Be Mine (35 page)

“He’s involved in San Quentin. On death row.”

“I hear you. I told them. I said that other than her dad, Sunny’s
got no one in this world now.”

“That makes two of us.”

“I’ll make some more calls. See what your chances are. But I got to
warn you, the odds are against you.”

“They have been for a long time.”

“Before you even go down that road, you’ve got to get cleaned up,
get a good job. Demonstrate a stable life and home environment.”

“I’m working on it.”

Later that day when Lois was alone in her room, she tried ignoring
the bass thudding of someone’s music from the floor above as she stared at
Gloria’s purse. The remnants of a young woman’s life sitting on her kitchen
table. Lois covered her face with her hands, blinking over her fingertips. To
go through it was such an invasion.

I’m so sorry, Gloria.

Lois emptied the purse on her table. It had gum, a knife, a personal
key-ring alarm, pepper spray, a MUNI Fastpass, condoms, pens, tampons, minipad,
her wallet. Her wallet had a few credit cards, her California driver’s license,
bank card, eleven dollars cash, slips of paper. One looked like a grocery list,
one torn from the classifieds, about an escort service, another torn from the
yellow pages. Dating service. She found a small black book with a list of cell
phone and pager numbers. Right. Dealers. Then a folded slip of paper with a
number on the top and a message printed in neat blue-inked block letters, alien
from Gloria’s handwriting style.

Lois stared at the message and thought for a long moment before she
grabbed the coins, went to the public phone on the corner, and dialed the
number.

“Office of Citizens’ Complaints,” the receptionist answered.

Lois hung up.

She stared at the words on the paper, reading them over and over.

This is it.

The message Tom Reed was looking for.

“Oh yeah, I remember this one.”
Della
Thompson studied the printout of an old story Simon Lepp had dug out of the
archives.

DRUG COPS POCKETED DEALER’S CASH,

ATTORNEY ALLEGES

DELLA THOMPSON SAN FRANCISCO STAR

Officers with the narcotics detail held guns to the
head of a man convicted of trafficking cocaine, then stole “hundreds of
thousands” in cash from his home, his lawyer alleged yesterday.

“This pulls back a curtain on police corruption. It
will shake this city like it’s never been shaken,” Smith Holland Smith, a
flamboyant outspoken lawyer for some of the Bay Area’s most notorious citizens,
charged in a hastily called news conference. “Time to wake up, San Francisco. Something’s rotten to the core in your city,” said Smith, refusing to name
officers or provide any evidence of wrong-doing on the part of the San Francisco police.

Lieutenant Paul Varner, a department spokesman,
likened Smith’s claim to a circus act. “His client is going away for a lot of
years and Smith pops up with this knee-slapper,” Varner said. “All he’s missing
is the big shoes and a honking red nose.”

Asked why Smith never raised his allegations at the
trial of his client, Flavelle “Big Daddy” White, Smith said: “Stay tuned. I’ll
be delivering it to you in an 18-wheeler.”

Thompson shook her head at the memory of the story as Lepp waited
for her assessment.

“What do you think?” Lepp asked, proud of himself for tracking it.
The story had been missed by the computerized data bank. “I went through
microfilm. This took place back when Cliff Hooper was in Narcotics. It’s got to
be tied to his murder. Has to be White’s people coming after him.”

After going through it, Thompson passed it back.

“Afraid not. Smith’s claim was all bogus. We went nuts trying to
confirm this. Smith never delivered a thing. Typical. It withered. Tom went to
the street on it. He got through to White in prison. The guy admitted he’d
concocted the claim because he was so messed up on drugs.”

But Lepp was not ready to toss it even though Tom had told him the
same thing. Especially now. This story fit. It pointed to a killer with the
strongest motivation. Revenge. OCC must be aware of this. And Hooper’s partner,
Ray Beamon, would have been the one man who would’ve known the truth. What was
it Beamon called Hooper at the funeral, his “brother”?

Lepp was convinced this story fit. “Tom dismissed it too, but I’m
going to chase this down. I think there’s something to it,” he said.

Across the newsroom, Tom Reed was working on Yarrow while worrying
about Lois Hirt. He’d put out calls in a number of directions in the hope of
locating her. On Yarrow, he expected a call back any moment from a reliable
contact.

The big mystery swirling around the metro desk was centered on Irene
Pepper. She was conspicuously absent.

Acker was running Metro. “Don’t ask me. I don’t know what’s going
on,” was all he told reporters.

Tom spotted Della Thompson headed his way, bursting to share
something. “Hey, you won’t believe this one.” She dropped her voice. “I think
Irene Pepper’s been fired.”

“What happened?”

“I got this from Yolanda in Human Resources. She does termination
letters,” Della said. “Irene secretly approached a big New York publisher about
coauthoring a book with Molly. Claimed she had exclusivity to Molly’s
cooperation.”

“I never knew that.”

“Neither did Molly. She had no idea what Irene did, let alone agreed
to work with her.”

“That kind of misrepresentation is nearly criminal, I’d say.”

“You know it, baby. Also explains why she kept pushing for Molly’s
first-person.”

“Well, well, well.”

“Violet got wind of it and nailed Irene to the wall.”

“And how did Violet learn about it?”

“Someone screening Molly’s calls caught one from a very chatty New
York editor, who explained Irene Pepper’s proposal, actually faxed a copy
bearing Pepper’s signature for Molly to review.”

“You’ve made my day.”

“Ding-dong, the witch is dead.”

“And how’s Molly doing?”

“Better. She wants to move back to her place and get back to work
soon.”

“Yeah, well, she shouldn’t let her guard down until they nail the
guy.”

After Thompson left, Tom got a fresh coffee and returned to his desk
in time to grab his line on the third ring.

“Reed,” he said.

“It’s me.”

Tom knew the distinct raw voice of a cement mixer churning gravel.

“Marv, how are you?”

“Yeah, I got your message and I’m taking care of that little thing
like you wanted.”

“Anything there?”

“Yes, but not over the phone.”

“Where then?”

“Tomorrow morning. The marina. Near Avila.”

“Cripes, Marv, it’s impossible to park down there. Can’t you just
tell me?”

“I got paper coming for you. If you want it, you have to come and
get it. And remember, our business goes two ways.”

“What time?”

“Elevenish. This stuff from Chicago on your subject is something you
need to see.”

Tom caught the opening riffs
of “Layla”
coming from his radio and cranked the volume as he ripped through San Francisco’s Marina District. He was on his way to meet the man who could lead him
closer to the truth behind the murders of two San Francisco homicide cops.

The name of his source was Marv. He never used a last name. He was
something of a retired investigator who in a former life had worked for the
federal government. He’d done things no one could ever speak of and no one
would ever acknowledge. He was good at obtaining solid up-todate confidential
information on anybody fast. They’d met years earlier. Marv had called him to
clarify facts in one of his stories on intelligence agents. Since then, they’d
formed a casual relationship, trading data when it was mutually beneficial.

Like today.

It took nearly half an hour to find a parking spot within walking
distance to Marv’s favorite bench, which faced the bay and the Golden
Gate. As usual, Tom waited and watched sailboats bob in the hazy distance.

“Morning,” a man in his late fifties said. White hair curled from a
golf cap and he gazed at the water through dark aviator glasses. He was holding
a folded newspaper.

“I ran that subject for you.”

“What’d you find?”

“His last official address was Chicago.”

Marv passed his newspaper to Tom, who opened it to a copy of an Illinois driver’s license with a photo.

“That’s it? This is all you’ve got for me? I could’ve gotten that.”

“I’ve got more. A lot more. I pulled a lot of strings. Big ones that
reach to the heavens. First, you’re going to guarantee me help when I need it.”

Tom momentarily considered the unknown risks before setting them
aside.

“You’ve got my word,” he said.

Marv looked at the Golden Gate in the distance.

“It’ll have to do,” he said. “Judging from what I’ve found out, Mr.
Yarrow’s got problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“Read for yourself. And this is all the help you’re getting on this
one.” Marv walked off, leaving a white envelope on the bench.

Inside were three pages on Chicago Police Board letterhead, the
result of a confidential board review of an appeal by Chicago Police Officer
Frank G. Yarrow. He had unsuccessfully appealed the superintendent’s decision
to fire him, a step arising from a woman’s allegations that Yarrow had
assaulted her.

The pages were grainy photocopies of faxed photocopies. Summaries,
stating that a woman, whose name had been blacked out, had filed three
complaints over three years accusing Yarrow of physically abusing her. Twice
when he was in uniform and on duty. What the hell happened? There were few
details.

Tom read it over, going back on phrases like reasons for
dismissal...misconduct...assault...stalking.

In addition to upholding the superintendent’s decision to fire
Yarrow, the board had ordered him to undergo counseling or face possible
criminal charges. No other details.

Damn.

So as a young deputy, Yarrow stalked a woman in Texas, then left the
department. He emerged as a cop with the Chicago PD, where he was fired for
assaulting a woman and ordered to undergo counseling. Yarrow then surfaced and
looked up Molly, his high school sweetheart, around the time her detective
boyfriend was murdered.

Tom shuddered at the ramifications. He had to get to Sydowski. He
had to get to Molly. Christ, they had to grab Yarrow.

Now.