Blood of Others (19 page)

Belinda did not feel his eyes
upon her.

She never knew her call to her
mother would be her last words to her.

She never knew her final
conscious image was that of Juliet taking her life with Romeo’s dagger.

For the screen light bathing
Belinda’s tearstained face illuminated Eugene Vryke’s net of scars as he waited
behind her, a snake coiled to strike.

What the hell
is wrong with me?

Sitting at a red traffic light,
Sydowski tossed his cell phone onto his empty passenger seat after another
futile attempt to reach Louise.

Why had he taken out the case --
more precisely, his war with Wyatt -- on her? She was only trying to help him
help Reggie. The beep of a horn behind Sydowski told him the light had turned
green. He gritted his teeth, dropped his foot on the gas, popping a Tums. Had
he pushed away something good in his life?

What have I done?

Disgusted with himself, he shook
his head at the gorgeous day, the hazy water of the bay, as he headed into the
shipyards at Hunter’s Point, where the SFPD had relocated and expanded its
crime lab.

The lead lab technician on Iris
Wood’s case had alerted Sydowski less than an hour ago.
“Walt, you’d better
come over as soon as you can.”

Inside, Sydowski found him with
Turgeon at a vending machine.

“Hello, Walter,” the tech said.

“Got some good news, Horace?”

“I think you’ll like what we’ve
learned.” A can of chilled tomato juice clanked to the serving door.” The tech
grabbed it. “Let’s go.”

Horace Meeker was a
fifty-two-year old father of six children with eight grandchildren. He was a
deacon at his church in San Mateo. He was about five feet nine inches tall,
overweight, with thick, unruly silver hair atop the largest human head Sydowski
had ever seen. His prescription lenses could pass for the bottoms of shot
glasses. His white coat was open, flapping as they walked, while his sneakers
squeaked on the floor. Horace had served in executive positions of national
criminalists associations, for next to his family and church, his expertise and
passion was analyzing trace samples of paint, glass, hair, and fibers. He was
good at it.

The smell of his work area was
evocative of a high school chemistry department. The large corkboard above his
desk held honors, certificates, the ASCLD seal, snapshots of mostly
large-headed children of various ages, and a poster with two words: THINK SMALL

The world Horace worked in was
microscopic, ruled by his scanning electron microscope-energy-dispersion X-ray
analyzer, which could find traces of critical evidence that were virtually
invisible. He led Walt and Linda to his computer with its oversized monitor and
began presenting his case, as if he were preparing for court.

Firing up and adjusting his
machines, then opening his tomato juice, Horace said, “Make yourselves
comfortable.” The detectives rolled up swivel chairs next to him.

“It was a brilliant catch you
made at Stern Grove, Walt,” Horace said.

“The line on the road felt
slightly tacky, to me.”

“The morning before the victim’s
car was stopped, the city had just completed applying fresh road-marking paint.
White. It worked beautifully, attracting dust and residue for us to get
latents. Crime Scene located several clean, hard footwear impressions,
photographed, then collected them with a lift kit. We also used an
electrostatic lifter. Here’s what we got.”

Horace displayed a clear, large
picture of the sole of a shoe, athletic-type footwear, showing its distinctive
pattern and worn areas.”

Sydowski nodded. “That’s good,
Horace. Very good. I was counting on something coming up where he stopped her.
But Crime Scene said there was nothing inside the shop. He wore gloves, shoe
covers. He was clean, careful.”

“That’s true. They went over
everything and the impressions they found were consistent with someone using
covers. This guy is very good, Walt.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“But thanks to your catch on the
Grove, we got a break.”

“A break?”

“Crime Scene went back on
everything, I mean everything. The flooring, tile, and carpet throughout the
shop. And we got real lucky. We got a few partial shoe impressions that match
our Stern Grove impression.”

“Jeez, Horace. How?”

“My guess is that when he was in
the shop, he was struggling at a critical moment with the victim. Maybe he lost
his balance, tripped? His foot likely brushed against the other, or his ankle,
tugging the shoe cover down, exposing him, allowing his shoe to make contact on
the ledge of the step up to the display. He appears to have wiped the area but
missed this one. Look.”

Sydowski inched his concentration
closer to Horace’s monitor and the image of a partial shoe impression from the
heel halfway to the toe.

“It’s is the only hard surface
impression we got from inside the Forever & Ever wedding dress store.
Watch.”

Horace split his computer screen,
juxtaposing the shoe impression from the road and the partial shoe impression
from the shop, lining up their direction and scale for easy comparison. “I
think a court would see we’re talking about the same shoe here.”

Turgeon took notes while Sydowski
nodded slowly. “This is good, Horace,” he said. “It gives us a start.”

“I said we were lucky. There’s
more.” Horace swallowed some tomato juice, then told them how, near the ledge,
Crime Scene found one partial imprint of the suspect’s shoe on the carpet.

“It was deep. I figure he was
carrying her part of the way, the extra weight driving his exposed shoe into
the carpet. After fiber analysis. I found in the carpet impression flecks of
the same white road-marking paint -- chlorinated, rubber based, containing
reflective glass beads -- as was used by the city at the scene. Same
composition. Same lot. Same pigment, further evidence that the shoe that was at
the stop scene was also at the murder scene.”

“Good work,” Sydowski said. “That
it?”

“There’s more.”

Horace displayed a clear picture
of a small item that had been stuck to the suspect’s shoe. It had been found in
the bridal shop. A small sticker, creased, tattered, torn, dirty but with
markings in ribbon-like repetition. They were legible, reading: BWI.

Turgeon repeated the letters,
then jotted them down.

Sydowski’s eyebrows climbed.
“I’ve seen that style of sticker before. Looks like an airport code.”

“Baltimore-Washington
International,” Horace said. “Judging from the tear, I would bet there is more
of this sticker embedded in the shoe.”

“Damn,” Turgeon said. “This is
good.”

“I did extensive work on the
fibers found on the adhesive side of this BWI sticker. They sort of collected
and rolled up in a sample. What I found are some traces, here” -- Horace
displayed a picture -- “fibers of flock carpeting, the type of carpet used in
commercial aircraft. It is long lasting, crush resistant, easily treated for
flammability, stands up to stains and repeated commercial cleaning. I’ve
already sent a package to the FBI for further analysis.”

Turgeon studied the monitor.
Sydowski was thinking. “But aircraft manufacturers all likely use the same
product.”

Horace shook his head. “Not
always. They install as per the customer’s requirements. These fibers” --
Horace nodded to the monitor -- “are from a Malaysian producer. Zorilio.
Largely supplies airlines in Africa and the Pacific Rim. I made some calls to
textile experts, then contacted Zorilio. Their carpets were installed in the
jets of two U.S. companies. A charter line that connects New York, Boston, and
Orlando. Nothing to Baltimore and California.

“What about the other company?”
Turgeon said.

“An upstart commercial carrier,
called Five Star Skyways.”

“Well, Horace,” Sydowski said,
“does Five Star have flights connecting Baltimore, Washington, and San
Francisco?”

“Six flights daily.”

In the
Star
newsroom at his desk, Reed
dialed a number in Kentucky. A woman answered on the fourth ring.

“Hello.”

“I am calling for Dolores Finch.”

“I’m Dolores Finch.”

“The mother of Amy Finch?”

Her voice now guarded. “Who’s
calling please?”

“Tom Reed. I’m a reporter in
California with a newspaper, the
San Francisco Star.”

“Why are you calling here?”

“You’re Amy’s mother? Amy worked
in Cincinnati?”

“Yes. Why are you calling?”

“Well, ma’am, I am doing some
research on unsolved cases and came across the reports on Amy’s death --”

“Has something happened? An
arrest?”

“No, nothing like that. We’ve had
a recent case here, a young woman murdered in a wedding dress shop. Perhaps you
heard of it?”

“No. Maybe I saw something. Look,
I don’t know. Why are you calling?”

“Well we’re hearing from sources,
just speculation, that our San Francisco case could be linked to some others
across the country.”

Reed left the question open,
gazing at the printouts from the
Enquirer
of reports on Amy Finch’s
murder. OFFICE GIRL SLAYING GRUESOME, read one headline. Her color mug shot
showed a plain, small-town girl. Thirty-one. Single. Lived alone. Worked in a
downtown Cincinnati office tower. Data entry for a national marketing firm. A
locator map pinpointed where her corpse was found in an abandoned
meat-processing plant. A fact absent from the articles was that Amy Finch was
stabbed with such fury the broken blade of the steak knife the killer used was
found imbedded in her heart, according to a source of Reed’s.

“How would I know if Amy’s case
is connected to others? How could I know about a thing like that?”

“Has anyone with Cincinnati
homicide, or the FBI, mentioned to you recently any theories or anything about
the possibility of your daughter’s case being linked to others?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Did Amy have any friends in
California?”

“No, she didn’t have many
friends. She was -- no.”

“Did the police tell you if they
have any suspects?”

“No.” Dolores Finch thought. “Mr.
Reed, if you know something about my daughter’s death, I think it would cruel
of you to keep it from me. We’re trying to put it all to rest here.”

“I understand. I don’t know
anything. It’s just that there were rumors arising from our case here that
similarities are being compared with other cases.”

“What similarities?”

“Well it seems from the news
reports Amy and Iris Wood, the woman in San Francisco, both kept to themselves,
worked in large cities, lived alone,  regularly used their computers
on-line, that sort of thing.”

Dolores Finch let a long moment
pass. Reed heard her sniffle.

“Sometimes,” she said, “I used to
tell her to go out with the people in her office and meet somebody. But Amy
told me she had all the friends she needed on the Web.”

“Did she ever try to meet with
any of them?”

“I don’t want to talk to you
anymore. It’s been a bad day. Good-bye.”

The line went dead in Reed’s ear.
He hung up, reflecting, then put an asterisk in his notebook beside the line
Cincinnati
-- Amy Finch.

“Any luck?” Molly Wilson called
from her terminal.

“Zip. How about you?”

“Same. Cross off Boston, they
told me where I could stick it. And I’ll call Detroit back. The mother was
incoherent,” Wilson said. “Tom, we’re only working on theories here.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean
there isn’t a link.”

Reed went down his list from the
files faxed by Lou Del Grachi at the
Daily News.
The list had swelled
with others Reed and Wilson pulled from news data banks. The Seattle case was
already crossed off. He still had calls out to the relatives of women murdered
in Charlotte, Phoenix, and Atlanta. Wilson’s bracelets chimed, as she prepared
to leave, coming to his desk, shoving her tape recorder and notebook in her
bag.

“Look out,” she said. “Brader’s
headed our way.” Reed kept his attention on his computer. “He has no idea what
we’re doing, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll drop by the FBI and see
what I can squeeze out of my friends there before I go to the news conference
on the drug bust.”

“I like that one. Using
crucifixes from South America to smuggle dope. You would think with the Lord as
your mule you would have some kind of divine immunity.”

“Very funny.”

“Wilson,” Brader said. He smiled.
“Make sure Photo has the correct time and place for the cocaine Christ story.
We’re liking it for front.”

“Already done,” she said, then
left.

“Reed, what do you have for me
today?”

“Chasing some leads on the bride
shop murder.”

“Like what?” Brader invaded
Reed’s space, installing his butt on the corner of Reed’s desk, stretching his
lanky legs out. He folded his arms, his yellow pad listing the names of
reporters with a short entry on their stories. Reed gleaned it.

Wilson - Cocaine Christ with
pix front??

Reed -- Bad cops -- tie in to
bride murder.

Brader’s attention was on Molly
Wilson’s departure. He was patting his perfectly groomed hair, while his eyes
were locked on her rear end. His nostrils flared. “So, Reed, what leads are you
chasing?”

“Trying to get a line on our
bride murder being connected to others across the country.”

“Is it?” Brader turned to him.
“What are you hearing?”

“Just theories mixed with rumors.
I want to check them out. I need some time. I think it’s worth pursuing.”

Brader pulled a fist to his face,
chewed on a thumb nail, then examined the results of his gnawing. “I think for
today you can build on your story about the witness who saw the cop in an
unmarked car stop Iris Wood.”

“A witness who
says
he saw
a cop,” Reed said. “Remember after my story, the SFPD issued a press release
dismissing the cop angle after checking with every law enforcement agency in
the Bay Area on the whereabouts of their vehicles?”

“All the same, I got a feeling on
this cop angle,” Brader said. “I want a piece on what makes cops go bad. Get
psychological experts, et cetera, get the number of recent high-profile cases,
maybe interview that East Bay cop in prison for robbing banks. Make it
contextual. Peg it to the bridal murder.”

“Just like it says in your little
note there.”

Brader spit out a piece of
thumbnail. “You got a problem with this assignment, Reed?”

“Not at all. But the cop thing is
going nowhere.”

“Your story said your witness
said it was a cop.”

“The story also said it could
have been someone
posing
as a cop. I think the story you’re suggesting
is premature.”

“Premature.”
Brader’s face
was tensing.

“Give me time to follow my leads
about other links. I’ve got a gut feeling that this could be huge.”

“You have a
gut feeling?”

Reed’s phone rang.

“Reed just do the story I’ve
assigned you.” Brader started to leave. Reed’s phone kept ringing.

“It’s a pointless story, Clyde.”

Brader halted, turned. “What did
you say?” Reed reached for his phone but Brader’s hand covered his, preventing
him from answering.

“Hey!”

“In my office, Reed. Now.”

Brader marched off, Reed swiveled
in his chair, ran a hand over his face. His phone was in the middle of its
third ring, about to click into his voice mail, when he grabbed it.

“Tom Reed.”

“This is Glen Spivey.” He was on
a cell phone; a power saw and hammering were loud in the background. “You left
me a message this morning for a list of materials we used on the job at your
house.”

The line was crackling with
static.

“Yeah, Glen, right. We’ve got a
weak connection though.” Reed searched frantically through the heap of papers,
files, news articles on his desk for Zach’s medical records containing the
specific questions he needed to ask the contractors.

“Reed!” Brader called from his
doorway.

“I said, is there a problem with
our work, Mr. Reed?”

“No, nothing like that, Glen. My
son may be having an allergic reaction and I need your help -- hello? Hello,
Glen?”

Nothing.

Reed slammed his phone down. He’d
lost his connection and his patience.
Damn!
Each step he took to
Brader’s office stirred his anger; anger at how he had hurt Ann and Zach by
obsessing over Iris Wood’s murder; anger at his need to chase the monster that
had displayed her in the bride shop window. He was angry that he had betrayed
his family to pursue this story and so many others like it before. It was his
affliction, compelling him to sacrifice everything while dealing with people
like Brader. Look at him, standing in his office, loosening his tie, putting
his hands on his hips. Reed had to laugh, thinking back to their early days at
the AP and how he had respected Brader, actually liked the guy. Now look at
what he had become. A middle-aged middleweight manager, who made passes at
women and wore too much cologne. Brader’s office reeked with it.

“Shut the door, please, Tom.”

Reed remembered Al Booth, a
senior night editor, laughing to him in the washroom last week at how Brader
had boasted after several beers in a bar that he was
“going to nail Wilson
within three months.”
Reed’s eyes went to the small framed photo of
Brader’s wife and daughters. He felt sorry for them, then ashamed, wondering if
he was really much different, because instead of lusting after other women, he
lusted after stories.

“You know what your problem is,
Tom?”

“I’m looking at it.”

“You can’t take direction.”

“You know how many city editors
told me that before you skipped in here,
Clyde?”

Brader held his thumb and
forefinger less than a quarter inch apart. “You are this close to being gone.”

“You know what
your
problem is? You think you’re still a reporter.”

“Admit that it burns you that I
know the truth about you, Reed. You’re just not that good.”

“The truth is you’ll never let go
of me getting shortlisted for a Pulitzer. You’re still competing with me, so
you can somehow say,
‘I win’.
Well, it doesn’t matter, Clyde, because
you’re not a reporter. That ended when you left the street. Your job is
budgets, vacations, filling your little pad with story slugs, and convincing
yourself you’re still part of the news craft.”

Brader sat down, glaring at Reed.

“Clyde you’re desperate to prove
you’ve somehow beaten me, but you haven’t. If you want to battle me, you have
to get back on the street.”

Brader’s left eye twitched as he
steepled his fingers.

“Are you refusing this assignment?”

“No.”

“Then get on it. You’ve got two
days.”

“It’s not a story. Not now.”

“Reed.” Brader’s line rang. He
took the call. “Brader. Hi. No, I didn’t forget.” He glanced at his watch
making Reed guess Brader’s call was from home. Reed noticed Brader’s wife and
two girls watching them from the small framed photo, recalling Al Booth.
“Going
to nail Wilson within three months.”
Noticing the cologne, Brader’s crisp
suit jacket hanging so neatly on a wooden hanger, his perfect hair and gleaming
smile. He shook his head as Brader placed a hand over the phone’s mouthpiece.

“Two days Reed, or you go to
Lifestyles, I swear.”

Reed headed for the newsroom
vending machines, walking off his tension, buying a soda and a bag of potato
chips. The red message light was blinking on his phone when he returned. The
first was Glen Spivey, the contractor. Reed returned the call, resuming the
search for Zach’s file among the clutter on his desk. He could not locate it.
He got Spivey’s voice mail.
Cripes.

Reed’s next message was from
Roland Snell, returning his call from Phoenix. Reed immediately called him
back.

“Mr. Snell?”

“Yes.” A deep, baritone voice.

“Tom Reed,
San Francisco
Star.”

“Yes, I got your message.”

Snell sounded friendly,
intelligent. But there was something else in his tone that puzzled Reed. Like
he was
expecting
the call.

Snell’s thirty-three-year-old
daughter Elinor, a clerk in Arizona’s tax department, had been murdered several
months ago. Her Sunfire was found in a far corner of a mall parking lot in the
city’s Cactus Park area. Her body was in the trunk. Elinor had been single,
lived alone. Attended church every Sunday. She had volunteered at a local
homeless shelter. It was thought a drifter might have followed her to her car
one night but that theory was weakened by the fact she was not sexually
assaulted, nor were her cash, credit cards, or apartment keys missing from her
purse, according to reports in the
Republic.