Be Mine (3 page)

Tom Reed tensed
the instant he walked
into the
San Francisco Star
newsroom. No one was at the far corner
monitoring the city’s emergency radio scanners this morning.

Listening to them was an inviolable duty.

This was why the
Star
was getting killed by the
Chronicle
on breaking news, he thought, casting around the metro section.

No one useful in sight.

No clink of bracelets from Molly Wilson, who sat across from him.
Where was she? No sign of Acker, the assignment editor. Something was happening
out there. Tom could feel it in the voices of the police dispatchers. It was
Bobby’s job to sit by the scanners. That’s what interns did. Where was he?
Unable to ignore the transmissions, Tom went over and listened.

“... they’re booked out at the 187 ...”

“... ready to copy? It’s in Upper Market ...”

A 187. A homicide. In Upper Market. You didn’t get many there.
Surely, Irene Pepper knows about this, he thought, heading directly to her
glass-walled office.

Pepper, the
Star
’s new metro editor, was standing at her desk
taking notes, phone wedged between her ear and shoulder. She’d landed her post
five months ago after Bob Shepherd, a legend in the craft, left for the
Los
Angeles Times
. Irene was a strange blend of American-British-Canadian
upbringing, in Toronto, London, New York, and Marin County. She’d been a
freelancer in Washington, D.C., where she’d married the
Star
’s Washington, D.C., bureau chief. After he transferred back to San Francisco, Irene joined
the
Star
, writing and editing fashion features.

Two years later she became editor of Special Sections, the ad-driven
pages about homes, recipes, lifestyles, and things to do on weekends. After
that, she became national editor before taking control of Metro, the paper’s
largest editorial department. Installing Irene there was something of a
head-shaker, given that she had precious little news experience. But as a
manager, she never overspent her budget.

“Excuse me, Irene?” Tom knocked on her open door. “We know about
this murder in Upper Market, right?”

“Just a sec,” she said into the phone. “Bobby checked it out this
morning. It’s a suicide.”

“No, it’s a homicide. Where is he?”

“I’m
sure it’s a suicide.
Bobby wasn’t feeling good. I let
him go home.”

“So no one’s on the scanners?”

“The new intern comes on in an hour. I’ve got to finish this call.”

Back at his desk Tom took a deep breath, then dialed a police
number. While it rang he searched through his clutter for a fresh notebook and
came across the managing editor’s recent memo demanding to know why the
Star
was missing breaking news stories. Irene Pepper is why, he thought. She didn’t
think it was important to keep the interns handcuffed to the damn scanners like
Bob Shepherd and every other editor in the country did.

“Vickson,” a voice growled over the line.

“Hey, man, it’s Reed. I need a favor.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Buddy, can you help me out on a 187?”

“And how may I enlighten you?”

“I’m hearing some chatter on one in the Clayton, Short area of Upper
Market. Can you tell me, is that one a grounder or what?”

“Hold on. I’ve got to put you on hold.”

Tom took a hit of Colombian coffee from his FBI mug, then looked
back at Ann, and their twelve-year-old son, Zach, smiling from framed pictures.
God, the hell he’d put both of them through over the years.

Some days Tom questioned if his job was still worth it as he
reflected on the keepsakes at his desk. The faded clip from the Tribune in Montana with the head FORMER GREAT FALLS NEWSPAPER BOY PULITZER PRIZE FINALIST. Tramping
through Great Falls, the Trib bag knotted over his shoulder, the smell of crisp
editions, newsprint blackening his hands with each paper he’d deliver. Dreaming
under the Big Sky of being a big city crime reporter. Some of the happiest days
of his life.

There was the old snapshot of a younger Tom in front of the Golden
Gate Bridge with the gang from
AP
’s San Francisco Bureau. The
Associated
Press
was his first major job in the business after college where he’d met
Ann. They got married and moved to San Francisco where she started her first
children’s clothing store and he started with
AP
. It was where his
reporting on West Coast crime networks earned him a little glory as a Pulitzer
finalist.

Then the
Star
hired him.

It was funny. In the last few years Tom had reduced his inventory of
treasured tearsheets. Gone were the grisly front-page stories he’d displayed
like blooddripping trophies. He no longer needed the validation. His success at
covering tragedies had bestowed him with its own honors: the healed scars of a
fractured marriage and a craving for Jack Daniel’s whiskey whenever a trip into
the abyss overwhelmed him.

During his worst time Ann had begged him to quit news reporting,
stay home, and write books. But he couldn’t quit. Ever. Yes, his job had
exacted a toll on his family. But over the roller-coaster years since he’d become
the
Star
’s chief crime features writer he’d gotten a handle on his life.
He’d broken a succession of major exclusives. Most drew national recognition
for the paper. He was good. Once he locked on to a story he was relentless. It
was in his blood. Being a crime reporter was what he’d dreamed of doing since
he was a kid delivering newspapers in Great Falls.

“Still there?”

“Still here.”

“That 187 in the Clayton and Short area is a homicide at the home of
an SFPD officer.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Here’s the address.”

“Is the officer the victim or the suspect?”

“Victim.”

“Who is it?”

“That’s all you get from me. I advise you to get over there. It’s
getting old. Every news team in town has been there for hours.”

Tom slammed down his phone, turned, and saw Pepper headed his way.

“That 187 is a police officer murdered in his home in Upper Market.
We missed it. Everyone’s there but us. I’m on my way.”

Tom thrust the managing editor’s memo into Irene’s hands. Her face
reddened as she folded it.

“It’s early,” she said. “Lots of time to catch up.”

Tom’s cold stare threatened to rip open old wounds from ancient
battles with Pepper but he didn’t have the desire or the time to get into it
now.

“A murdered cop,” she said. “What else do you know?”

“That’s it right now. Since we’re behind I could use some help.”

“This is sensational. Simon!” Pepper waved another reporter over.
“We need to be strong on this story, it’ll be huge. People will eat this up.
Who’s the victim? Any other details?”

“Nothing yet. Where’s Molly?”

“I don’t know. You go. I want you on this.”

Simon Lepp, the paper’s science writer, joined them at Tom’s desk.

“I’m putting you on a breaking murder story with Tom. You’re going
to learn from our master crime specialist.”

“All right.”

“Your job is to guarantee the
Star
owns this story. You do
whatever Tom needs to make it happen. I’ll put more bodies on it. But you’re
both on this murder until I take you off. Got it?”

“Sure.” Lepp nudged his round rimless glasses as Pepper strutted
away.

Tom shook his head, struggling to find a fresh notebook while
concealing his disgust at the whole thing. And why assign Lepp to this story?
No offense but he’d prefer a seasoned crime reporter like Molly or Della
Thompson.

Lepp was a soft-spoken bookish type who’d covered the science beat
for years. He’d never touched a crime story. The guy seldom left his cubicle
way off in a far-flung corner. The thing was almost overrun with Boston ferns and spider plants. He was bright. His family had moved around a lot when he
was a kid. His father had been some kind of research genius. Lepp had won a
slew of awards for producing page-eating eye-glazers about things only Nobel
winners at Berkeley and Stanford understood.

“You sure you want to do this?” Tom asked.

“I’m sure. I’ve become a little bored with science. I’ve watched
what you and Molly do. I told Irene I thought a switch to breaking crime news
would be exciting.”

Tom looked at him. No one else was available to help at the moment.

“Want me to deputize you?”

“Just tell me what to do.”

After making a few quick calls, Tom jotted details on a page in his
notebook, then tore it off. “There’s a press conference at ten-thirty at the
Hall of Justice, police commission room. You go to that. As soon as they
release a name get the library to search for stories on any cases the dead cop
may have handled. Track down the victim’s detail, or district, academy buddies,
search the newsletters, call POA and OCC.”

“POA and OCC?”

“Police Officers’ Association. You’ve got time to swing by there
before the newser. They may know about the victim and friends. OCC, the Office
of Citizens’ Complaints, may know of any beefs against the cop. Get them to
speculate on whether it could be linked to anything. We’ll get our court guys
to ask about cases too. We’ll cast out a wide net and see what we get.”

Tom reached for his jacket just as his desk phone began ringing.

“Right, that’s good. Where’re you headed?”

“I’ll poke around here and there with sources. You go ahead without
me. Make sure your cell phone’s on.”

Tom reached for his phone hoping it was Sydowski. If anyone had data
on this thing, it would be him.

“Hey, Reed,” Vickson said. “All I’ve heard is the dead guy’s an
inspector. A detective.”

“An inspector. Which detail?”

“Don’t know.”

“Thanks.” Tom gulped the last of his coffee, slipped on his jacket,
then headed for the news reception area. The switchboard was ringing as the
elevator doors opened.

“Tom,” Tammy, the receptionist, said. “You’ve got a call.”

“I have to go.”

“Hang on,” she said into the phone. “Tom, it’s Molly.”

“I’ll take it.” Tammy passed the phone to Tom. “Molly, where are
you?”

“The Hall of Justice. Homicide.”

“You’re on this? You’re covering the story?”

“No.” She choked on a sob. “Tom, can you come and get me, please?”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Cliff.”

“What do you mean?”

The elevator bell chimed. Tom felt something brush his arm.

“Cliff Hooper. He’s dead. I’m the one who found him.” A homicide
detective. Molly’s boyfriend. Tom struggled to grasp it.

A delivery of flowers came to reception. “Okay, Molly, hang on. I’m
on my way.”

Tom passed the phone back to Tammy, who was smiling at the
spectacular arrangement of white roses.

“Aren’t these lovely?” she said to the deliveryman. “Who’re they
for?”

“Says here, Molly Wilson.”