If Angels Fall (24 page)

Wilson had a pen clamped in her teeth. She typed
aggressively for several moments before removing it. “Would you go over this
for me?” She was all business now.

Reed turned to his computer and called up her work on
his screen.

“It’s all the notes for my piece on the FBI’s
psychological profile of the guy who kidnapped Danny Becker,” she said.

“When is it going?”

“Tomorrow. I just can’t find a lead.”

Wilson’s notes were a transcription of her interview
with FBI Special Agent Merle Rust. Reed caught phrases like: “Deeply scarred
individual—traumatized by cataclysmic event involving children—lives in a
fantasy world—stimulated by alcohol, drugs or even religious delusions—appears
normal—will most likely re-offend.”

He chuckled. “Sounds like Ed Keller.”

“Who?”

“One of the parents in the bereavement group. A
religious nut I left out my piece because he was a goof—“ He touched a finger
to a line on his screen. “Here’s your lead.”

Wilson glided around their workstation to join him as
he typed. “Danny Becker’s kidnapper is likely a psychologically traumatized man
with the potential to abduct another child, says an FBI profile obtained by the
Star
, blah blah blah.”

“That’s it. Thanks.” Wilson returned to her desk.

“Reed?”

It was Jebb Harker, the metro assignment editor. His
tie was loosened, and he held a rolled paper in one hand. “You hear anything
about a suspect being arrested this morning in the Becker case?”

“No. Nothing.” Reed sat upright, concerned.

“Just got off the phone with Mumford in circulation.
Seems this morning one of our drivers was filling a box near the Hall of
Justice when he saw two plain clothes cops bring in a guy in cuffs.

“Big deal. They arrest people every day.”

“The driver recognized one of the cops. Swears it was
this guy.”

Harker unfurled the newspaper to a small photo of an
SFPD inspector talking to reporters on the steps of Danny Becker’s Jordan Park
home on the day Danny was abducted.

“Holy shit!” Wilson snatched the paper from Harker.
“That’s Walt Sydowski, one of the lead dicks on the Becker and Donner cases!
Something must have popped. What do you think, Tom? Tom?”

Reed didn’t hear her. He was at the far end of the
newsroom jabbing the elevator button.

The Hall of Justice on Bryant Street had a polished
stone lobby and a metal detector all visitors must pass through. Fucking
Checkpoint Charlie, Reed thought, grabbing his keys from the basket once he was
cleared. He caught the UP elevator as its doors were closing, ascended to the
fourth floor and room 450, the Homicide Detail, nearly bumping into Inspector Swanson
Smith, a soft-spoken man of linebacker proportions, who glared at him from the
file he was studying.

“I ain’t buyin’ no damn subscription today, Reed.”

“I came to buy you coffee.”

“Get your damn nose out of my ass, I’m too busy for
sex.”

“Sydowski in?”

“Why would you insult a great man like that with your
presence?”

Reed said nothing.

“Cool your engines, newsman.” Smith turned to summon
Sydowski, his handcuffs knocking against the beeper clipped to his hip.

Reed sat, bouncing his knee. Come on. Come on.

Sydowski appeared, a file in his hand.

Reed was relieved to see him. “Inspector. Did you
bring somebody to the hall this morning in cuffs?”

“Yes.”

“You did?” Reed opened his notebook. “For Becker or
Donner?”

“Those are the priority files right now.”

“Is that a yes, Inspector?”

“Thomas, put your notebook away.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to explain something to you.”

“I don’t to hear anything I can’t use.”

“Well you better leave then. It’s up to you.”

Reed stared at him. “All right,” he said, tucking his
notebook in his jacket. “Probably going to see it in the
Chronicle
or
Examiner,
anyway. Seems every time I play by the rules, I get screwed.”

“You’ve got one hell of an attitude,” Sydowski said.

“Wonder how I got it.”

“Sit down.” Sydowski nodded to the wooden chairs
lining the detail’s small reception area. “We brought a guy in this morning who
we think may have known somebody we remotely suspect in one of the files.
That’s all I can tell you. Sit tight, we may have more later.”

“Sure, I’ll read all about it in the
Chronicle
or
Examiner
.”

“I don’t have time for your wounded pride.”

“The shit I went through over Wallace was a little
more than wounded pride, Walt.”

“Nothing I can do about history.”

“You know I was right about Wallace.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You fucked up,
voychik
. Using
me as confirmation when I didn’t give you anything. I told you to sit on what
you had. Going to Wallace with your tip before we could talk to him so he could
do himself, do you know what that cost us?”

“Do you know what it cost me?”

“Your problem is, you’re too stupid to realize when
someone is being nice to you.”

“And you can’t stand it when someone like me digs
something up. Let’s talk about wounded pride. Yours.”

Sydowski stood. “Look, I’ve got one murdered child,
maybe two.” He bent down, his face so close Reed could smell the coffee and
garlic on his breath. “You better quit playing amateur detective and stay the
fuck out of my way, understand?”

“Thanks for all your help, Walt.” Reed stood. “Next
time I get a piece of information about a case, I’ll wipe my ass with it.”

Reed slammed the door behind him, thumbed the elevator
button with all of his weight, then snapped through his notebook for a clean
page. Calm down, he told himself. Okay, he could try a few other sources. Sure.
He had so many these days. Damn it, what was he going to write? That they had
brought in a guy they think may know a suspect. It was thin.

While searching through his notebook for an answer,
anything, Reed saw his notes from Martin’s bereavement group. Edward Keller’s
stuff.

“Zoran. A water death ... I was being punished for
living a lie ... When my children died, I died but was born again ... the
revelation ... The Divine Truth ... I will be with my children again ... You
can only rescue them if you truly believe you can ... Every day I prepare for
my blessed reunion ... I’ve read your stories about Danny Becker ...”

The FBI’s profile, “traumatized by cataclysmic event
involving children ... stimulated by ... religious delusion” fit Keller like a
glove.

Yes it did. But why did he have such a weird feeling
about Keller? He did fit the general description of Danny Becker’s kidnapper,
but so did thousands of bearded Caucasians in the Bay Area. But why couldn’t he
find any old stories about Keller’s case in the news library? Not one. He went
back ten years. It was puzzling that he couldn’t find a single item about a
businessman losing his three children in a boating accident near the Farallons.
Maybe he missed it? He should look again. Maybe use the Net.

Outside, on the steps of the hall, Reed thought he’d
better cool the Keller theory. Get a grip. He would never admit that in a dark
corner of his heart he nurtured doubts that Franklin Wallace was Tanita Donner’s
killer. Now, in the span of minutes, he got some poor grief-stricken born-again
pegged as a child-killer. Why?

Because he loathed religious extremists? Or was the
gleam of self-righteousness in Keller’s eyes? Because he was pissed at
Sydowski? Because he was anxious about getting back together with Ann? Who
knew? But there was something about Keller. Reed wondered about Keller’s story.
Was his tragedy true? Why would he lie about it? If it was true, it would make
a good read, especially with the anniversary of the drownings coming up.
Sliding behind the wheel of his Comet, studying his notes, Reed decided to do
some discreet digging on Keller, to see where it went.

Padding to the porch
for her morning paper, Nancy Nunn looked for Jackson. Where was
that dog? Reaching for her paper, she surveyed the street for her five-year-old
daughter’s cocker spaniel, hoping to spot him, snout to the ground, sniffing
his way home. Gabrielle yearned for him. She and Jackson had been inseparable
since the Christmas morning she found the blond, long-eared pup under the tree.
Then one night last month he vanished from the backyard.

Gabrielle was shattered.

The next day the family plastered missing-reward
posters throughout the neighborhood. Nancy and Ryan, Gabrielle’s older brother,
knocked on doors. Paul, Gabrielle’s dad, drove for blocks, with Gabrielle
calling for Jackson from the car. Where was Jackson? Paul was not convinced he
ran off. But what else could have happened? Whatever, it didn’t matter. They
had to do  something. Certain Jackson was not coming back, Nancy and Paul
planned to surprise Gabrielle with a new pup for her sixth birthday in two
weeks.

No fog this morning.

Nancy checked the street once more for Jackson,
groaning at
The San Francisco Star’s
headline. It was CHILD ABDUCTOR MAY
STRIKE AGAIN, FBI FEARS with the kicker, “Man Who Took Danny Psychologically
Scarred.” She bolted her door and went to the kitchen.

Nancy rarely read news stories. Taking care of her
husband, a firefighter, and their two children while holding down a part-time
job left her no time to digest the pound of information slapped on her doorstep
each morning. She took the
Star
for the coupons.

Danny Becker’s kidnapping had made Nancy vigilant,
especially when Paul was at work. She looked in on Gabrielle and Ryan
frequently while they slept, rechecked the locks of their house, reminding
herself the Sunset was a safe neighborhood, the best place in the city to raise
kids. She was coping as rationally as could be expected, remembering how
earlier, talking to Paul about it, she sought something positive in Danny
Becker’s abduction.

“Maybe now police will catch the killer. Maybe this
new case gives them a lead and they’ll find Danny safe.”

“Police?” Paul scoffed. “Like with the Zodiac, Nance?
The cops never caught him. Don’t hold your breath for the police to stop this
guy. A .45 in the head is what it’s going to take. And it won’t come from the
cops, it’ll be some kid’s old man.”

Nancy was grateful Paul restrained himself from displaying
his Remington, out of respect for her abhorrence of guns. While the Sunset was
largely unscathed by crime, she now found comfort in the fact her husband, a
former U.S. Marine sergeant, still kept his gun.

This morning, in her kitchen, Nancy read the latest
news about the abduction. Offer more reward money, she thought. Somebody in
this city knows where Danny Becker is.

The kitchen phone rang. She got it.

“Hey there, Nance!” said Wendy Sloane, her neighbor
and best friend.

“Hey yourself.”

“They still haven’t caught the creep yet. The
Chron
figures he’s a parolee from a prison for child molesters. What’s the
Star
say?”

“He’s playing some kind of fantasy in his head and
he’ll strike again. Hi, handsome.” Ryan, Gabrielle’s eight-year-old brother,
came yawing into the kitchen, pajama clad, and hugged her. “Can you start your
own breakfast while Mom’s on the phone?”

He pulled a box of cornflakes from the cupboard.

“Paul home?” Wendy asked.

“No. He’s working. What are your two up to, with no
school today?”

Wendy had two girls. Charlotte was nine and Elaine was
seven.

“Fretting about the birthday parties coming up.
Joannie Tyson’s is in a few days and then Gabrielle’s because they think she is
prettier than Joannie and Joannie’s party is going to be so big.”