Be Mine (5 page)

“Walt,” Gonzales warned.

“Did some sewer dweller complain already? Or are you just hopeful?”

“Walt.”

“It’s a little early to get in my face. Cliff’s not even in the
ground yet.”

“Inspector,” Fortune said, “you’re taking this the wrong way. This
is a visit of compassion.”

“Ms. Fortune,” Sydowski said, “do you personally, or does your
office, have any information that has a direct bearing on the homicide of SFPD
Homicide Inspector Clifford Hooper?”

“No, Inspector.”

“Does OCC have any blue folders that relate to, or could in any
remote way be material to, the homicide of Inspector Hooper?”

“None.” Fortune smoothed her skirt.

“Thank you for your heartfelt support,” Sydowski said. “Dan, does
MCU have anything to offer us on this case?”

Taylor
held up an SFPD personnel folder.

“This is Hooper’s file. That’s the extent of what I’m here for.”

Fortune stood, indicating they’d finished.

“Again, our sympathies. Lieutenant. Inspector,” Fortune said before
she left with Taylor.

Gonzales closed the door behind them. Sydowski shook his head. “What
in the hell was that?”

Gonzales leaned back in his chair, his weary eyes going round his
cramped office to the file cabinets, vacation and duty schedules, the bookshelf
jammed with departmental regs, the Penal Code, California statutes, then his
poster of the Rockies.

“It’s politics and bullshit,” Gonzales said. “Plain and simple. A
detective is murdered. It sets the stage for agendas, so the watchdogs come
out. Automatically smell corruption. They figure Cliff had to be doing
something wrong to just go out and die like that.” Gonzales gritted his teeth
and looked at the mountains.

“Well, if they know something we don’t they’d better damn well tell
us.” Sydowski turned the pages of Hooper’s file. “ ’Cause there’s nothing in
here. He was in Narcotics, Vice, the Tac team, worked in Taraval, Mission, Ingleside, the Loin, before coming here. Spotless record. By all accounts, he was
outstanding.”

“He was.” Gonzales blinked. “Now you know why I sent Ray out. It
would have been a bad scene with him.” Getting back to work, Sydowski slapped
Hooper’s file on his desk. Turgeon was on her phone, taking notes. Sydowski was
helping himself to coffee when Beamon returned.

“How you doing?” Sydowski asked.

Beamon hesitated for a beat as the older detective looked into his
bloodshot eyes. The guy was a mess. Gonzales had ordered him off the case and
called the staff psychologist, but Beamon had put off talking to her.

“I had to step out to take care of some things. I talked to Cliff’s
sister.”

“How’d that go?”

“She’s taking it hard. She’s all the family he had. She’s a
paramedic. On her way up from Los Angeles with her husband to make arrangements
as soon as the M.E. releases the body.”

“Shouldn’t be too much longer. What’d you do to your fingers?”

Beamon was rubbing the knuckles of his right hand, feeling
Sydowski’s attention on them.

“This? Oh, I was working on my car.”

“Your Barracuda?”

“Yes. Changing the plugs. I must’ve skinned ’em. Funny. I was going
to drive over and see him last night. But I stayed home.”

“You didn’t see him after your shift?”

“I never left my house.”

“Look. I know you want to help us.”

“I want to find the mother who--”

“All right. Take it easy,” Sydowski said. “I saw you last night
after you’d finished. You ran after Cliff, chased after him to the elevator.”

Beamon listened for a question.

“What was that about?”

“I just wanted to see if he was up for a beer.” Sydowski’s eyes
traveled all over Beamon, absorbing his body language and his eyes.

“What was Cliff’s demeanor like?”

Beamon shrugged and said it was fine.

“I noticed you were in the hall for a minute or two. What did you
and Cliff talk about?”

“What did we talk about?”

“Yes. Your last conversation with him. What did he say? What was on
his mind when he left the detail last night?”

“He was going out with Molly. That’s why he didn’t have time for a
beer.”

“That it? That’s all you talked about? He didn’t mention any
problems, or beefs with anybody?”

“No. I just don’t know who or why anyone would do this.”

Sydowski stared at Beamon.

“It might be better if you took some time off.”

“No, I just can’t.”

“Okay, why don’t you go back over all your cases? Think of anyone
you took down who had it in for Hoop. Anybody who made threats, anybody who
wanted to take a run at you. Think you can do that?”

Beamon nodded.

Sydowski stood to his full height, drawing himself up until his
shadow fell over Beamon. “And you better damned well tell me now if Cliff was
into anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. No one was tighter to him than you and Molly
Wilson, so if you know something you damn well tell me now, because I’m going
to find out. I usually do, Ray.”

“Jesus. You know that Cliff was a Boy Scout,” he said. “And I--”

Sydowski tuned his radar to its maximum and wouldn’t release Beamon
from his concentration, taking in his face, his bruised knuckles. “Want to go
in an interview room and tell me what’s on your mind?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s--” Beamon looked at Hooper’s empty desk and
chair, the notes Hooper had scribbled on his calendar about court dates, 49er
games. “It’s like, this didn’t happen. This isn’t real ...”

Sydowski let the silence play for a while, giving Beamon the chance
to fill it. Finally, he placed his hand on Beamon’s shoulder. “If you want to
tell me something, you call me. Anytime. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Excuse me.” Turgeon finished her call and indicated she needed a
private moment. They went downstairs to the cafeteria where she opened her
notebook.

“I spoke with the M.E., Crime Scene, and Ballistics. The full
autopsy will be completed tomorrow, that’s when they’ll recover any rounds from
the body.”

“What about the round in the wall?”

“They got that but it’s badly damaged,” Turgeon said. “They need
more time. All they can confirm at this stage is that it’s a .40 cal.”

“A .40?” Sydowski repeated.

Worry crept into the corners of Turgeon’s eyes and she lowered her
voice to a whisper. “Not just a .40. It looks like it could be an SXT Talon,
180-grain. The exact type issued to every cop on the force.”

It was late afternoon
when Tom left
Molly’s apartment and returned to the
San Francisco Star
.

The newsroom was humming.

He enjoyed a small private victory. An intern was now fused to the
police radios. That’s better, he thought. Editors and reporters were working at
their keyboards or taking notes over the phone while news flickered from TVs on
overhead shelves, harmonizing with clatter as the first deadline loomed, along
with Irene Pepper.

She was making her rounds, clipboard in hand, gathering story
updates for the editors’ news meeting to decide tomorrow’s edition. Spotting
Tom, she raised her taut chin, signaling that she was still smarting from their
episode over the scanners.

“What’ve you got?”

“I spoke to Molly.”

“Good. I’ve been trying to reach her. How’s she doing?”

“She’s shaken up pretty good. I took her home.”

“I’ll call her later.”

“Meeting!” the deputy managing editor called from the boardroom
doorway.

Pepper glanced at a newsroom clock.

“I don’t have much time. So fill me in.”

“I interviewed her. It’s an exclusive.”

“She give you a lot of detail?”

“I got mostly color and time line. She couldn’t provide a lot of
details.”

“Why not? She’s the one who found him, according to Simon.”

“That’s true but as you can imagine, she’s pretty shaken up.”

Pepper frowned.

“But what I have is good,” Tom said. “It’s really good. And it’s all
ours.”

“They have any suspects?”

“It’s too soon.”

“Motive?”

“Again, too soon.”

“What about old enemies?”

“It’s early in the investigation. They’re pretty tight-lipped.”

“Can you get someone to speculate in print as to who would want to
kill a homicide detective in his home?”

“Sure, but speculation’s meaningless.”

“Readers love to play amateur detective.”

“I know some profs at Berkeley who could do some psychological
profiling.”

“Good.” Pepper glanced at her notes. “We’ve got a pretty strong
package coming. Simon Lepp’s got a bio on Hooper that looks really nice. We’ve
got a Winston Jones column coming and Della’s doing Bay Area cop killings.
Mickey Chang got some nice shots of you and Molly leaving the Hall of Justice.
Henry Cain has some great crime scene art.”

Pepper waved to acknowledge the impatient deputy managing editor who
was gesturing for other editors to move more quickly to the meeting room.

“Tom,” she said, “I want you to think about an idea I have for
Molly.”

His stomach began to tighten.

“Did she go to pieces? Or can she write a story for me?”

“You want a story from her?”

“A first-person account, taking us into the cop’s death house.”

“Meeting!” the deputy managing editor called from the boardroom
doorway.

“She’s in no shape to do that for you today.”

“No. Not today. But soon.”

“I don’t know.”

“This is the biggest story in the state right now, we own it, and
I’ll be damned if we’re going to blow it.” Pepper checked her watch.

At that moment Violet Stewart, the managing editor, interrupted them
on her way to the meeting. “Excuse me, Irene.” Stewart turned to Tom. “I heard
how you recovered our fumble on the detective murder. Nice work.”

“Thanks.”

Before leaving them, Stewart shot a cool glance at Pepper, who
responded to her supervisor with an equally cool smile.

After Stewart was out of earshot, Pepper said to Tom, “I want Molly
to do a first-person feature.”

“I think you’re overcompensating for us missing the jump on the
story.”

“Watch it, Tom. Just remember to inject your piece with emotion.”

“Emotion.”

“Make readers feel something,” Pepper said. “Put them in her
footsteps when she makes her sensational discovery. Take them where the
competition can’t. Give me every minute detail. Make my hair stand on end. Got
it?”

Tom nodded and went to his desk where he loosened his tie and went
to work crafting a lead. The minutes ticked by as he carved out the first
sentences. He paused to consider them along with Molly’s empty desk and the
bouquet that had arrived that morning. Letters and gifts were common in the
newsroom and Molly received more than her share--Tom assumed because of her
great looks and regular TV spot. But these flowers were unusually gorgeous and
expensive for your run-of-the-mill reporter groupie. Where did they come from?
he wondered, just as his computer beeped with a story sent to him from Simon
Lepp.

A cradle-to-grave 1,200-word obit-bio on Hooper. It had tributes
from academy buddies, guys who’d played football with him at San
Jose State, Hooper’s sister, and a high school teacher. It even included his
hobby of collecting Civil War postage stamps and his shooting score at the
range. It wasn’t bad, Tom thought, as Lepp stopped at his desk.