Blood of Others (16 page)

and --”

As soon as her words were voiced,
Cynthia realized she had ignited something terribly dark and struggled in vain
to reel them back.

“Lord, please, no Eugene -- no
- I didn’t mean…”

Waves of pain rolling through
him, making him confused, the pain of his life, his heart disintegrating,
withdrawing into his stone fortress, stone sinking, drowning in pain. Cynthia,
you have to save me, he had to save his mother, she was drunk again, he had to
call Dad, the truck, Dad, his mother sliding, she’s sliding, her body, scraping
on the road next to him, his father drunk, the lunar landing, no, not like
this, Cynthia, please, if she kissed him, if she just kissed him like a
princess kissing a frog she would see, can’t she see he is in such pain?

“Eugene what are you doing?
Let go of me!”

Suddenly it had felt as if the
floor leaped up to smash his head. Cynthia had reached for something, anything,
fingers tightening around a bottle, breaking it against his skull over his ear,
liquid burning through his auditory canal, then eating its way down the
Eustachian tube, eroding the middle ear, membranes and other canals, advancing
on his brain. The ambulance and Vryke screaming. By the time the doctors had
gotten to work on him they were barely able to save his life.

It was a miracle, the surgeon had
told Vryke’s father, explaining how they believed they’d halted and captured
all the acid with a series of aspirating needlework incisions, sponges, and
diluting flushes, with no damage to the brain. Although hearing loss in one ear
was a given, there was hope for some restorative surgery.
“But he’ll need
regular complex neurological treatments for the rest of his life to fend off
acid excretions. And there is no guarantee that he will not ultimately succumb.
He’ll die without the treatments and with them he’ll be in a painful battle to
survive.”

Vryke had retreated into his
lonely world of computers while his father exhausted much of his life savings
paying for the expensive procedures and drugs that would keep his son alive.

Several years ago Vryke’s dad had
died of a heart attack, leaving him alone with their computer business, his
nightmares, and his destiny. He had less than a month to fulfill it. Vryke
could not afford another betrayal.

His chariot to immortality
awaited him and his chosen one.

Vryke stared at his newest file,
looking into her eyes.

Yes. She was The One.

Vryke was coming for her at
nearly 500 miles an hour.

Driving south
out of San Francisco along the
coast, Sydowski had the windows rolled down to savor the cool Pacific breezes.

Turgeon was back at the detail
reviewing reports of the insurance company’s employees and policyholders who
live near Stern Grove. Nothing so far. Sydowski was awaiting more analysis from
the lab, using the time to step back from the case and check on his father. The
ride to Pacifica was always therapeutic for him, often yielding an insight or a
fresh angle. Besides, he thought as he halted his car in front of his old man’s
unit at Sea Breeze Villas, he could use a haircut.

Sydowski’s old man was at the
rear of his place, sitting in his Cape Cod chair. In his eighties, his old man
was healthy. Still, it saddened Sydowski to see what time does. His dad was
wearing baggy pants, a frayed sweater and a plaid shirt with a comb peeking
from the breast pocket. The big strong hands that a lifetime ago had taken him
through ballpark turnstiles were now gnarled and slower as he folded his
tabloid on the latest message from Elvis.

“How about a trim, Pop?” Sydowski
said in Polish.

“Sure. Sure. Come in. I’ll fix
you up.”

Indoors, it took a moment for
their eyes to adjust to the light change. Sydowski enjoyed the room’s scent of
Old Spice, just like the old shop. Because of his age, Sea Breeze administration
barred Sydowski’s old man from giving straight-razor shaves. Haircuts were
another matter. His old man snapped the big towel, draping it around his son’s
neck, tying it at the back. He ran the comb through his hair, began snipping,
and catching up.

“So what’s new, son?”

“Went to the old neighborhood the
other day. Had soup at the Greek’s.”

“Which one runs it now?”

“Telly, the youngest one.”

“That one. Receding hairline,
premature baldness.”

It was as if they had resurrected
the conversations that filled his old man’s shop all those years ago --
politics, sports, Sydowski’s work.

“So how you doing on the bride
girl murder?”

“We’re working on a few new
angles.”

His old man stopped, just like he
did when he cut hair for SFPD detectives years ago, and gestured. “Here is my
advice. You want to catch this guy?”

“Yes.”

“Then you go look in the weirdo
department.”

“The weirdo department.”

“That’s right. Because anybody
who does that to a nice young girl is a weirdo. Check in the weirdo department.
You find him and shoot him.”

“I never thought of that, Pop.
Thanks.”

When they finished, Sydowski
called Turgeon.

“Nothing happening right now.
Walt, I was talking to Golden Gate, we should submit it all to VICAP.”

“We’ll talk about that later.”

“Walt, you have to consider it.”

“I’ll be back in a little while.”

Sydowski then decided to do
something he had not done for years. “Let’s go for a walk on the beach, Pop.”

“Sure.”

Sydowski removed his shoes,
socks, rolled up his cuffs, letting the surf and sand soothe him, melt some of
his tension, reminding him how much he loved California.

“You know Pop, I called the
girls. They don’t see a problem with me dating Louise.”

“Nobody does but you. Look.” His
old man’s tone signalled a lecture. “You have to step back and look at the
whole thing. Basha’s been gone almost, what? Seven years. You are not being
fair to Louise. If you like her, tell her and do something about it. If you
want to live like a monk, tell her, then disconnect your phone. She’s too good
for you, anyway.”

Sydowski stopped to absorb his
words. His father was right. Absolutely right. He was not being fair to Louise,
he thought, gazing at the Pacific’s beauty.

Back in the city, Sydowski headed
for Stern Grove to the spot where they found Iris Wood’s abandoned Ford Focus.
He parked on the shoulder.

The same shoulder where she
pulled over for him.

Sydowski killed the ignition,
heaved himself out. He leaned against his fender, folded his arms, standing
there. Thinking.

A pleasant peaceful pocket of the
city. A few houses on the Grove’s southern edge. Birds twilling in the redwood
and fir of the park. Not much traffic, nothing marking the spot to indicate
that this was ground zero, the point of contact, where he had stopped her,
coming up behind her, tricking her to leave her car and enter his. Then he had
owned her. Sydowski studied the area the way a grandmaster studies a
chessboard.

But Iris Wood’s killer made a
mistake.

There is a fundamental tenet
known by homicide detectives that some call the transfer theory. It arises from
the fact that no matter how careful, no matter how meticulous, a killer
always
leaves something of himself at a scene and
always
takes something of the
victim. You cannot exist in this world without leaving or taking a trace of
something. Anything and everything is evidence.

Iris May Wood’s killer was no
different.

He had left his trace here where
he stopped her.

Sydowski was the one who
discovered it. Everyone else had missed it. Only Turgeon, Leo and the crime
scene techs knew what it was.

Now it was up to the lab.

It was critical.

Sydowski rubbed a hand over his
face, blinking at the memory of Iris Wood, the little girl rescued from the
fire that destroyed her family. The woman who each day searched for words to
comfort the bereaved. A person who had hurt no one, who lived a quiet life only
to have it end with her stabbed fifty-three times, her face removed, and her
corpse displayed in a wedding gown.

Sydowski bent his knees to touch
his fingers on the road where the killer had led Iris Wood to her death.

Fear thou not; for I am with
thee.

It was coming together. One piece
at a time.

Sydowski lived
just north of Stern Grove in a
modest two-story house in Parkside where he and his wife had raised their
daughters. The girls were grown, married, had children of their own and lived
in the East. They flew out to visit him and his old man on holidays. He wished
it were more often.

Sydowski’s grandchildren loved
his backyard with its plush lawn, stone walks, shrubs, flowers and the little
aviary he built with its curtained flower-box windows, tucked like a fairy-tale
cottage in one corner under an oak tree.

He ducked his head, entering the
doorway of the aviary to the cooing of several dozen birds, the ribbons, and
trophies won at bird shows on the paneled walls, the rocker the girls got him
one Father’s Day. His new-bred Budgerigars he picked up last year were coming
along since he fortified their seed mix with calcium. He loved their opaline
and cinnamon wing markings.

Checking the food and water
supply of his birds, he remembered how he began raising them. Years ago, a
friend gave one to his wife as a gift. He was enchanted by its song and how it
soothed him, especially when he was grappling with his darkest cases. He
inspected a nest of two fledgling fancies, ten days old. He got them from
Louise after they met at last year’s Seattle bird fair. His old man was right.
He had to sort out things with her soon.

To work now.

Sydowski sat in his rocker,
closing his eyes, the cooing transporting him into his homicide.

Iris Wood’s killer seethed with
rage and wanted the world to know, to know that somehow she was to blame.
That’s why she was displayed. That was his signature here. It was almost
artful, surpassing just about anything Sydowski had experienced.

You’re smart but you couldn’t
overcome the unforeseen. The city was doing some roadwork on Crestlake where
you grabbed her. You missed it in the dark, the fog.

After Sydowski put Crime Scene on
it, one of the senior techs had called him, to confidentially alert him that
maybe, just maybe, they had something.

“Walt, this guy was extremely
careful. Actually he’s probably the cleanest I’ve ever seen. What you noticed
out there got by everybody. This could be the break we need but we’re going to
need time for more tests, maybe send stuff out. You know, Walt, in the
literature, this is the most commonly missed piece of evidence.”

Sydowski’s phone extension in the
aviary rang.

“Hi, it’s Louise.”

“Hi there.”

“I’m glad I caught you at home.
Are you going to be there much longer?”

“A little while.”

“Have you eaten dinner yet?”

“I was just going to make
something.”

“Don’t. I’ll be right over.”

A short time later, Louise stood
on his doorstep. Smiling in her lavender slacks, matching sweater, purse over
her shoulder, hands gripping the handles of two large shopping bags laden with
hot take-out food.

“Hope you’re hungry, buddy.”

“What’s this?”

“Caesar’s salad, sirloin, baked
potatoes, steamed vegetables, fresh bread. I’m in town for a while making a
series of national commercials for an over-the-counter aid. I am a busy
restaurant owner with a bladder-control problem.”

They set the table with plates
and utensils.

“The restaurant where we’re
shooting is making a killing. They went overboard cooking for the crew. We just
knocked off and I thought of you.”

“This is terrific.” Sydowski
helped her set out the food. “But I’m expecting a call and may have to rush
off.”

“That’s okay, Walter.”

During dinner, they talked about
her commercial, his visit to his old man, birds, and the case.

“Have you worked things out over
your old partner, Reggie, with that detective you were telling me about, Wyatt?”

“I told him to keep out of the
way because he’s not a real cop.”

“Don’t you think you were unduly
harsh?”

“No. What are you getting at?”

“Maybe seeing your old partner on
the street, picking through trash, underscored your guilt over losing touch with
him?”

“Why are you defending Wyatt?
He’s the reason Reggie’s like he is.”

“No, it’s not like that.”

“Sounds like it to me.”

“You told me that you felt bad
for losing touch with Reggie. Then to have Wyatt assigned to your case probably
worsens those feelings.”

“Damn right.”

“When what you really want to do
is help Reggie. Beating up Wyatt doesn’t help Reggie.”

“What the hell are you getting
at? Wyatt’s a goddamn liability.”

“You’re not listening, Walter.”

Sydowski’s cell phone began
trilling.

“You’ve never met Wyatt. He’s a
coward, a waste of skin. He’s the walking, talking reason Reggie’s got a bullet
in his spine.”

The phone kept ringing.

“Listen to me, Walter, I’ve
talked to some lawyer friends about Reggie’s case.”

“You did
what?”

Sydowski’s house phone was now
ringing.

“Louise, what do you think gives
you the right --”

“We can help your friend. You
said you wished there was a way to help him and there might be.”

“So you just started telling
lawyers about Reggie?”

Sydowski shook his head. The
phones kept ringing.

“Walter, please just listen to
me. The lawyers made some calls to friends at the city’s legal department. It
seems Reggie may have grounds for a civil claim --”

He was glaring at her for
crossing a line.

“Walter are you going to --”
Louise grabbed the phone. “Hello!”

Stunned silence at the caller’s
end, then a request.

“He’s right here. It’s Linda.”
Louise thrust the phone at him.

He took the call, watching Louise
collect her things.

“Hello, Walt?” Turgeon said.
“What are you up to there?”

“Louise, wait!”

The door opened.

Turgeon sensed a problem at his
end. “Walter? What did you do?”

“Just a minute.” He hurried to
the door, to watch her Chrysler pull away. “Damn it.” He went back to the
phone.

“So, Walt, you used your free
time to fight with your girl?”

“You ready to work on the case?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll meet you at the Hall.”