If Angels Fall (32 page)

Reed nodded, and mulled his next thought.

“I’ve got to go,” Sydowski said.

“Wait, Walt.” Reed swallowed. “What if I recognize
this guy?”

Sydowski’s face grew into astonished anger. “Don’t
fuck with me!” He stabbed Reed’s chest with a finger. “Has this fucker been
calling you?”

“No. No. Nothing like that.”

“What are you talking about, then?”

“His beard. He looks like someone I met once, but I’m
not sure.”

“You’re not sure.” Sydowski bristled. “Let me tell you
something. If you know this guy, if you have any information about him, then
you better tell me now.”

“Well, it’s just—“

Sydowski held a warning finger under Reed’s nose.
“Because if you are sitting on information just for the sake of a goddamn
story, we’ll come after you harder than we did on Donner. And this time I’ll be
leading the fucking charge.”

“He just looked familiar, vaguely familiar. Like
somebody I may have met once, but I just can’t place him.” Reed lied and backed
off.

“His description fits any one of about two hundred and
fifty thousand men in the Bay Area.”

“I was just trying to get some background on the
investigation. This is such a huge story.”

Sydowski shook his head incredulously, his face
reddening. “You’re wasting my time. We’ve got a child murder and two stolen
children and to you guys it’s just a game, just a huge story.”

Sydowski was seething. “It’s so easy for the press,
isn’t it? You get us up there, hit us with questions that make you look asinine
no matter how we answer. You do your stories and you go home. Not us. We have
to find this fucker, have to breathe, eat and sleep with what he’s done and may
do again. It gets personal for us, so don’t come around me playing your
smart-ass give-and-take games.”

“We’re affected by this as much as you.”

“Ever see a murdered baby’s corpse? You know what that
does to you? You ever have to escort a mother to the morgue to identify the
rotting remains of her two-year-old daughter? Then hold her as she cries so
hard you swear she’s breaking apart in your arms?”

Sydowski’s eyes were glistening. “Do you know this
asshole, Tom?”

“I guess not.”

“All right. Then unless you got something substantial
to tell m, don’t bother me any more.” Sydowski left the room.

Reed went to the window and stared at the city.

The San Francisco Star’s
afternoon meeting broke and weekend editor Blake MacCrimmon carried
his note-filled yellow legal pad across the newsroom.

The city’s psychopath had stolen another child.

MacCrimmon had called in six reporters on overtime for
the story. The
Star
was coming out with a huge package—MacCrimmon had
cleared four inside pages. Deadline was two hours away, but that was not the
source of his unease. It was the story. When he saw the shaky footage of
Gabrielle Nunn’s abduction, his skin stung; something that hadn’t happened to
him since he covered Vietnam. He had four grandchildren who lived near Golden
Gate Park. He stopped at Tom Reed’s desk.

“Your story is going to be our main news hit on front.
Lead off with something like: ‘Fears that a serial killer is stalking children
after a man abducted a five-year-old girl Saturday, days after a three-year-old
boy was kidnapped.”

“How long can I run with it?”

“Forty, fifty inches. Put the footage of the bad guy
up high.”

“No problem.”

“I’ve got Molly camped out on the Nunns’ doorstep
tonight, in case of a ransom call, or the family talks to the press. We’ll send
the night guy to relieve her later.”

“What else have we got going?”

“A Jack Thorne column. It captures the mood: nervous
parents keeping their children close, city sharing the Beckers’ and Nunns’
anguish. Color on Gabrielle, her family, the dog connection, the suspect’s
psych profile, a summary of the three cases, that sort of thing.” MacCrimmon
adjusted his glasses. “Anything you think we should add?”

Reed noticed a back issue nearby with his feature on
the bereavement group. Again, he thought of Edward Keller. Maybe he should tell
MacCrimmon about his hunch, ask to be freed to quietly investigate Keller. Then
again, maybe not.

“You have something on your mind, Tom?”

“No. Sounds like a solid package.”

“Story’s drawing global interest. Other papers in
Britain, Japan, and Canada are sending staff here.” MacCrimmon checked his
watch, then patted Reed’s shoulder. “Better get busy.”

Reed’s story came together smoothly. After proofing
it, he sent it to MacGrimmon’s computer desk.

Reed massaged his neck and looked at Molly Wilson’s
empty chair. Tomorrow was going to be another long day with follow-up stories.
The mayor was holding a don’t-worry-the-city-is-safe press conference.
Exhausted but satisfied, Reed considered leaving to get some sleep, but
adrenaline was still coursing through his system. Something hideous had hit the
city and he was part of it, secretly experiencing the macabre thrill every
crime reporter knew, loathed, and would never truly comprehended. From Salinas
to Ukiah, wherever the
Star
went, people would devour his work, gasp and
shake their heads—in office towers, restaurants, airports, malls, schools and
kitchens.

Reed knew this and it excited him. It always did.

Reed checked his watch. It was not that late. He should
call Ann and Zach just to hear their voices. They hadn’t been together since
their lunch in Berkeley. Reed smiles at how Zach was giddy with the good news.

“Soooo?” Zach’s eyes ping-ponged between his parents
as he sucked up the last of his strawberry shake. “What’s taking so long?”

“What are you talking about?” Reed said.

“Us getting back together. I told Gordie we’re moving
back.”

Reed exchanged a glance and a smile with Ann.

“We haven’t heard back from Mr. Tilley,” she said.

“You mean the Okie guy who’s renting our house with
his wife?”

“Watch your manners, Zach.” Reed said.

“The nice businessman from Tulsa.”

“It’s going to take some time for Mr. Tilley to
arrange to find another place before we can move in,” Ann said.

“A couple of months at least,” Reed added.

“A couple of months? Well okay.” Zach burped. “Excuse
me.”

“And you are going with me on my business trip to
Chicago,” Ann said.

They were putting the pieces back together. Once they
returned to their house, regrouped as a family, he would request a leave and
take a crack at his novel and they would put what had happened behind them. It
was all they could do. For the rest of their lunch, he stole glances at Ann and
Zach, loving them and wondering if the fractures would ever fade. That was a
few days ago.

Tilley told them moving out of their house wouldn’t be
a problem. He was supposed to get back to Ann with a date.

Reed picked up the phone to call her, but it was late.
Zach was likely asleep. He snapped off his computer, slipped on his jacket, and
waved to the night desk. Leaving the newsroom, he decided to call Ann and Zach
tomorrow. Maybe they’d get together after their shift. He could put some
distance between himself and the story.

Reed would be in his lonely bed and asleep within
forty-five minutes, and without the help of Jack Daniel’s. He hadn’t touched
the booze for five nights now. He did it by focusing on his priorities. Ann and
Zach. That’s all he had to do, he told himself, stopping at the bank of
reporters’ mail slots, where he found something in his box. What’s this? An
ancient
Star
article taken from a microfilmed back issue with a note
from Lillian Freeman, the newsroom librarian. The article was short. No byline.
The head was:

THREE S.F. CHILDREN DROWN IN BOATING ACCIDENT

There was a note with the article:

“Tom: I know you wanted this a long time ago but I
just found it. Apparently this happened twenty years ago, not ten. Hence the
delay. We had little on it. You could check the
Chron
and the
Exam
.
I left some material marked for you in the reading corner. Hope it still helps.
Lillian.”

Reed read the story of how Edward Keller’s children
drowned in the Pacific. He was transfixed. He got a steaming mug of black
coffee and headed for the newsroom library.

Two hours
after she had given an emotional news conference on her front lawn, Nancy Nunn
was in her bedroom, sedated. Turgeon was still on the phone. Sydowski set his
coffee aside, as he steadied himself to see Gabrielle’s brother, Ryan, after
somebody told him the eight-year-old had questions.

Ryan was downstairs with Nancy Nunn’s friend Wendy
Sloane and her daughters, Charlotte and Elaine. The family room had the
requisite paneling and indoor-outdoor carpeting. A small bar with three swivel
stools stood empty at one end, with a Giants’ pennant and a neon beer sign
glowing from the wall behind it. Closed tonight. There was a well-worn couch
and loveseat set before a big-screen TV. It was a room where a family could
snuggle up in front of a movie, or play monopoly, or laugh, or be happy, or
anything safe and mundane.

But not tonight.

Tonight it was a sanctuary for the three children
huddled on the floor watching a movie. The children were sitting on sleeping
bags. Plastic bowls overflowing with popcorn were next to them, untouched.
Wendy Sloane was on the sofa, dabbing her face with a crumpled tissue. She saw
Sydowski, then looked away. She had seen enough of police to last her the rest
of her life; moreover, she would never forgive herself for teasing Nancy about
her fears.

Sydowski grunted amicably as he sat with the children
on the floor, introduced himself, and invited them to ask any questions that
might be on their minds.

The girls were silent, watching the movie.

Ryan turned to Sydowski, his eyes cold and dry.

“Is my little sister dead?”

“We don’t know, Ryan. We just don’t know.”

“How come? You’re a detective right? You’re supposed
to know.”

“We haven’t found anything, not a single piece of
anything you could think of that would prove Gabrielle has been hurt.”

“But the news said you found her hair and stuff.”

“We think the stranger cut her hair so people wouldn’t
recognize her from her picture. We’re going to make a new picture of her. It
doesn’t mean she has been hurt.”

Ryan’s face brightened a bit. “That means she could
still be all right somewhere?”

“Exactly, but with shorter hair.”

“And that’s really why there’s going to be more
searching tomorrow with a helicopter and dogs and everything? Not because
you’re looking for her dead body, like the TV news said?”

“That’s right. We’re looking everywhere for your
sister and for anything to help us figure out what happened to her, so that we
can find her. So far, no matter what anybody else tells you, there is nothing
to prove Gabrielle has been hurt. You got that straight from me. That’s my word
as a San Francisco Police Inspector. Okay?”