Be Mine (4 page)

The Hall of Justice
is a grim
Stalinesque building rising from Bryant Street amid the low-rent units, office
towers, and struggling high-tech firms in San Francisco’s Soma District. It
houses the D.A.’s office, courtrooms, jails, and the headquarters of the San
Francisco Police Department. It is also the home of punishment, or righteous
wrath, depending on your bank account, Tom thought after parking.

He hustled up the steps of the Hall’s grand entrance to the polished
stone lobby for a security check and a walk through a metal detector. Riding
the elevator to the fourth floor and room 450, the homicide detail, Tom
recalled Cliff Hooper. He’d met him at murder scenes, even hunched over a few
late night coffees with him. Hooper was a former wide receiver for San
Jose State who’d studied philosophy and law. A good guy. A smart, honest
homicide cop. Molly’s boyfriend.

Who’d want him dead?

Stepping from the elevator, Tom saw a deputy chief go down the
crowded corridor to the detail. He followed him, threading his way through the
detectives and uniformed officers, bumping into handcuffs and holstered guns.
Keeping his head down, he moved respectfully, for he’d now entered a hallowed
zone: cop land in mourning.

Inside, Linda Turgeon was consulting a report with a huge detective.
No sign of Molly. Craning his neck, Tom glimpsed Hooper’s partner, Ray Beamon,
sitting at his desk across from the empty one that was Hooper’s. High-ranking
officers circled him. Upon seeing Tom, Turgeon seized his arm. “Out. Press
conference in thirty minutes.”

“I’m looking for Molly.”

Emerging from an office with a report in his hand, Sydowski caught
what was happening. “I’ll take care of this.”

Lieutenant Leo Gonzales stepped from his office, head in a file,
approaching Sydowski: “... just heard that ballistics is having a little
computer trouble and will need more time and Crime Scene is--”

“Hold on, Leo,” Sydowski said. “Come with me, Tom. I want to talk
with you.” He took Tom down the hallway. “Molly’s with a crisis worker.”

“I’m sorry about Cliff.”

Sydowski nodded.

“How’s Ray Beamon doing?”

Sydowski deflected his question with another.

“How’s your wife doing?”

“Ann? Oh, her sessions are helping.” Ann had been the victim of a
terrifying abduction not so long ago, and the repercussions were still being
felt.

“It takes time.”

Neither of them said anything more until they came to a room where
Molly was at a table with a middle-aged woman clutching a crumpled tissue. Two
ceramic mugs sat untouched between them.

“Hi.” Molly sounded far away.

“Thanks, Fran,” Sydowski said.

Taking her cue, the woman left her card. “Remember, you call me
anytime, dear. Doesn’t matter. Anytime.”

“Thank you.”

Tom embraced Molly.

“It’s going to be all right,” he told her. “Just hang on.” She
nodded as Sydowski lowered himself into a swivel chair. Like her, he hadn’t yet
slept. “Everyone’s hurting but what I’m going to tell you is critical.”
Sydowski paused to hold Tom in his stare. “We know Molly was close to Cliff and
she’s your friend.”

Tom searched her eyes for any signal.

“Look at me. This is critical,” Sydowski said. “She found him,
you’re both reporters. She knows things you’ll want to report.”

“What are you getting at? Censorship? Muzzling me?”

“I’m asking you to exercise judgment here.”

“I’m going to write what I know. It’s my right.” Sydowski’s gold
fillings glinted as he winced. “That’s just what I’m getting at.”

“I’m sorry for everyone’s loss here. I know this hits us both hard,
your squad and my newsroom, but I can’t give you special treatment.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“And I can’t afford to get beat on this.”

“Give me a break,” Sydowski said.

“All right, all right. How about we ‘cooperate’ where we can? Given
the
Star
’s connection here?”

“I won’t make any deals with you. I never have.”

“But things have worked for us before.”

“I’ve got concerns about this one.”

“What is it?”

“He doesn’t--” Molly interjected. “He would like us to be careful
about not releasing details about the items I saw or how they were arranged.”

Items? Tom felt ice roll up his spine. “What items? Is this a
ritual?”

“Just listen,” Sydowski said. “We can’t let details out. We’ve got
to hold back. Molly’s going to hold back. I’m asking you not to make this any
more difficult than it is.”

Tom looked at Molly as Sydowski continued.

“If you weaken the case with your reporting it could reduce our
chances of an arrest, let alone endangering prosecution down the road.
Understand?”

“My job is not to make yours easier. That’s what you always tell
me.”

“You of all people know how critical this is right now.” Tom’s focus
bounced between Molly and Sydowski. “We’ll work things out as we go,” Tom said.

“I’ve got your word?”

“You’ve got my word we’ll work things out.”

“All right. Take Molly home. There’s a news conference set for the
Police Commission Hearing Room in fifteen minutes.”

“You got a suspect or recover a weapon?”

“It’s too soon. Take Molly home.”

Before they took the elevator down, Ray Beamon caught up with them
in the corridor. Although Beamon had joined the detail a few years ago, the
others considered him the rookie. His hair was messed. Lines of anguish were
carved into his face.

“Molly.” His red-rimmed eyes found hers. “If you remember
anything--”

“It’s okay. I told her,” Sydowski said.

“He was my partner, you know.”

Molly gave Beamon a hug.

“He thought the world of you,” she said before stepping into the
elevator with Tom. During the ride down she put her head on Tom’s shoulder. He
put his arm around her, smelling traces of perfume in her hair.

When the doors opened Simon Lepp stood before them. “Hey, guys, what’s
going on?”

“I’m taking her home,” Tom said. “You’ve got the news conference.”

“Yes, but what’s going on?”

“This isn’t a good time,” Tom said as they headed for the door.

“Wait! Do you have a minute?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t talk now.”

Lepp walked with them. “They’re saying you knew him.”

Tom and Molly stopped.

“Before I came here,” Lepp said, touching his glasses, “I swung by
the scene. The TV people and a guy from the Chron are floating the rumor he was
a detective. Some were saying you’re the one who found him. That he’s the cop
you were dating.”

Tom and Molly exchanged glances.

“Holy cow,” Lepp said. “It’s true. That’s why you’re here.”

“We can’t say anything right now,” Tom said.

“We work for the same paper, don’t we?”

“It’s complicated right now. I’ll catch up with you later,” Tom
said.

Molly nodded to a KGO-TV crew that had its camera trained on them.

“We have to go,” Tom said.

“Wait.” Lepp’s face was filled with concern for Molly. “It must’ve
been horrible, finding him. I mean, I just cannot imagine.” He touched her
shoulder. “Are you going to be okay?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head.

“We have to go,” Tom said.

Molly lived alone on the top-floor apartment of a restored Victorian
mansion at the edge of Russian Hill. It had a view of the bay and Golden
Gate Bridge.

“I need a hot shower, then we’ll talk,” she told Tom. “Help yourself
to anything. Let the machine get any calls.” Ever since she was hired from a
small Texas daily, Molly had been Tom’s partner at the
Star
. They sat
next to each other, worked with each other, knew the details of each other’s
lives. She had a master’s degree in English literature and was an outstanding
writer and reporter.

Tom had first become her mentor, then her friend and confidant.
During his darkest drinking days when Ann took Zach and moved out, Molly made
no secret of her willingness to help him through his nights. That was long ago.
He never acted on it. Instead, he repaired his life and his marriage while
managing to keep his friendship with Molly intact.

He dropped his notebook on her kitchen table. Strange he thought,
gazing at the bay. They’d been through so many stories together, nightmares
that turned their world inside out. Now this one. Man, it was brand-new
territory. He took in her living room, the bookshelves with the framed picture
of Molly standing between her mother and father, clutching her degree. There
was a plaque for her Texas statewide creative writing award, a framed print of
her first front-page newspaper story, a feature on a blind farmer. Then a small
photograph of her between Cliff Hooper and his partner, Ray Beamon. The
Star
would kill for that one, he thought as it hit him full force.

This was a murder among friends.

After a few hours
of sleep and refueling
on coffees from a McDonald’s drive-through, Sydowski and Turgeon guided their
unmarked Impala back to Hooper’s neighborhood for more legwork.

They came to an uphill house overlooking Hooper’s staircase, the
sixteenth address on the list. The woman who answered the door was Dora
Mahoney, a sixty-nine-year old retired high school history teacher who said
well, yes, come to think of it, maybe she did see something last night.

“I’m pretty sure I saw a man leaving the apartment. I’ll show you.”

Dora led them through her home to French doors that opened to a rear
balcony. It offered a stunning view from her terraced yard. In the distance,
over a thick hedge, a stand of eucalyptus trees framed Hooper’s building and
the stairway to his upper apartment.

“It was dusk. I saw a man going down those stairs.”

“Describe him, please.” Sydowski pulled out his note-book. And as
her cat threaded its way around his ankles, he took down every detail he could
squeeze from Dora.

A white man. In his thirties. Wearing a T-shirt and jeans. It wasn’t
much but it was something, Sydowski told Gonzales when they returned to the
homicide detail.

“All right. Good.”

“Hear from Crime Scene or the M.E. yet?” Sydowski asked.

“Not yet.”

“Where’s Ray, I want to talk to him.”

“I sent him out. Would you step into my office now?” His tone
alerted Sydowski. Whoever was in his lieutenant’s office was going to make for
an unpleasant meeting. He popped a Tums in his mouth and rolled up his sleeves.

“You know Ms. Sareena Fortune with the Office of Citizens’
Complaints.”

She was a civil rights attorney. Wore an expensive tailored power
suit. Had hair styled like Cleopatra.

“My condolences, Inspector.”

“And Dan Taylor, with Management Control.”

“Everyone sends their best,” Taylor said.

As he shook hands, Sydowski’s guard went up at the presence of
Fortune with Taylor, the SFPD’s assassin who probed internal affairs. Taylor practically worked foot in boot with OCC, to plant it on the neck of most cops who
failed to say “have a nice day” while arresting psychos who tried to kill them.
Sydowski ground on his Tums.

Fortune said, “Inspector, it’s no secret the department and OCC have
been at odds lately.” Fortune picked a thread from her suit. “I thought this
was a critical time for my office to show its support and pay respects to the
people who risk their lives every day for this city.”

“And here I was afraid I’d misread this as OCC trying to exert some
warped sense of its mission that might be defined as obstruction,” Sydowski
said.