Be Mine (37 page)

“What the hell are you doing here? Are you out of your mind,
stopping me like this? You scared me to death,” she said.

“I need to talk to you, please.”

“We’ve been over this. I told you to go home.”

“I know but please.”

She scanned the neighborhood, keeping her voice down. “This is the
worst time. I told you, nothing will change.”

“I’m begging you, Molly.”

He looked upset. His eyes seemed red as if he’d been crying. She
didn’t want to risk a scene in the street. She didn’t smell any alcohol on him.
Collecting herself, she said, “I’ll give you two minutes. First, move your damn
car.”

Inside her apartment, she refused to let Yarrow sit. She stood near
the door.

“Did you just get back into town? Did you talk to Sydowski?”

Yarrow didn’t answer. He was staring at her.

“You’d be smart to call Sydowski and talk to him so he can cross you
off his list. Frank, did you hear me?”

“Listen,” Yarrow said. “Please, you’ve got to say there’s hope. I’ve
made so many mistakes in my life. Finding you, seeing that you’re hurting too
means we can help each other. We can get through our rough times together.”

“Stop this. How many times do I have to tell you that there is no
future for us, only a past that I want to forget?”

“No, I think it was meant to work out like this. If you would only
see things the way I do.”

“I don’t.”

His face tightened.

“You’ve got to give us one more chance.”

“I don’t.”

“I told you, I’ve got nothing. How can you stand there and be so
cold to me when I’m begging you for understanding?”

“Stop it. I don’t owe you anything.”

Yarrow dropped to his knees.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“We conceived a child together.”

“Stop it. Stop it. Stop it!”

He raised his head to hers. Then slowly stood. Veins in his temple
and neck began throbbing. She noticed how the tight shirt he was wearing
emphasized his powerful shoulders, upper arms, the scar on his chin.

“Everything behind me is in ruin,” he said. “Without you offering me
hope, I’ve got nothing. You’ve got to give me one last chance.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Don’t say that.”

“You are crazy for acting this way. Let’s see, how can I make this
clear to you? Stay the hell out of my life.”

It was as if the wall jumped from behind and slammed against Molly’s
back and head before she realized Yarrow had shoved her. His power and
swiftness were terrifying.

“Calling me crazy is a mistake.”

The blow had winded her. Molly blinked at the stars swirling around
her. She stood against the wall gasping for the longest time before her breath
returned. Her fingers slid into her bag and probed for her pepper spray.

“You’re going to regret this,” he said, “because the second I walk
out that door, everything will be set in motion. And once a thing is set in
motion, there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Nothing.”

Gripping the spray, she stared at him until at last she found her
voice.

“You’d better go now, asshole.”

“Just remember.” He held his finger a quarter inch from her face. “I
begged you not to make me do this.”

As he drove across the city
to Molly’s
apartment building, Tom could barely contain his fear. Stopping at a traffic
light, he punched Molly’s home number again. It went unanswered. He tried her
cell phone. Still no answer. The light turned green.

He didn’t like this.

He put in calls to the newsroom in case she showed up there.
Messages were sent to
Star
photographers working throughout the city to
search for Molly. Pulling up to her building, Tom saw no sign of her car. He
parked, went to the front, and buzzed her unit.

Nothing.

He walked around the back in case she’d parked there. No sign of her
car. He returned to the front. At that moment, a man and woman who appeared to
be in their seventies had returned from a walk and were entering the building.
They looked familiar. Politely, he stepped aside.

“You’re a reporter.” The woman smiled at him. “One of Molly’s
friends. We’ve seen you here before. We chatted a few times.”

“That’s right. Tom Reed.”

“See your stuff all the time in the
Star
, Tom.” The man’s
keys jingled.

“If you’re here to see Molly, I don’t think she’s here,” the woman
said.

“Oh no,” the man said, “I saw her out jogging this morning.”

“Well, you just go on up,” the woman said after the man opened the
door for Tom.

“Thanks.”

Arriving at Molly’s door, he knocked softly, cocking an ear for any
movement inside.

Silence.

He knocked again, a little harder. Nothing. Turning to leave, he
looked at the door frame and froze.

He saw a dime-sized reddish smear about waist-level on the
pearl-white wood. He drew his face near. It looked like a finger had trailed
something. It glistened in the soft light streaming into the hallway.

Wet blood.

Come on girl, be strong.

The tear tracks had stiffened on Molly’s cheeks as she drove her car
south to Della Thompson’s house. Adjusting her grip, she noticed her hands were
sticky on the wheel from touching the damp spot at the base of her skull.

Blood.

From Yarrow slamming her against the wall. Violent asshole. He was
lucky he left before she sprayed him. She should have him charged. The idiot
was stuck in a time warp. Blubbering to her that his life was nothing because
he couldn’t get over their high school years. What happened to Frank Yarrow? He
was a sweet, sensitive boy. Considerate. Protective. That’s why she’d fallen
for him.

That was another time. Another life. And now. Now this?

She couldn’t deal with Yarrow’s stupidity.

Truth was, he’d terrified her. She would tell Sydowski everything
and swear out a complaint. She tried calling him on her cell phone but the
battery was dead. Her spare was in her bag at Glen Park.

Molly’s heart was racing as she pulled onto Thompson’s street.
Nearing the house, she felt faint. Did she have a concussion? Blinking rapidly,
she massaged the back of her head until the feeling passed. Couldn’t be
serious. She wasn’t bleeding much. Had to be stress.

What’s with the black-and-whites? she wondered as she stopped at the
house and got out of her car. Keys jingled from the utility belt of a uniformed
officer who rushed to her.

“Ma’am, you’re bleeding from your head.” Paramedics were called.

They said Molly had suffered a mild concussion and a few tiny
vessels were broken. When Sydowski arrived he called it an assault and
initiated a Bay Area alert for Yarrow.

Less than three hours after
Yarrow had
confronted Molly, news crews crowded into the Police Commission Hearing Room at
the Hall of Justice.

By now, everyone in San Francisco’s press circles knew the events.

Frank G. Yarrow’s Chicago Police Department ID photo had been
enlarged and posted on a corkboard to the left of the podium. On a corkboard to
the far right, emphasizing the distinction between the hunted and the heroes,
were pictures of homicide inspectors Ray Beamon and Cliff Hooper.

Yarrow was the suspect who’d emerged in the ritualistic murders of
the two homicide detectives. National news networks were going live. The story
of a disgraced violent ex-cop turned multiple-murder suspect, with overtones of
sex and betrayal involving two detectives and a San Francisco crime reporter,
would play large across the country.

San Francisco
’s police chief, accompanied by
sober faced senior officers, took his place behind the mountain of microphones
and cassette recorders.

“The San Francisco Police Department is seeking the public’s
assistance in locating Frank Gregory Yarrow, age thirty-five. He’s wanted on a
charge of assault involving an incident that took place a few hours ago. As
well, Yarrow is regarded as a witness to the murders of Cliff Hooper and Ray
Beamon, inspectors with the department’s homicide detail. Both men were found
in their respective residences.

“Anyone with any information as to the whereabouts of Frank Gregory
Yarrow is cautioned not to approach him, but to immediately contact law
enforcement authorities. That is all we can say at this time. For members of
the press here today, we’ve provided some further information on fact sheets
being distributed now. I will not speculate or discuss case details. I will
take no questions at this time.”

As the chief stood to leave he was deluged with a barrage of
questions.

He didn’t stop to answer any.

Across San Francisco, Ida Lyndstrum set a saucer of milk before
Clementine, her cat, sulking on the sun-warmed windowsill of her apartment in
the Western Addition.

“Who could sleep with Mr. Noisy coming and going last night? And
then all the hullabaloo upstairs today. My word.”

Ida slid her wrinkled fingers along Clementine’s soft coat, sighed,
then settled into her winged-back chair with her tea and needlepoint. She found
her remote and switched on her TV to her favorite morning talk show. The racket
from her tenant had displeased her. And the man had seemed so considerate. Said
he’d worked in security in the Midwest. Weren’t people from that part of the
country supposed to be quiet types? Just went to show you really couldn’t know
a person’s true nature.

Ida’s tenant was still settling in upstairs after moving from his
first San Francisco address, a hotel by the airport. Hadn’t even connected his
telephone yet. Oh, how she hated to sour things, but she couldn’t tolerate
inconsiderate behavior. Not one bit.

Clementine purred.

“Yes, I know, dear. I’ll discuss it the next time we see him.”