Be Mine (11 page)

“I’ve got nothing to say to you. What you did, showing up the way
you did at the funeral, was stupid. What’s wrong with you?”

“I read about it all in the papers. I tried calling you but couldn’t
get through. I had to be there.”

“You didn’t have to be there. Your timing stinks. Let me make myself
clear. I am not interested. Leave me alone.”

“Molly, please. I have to talk to you. I’ve changed.”

“Stop it.”

“So much has changed.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“I’m leaving town soon and I’d really like to see you before I go.”

She slammed the phone down. She didn’t need this. Not him. Not now.

It rang again.

Damn it. She seized the receiver. “I thought I told you--”

“Molly, are you all right?” Her father said.

“Dad. Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Is everything okay?”

His strong voice pulled her back to Texas, to his strong arms and
his plaid shirts that smelled of fresh soap and his pipe.

“No. Not really.”

“You said you didn’t need me to fly out there before. How about
now?”

“No. Thanks, Dad.”

“You’re sure? I know you. You keep a lot bottled up, like me.”

“I know.”

“It’s okay to lean on someone every now and then. Hell knows I
should’ve done that when your mother passed on.”

“I’ve got a lot of friends here, Dad. I’ll be okay.”

“How you been getting on, really? A lot of people here have been
asking after you. And a lot of reporters been calling me, asking about you.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them all what I could. I saw no harm. I figure it’s like a
professional courtesy, seeing how you’re in the business. Our family has
nothing to hide.”

“Right.” God, her father was so naive when it came to the media!

“Well, I’ll let you go. Now you call me if you change your mind
about me coming out, and I’ll be on the next plane.”

“I will, Dad. Thanks.”

Molly was exhausted. She took a hot shower.

Steam clouds rose around her, carrying her back through her life to
when she was seventeen and so scared. She remembered the smell of diesel, the
rush of air brakes when the Greyhound stopped in Houston. The clinic wasn’t far
from the depot. A crumbling stone building without windows. It smelled bad.
Like strong medicine. Like the vet’s office when they put down Jangles, her
cat. The soulful cries of sick puppies in their wire cages now harmonized with
the gentle sobbing of young girls in trouble.

No one knew Molly had come to this place.

A consultation, the nurse called it. You’re not too far along. You
have options. Read the material. But does it hurt? Molly didn’t know if she
could do this. Damn it, it was Frank Yarrow’s fault. No, it was her fault. How
could she be so stupid? She had dreams.

Damn it, Frank.

Stop thinking about it, Molly ordered herself as she scoured her
scalp.

That part of your life ended in Texas. A lifetime ago.

So why did he have to show up in San Francisco now? She supposed her
name in the news had drawn him, but God, she just couldn’t take it. An absolute
nightmare from her past on top of a nightmare in her present.

In the
Star
newsroom
Tom pushed
the story.

He dialed the number of a very well placed police source.

Come on. Be there
. He checked the time.
Less than an hour to deadline. His call was answered after the second ring.

“Hey, it’s me, I need help,” Tom said.

“Give me one minute, I’ll call you back from another phone.”

He looked around the newsroom. Della Thompson was at a news
conference. Nothing big expected. Simon Lepp had been dispatched to the
Ingleside police district office to pursue some angle for Pepper. No one around
to overhear him. He was clear to talk. His line rang and he took the call from
his source.

“What’s up, Reed?”

“I need to know what’s going on inside the Hooper investigation.”

His source said nothing for a long time.

“It’s not good. Emotions are running high. Hell, Hooper was well
liked and there’s a bad smell to this one.”

“What do you mean?”

“The brass wants this thing blitzed. Green-lighted the overtime, you
know the drill.”

“Sure.”

“And on big cases like this, Homicide’s pretty good at sharing with
the other bodies brought in. I’m talking on a need-to-know basis, but they’re
usually open, right?”

“Right.”

“But on this one it seems they ain’t sharing the time of day. It’s
got everyone pissed off. Grief and anger are entangling everybody.”

“Do you know why that’s happening?”

“I have an idea.”

“Care to share it?”

“If I give you anything, it could come back on me.”

“Come on. I’m kinda jammed here.”

“Look, it’s hot right now. Dangerous for anyone to leak anything.”

“I’m really jammed. I’d owe you.”

There was a long heavy silence. A promising silence. “All right, but
you have to confirm this with other sources. You got this on the wind, understand?”

“On the wind.”

“We heard that Management Control and OCC paid Homicide a visit very
early in the case. It got them all freaked out.”

“Why? Isn’t that procedure, administratively speaking?”

“Read it any way you like. But sparks flew. Hooper hadn’t even been
autopsied and there they are ready to second-guess the investigation before it
even started.”

“But why? Was Hooper dirty? Or were they just playing politics?”

“It suggests a toilet full of ugly things.”

“Like what?”

“Anything from an internal suspect to internal corruption. Who
knows? It’s pissing people off and raises a lot of dark questions.”

“Jesus.”

“You did not get it from me.”

Tom hung up and punched the number for the Office of Citizens’
Complaints, eyeing the clock as it rang. He requested an official comment for a
story saying that within hours of Inspector Hooper’s murder OCC visited the
homicide detail to talk specifically about Hooper’s case.

“I’ll have to get someone to call you back, Mr. Reed.”

“I need to talk to someone now.”

“Yes, someone will call you right away.”

Tom then called the Office of Management Control for the SFPD and
was put through to Lieutenant Dan Taylor. After listening, Taylor said, “You
know that we never comment on any ongoing investigation, whether we’re interested
or not.”

“Is that a denial?”

“We never comment.”

Tom tried a bluff.

“I understand you were present at the meeting, Lieutenant?”

The phone slammed down in Tom’s ear.

Whoa. Tom grinned. He wrote down Taylor’s response, created a new
file on his computer screen, and began drafting a new story. Then Nan
Willoughby, spokeswoman for OCC, returned his call.

Tom said, “I understand officials from OCC and Management Control
visited the homicide detail after Inspector Hooper’s death.”

“That’s correct.” Now he had confirmation.

“And the nature of the visit was, I understand, to talk about the
case?”

“I’m afraid I cannot discuss the nature of the visit.”

“Why were they there?”

“I can’t discuss that.”

“All right, Nan, let me try this: When OCC presented its most recent
public
report to the commission, it discussed the need to improve
relations with the department.”

“That’s public, yes.”

“So, did the visit, which you’ve confirmed, have anything to do with
the concerns the office raised in its recent public report?”

“In part.”

That stopped Tom cold. “What’s the other part?”

“I can’t comment.”

“Nan, OCC visited Homicide to improve relations
and...?”

Her silence screamed volumes.

“I’m afraid I cannot discuss that, at this time.”

Man, something’s going on.

“Fine. Thanks.” Tom then flipped through his file cards for the cell
phone number of a senior rep of the Police Officers Association and asked him
to comment on what he had.

“What do you think this means?” Tom asked.

“I think it’s terrible for a million reasons.”

“Give me one.”

“It creates an impression that political agendas are attempting to
push this case in the wrong direction. Rather than pursue a killer, they want
to pursue a victim. A decorated officer. They’re suggesting Cliff Hooper
deserved what he got. It appears they’re tainting him before the facts are
known.”

Using the new information, background on the homicide, OCC, MC, and
the police commission, Tom pulled together a new story. It was political
rhetoric, but it was chilling.

“This is dynamite,” Acker said after reading it on his monitor.

Pepper held her tongue. Earlier in the day she’d dropped the
Chronicle
on Tom’s desk. It had lined a story saying police had videotaped Hooper’s
funeral service, hoping to capture his killer. Tom told her it wasn’t news. It was
procedure and that if she would be patient he would deliver an exclusive to
eclipse anything the competition had.

“Just dynamite,” Acker repeated, adding, “We should sell it to
front.”

Tom nodded, then started for home. He slipped on his jacket, cut across
the newsroom.

He never saw the messenger step off the elevator to the newsroom,
carrying fresh roses for Molly Wilson. Exactly like the previous bouquet. There
was a card, only this time it was in plain sight and read:

Please, Molly, I’m still thinking of you.

The staff of the
Star’
s
night
shift worked with calm, quiet intensity against the deadline for getting the
next day’s paper off the floor.

No one was aware Simon Lepp was in the newsroom. Out of sight in his
corner alcove hidden behind the fronds of spider plants and ferns, he was on
the trail of a killer.

And he loved it.

In the soft light his glasses mirrored articles about old homicides
investigated by Inspector Cliff Hooper. Gang shootings, sadistic sex-torture
slayings, domestics, robbery-homicides, deadly drug deals, and hooker murders
flowed across his screen. He absorbed every word, made note of every player,
any unusual details.

It was late but he was energized, jacked up on caffeine and the rush
of being on the big story. Reporting on a cop murder was a far cry from writing
the staid science beat. This was the story everybody in the Bay Area was
talking about.