If Angels Fall (43 page)

“You assigned me to it. You wanted to see where ‘the
abduction thing was going,’ remember?”

“I did. And I specifically said I wanted straight-up
reporting from you. So where have you been and what kind of research have you
been doing?”

“Chasing down leads.”

Benson looked at Reed, letting the seconds pass.

“I understand that you’ve been all over Northern
California on the paper’s time following a tip.”

“Yes. That’s what you pay me for.”

“Is it the suspect the task force has in its sights?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know because you haven’t been around.”

“I believe the lead I have is solid.”

“Do you? Then why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“I needed to check a few things first.”

“Sounds like you were enterprising, Tom, following a
theory.”

“No, I just needed to check—“

Benson’s fist came down on the table. “Enough
bullshit!”

A few people near enough to hear stopped working,
staring briefly at Benson’s office.

“I told you that I don’t give a good goddamn about
your hunches on this story!”

Reed said nothing.

“I told you I want nothing more from you than
straight-up reporting, yet you go off like some rogue contravening my orders.
Now tell me right now why I should not fire you!”

Reed did not answer him.

“We know what happened that last time you followed one
of your goddamn theories on an unsolved case, don’t we? It cost this paper a
quarter of a million fucking dollars! You are just not worth it, Reed. Now tell
me why I should not fire you.”

“Because I think I know who took Danny Becker and
Gabrielle Nunn.”

“You think you know?” Benson rolled his eyes. “Just
like you knew who murdered little Juanita Donner.”

“Tanita.”

“Who?”

“Her name was Tanita Marie Donner.”

“What the fuck do you know, then? Who is your suspect,
Reed? Tell me!”

“I’m not absolutely certain yet that he’s the—“

“Tell me now, or I’ll fire you on the spot!”

Reed digested the threat.

He was tired. So tired. Tired from driving to Philo
and Half Moon Bay. Tired of fighting the Bensons in this world. Tired of the
business. Tired of his life. He reached into his worn briefcase and pulled out
his dog-eared file on Edward Keller. He told Benson everything he knew about
Keller and showed him the photos the paper secretly took at the bereavement
group. Benson compared them to the blurry stills from the home video at
Gabrielle Nunn’s Golden Gate party. After Benson took in everything, he leaned
back in his chair and set his plan in motion.

“Give me a story saying Edward Keller is the prime
suspect.”

“What?”

“I want it today.”

“You can’t be serious. We’re still trying to find
him.”

Benson was not listening. “We’ve got those grief group
pictures. We’ll run them against those blurry police-suspect photos. It’ll be
dramatic for readers.”

“But those pictures were taken surreptitiously.”

“What the fuck do we care? You’ve got him pegged as a
child-killer. For all we know, he’s the prime target of the task force.”

“But I need more time.”

“You’ve wasted enough. Now get busy. I want thirty
inches. You send the story to me and see me before you leave. Is that
understood?”

“I think this is wrong.”

“You don’t think. You do what I fucking tell you.”

He struggled to keep from telling Benson what a
worthless little man he was. The words seethed on his tongue, but he clamped
his jaw firmly and left the office.

Resign
, he told
himself.

Reed sat before his computer terminal and logged on.
Quit
on the spot
. Benson was making him walk the plank, setting him up to be
fired.
End it all now
. But conflicting emotions pinballed in his brain.
Keller was the guy, wasn’t he? What about the two abducted children? Maybe he
should call Sydowski. Right, if he needed more abuse, Sydowski was the man to
call. Reed kicked everything to the back of his mind and began writing what
Benson ordered.

Two hours later, he knocked on Benson’s open office
door. Benson was on the phone and clamped his hand over the mouth piece.

“Done?”

“You have it on your desk now.”

“Wait right there, I’ve got Wilson at the Hall of
Justice.”

Reed waited.

“Okay, Molly, yes...” Benson scribbled on a notepad.
“Yes, anything beyond that?...Uh-huh. Okay good, keep us posted.”

Benson hung up. “Wilson’s sources at the hall say the
task force has a prime suspect under surveillance somewhere right now.”

“You want me to help?”

“No. I want you to get the hell out of here and don’t
come back until I call you personally. You are now on indefinite suspension.”

Reed said nothing, and turned to leave.

“By the way,” Benson said. “Your employment here
hinges on the integrity of the story you just wrote.”

Walking to his old Comet in the parking lot, it
occurred to Reed that he had a few things to be grateful for. Edward Keller did
not have a widow to slap Reed’s face, nor any children to scowl at him.

On his way to the rooming house at Sea Park, he would
stop at Harry’s Liquor Store for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Sipping
Whiskey.

He realized he had just been fired.

The smell of
hot food wafted from the basement windows of Our Lady Queen of
Tearful Sorrows Roman Catholic Church on Upper Market. Turgeon was talking on
her cellular phone to an SFPD dispatcher who was directing four marked radio
cars to the area.

“Tell them to take up compass points a block back, out
of sight of the church.” She trailed Sydowski and Florence Schafer down the
stairs through a rear metal door.

They came upon the kitchen, steamy and noisy with a
dozen volunteers grappling trays of food, dodging each other.

“Louey!” Florence called over the din. “He’s the
kitchen boss.” Louey wiped a cleaver on his stained apron. He was in his
thirties, had a three-day growth of beard, and the bleary eyes of an A.A.
candidate. Florence introduced the inspectors saying they were looking for
somebody and everything was fine.

“How many exits to the basement here, Louey?” Sydowski
said.

Three: the back, the front,”—Louey pointed to a far
corner with the cleaver—“and that stairway to the sacristy.”

“Thanks.”

“Anybody I know?” Louey said.

“Who?”

“The guy you are looking for.”

Sydowski glanced at Florence, who put her hand on
Louey’s arm.

“You don’t know him. He’s one of my old friends. The
inspector just wants his help.”

“Yeah? For what?”

“We’ll let you in on it a little later,” Sydowski told
him. Louey went back to work.

Sydowski went to the kitchen door to check the layout.
It was like a bingo hall with two sections of row upon row of long tables
divided by a middle aisle. A fire marshal’s certificate near the door put the
capacity at four hundred. Supper had begun. Less than two dozen people were
seated and eating. A few hundred more were queued at the serving tables at the
kitchen end of the hall. Volunteers dished up meals and encouragement.

Sydowski decided to give it some time. He and Turgeon
knew Virgil Shook’s general description and his tattoos. In a few minutes they
would join the volunteers casually walking the hall.

“If he’s out there today, we’ll have the uniforms
cover the exits. Linda and I will take him quietly while he’s eating.” Sydowski
removed his tie and suggested Turgeon let her hair down. “We don’t want to look
too obvious.”

Barney Tucker, a retired diesel mechanic and devout
Catholic, greeted the shelter’s “guests” at the door, his stomach expanding the
words: JESUS IS LOVE on his T-shirt. Barney clasped his big hand warmly over
Virgil Shook’s as Shook passed by with the others making their way to the
serving table.

“Nice to see you friend,” Barney said.

Shook ignored him, breathing in the aroma of turkey,
beef, peas, corn, tomato soup, baked potatoes, fresh buns, and coffee.
Sustenance, sanctuary, and pity from the pious. The God bless yous blended with
the tinkling of cutler as the holy ones tended their miserable flock. Contempt
slowly painted Shook’s face. He battled the urge to scream:
Do you know who
I am?
If they knew, they would bend their knees.

Shook’s migraines had started again. Cranium quakes.
Aching in his head, his groin. Fuck, it hurt. He needed to love again. It had
been too long. So long. He searched the hall for someone. Maybe that little
temptress from Nevada? Daisy of the incredible blue eyes. He couldn’t find her.
Fuck. The food line passed the cardboard donation box and he deposited a
nickel.

Turgeon patrolled the far aisle, carrying a plate of fresh
buns, wishing she were in jeans and a sweatshirt instead of a blazer-skirt
combo. She did her best, smiling, scouring exposed arms for tattoos and faces
for features matching Shook’s composite.

She stifled a yawn. She had not been sleeping well. At
night, lying alone in bed, she was attacked by fear for Gabrielle Nunn and
Danny Becker. She could not switch off Shook’s confession. They had to bring
this all to an end. Were they too late?

A possibility jumped at Sydowski as he went from table
to table, topping glasses with a pewter pitcher of milk. If they spotted Shook,
spotted him clean with Shook making them, then maybe they could hold off
grabbing him so they could surveil him. He might lead them to the children. If
they were still alive. He might lead them to evidence. They could also, lose
him. He could abduct another child. It was a risk Sydowski weighed, studying
the line that reached from the serving table to the door, searching for
tattoos, the right body type and face. He constantly checked to be sure his
sports jacket was buttoned so his gun was unseen. He concentrated, taking stock
of the hall, the exits. How fast could he make them if Shook bolted? What would
he do?

Florence’s scalp tingled. She saw the flames. The
broken heart. And the cobra curled around Virgil Shook’s left forearm.

It was him. In line, making his way to the serving
table.

“Whatzamatter, Florence? You look like you seen a
ghost.”

“Huh?”

“Something catch your eye, there?” Marty, an ancient
bottle-and-can collector, smiled at her from his plate of food, then followed
her gaze across the hall to the long line of people waiting to be served.

“Oh. No, Marty. I’m sorry.” Florence distracted him by
putting her hand on his frail shoulder. “Ran off with my thoughts, I guess.
Say, how about some gravy for that turkey?”

“Well, I don’t want nobody goin’ out of their way.” A
toothless smile came out from hiding in Marty’s grizzled beard.

“No trouble for a handsome man like you.”

Florence stole another glimpse of Shook. Their eyes
locked, charging her with raw panic. She looked away, struggling to conceal it,
squeezing Marty’s shoulder.

“Gravy. Coming right up, Marty.”

Lord Jesus, please help me! Was she running to the
kitchen? She didn’t know, or care. She was numb with fear and ordered herself
to be strong. Be calm for the children.

“Careful!”

She nearly ran into a volunteer carrying an urn of hot
soup inside the kitchen door. She leaned against a wall, gasping. Louey came to
her. “Florence, you okay? What the hell is going on?”

What the fuck was it with that little bitch? Why was
she gawking at him like that? Like she knew something about him. Shook couldn’t
place her. Fuck it. Let it simmer. He had enough to think about right now, like
the letters. It had been a week. Nothing had surfaced in the news. Nothing to
help him get off. The blue meanies keeping a lid on it, denying him the
pleasure of increasing San Francisco’s pain. What would the Zodiac do? Send the
letters to the press, threaten harm if they weren’t published.