Be Mine (26 page)

A few days after Ray Beamon’s casket
was
lowered into the ground, national news organizations were hammering hard on the
story.

The New York Times
ran a front-page
feature that jumped to a quarter page inside.
The Washington Post
put
one of its star color writers on it and
USA Today
said the case of San Francisco’s murdered homicide detectives was shrouded in a bone-chilling mystery
worthy of Hollywood.

Irene Pepper had left copies of the stories on Tom Reed’s desk. He
seized them, went to her office, and knocked on the door.

“Excuse me,” he said.

She looked up from the file folder she was studying.

“Did you read those stories I gave you? The national press is going
to take this away from us if we’re not careful,” she said.

“I read them. They’re regurgitating what we’ve already reported. In
fact, they’re quoting the
Star
.”

“Your job is to keep us out front on this story.”

Tom figured it would’ve been futile to point out to her that now
would’ve been the time to run the Beamon interview. And he sure as hell wasn’t
going to reveal that he’d come up with a list of possible suspects after some
major fence-mending with Sydowski. Pepper would destroy his lead before he’d
have a chance to develop it.

“I’ve broken stories on this. We’re in front.”

Pepper ignored him and chewed on her pen.

“Do you have any idea where Molly is? Because this would be a good
time for a first-person story from her. It would blow everyone away and put us
back in the game.”

“I don’t know where she is. And I don’t think she’s in any position
to be writing something like that at this time.”

“Really? I don’t think you’re in any position to be deciding that
for her. Your job is to break exclusives for me and you’re overdue. So get
busy.” Pepper returned to her file folder, dismissing him.

Heading to the kitchen, Tom recalled Hank Kruner’s warning about
Pepper. “Watch your back with her.” Well, like so many others at the
Star
,
Tom didn’t trust Irene Pepper. Especially now. The way she’d kept him dancing
on a tightrope, she had to be up to something.

“Hey, Tom.” Simon Lepp was making fresh coffee. “I saw you go into
Irene’s office. What’d she have to say?”

“Who knows? She never makes sense. She thinks the
New York Times
is going to steal our thunder in our own backyard.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Lepp said. “We’re all over
it. Closer to it than anybody.”

Tom agreed, then asked: “Where’re you at with your stuff?”

“I went to Taraval and Mission. Didn’t get much, but one guy seemed
to remember an old accusation, or something against Hooper that flared.
Something to do with drugs.”

“Sounds vaguely familiar.”

“I’m going to try Narcotics again. And there was also a rumor that
Beamon had some stink come up out of his days in Robbery.”

“I don’t remember that but the narcotics thing on Hooper is worth
checking out.”

Della Thompson returned to the newsroom and joined them.

“I just got off the phone with Turgeon in Homicide. She said Molly
wants to go home and they’re considering moving her soon.”

Back at his desk, Tom opened his notebook to the page with the names
of suspects. Or rather, “persons of interest,” as investigators liked to say.
He chuckled at all the slippery terminology they used. They’d stress that a
person was in no way a “suspect.”

He might be a “witness” or a “person of interest.” It was all cop
code, which when translated said: “We think you could’ve done it. And we’ll
keep thinking it until you cooperate and prove otherwise.”

He doubted Sydowski would soon go public with the names and he
didn’t think it wise for the
Star
to publish them without first doing
some intensive digging.

But it was a hell of a list, he thought, sipping his coffee.

Pete Marlin, Park Williams, Duane Ford. Cecil Lowe. And Manny Lewis.
From the D.A.’s office. Damn. Rob Glazer. Steve Murdoch and Frank Yarrow. Most
of these guys were cops. Smart detective types. He’d do some quiet poking
around.

At the very least he could put together a searing piece saying that
the suspect pool reached into the D.A.’s office, the FBI, ATF, the U.S.
Marshal’s Service. It’d be a rattler of a story.

His line rang, startling him. “Reed.”

“Tom, I’m so sorry,” Tammy said from the front desk. “I was watching
like you asked. I just stepped away for a moment, so I missed him.”

“What is it?”

“Another bunch came for Molly.”

He hung up and rushed to the newsroom reception. Tammy was holding
fresh white roses wrapped in blue pin-striped paper.

“How long ago?”

“A minute, tops.”

He hurried down the stairs to the lobby and the security desk where
a white-haired potbellied security guard sat behind a glass booth.

“What is it there, young Mr. Reed?”

“Weldon, did you get a look at the guy who just came in with
flowers?”

“I look at everybody. What’s the panic?”

“Did he sign in for you?”

Weldon spun the book around for him and pointed to a signature.

It was indecipherable. Tom cursed.

Riding the elevator
back up to the
newsroom, Tom was struck with a way to find out who was behind the flowers and
the notes for Molly.

The twelve white roses were still with Tammy at the reception desk.
He removed the card affixed to them. It said: Molly, hope you’re now looking
toward the future. It was unsigned.

“Can I borrow your scissors?” he asked.

Tammy watched him cut a strip of the blue pin-striped wrapping
paper. Then he glanced around and lowered his voice.

“I need you to help me fast and keep it between us.”

“Sure, anything. I’m so sorry I missed the delivery.”

“Get on the Web and get me a locator map with names and addresses of
all the flower shops nearest us.”

Tammy’s keyboard began clicking as Tom went to the photocopier and
made a duplicate of the card. Then he went to his desk, typed up the eight
names on the suspect list, and printed off several copies before grabbing his
jacket and heading out.

“Here you go,” Tammy said. “There are four within a few blocks and
three more beyond that.”

The first on the map was a block away. Somewhere Over the Rainbow
Florists. Tom showed the clerk the card and asked for help.

“All I really need to know is if you think the flowers came from
this shop. It would’ve been a few minutes ago.” As the clerk studied the
inscription, he glanced over her shoulder at the rolls of wrapping paper.
Nothing that looked like blue pinstripes.

“Sorry,” she said. “Not from us.”

The second shop was Delights and Dreams. The two owners studied the
card and writing, then shook their heads. Tom could see an assortment of
wrapping paper at the arrangement table behind them. No blue pinstripes.

It was the same story at Cloud Nine Floral.

The next shop was five blocks away. The Pacific Dreams Flower Shop.
It was slivered between a leather boutique and a currency exchange. He
approached its frosted glass door thinking the key to this case might be on the
other side.

The store’s humid earthy air enveloped him. The shop was intimate.
Pumps and fluorescent lights hummed, water gurgled over polished rocks in the
fountain and goldfish pond. Palm fronds canopied over terraces of plants,
vases, displays of all sorts.

Tom was the only customer. He browsed by the large glass coolers
with colorful arrangements of lilies, carnations, and scores of flowers he
couldn’t identify. Most important, there was an abundance of roses,
long-stemmed, sweetheart, and in all colors. A good supply of white ones.

“Can I help you?” said the young woman at the counter. She had an
orchid in her hair. Her nameplate said Leeshann.

“I hope so. My office just received some flowers. Lovely white roses,
Oh, like twenty minutes ago.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And, this may sound silly, but we’re trying to find out if they
came from here. It’s part of a long running office detective game thing.”

She smiled. “Like a friendly office joke?”

“Exactly. Yes. We send gifts to each other, then try to figure out
who sent them and from where. The other team’s always beating us. We’re
checking all the flower shops around us.”

“That’s not so silly. You wouldn’t believe the stuff I hear about.”

He passed her the card. As she examined it, he noticed that the
card’s tiny floral border matched the blanks next to the register. His pulse
quickened. Looking over her shoulder, he saw among the rolls of wrapping paper
a style in blue pinstripes.

“When we find out where they came from,” Tom said, “we’re going to
send him twice the flowers. It’s part of the joke to let them know we figured
it out. That we’re on to them this time.”

Leeshann nodded.

“Cool. Sounds like fun. Yup, it looks like one of ours.”

“So the flowers came from here, really?”

“Looks like it. But I can’t tell you who sent them. Against the
rules.”

“Of course. I wasn’t really asking who sent them. We have a pretty
good idea who sent them.” He dropped his voice. “We just needed to know where
Manny sent them from.”

“Manny?”

“Or it could’ve been Duane?” Leeshann shook her head.

“It was like twenty minutes ago? Wait,” Tom said, pulling out a
folded copy of the list. “Hang on. The gang at my office gave me the ‘suspect’
list.”

He passed it to her. She read it and shook her head.

“None of these names are familiar,” she said. “I bet Alice handled the order. Unfortunately she just left for a dentist appointment. Can I keep
this and ask her?”

“Sure,” he said. “Look, I’ll be away from my desk, so I’ll call
her.”

“And you are?”

“Tom. Thanks.” He smiled. “Please let Alice know this is all part of
an office joke kind of thing. But promise me you won’t let these guys know
we’re on to them.”

“You’re secret’s safe with us.” Leeshann winked.

Molly’s smile obliterated
his darkness.

Perfect straight, white teeth. Full red lips. Bangs swept carefree
to one side. Gracefully she raised her right hand to tuck some errant strands
behind her ear while her eyebrow arched. Her eyes sparkled as she made her
point.

That’s it.

Bleeder froze Molly. Trapping her. Making her his virtual
possession.

His skin tingled at the sight of her. He stared at her face, her
throat, her plunging neckline. He had recorded some of her appearances on Crime
Scene, the weekly television spot.