Be Mine Read Free Page B

on,” she said into the phone. “Tom, it’s Molly.”
    “I’ll take it.” Tammy passed the phone to Tom. “Molly, where are
you?”
    “The Hall of Justice. Homicide.”
    “You’re on this? You’re covering the story?”
    “No.” She choked on a sob. “Tom, can you come and get me, please?”
    “What’s going on?”
    “It’s Cliff.”
    “What do you mean?”
    The elevator bell chimed. Tom felt something brush his arm.
    “Cliff Hooper. He’s dead. I’m the one who found him.” A homicide
detective. Molly’s boyfriend. Tom struggled to grasp it.
    A delivery of flowers came to reception. “Okay, Molly, hang on. I’m
on my way.”
    Tom passed the phone back to Tammy, who was smiling at the
spectacular arrangement of white roses.
    “Aren’t these lovely?” she said to the deliveryman. “Who’re they
for?”
    “Says here, Molly Wilson.”

FOUR

     
    The Hall of Justice is a grim
Stalinesque building rising from Bryant Street amid the low-rent units, office
towers, and struggling high-tech firms in San Francisco’s Soma District. It
houses the D.A.’s office, courtrooms, jails, and the headquarters of the San
Francisco Police Department. It is also the home of punishment, or righteous
wrath, depending on your bank account, Tom thought after parking.
    He hustled up the steps of the Hall’s grand entrance to the polished
stone lobby for a security check and a walk through a metal detector. Riding
the elevator to the fourth floor and room 450, the homicide detail, Tom
recalled Cliff Hooper. He’d met him at murder scenes, even hunched over a few
late night coffees with him. Hooper was a former wide receiver for San
Jose State who’d studied philosophy and law. A good guy. A smart, honest
homicide cop. Molly’s boyfriend.
    Who’d want him dead?
    Stepping from the elevator, Tom saw a deputy chief go down the
crowded corridor to the detail. He followed him, threading his way through the
detectives and uniformed officers, bumping into handcuffs and holstered guns.
Keeping his head down, he moved respectfully, for he’d now entered a hallowed
zone: cop land in mourning.
    Inside, Linda Turgeon was consulting a report with a huge detective.
No sign of Molly. Craning his neck, Tom glimpsed Hooper’s partner, Ray Beamon,
sitting at his desk across from the empty one that was Hooper’s. High-ranking
officers circled him. Upon seeing Tom, Turgeon seized his arm. “Out. Press
conference in thirty minutes.”
    “I’m looking for Molly.”
    Emerging from an office with a report in his hand, Sydowski caught
what was happening. “I’ll take care of this.”
    Lieutenant Leo Gonzales stepped from his office, head in a file,
approaching Sydowski: “... just heard that ballistics is having a little
computer trouble and will need more time and Crime Scene is--”
    “Hold on, Leo,” Sydowski said. “Come with me, Tom. I want to talk
with you.” He took Tom down the hallway. “Molly’s with a crisis worker.”
    “I’m sorry about Cliff.”
    Sydowski nodded.
    “How’s Ray Beamon doing?”
    Sydowski deflected his question with another.
    “How’s your wife doing?”
    “Ann? Oh, her sessions are helping.” Ann had been the victim of a
terrifying abduction not so long ago, and the repercussions were still being
felt.
    “It takes time.”
    Neither of them said anything more until they came to a room where
Molly was at a table with a middle-aged woman clutching a crumpled tissue. Two
ceramic mugs sat untouched between them.
    “Hi.” Molly sounded far away.
    “Thanks, Fran,” Sydowski said.
    Taking her cue, the woman left her card. “Remember, you call me
anytime, dear. Doesn’t matter. Anytime.”
    “Thank you.”
    Tom embraced Molly.
    “It’s going to be all right,” he told her. “Just hang on.” She
nodded as Sydowski lowered himself into a swivel chair. Like her, he hadn’t yet
slept. “Everyone’s hurting but what I’m going to tell you is critical.”
Sydowski paused to hold Tom in