Be Mine (18 page)

Highgate’s eyes met Sydowski’s.

“Given the emotional mine field here, the question I have to ask is,
are you up to it?”

He couldn’t answer.

Highgate was smart to exercise respect as she gathered her material
into folders, indicating the meeting had ended.

“I hope you are, because a confession would seal it, Inspector.”

When they were alone in the elevator, heading back to the homicide
detail, Gonzales turned to Sydowski.

“What do you have to challenge him on?”

“His statement and my first notes.”

“Your first notes?”

“I took notes after talking with him the morning after. Took down
everything Ray told me in conversations about his whereabouts, his knuckles.”

“That enough for you?”

Sydowski nodded.

“Where’s Ray now?” Turgeon asked.

“Out with Harry Lance and Shrader, helping on their case,” Gonzales
said. Unease rose in his face. “This is going to tear up our squad once this
gets out. I want you to go at him as soon as you can. Get it over with.”

Back in the detail, Gonzales saw Lance on the phone. Shrader was
getting coffee. No sign of Beamon.

“Where’s Ray, Harry?”

“He took off.”

“Took off where?”

“Just said he had something to do.”

Hot coffee flooded
over Ray Beamon’s
cup, scalding his hand. He winced as he wiped the puddle on the counter of the
homicide detail, feeling the heat of someone’s stare. He turned.

Sydowski was watching him.

“I’ll get out of your way,” Beamon said.

“You seem to be having a hard time there. Need some help?”

“Thanks, I can manage.”

Gonzales had reached Beamon on his cell phone and asked him to come
in to go over some files. The lieutenant and Sydowski wanted to ease into an
interview with Beamon casually, apply the challenge slowly or see their case
collapse like a house of cards.

Sydowski inventoried Beamon. His hair could stand a few more strokes
with a comb. His jacket was wrinkled, as if he’d slept in it. His tie was
loosened, his collar unbuttoned. Strain in his eyes. Lines cut into his face
around the small patch of lower chin stubble his razor had missed.

He’s living in torment, Sydowski thought.

“You getting enough sleep, Ray?”

“Barely.”

Turgeon arrived and reached for her cup.

“Hi, Ray, where’ve you been? Card and Shrader and the guys you were
helping lost track of you. Are you all right?”

“Getting by.”

“Where’d you go?” Sydowski asked.

A moment passed.

“Drove up to Tamalpais. By myself.”

“What’d you go out there for?”

“Stared at the sea and tried to figure out who did this to Cliff.”

“Any leads for us?”

“No.” Beamon took a hit of coffee. “I just want to step back from it
all. It’s hard. It feels like half of me is gone.”

Beamon contemplated the black ripples in his cup while Sydowski and
Turgeon helped themselves to coffee, exchanging virtually imperceptible
glances, saying little, waiting for the right moment. For their chance to go at
him. The squad room was empty. Dead silent, except for Lieutenant Gonzales. He
was in his office, the door open, talking softly on the phone. Sydowski and
Turgeon waited, until finally Beamon raised his head from his cup. “Would you
guys bring me up to speed on where you’re at?” There it was.

Sydowski and Turgeon made a point of having Beamon see them exchange
glances, intentionally letting his request hang in the air.

“I mean, if it’s all right?” Beamon added.

Sydowski rubbed his chin, looked around the empty room.

“I suppose we could give you a little update, if that’s what you’d
like. We’ll get our stuff and go in one of the interview rooms.”

“Interview room?”

“Sure.”

“Can’t you just brief me here?”

Beamon eyeballed Sydowski, cognizant of the ramifications, the
implications, the psychological tactics at play. Going into the interview room
would take it all to another level, raise the stakes.
Oh Christ,
he
thought, running his hand through his hair. He knew this was coming.

“Ray, take it easy,” Sydowski said. “It’s a good place to update
you. No one will interrupt us there.”

Beamon thought for a moment before he said, “Fine.”

Unlocking his wooden cabinet drawer for his files, Sydowski glanced
at Gonzales, telegraphing the message that this was it.

The shot.

In the small white room, Beamon intentionally, or maybe by habit,
took the chair he’d always occupied whenever he and Hooper worked on a witness,
or a suspect. Turgeon sat across from him, Sydowski beside him, in Hooper’s
spot.

Chairs squeaked, papers were shuffled, throats cleared as they began
with a general update, harmless publicly known stuff and the speculation from
the press arising from OCC and Management Control, alleging that Hooper’s
murder was linked to corruption on the street.

“We don’t know where that’s coming from, Ray, any thoughts?”

“Cliff wasn’t dirty, you know that.”

“I know. But the way I see it, this was not a stranger thing.”

“Really?”

“No sign of struggle.”

“A burglar?”

“Not likely. No forced entry. Nothing missing.”

“But what about--” Beamon halted.

“What about what?”

“Physical evidence. You released that he was shot. What about
casings, the round--ballistics? Must be something from imaging?”

“There’s not a heck of a lot we can tell you.”

“So that’s it? That’s where you’re at?”

“Pretty much,” Sydowski said. “Can you help us?”

“Help you how?”

Sydowski opened his file. So did Turgeon. Sydowski slipped on his
bifocals; Beamon felt the air tighten.

“We’re still piecing together his last movements. I want to go over
some things again. Once more, when was the last time you saw him?”

Beamon stared at Sydowski. Turgeon’s pen was poised over her
notepad. They probably were recording this interview, Beamon figured.

“Sure, but I already told you everything.”

“When was the last time you saw Cliff?”

“Here at the detail. I asked him if he wanted to go for a beer.”

“And?”

“He didn’t have time.”

“What was his demeanor?”

“Fine. Happy. Like I already told you, he said he was going to see Molly,
like a date. So we never went for a beer.”

“What did you do?”

“Went home. Had dinner, worked on my Barracuda.”

“Did Cliff call you or did you call him?”

Beamon shook his head.

“So after seeing him here, you never saw him again?”

“Right.”

Sydowski studied Beamon’s body language.

“You’re sure?”

Beamon nodded.

“Did he indicate if he was maybe going to meet someone else before
his date with Molly Wilson?”

“No. Not to me.”

Sydowski noted that the scrapes on the knuckles of Beamon’s right
hand had faded.

“You got those scrapes from working on your car, right?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I do.”

A chill descended on them.

Sydowski flipped though his notes. “I wrote it down after talking
with you the morning after Hooper was found. You told me you scraped your knuckles
working on your car.”

“You wrote it down? What is this?”

“We’ve got people who can put your Barracuda at Cliff’s place the
night he was killed.”

“Well, I may have driven over to see him. He liked looking at the
car.”

“But you said you never left your place. Stayed in all night.”

“I think I told someone I may have gone for a little ride. Christ, I
can’t remember every word of a conversation with you.”

“That’s right. I’m just trying to clarify things as to who may have
been seen near Hooper’s place. I want to be clear on what you told me.”

Beamon licked his lips and said nothing. Sydowski went back to his
file.

“How would you describe Cliff’s relationship with Molly Wilson?”

“Good.”

“Did Cliff ever discuss her with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“His plans, dreams, the future. How serious was he?”

“He really liked her, talked about settling down with her.”

“And how was she with that?”

“Ask her.”

“Did you ever date Wilson?”

“Sure, I mean, with Cliff we doubled, or sometimes just all visited.
We were all friends.”

“I see. But you never dated her like just the two of you?”

“She and Cliff were an item. Come on.”

“So if you were at Cliff’s house that night, did you go inside?”

Beamon said nothing.

Sydowski eyed him for a long time over his bifocals, taking stock of
Beamon’s face, his eyes, his hands. His breathing. His brow was beginning to
moisten. “I know you’re working me here, Walt.”

“This is a simple thing we need to clarify. Were you there and did
you go inside?”

Beamon dropped his head, stared at his hands, the remnants of
bruises on his right knuckles, the veneer tabletop, Sydowski’s and Turgeon’s
files. He noticed how in Turgeon’s folder, pages of the scene report were
exposed. He could see one clearly and began reading upside down until Sydowski
noticed, reached over, and slowly tilted Turgeon’s file. Turgeon reacted by
pulling the file closer to herself. Sydowski let his question go unanswered and
went to another.

“The night before Hooper was killed, I saw you with him. In the
detail, remember?” Sydowski said.

Beamon didn’t remember.

“You’d followed him outside our office to the elevator. I’d just
stepped off. You’d said something to him that appeared to deflate him, take the
good humor from his face. What did you tell him?”

Staring at his hands, Beamon grinned the grin of a man who realized
he was trapped. He began shaking his head.

“It appears to me that Hooper’s murder was personal. His killer had
some connection, or link, to him. Maybe a direct link.”

Beamon shrugged.

“Maybe it was a robbery. Or payback from some 800 we nailed in an
old beef, some nutcase.”

“I know but we’re sure we can rule that out. It just doesn’t look
like it went that way to me. You see, my thinking is that Hooper knew his
killer. This was personal.”

Sydowski reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small
videocassette tape. He set it on the table. Sydowski’s fingertips caressed the
tape as if it possessed a powerful force.

“Now I want you to think carefully how you’re going to answer,
because I’m going to ask you this one more time: Did you ever date Molly
Wilson?”

Sydowski turned the tape slowly. Beamon’s eyes locked on to the
label identifying it as security footage from the Moonlight Vista Hotel in Half
Moon Bay, dated one week before Hooper’s murder. A rivulet of sweat trickled down
his back, as if it were a terrified living thing attempting to flee. All the
spit dried in his mouth.

“Did you ever date Molly Wilson behind Cliff’s back?”

Beamon stared at the tape. Stared as if it were his life, slipping
from him.

“Make it easy on yourself. You owe it to yourself. To Cliff.”

Beamon’s eyes glistened. He blinked.

“Here’s what I think happened,” Sydowski said. “Cliff found out you
and Molly Wilson, the woman he loved, were cheating on him behind his back. You
tried to talk to him about that night. That’s what was going on when I saw you
at the elevator. He was supposed to see Molly at Jake’s, but once he’d learned
the truth about you and Molly he was devastated. In no shape to see anyone. So
you went to see him. You drove over to try to talk it out. Smooth it over. But
it was worse than you’d expected. Hooper was out of his mind. On the day he
wanted to ask for her hand, he learns this. Can you imagine? Maybe he suddenly
lost it, or things got out of hand real fast. Maybe he came at you, you had to
do what you had to do, right? Maybe it was an accident, or self-defense. Anyone
in your shoes would do the same thing. But, God Almighty, you didn’t want to
kill him, he was your partner. Your brother. You didn’t mean to do it. You got
scared. You fixed the scene to send us off helter-skelter. Maybe tipped OCC to
some bullshit corruption line from the street.”