give you stuff. Turns out it’s a one-way street with you.”

“My hands were tied.”

“You couldn’t even do me the courtesy of a call? A heads-up to say
you had Ray’s last interview and you were going to publish it? How many times
have we tipped you to arrests, breaks, leads?”

“You said you wouldn’t make any deals on this case.”

Coffee arrived, diffusing the tension. Sydowski glanced at the
street to let his blood pressure simmer. Then he reached for a toothpick.

“You got anything going, any strong leads?” Tom asked.

“We’ve got a couple of things going.”

“Like what?”

Sydowski raised his eyebrows. “Let me reach into my pocket and give
you my case notes.” He shook his head and looked away.

“What’s the deal with OCC and the internal guys? Is it political or
is there something to this?”

“Jesus Christ, Reed.”

“Well?”

“Look, you’re wasting my time. You said you might have something to
give me?”

Tom slid the tape of Beamon’s interview to him. “I made a copy for
you.”

“It’s old news now, pal.”

“Listen to it all. Ray said there’d been threats.”

Sydowski put the tape in his pocket. His poker face gave nothing
away.

“We’re looking into Hooper’s old cases,” Tom said.

“Good for you. I’ve got to go.”

“Wait, I gave you the tape.”

“So what? You expect something in return?”

“Well, yeah.”

Sydowski pursed his lips and glanced at his watch. He cooled off
enough to give Tom a shot at a lead for a story. “Ask me questions,” he said.

“What?”

“Ask me questions. You know how we investigate, so hurry up.”

“You’re looking at everything connected to Hooper and Beamon.”

“Obviously.”

“Old cases, threats, vendettas?”

“Sounds logical.”

“But since I don’t know all the physical evidence or scene stuff, it
looks like there’s a strong link to Molly.”

“You think?”

“So you’re going to scour her circles.”

“There you go. You’re smart. Keep going.”

“All her boyfriends, they’d be your suspect pool, or people you want
to talk to and clear.”

“Keep going.”

“Are you concentrating on anyone in particular?”

“You answer that one.”

“No. Not yet. You’d cast a wide net and start tossing out those you
could rule out immediately. You’re not focusing on anyone. Am I right?”

Sydowski said nothing as Tom concentrated, then produced his
notebook. “You’d start with ex-boyfriends she’s dated for a time over the last
little while,” he said.

“Keep going.”

“Tying them to physical evidence and whereabouts when the murders
were committed.”

“Hurry up. I’ve got to run.”

“You’ve developed a list and will reduce it as you rule them out one
by one. At the same time you’re looking for the link to any evidence from the
scene like a weapon, a print, and checking it against any threats arising from
old cases, maybe any ritualistic pattern.”

“Keep going.”

“The boyfriends are only one aspect of your investigation. You’d be
interested in guys she’s dated for any period, say a month or two, long enough
for feelings to develop. Long enough to stir the fires, as it were.”

“Colorful reasoning. Not bad.”

“And I’d likely know who most of them would be.”

“Would you?”

“Let’s see, Manny Lewis, then there was Fordy, Duane Ford.” Tom
began making notes as Sydowski checked his watch. “Rob Glazer, the movie guy,
then Park from Golden Gate Avenue. Cecil from ATF. The pilot, what was his
name? Murray, Steve, Steve Murdoch, and the marshal. Marshal Marlin, I used to
tease her, Pete Marlin. That’s all of them.”

Sydowski stood. “You missed one.”

“One? Who?”

“Frank Yarrow.”

“Frank Yarrow?”

“That’s all you get,” Sydowski said. “You want to play detective, be
my guest. Just don’t get in my way and be careful with those names. I’ve
confirmed nothing.”

“Can I talk to Molly?”

“No. Not for a while.”

“Can you have her call me?”

“No.” Sydowski slipped on his jacket. “I’m so glad we had this time
together. Give my best to Ann. She should get a medal for putting up with you.”

The gold in Sydowski’s crowns glinted as he placed a couple of
dollars on the table and left.

Ray Beamon’s funeral service
was held at
St. Mary’s Cathedral.

Several hundred mourners attended. Dignitaries, ranking officers,
and detectives, all in dress uniforms, their badges bearing a black diagonal
stripe. One by one, speakers gripped the sides of the podium as they eulogized
him. “ ‘There is an evil which I have seen under the sun, and it is common
among men,’ ” the San Francisco police chaplain said, quoting from
Ecclesiastes. “Ray and his partner Cliff battled that evil every waking moment
of their lives in their unyielding service to this city. Now that evil has
taken them, leaving us to ask, ‘Why?’ My friends, it’s futile to ponder an
eternal mystery. It’s wiser for us to draw strength from their example. These
were fine, fine men.”

Afterward, the pallbearers carried out their task. Sydowski headed
the team, which had been selected from the homicide detail. Across the street
behind the crowd-control barriers, dozens of news crews recorded them
delivering the casket to the hearse.

Engines started and then police motorcycles, followed by police
cars, led the procession, their lights flashing and chrome gleaming in the
bright sun.

In the limousine behind the family car, Molly Wilson sat between Ann
and Della Thompson, who squeezed her hands whenever a sob escaped. Tom Reed was
with them in the car’s opposite seat.

The soft strains of a harp whispered through the limo’s hidden
speakers. Molly’s mind flitted between memories of her times with Cliff and
with Ray as she wrestled with the horror that had befallen her. She feared she
would scream whenever she remembered the moments when she’d come upon them.

Who did this? Why? Oh God, why?

Tom reflected on the toll their business had exacted on all of them,
getting so close to stories. They coiled around you, squeezing you, crushing
you. They had all paid dearly, he thought as they neared Colma, a place he had
visited too many times to report on too many tragedies.

Located at San Francisco’s southern edge, it had more than ten
cemeteries side by side in a mile-wide expanse that stretched two miles. A
rolling sea of crosses and headstones. Colma, the little town where the dead
outnumbered the living, had earned many other names.

In his circle of cop and reporter friends, Tom called it Silent
City.

Hundreds of mourners arrived at the cemetery. Sydowski and the
pallbearers received the casket. White-gloved uniformed officers of the color
guard gave a hand salute until it was placed at the graveside where the
officiating priest concluded the burial service. Beamon’s family had agreed to
a three-member rifle honor guard. Taps was played. When it ended, the
pallbearers folded the flag. Sydowski gave it to the police chief, who
presented it to Beamon’s mother.

Her chin crumpled and her head dropped as she pressed it to her
face. Beamon’s father comforted her. News cameras captured the moment for the
next day’s front pages while above them, gulls screeched.

Their cries floated on a gentle wind that rolled over Colma.