Be Mine (36 page)

The growing pile of messages
from
Captain Tiggle in Chicago remained unanswered on Sydowski’s desk. They seemed
to increase with desperation.

Urgent, please call. I have info as per request.

Sydowski peered sadly over his bifocals. Tiggle’s career had
suffered a self-inflicted injury. Sydowski no longer needed him, he’d gone
directly to Captain Ronan in Chicago Homicide, who’d moved mountains for him.

Sydowski finished studying the Chicago Police Board’s file on
Yarrow, which Ronan had e-mailed earlier in the day. Photos, reports,
everything. Ronan had grasped the significance of Sydowski’s request. Not only
did he furnish Sydowski with Yarrow’s file but he’d arranged to go one better.

A few moments ago, Ronan had advised Sydowski to expect a critical
call on Yarrow from Chicago at any moment.

Sydowski sipped his tepid coffee as he waited, moving on to reread
the inventories of Hooper’s and Beamon’s crime scenes. He still had the feeling
they’d missed something. No matter how many times they’d reviewed or gone back,
he was convinced they’d overlooked one tiny thing. But he couldn’t put his
finger on it.

His phone rang.

“Sydowski.”

“It’s Ronan. Here’s the number. She’s waiting for you to call now.”

“Thanks, I owe you.”

Sydowski dialed the number, a 312 area code. It was answered on the
third ring.

“Hello?” a woman said softly. “Hello, Joy?”

“Yes.”

“Hi. Walt Sydowski with the San Francisco Police Department. I’m
told you might be expecting my call?”

“Yes.” The woman cleared her throat.

“You also want anonymity?”

“Yes. Can you give me that assurance, Inspector Sydowski?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll only give you a few minutes.”

“Why did you agree to talk to me?”

“Captain Ronan is someone I trust.”

“How do you know Frank Yarrow?”

“I’m his ex-wife.”

“Why did you file three complaints against him? What were the
circumstances?”

“Frank became increasingly abusive to me when we learned, after two
miscarriages, that I can’t have children.”

“How was he abusive? Can you elaborate?”

“We were thrilled when I first became pregnant. But I lost the baby
after two months. About three days after I got home from the hospital, Frank
began talking like it was somehow my fault. Said I didn’t pray enough.”

“Was that the extent of the abuse?”

“About a week later, he came home during a shift. He was upset and
accused me of not reading enough Scripture. He said that was why I’d lost his
child. We argued and he punched me”--in the head, the documents noted--“I let
it go. Made excuses. We were both still grieving, hurting.”

“Was he okay after that?”

“It seemed. Time went by. I got pregnant a second time. I lost the
baby after eleven weeks.” A long silence passed as the woman struggled with her
emotions before resuming. “The doctors then told me that there was little
chance I could ever carry a baby to term.”

“How did Frank take that?”

“For weeks he wouldn’t speak to me. Then he hurled a Bible at me.
Then he began accusing me of ruining his life, not being able to give him a
child. At his worst, he accused me of being in league with the devil. He got
angry. One day he started choking me. I filed for separation.”

“Where did you go?”

“I moved in with my sister but he kept stalking me, demanding I come
back, pleading that he was sorry, that he was hurting, that we should see about
a medical miracle.”

“What did you do?”

“I told him it was over. He didn’t say anything. Actually, he was
okay until our divorce came through.”

“How did he handle that?”

“Horribly. One night I was in the supermarket and he just showed up,
in uniform, stalking me. Followed my car home. Showed up in the driveway. He
said he knew how to deal with sinners. It was a threat. He scared me to death.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Then two weeks later he showed up one night at my house.
Accused me of destroying him. He slapped me. A neighbor, a firefighter,
witnessed it all, came over the fence and protected me. In the morning, I
called my lawyer and got an emergency order of protection from a Cook
County court. My lawyer helped me file complaints with Chicago PD against him.
I’m glad Frank lost his job. He has no right being a police officer. The
Chicago PD was very good. They took my case seriously.”

“Why didn’t you press charges?”

“I’d considered it but I didn’t want to deal with him anymore. His
history is on record. I was relieved he moved away.”

“When’s the last you heard from your ex-husband?”

“He called me about a month ago in the middle of the night.”

“To threaten you?”

“No. It was strange. He said he’d forgiven me. He said it took a
long time for him to realize that there was only one woman in the world for
him.”

“Who was that?”

“An old girlfriend he knew growing up in Texas. He said that they
were once in love, that she would give him a child. That they were meant to be
together and he was happy because he was going to make it happen. It was
strange.”

“Did he tell you who this woman was?”

“Molly somebody.”

Sydowski cleared his throat. “Molly Wilson?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ever hear of Molly Wilson?”

“No. Look, that’s all I have to say,” she said. “This is still very
painful.”

“I understand and thank you. Oh, just one last thing. Do you have
any idea where he’s living right now? Is it Kansas City?”

“San Francisco,” she said.

“San Francisco? I thought he was just visiting here.”

“No, he lives there. That’s what my lawyer told me when he updated
the protection order. Seems he moved there just a few months ago for some job
with a security firm. I mean, he’s got court violations. He owes me alimony,
he’s supposed to take counseling. I’m sure he’s hiding from creditors. I
thought that’s why you were calling.”

Sydowski hung up and called the SFPD dispatcher to request two units
go Code 2 to Della Thompson’s house in Glen Park and check on the welfare of
Molly Wilson. Then he immediately tried calling Thompson’s number. While it
rang, he pulled out his cell phone and tried Molly’s cell phone number.

He felt a trickle of sweat meander down his back.

Answer. For God’s sake, somebody answer.

Della Thompson was waiting
in line at
the supermarket scanning the tabloid headlines and diet books when her cell
phone rang.

“Hello.”

“It’s Tom. Is Molly with you?”

“No. I dropped her off at her apartment this morning. You sound
panicked. What is it?”

“I’ve been calling there and her cell phone. I’ve got to reach her.”

“Miss--” The woman behind Thompson had a wrinkled prune of a face as
she indicated it was Thompson’s turn to unload her items on the conveyor.

“She was going to go for a run,” Thompson said, “then drive back to
my place with her own car. Tonight was going to be her last night with me
before she moved back. We were going to have a nice dinner--” Thompson heard a
horn honk, screeching tires, and cursing. “Tom! What’s going on!”

“I’m on my way to her place now. Tell her I think it’s Yarrow. Keep
calling. And call Sydowski.”

“Miss--please, are you checking out now or not?” Thompson hung up
and quickly unloaded her cart. But her mind was on Molly’s safety when her
phone rang again. This time it was Sydowski asking about Molly.

“I just told Tom, she’s at her place in North Beach, running through
Telegraph Hill.”

“I called there. Her answering machine is jammed. Can’t take any
messages. Did she take her cell phone with her?”

“Not when she jogs. She was going to jog. Is she in danger?”

“We just want to talk to her as soon as possible.”

“Miss--would you please--”

Thompson whirled to face the old woman. “Step back, Grandma! Just
step the hell back!”

At home in her shower,
Molly scrubbed
herself raw while struggling to regain control of her world.

A dark, overwhelming fact crouched like a wild thing in the back of
her mind. The person who’d killed Hooper and Beamon, the person who lived in
some perverted fantasy that involved her, was still out there.

She refused to cower, curl up, and die for him.

Not for this bastard. She demanded her life back. Her jog through
her neighborhood this morning was her first since Sydowski had moved her. It
was therapeutic, recharging her will to fight this nightmare. Not one minute
passed without her struggling to figure out who the creep was. Was it one of
the guys she’d listed for Sydowski? Or some jerk she’d interviewed for the
paper? Or maybe a psychopath who’d seen her on the show, or on the street?

Or anywhere.

God. She didn’t know. How could she know? Sydowski didn’t know. No
one knew.

Molly toweled off with such ferocity she burned her skin and she
cried out. She realized her unease--admit it, her fear--at suddenly being alone
in her apartment was manifesting itself as rage. She switched on her hair
dryer, then gritted her teeth. If it’s me you want, then come on, asshole, but
I’m not giving up without a fight, she told her reflection as she dressed
quickly.

Before heading back to Della Thompson’s house, Molly closed her
fingers into fists. Took several deep breaths and calmed herself.

Anger is good. You have every right. Don’t let him win.

Molly steeled herself. She was a strong woman. A fighter. A
survivor. She would get through this. One minute, one hour, one day at a time.

Hurrying, she grabbed her cell phone, purse, and keys and trotted
down the stairs to her car in the street. She never heard her apartment phone
ringing behind her. She turned the engine, engaged the transmission, and began
to inch away when tires squealed, brakes thudded and a motor roared. Out of
nowhere a strange car T-boned her path, blocking hers.

Molly’s heart stopped.

A man emerged, approaching her car fast. Molly locked her door and
scrambled for her cell phone. It had spilled to the passenger floor, along with
the contents of her purse. Pepper spray. She had pepper spray. She’d taken
self-defense. Frantic, she probed the litter on her floor.

Phone. Spray. Phone. Dial 911. Find it. Find it.

Her pulse raced when there was a knock on her window. Her name? He
was calling her name. Her fingers found the spray. Holding it up defensively,
she turned to the glass and met his face.

“Frank!” Molly caught her breath. “Molly, please.”

She dropped the window.