Be Mine (13 page)

“Oh yeah. The Financial District. Two rounds into the wall. The guy
gave it up.”

“I just got the report on that. Ballistics comparison shows Beamon’s
Beretta did not fire the .40-cal round that killed Hooper. So we don’t have to
test his service weapon.”

“What about his off-duty gun?”

“It’s a .32 Smith and Wesson,” Sydowski said.

“A .32, which means Ray’s guns weren’t involved.”

“Which means nothing. Ray could’ve used another gun.

A throw-down.”

“So that’s all we have.”

“No. Ray’s right knuckles had fresh bruises the morning after the
murder. The M.E. said Cliff was punched by someone using their right hand.”

Turgeon glanced at Sydowski.

“I thought Ray scraped his knuckles working on his Barracuda the
night Hoop was murdered.”

“That’s what he said. He also said he never left his house that
night.”

“And?”

“I think he’s lying and I’m going to prove it.”

Sitting on his rear balcony,
Ray Beamon
took another sip of beer and looked at the city lights winking below his
bungalow perched on a northern slope of Bernal Heights.

On the table beside him there was a thick brown envelope with the
words For Ray handwritten by Hooper’s sister, Andrea. It had arrived by
courier. Beamon put off opening it because he’d been thinking of Molly. Ever
since they’d buried Hoop next to the cherry orchard near Lodi, he couldn’t stop
thinking about her.

Finishing his beer, he drew the back of his hand across his mouth,
then went to the refrigerator for another. His house was small, but it came
with a view and a garage where he could work on his Barracuda. His neighbors,
the two lesbians who lived across the street, had shown up with a tower of
prepared meals for him after reading about Hooper’s murder. Nice people, Beamon
thought, grabbing a cold beer and returning to the balcony.

He touched the sweating bottle to his forehead, twisted off the cap,
glanced at the envelope as the distant scream of sirens rose from the Outer
Mission. He felt as if something were closing in on him.

Funny.

After the 1906 earthquake, people moved here to feel safe in the
wake of disaster. Now here he was, feeling the world descending on him. All
right. He opened the envelope. Inside, a handwritten note said:

Ray, I think Cliff would want you to have these. Love, Andrea.

It was folded around a dozen color snapshots taken about a year ago
at an FBI party. There they were, the three of them. Molly between Beamon and
his partner. Hooper had only been dating Molly for two or three months. He
shuffled through the pictures to a nice shot of Hooper with his arm around
Molly among a few of the feebies goofing around with the guys from Homicide.
Here was one of Beamon and Molly smiling at each other. Just friends. Right. He
pulled one picture closer and stared into Hoop’s eyes.

It had all started at this party.

Sure, he knew Molly from crime scenes. And he agreed with every
other cop in San Francisco, she was easy to look at. She was always all
business at scenes. Always. Until that night, at that party. It was the first
time he had gotten close to her without a corpse nearby.

She came to him like a dream, taking his hand, pulling him up to
slow-dance with Hooper pushing him. “Go on, she doesn’t bite, Ray.” Hooper
loved it. Just friends. Having a good time. Until Beamon slid his arms around
her and pulled her tight. Felt her hands on his shoulders, drank in her
fragrance. Looked into her eyes. Feeling something electric, feeling his heart
stop as if a trigger had been pulled.

He’d never meant for this to happen.

But it did happen. Fate had set it all in motion that weekend when
Molly had called his place looking for Hoop.

“He went fishing in Nevada with two ATF guys.”

“I thought he was working on your car with you,” Molly said. “We
were going to drive down the peninsula this afternoon. I wanted to pick up some
antiques.”

In the silence that followed, Ray offered to take her.

And Molly accepted.

The afternoon stretched into the evening. They took a moonlight
stroll along the Pacific. Stopped for dinner at a little place, had some wine,
walked on the beach, things got warm. They got a room and nearly broke the bed.

God, in all of his life, he’d never known anything like this could
happen.

Hooper never knew.

Beamon couldn’t think straight. Christ. She became an obsession. He
wanted to see her again. Needed to see her. He knew she was going with Hoop but
Beamon yearned to date her. It was exciting. It scared the hell out of him.

Then it got worse.

A short time ago he and Hooper were working on a fresh homicide.
Walking between doors on a canvass somewhere in the Sunset when Hooper dropped
his bombshell.

“I know I’ve only been with her a few months but I feel Molly’s the
one. I’m going to ask her to marry me. I’d like you to be my best man.”

Beamon was speechless. He didn’t know what to do. What to say.

“Did I surprise you?” Hooper asked.

“Sure did, partner. Congratulations.”

“So will you do it, buddy?”

“I’d be honored to be your best man.”

A grin lit up Hooper’s face as he shook his hand. But Beamon knew at
that point that he was going to have to do something. He didn’t know what. And
before he could decide, things went crazy. Went to hell on Hooper’s last day.
Beyond Beamon’s control. God, it wasn’t supposed to end like this. Not with
Hooper murdered. OCC, Management Control, Sydowski.

Oh, Jesus, Beamon never thought it would end like this.

He had to tell Molly what really happened.

She had a stake in this, too. There were degrees of guilt, he
thought, rubbing his knuckles and feeling the soreness, the scrapes against his
skin.

Surrounded by candlelight,
Molly Wilson
was floating, adrift in the fragrant water of an herbal bath, when the
apartment buzzer shattered her calm. She ignored it but the visitor kept
buzzing, forcing her to towel off quickly, slip on her robe, and pad to her
intercom.

“It’s me. I need to see you,” Beamon’s voice crackled.

“It’s late, Ray,” she said after letting him in. She smelled
alcohol. “I’m making you coffee. I hope you didn’t drive.”

He followed her to the kitchen.

“I’m not drunk.” Beamon saw the snapshots fanned out on Molly’s
counter. Copies of what Hooper’s sister had sent him. He met her gaze. She was
waiting for his reaction. No words were needed. The pictures took care of that.

“Molly, I wanted to see you.”

“I want to know why,” she said. “Why would someone kill him?”

Beamon took her shoulders.

“You’ve got to hang on. We’ll get through this.”

The kettle hit the boiling point and whistled. She poured two cups.

“Do you think Sydowski will find the person who did it?” He peered
into his black coffee.

“I don’t know. They’ve pushed me off the case.”

“Sydowski and Gonzales said it wasn’t right to have you helping.
Procedurally. It’d be a conflict, or something.” Molly said.

“Yeah, well, Sydowski’s coming after me. I could feel his eyes on us
at the funeral.”

“You? Why? That makes no sense. He’ll just want you to go over old
cases, search for threats or vendettas to build his suspect pool. That’s basic.
That’s what the
Star’
s been doing.”

He looked at her for several moments.

“You never told me how it was for you, being the one who found him.”

“I get nightmares.”

“You never told me exactly how you found him.”

“No,” she said. “Only Sydowski and Turgeon. I never told Tom, or my
friends.”

“You can tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“I’m his partner, I’ve a right to know.”

“Talk to Sydowski.”

“Molly, please. It might help me find out what happened. Understand
what happened. Maybe it’ll help the case.”

“Don’t do this.”

She turned her back to him. Beamon waited several long moments
before he asked: “Did you tell Sydowski about us?”

“God, no.”

“Reed?”

“No. No one.”

“Guess you have a lot of secrets to keep.”

Molly turned around.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m sorry. I’m not thinking clearly,” he said.

“Why do you think Sydowski’s coming after you?”

“Molly. Come on. A victim’s murdered in his home. You track down
everyone in his circle. Nearest and dearest. You know that,” Beamon rubbed his
tired eyes. “I haven’t been able to sleep. I’ve been thinking about all of our
old cases and I come up empty. It’s driving me crazy. I want so bad to get to
the truth.”

Molly studied his hands, his pained face.

“Is there something more you want to tell me?”

“No.” He turned away, blinking. “Yes.” He turned back. “What
happened with you at the church, at the service?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you were speaking, you stopped as if you were afraid.”

She closed her eyes as if to make the subject vanish.

“I saw an old friend. A guy I’d just as soon forget. He’s gone out
of my life. Look, it’s really late.”

Beamon placed his hand over hers and she felt a warm current course
through her. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Don’t do this.”

Strands of hair slipped from behind her ear and curtained wildly
over her face. Their eyes met. He reached up and tucked her hair back, she
touched her cheek to his warm palm. Her robe had loosened, exposing the top of
her cleavage. She didn’t move to cover it. Instead she pulled away from him and
stood by the sink to look at the lights of the Golden Gate glittering in the
distance.

“You have to go,” she said to his reflection in the window.

He placed his large hands on her shoulders and kissed her neck softly,
causing her skin to tingle. He turned her around and they kissed, long and
deep, her lips parted. His hands opened her robe, landing on her naked skin,
exploring her, caressing her, making her pulse quicken. She released a moan.

“We have to stop. I can’t do this. It’s not right.”

Beamon’s eyes narrowed and he stared hard at her.

“Are you having second thoughts about us?”

“No. It’s just that we shouldn’t be thinking of ourselves now. We
should be helping find Cliff’s killer.”

“I took risks for you.”

“What? What risks? What are you talking about?”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“What risks did you take for me?”

She ran after him as he headed for the door. He stopped and turned.