Be Mine (28 page)

Tom was at his desk
in the
Star
newsroom
staring with mounting frustration at his cell phone. One of his street sources
had called but the call had been cut off. He took a chance and dialed a number
he was cautioned to use sparingly.

“Yes.”

“This is Tom. Lois just called me but we got cut off.”

“Please wait.”

A full minute passed.

“Hello, Tom. Yes, she’s still around.”

“Would you please tell her to meet me in one hour at the usual
place?”

“The usual place.”

Again, Tom made a point not to use a staff billboard pool car with
the
Star’
s logo painted all over it. He took his own Taurus and headed
to the Mission District, to Hector’s Cantina, a little restaurant he knew near
the BART Station. He took a table, ordered coffee, and waited. About ten
minutes later Lois Hirt entered alone.

She had short brown hair and walnut-shaped eyes. Her ears, eyebrows,
and lip were pierced. Her skin was blotched. She weighed about ninety pounds.
Her thin, feeble arms had bracelets of needle tracks. She was twenty-five.

Tom was relieved to see her.

“Would you like something to eat?”

She asked for a danish and tea.

Lois didn’t speak. She gazed out the window, or maybe it was her
reflection. Staring at nothing as if she were haunting her own life. Before she
became a heroin addict Lois was studying dentistry at the University of the
Pacific. Her fiancé was studying criminal law at Berkeley when he was killed in
a car crash several years ago. Lois had lost her will to live and descended to
the street.

Tom met her when he was doing a series on drug murders. Unlike many
addicts, she circulated throughout the Bay Area. She had a network of drug
addict friends and remembered what they told her. Through them she heard who
was plotting, stealing, dealing, who got killed, who got robbed, who was
hiding, lying, or dying. Because in the end most crimes were tied to drugs. Tom
realized that Lois was a powerful receiver of invaluable street data. Trouble
was she was difficult to track down. At times it took weeks.

“Paco said you needed to see me.”

“I need your help. Two police officers were murdered in their homes.
Detectives.”

“Yes, it’s big news.”

“I need to know if anyone has heard anything about it. Someone who
may know something. If their deaths are connected to anything from the street.”

Lois dripped cream into her tea, then pondered the clouds it made.

“I remember reading about the first one in the papers. And I
remember I was with Paco at some place, a party, and this girl was talking
about it.”

“In what way?”

“She said that maybe she knew something about it.”

“Knew what?”

“She said some guy came up to her on the street and started talking
to her about it right around the time it happened.”

“Talked to her about what? The murdered officer? His killer? Can you
recall?”

“Well, we were all getting pretty blasted.”

“Think, Lois, please.”

“Something like how this guy needed her to help him, to pass on some
information about the murder.”

Tom’s pulse skipped ahead. He glanced around to ensure that no one
was eavesdropping.

“What sort of information? Pass it to who?”

“I don’t know. Just to make some calls.”

Lois cupped her hands around her tea and stared into it. Discomfort
passed over her face. Tom knew she was going to need something soon.

“Did she make the calls?”

Lois shrugged. “I think so. Maybe. I’m not sure.” Tom studied her.

“Do you know who she called?”

Lois shook her head.

“Did this girl know who this person was that she was helping?”

Lois shrugged.

“Paco said she was full of crap but we were all wasted.”

“Do you know this girl from the party?”

She began rubbing her upper arms and shoulders as if she was cold.
She stared out the window.

“I know she’s got a rough life but I’ve seen her.”

“Do you think you could find her again, like if you very quietly
asked around, could you maybe help me get in touch with her?”

Lois’s head started moving up and down.

“I can try.”

“Real soon?”

“Yes.”

“Where was I the nights
they were murdered?”

Any hint of warmth on FBI Special Agent Park Williams’s face
evaporated after Sydowski had clarified his request for help. Williams rubbed
his chin, then asked: “Can we take a walk around the building?”

He had an athletic build, chiseled features, deep-set eyes, and a
smoldering intensity that most women found attractive, including Molly Wilson.
They’d dated for about four months nearly two years ago.

Once they were outside the Phillip Burton Federal Building,
which houses the FBI’s San Francisco Division, Sydowski again asked Williams to
account for his whereabouts on the nights Hooper and Beamon were murdered.

“We just want to cross you off,” Sydowski said.

Williams put his hands on his hips, spreading his jacket.

“We went through this with Hooper. I was in Los Angeles when Hooper
was killed, and when Beamon was killed

I was in Portland.”

“Can you prove it?”

“There were meetings. Hotel receipts. Plane tickets. People I talked
to.”

“Fine, we’ll need details and records if you’d care to volunteer
them.”

Williams eyed Sydowski and Turgeon, then glanced up toward the
thirteenth floor.

“You speak to my supervisor about this?”

“No.”

“Then I will.” He shook his head. “I don’t hold it against you. I
mean, two of your own.” Williams bit his bottom lip. “How’s Molly doing?”

“This isn’t a social call,” Sydowski said, passing Williams his
card. “Fax over the information as soon as possible. Until then, your name
stays on the list.” Williams looked at the card as Sydowski added, “I
understand the press is sniffing around Molly’s old boyfriends.”

That should speed things up, Sydowski figured on their way back to
the Hall of Justice. During the drive Turgeon reviewed their progress on the
list. Glazer was on location with a film in Toronto where he’d been for the
last four weeks. Toronto police confirmed it. Cecil Lowe and Pete Marlin were
on assignments and wouldn’t be available for at least a day. It was going to
take longer for Steve Murdoch. He was in town during the murders. But he was
now flying over Europe. Duane Ford and Manny Lewis had been cleared. Yarrow was
out of town and, so far, unreachable.

When Sydowski and Turgeon returned to the detail, a padded sky-blue
envelope from Breaking News of the World Inc. was waiting on his desk.

“Vincent’s producer from Crime Scene sent it over,” Gonzales said.
“She said it’s a cassette tape, volume one, of nut-bar voice mails left for Wilson
on the show. She’s got more material coming for us later.”

Impressed, Sydowski raised his eyebrows. The producer sent a data
sheet with dates, numbers, times, call durations. He collected his tape player
and the information and went to the interview room.

“Coming?” he asked Turgeon. “There’s only a few.”

“Let me get my muffin.”

The tape hissed, then began with call number one, which started with
a long silence before a male voice said: “Yes, this is for Molly. I watched you
the other night and I just want to say that you’re a coldhearted bitch. You’re
such a bitch. The way you just sit there so smug. If you were my girlfriend,
I’d slap you, you bitch!”

Turgeon glanced at Sydowski, shaking her head. The next message
echoed as if the man were calling from a cave. “Ms. Wilson, uh, yes. Enjoy the
show...but one thing, uh, yes, you ever wonder, I mean really think about what
it’s like to off someone? I mean, uh, yes,
kill
them? You and Vinnie
talk about crime so much, but do you have any concept of what it feels like to
kill, to end a life? Yes, uh, just wondering...maybe you should address this on
the next program.”

Sydowski’s face revealed nothing as the third one began.

“This is for Molly. Why haven’t you called me!” the caller was
screaming in a voice that was hard to identify as male or female. “You’re such
a lying whore! You sit there and I watch you and I beg you to call because we
belong together. And don’t you lie to me, you know it too! But you don’t call!
You’re such a lying little whore who should be taught a lesson. Maybe I should
come down there and instill in you some respect! An appreciation for decorum!
For human dignity! You lying, cheating--”

The tape ended.

Sydowski was motionless, thinking.

“We’ll get General Works to run the numbers down, get names and
addresses. Background. Meanwhile, we’ll get Molly to listen in case she
recognizes any of these heroes. Frankly, I don’t think our guy is among this
selection.”

Sydowski’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten all day.

After finishing with the tape he went downstairs to the cafeteria
and grabbed an orange, sat down, and began peeling it while reading over his
notes. Peeling helped him think. He wanted to go back on his driving records,
check for Frank Yarrow in Kansas and Missouri. Molly thought he was from Kansas City, possibly even Denver. Better query Colorado too. And call Yarrow again, he
decided, tossing his peelings into the trash.

Sydowski’s check for driving records had produced three hits for
Frank Yarrow.

One Frank A. Yarrow in Joplin, Missouri, aged eighty-two.

One Frank Traynor Yarrow in Golden, Colorado, aged twenty.

One Frank F. Yarrow in Lawrence, Kansas, aged seventy-four.

Sydowski looked at the ages, sucking air through his teeth. No way
is my Frank Yarrow among this trio. He went back to his notes. Molly had passed
him a cell phone number for Yarrow. When he had tried it before, it rang about
eleven times, unanswered. Might as well try again.

Illinois
area code. Sydowski noted that, dialed,
and waited. It rang once. Twice. Three times, then--

“Hello?”

“Mr. Yarrow? Frank Yarrow?”

“Sorry, he’s out at the moment, can I take a message?”

“Oh, any idea when he’ll be back? I need to reach him.”

“I think he’s in Costa Rica on business. Been there for a few weeks.
I expect he’ll be back in another week or so. Who’s calling?”

“It’s an old friend. I’ve been trying to reach him. Who’ve I got?”

“Len. Frank’s partner. Can I help you or take a message?”

“No. I’ll call again.” Sydowski circled the area code. “Are you
working out of Chicago?”

“No, I’m on the road right now. Somewhere in Texas or Oklahoma.”

“I see, and how’s business going for you guys?”

“Oh, not too bad. Could always use more, you know how it is.”

“Sure do. Look, I’ll call again real soon.”

That was an odd conversation, Sydowski thought, after hanging up. He
made several notes. For starters he wanted a trace on that cell phone number.