Be Mine Read online

  BE MINE

  RICK MOFINA

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Also by Rick Mofina

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SIXTY-SIX

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  SIXTY-NINE

  SEVENTY

  SEVENTY-ONE

  SEVENTY-TWO

  SEVENTY-THREE

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  SEVENTY-SIX

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  SEVENTY-NINE

  Author’s Note and Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Contact Rick Mofina

  Praise for the novels of Rick Mofina

  BE MINE

  "Rick Mofina is writing a fine series of thrillers: Swiftly paced, entertaining, with authentic details of police procedure." Dean Koontz, #1 New York Times Bestselling author of The Face and Fear Nothing

  BLOOD OF OTHERS

  "Tense, realistic, and scary in all the right places." James Patterson, #1 New York Times Bestselling Author

  "Another riveting read from one of the leading thriller writers of the day." Penthouse

  COLD FEAR

  "A powerful gut wrenching thriller." The Midwest Book Review

  "Bursts with suspense. The action is so intense, the writing so realistic, it's as if we are there during the search. This is a book to cause icy shivers." RT BookReviews Magazine

  IF ANGELS FALL

  "If you buy it for the flight, you'll be reading it on the escalator." National Post

  "Guaranteed to keep readers flipping the pages." The Toronto Sun

  THEY DISAPPEARED

  "Rick Mofina's tense, taut writing makes every thriller he writes an adrenaline-packed ride." Tess Gerritsen New York Times bestselling Author

  THE BURNING EDGE

  "Tight and excruciating suspense...a winner." Jeff Ayers, RT BookReviews

  IN DESPERATION

  "A blisteringly paced story that cuts to the bone." James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author

  THE PANIC ZONE

  "The Panic Zone is a headlong rush toward Armageddon. It's brisk pace and tight focus remind me of early Michael Crichton." -Dean Koontz #1 New York Times bestselling author

  VENGEANCE ROAD

  "Vengeance Road is a thriller with no speed limit! It's a great read!" Michael Connelly, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  SIX SECONDS

  "Six Seconds moves like a tornado." James Patterson, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  Also by Rick Mofina

  INTO THE DARK

  THEY DISAPPEARED

  THE BURNING EDGE

  IN DESPERATION

  THE PANIC ZONE

  VENGEANCE ROAD

  SIX SECONDS

  A PERFECT GRAVE

  EVERY FEAR

  THE DYING HOUR

  BE MINE

  NO WAY BACK

  BLOOD OF OTHERS

  COLD FEAR

  IF ANGELS FALL

  THREE TO THE HEART (Anthology)

  DANGEROUS WOMEN & DESPERATE MEN (Anthology)

  For Inspector Eddie J. Erdelatz,

  San Francisco Homicide Detail (Ret.),

  who has been a friend since the day

  I walked into room 450 at

  The Hall of Justice

  Be Mine

  Rick Mofina

  Kindle Edition December 2012

  Print Edition 2004

  Copyright 2012 Rick Mofina

  Copyright 2004 Rick Mofina

  ISBN 978-1-927114-11-7

  This e-book is intended for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this e-book and did not purchase it, please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  e-Formatting by Carrick Publishing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the creation of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly: I perceived this is also vexation of spirit.

  For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow.

  --Ecclesiastes 1:17,18

  ONE

  Waiting alone at Jake’s Bar & Grill in North Beach, Molly Wilson finished her second diet cola, then pressed redial on her cell phone. Four rings. She got his machine again. Damn.

  “It’s me. I’m at Jake’s. Where are you? Call me.” Nearly an hour late and not a word. This was not like Cliff. Maybe he’d left her a message at work. She tried her line there.

  “You’ve reached Molly Wilson of the San Francisco Star. I’m either on the phone or--”

  She keyed in her password. No new messages since she’d left the newsroom. Just two hang-up calls. She’d been getting a lot of those lately but nothing from Cliff. She ordered another soda and brooded.

  In the time they’d been together Cliff had never been late. Except tonight. Maybe he’d sensed that she’d reached a decision. Cliff was a great guy. She’d never set out to hurt him. She’d set out to have fun and they were having fun. But she didn’t want to move in with him. Wasn’t ready for it. She wanted to do cool things. See other people. She was going to tell him tonight. She was going to thank him for his offer and return his key.

  If only she could reach him, she thought on an exhale.

  She didn’t like this. She tried his cell phone, wanting this night to be over so she could retreat to her apartment, soak in her tub, listen to some Phil Collins, then eat a gallon of butterscotch ripple. No answer. She drummed her glossed nails on the table. Then stopped.

  Someone was watching her.

  She pushed back her auburn hair and inventoried the after-work office crowd. Nothing unusual until she noticed two men nearby warming stools at the bar, ties loosened, stealing glimpses of her, then the big TV overhead.

  Of course. She was on Ey
ewitness 24-Hour Action News. It was her weekly eight-minute spot with Vince Vincent, host of Crime Scene, when they talked about crime trends in San Francisco.

  The show was taped at noon. Molly was still wearing the same sweater and matching blazer, which complemented her eyes. There she was with Vincent at a studio desk against San Francisco’s skyline at night discussing the latest justice department figures.

  “... but what about violent crime, like murder?” Vincent asked.

  “The odds of your being murdered, or a victim of a violent crime, are very remote,” she said.

  Watching the set over the bar, Molly shook her head. Vince was worried. No sensational crimes in weeks.

  “But violent crimes do happen here, Molly. We’ve got gangs, drug wars, murders of every sort. The city is still reeling from the recent jewelry heist homicides.”

  “Sure, but the fact is, your likelihood of being victimized by such a crime is virtually nil.”

  The two guys at the bar were now grinning, offering Molly little waves. She shrugged them off.

  She’d been on the show for over a year. She loved doing it but there was a downside. It was more than a magnet for jerks like those two. Since Crime Scene had been picked up by a statewide cable network it had attracted more whack jobs. Sickos of every description tried contacting her. Comes with the territory. She shrugged.

  Molly could handle the pair at the bar. There was little she couldn’t handle. But not tonight. She wasn’t up for these two. Not now. One was headed her way. That was her cue. She grabbed her bag, tossed a few bills on the table.

  Outside, an evening breeze rolled up from the bay and she was struck by an odd sensation. It was as if somebody was just waiting for her to leave Jake’s.

  And now they were watching her.

  This was stupid. She took stock of the street. Nothing but a few window shoppers. She was being silly, put off by those drunks at the bar. And Cliff. Where was he? She waved it off and flagged a cab.

  “Upper Market,” she told the driver.

  The lights of San Francisco rolled by and Molly thought of Cliff. He was so good to her. Nothing like some of the creeps she’d dated and dropped. Like the hair puller who called her a “stupid bitch” and the weirdo who went mute and just glared at her. She bit her lip wondering if cooling things with Cliff was a mistake. He was considerate, intelligent, had a sense of humor. A decent handsome guy. Nothing was wrong with him. They’d only started dating a few months ago. She just wasn’t ready for a long-term relationship.

  She considered her friend Tom Reed, the reporter who sat next to her at the Star. Look at what he had with Ann, his wife. The real thing. They had Zach, their beautiful son. They were far from perfect but they had a fire that could melt steel. They’d endured heartbreaks and emerged stronger. Maybe someday she’d find something like that. She just wasn’t ready to settle down yet.

  “Miss?” the driver said. “The address, please.”

  Molly recited it as the cab climbed the neighborhood’s serpentine hills. She liked the way the fog rolled up the steep streets of Cliff’s little oasis. He’d joke about being sheriff when she pointed at the community signs that demanded suspicious persons be immediately reported.

  The creak of brakes echoed in the stillness as the cab stopped at the small Queen Anne–style house. Cliff’s apartment was upstairs at the back.

  “If you shut off your meter and wait, I’ll go back with you,” she told the driver.”

  “How long, miss? I gotta make a living.”

  “Not long. Please. I need to see if my friend’s home.”

  He slid the gearshift to park and killed the motor. It ticked down.

  Molly approached the front. The exterior lights were on, but the place seemed oddly dark. No interior lights. The wrought-iron gate squeaked as she took the tiled walkway to the rear stairs. The yard was lush, private, bordered with rosebushes, shrubs, eucalyptus trees. A couple of sturdy-looking palms.

  Her footsteps echoed as she ascended the wooden staircase to his door. Inhaling the fragrance of the flowers rising from the boxes on his balcony, she pressed the buzzer, heard it sound through his apartment. Then nothing. She buzzed again. Waiting, she put her ear to the door. Not a hint of movement. She knocked. Waited. Nothing.

  Strange. She reached into her bag for her key to his apartment, slid it into the slot. It went in too fast. What the-- The door was unlocked. She turned the handle. It opened. Inviting her to enter.

  “Cliff?”

  No one responded from the darkness. She reached inside, flipped on a light.

  “Cliff?”

  The first room was the kitchen. She saw his jacket draped over a chair. His car keys were on the counter, along with his cell phone, wallet, loose change, unopened mail.

  “Cliff, it’s Molly.”

  She moved to the living room. In the darkness the red message light of his answering machine was blinking like something terrified. She switched on a lamp.

  It was too quiet.

  Something began to stir deep in her gut, telling her this was all wrong. The next room across the darkened hall was his bedroom. Instinct warned her to leave now but her hand hovered over the doorknob. The driver out front had blasted his horn and her skin nearly exploded.

  “Jerk.”

  She took a breath and opened his bedroom door. The room swam in a surreal dim blue glow from the digital clock on his nightstand. Her stomach tightened.

  Oh God.

  Cliff was on the bed. Facedown. She inched toward him.

  He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. A huge damp, dark blue halo encircled his head. Something resembling wet raw meat had erupted from the side, glistening in the eerie blue light.

  Resting on Cliff’s lower back was his service weapon, a .40-caliber Beretta. Next to it, open for display, his official San Francisco police identification. It read:

  CLIFF HOOPER INSPECTOR OF POLICE HOMICIDE DETAIL

  TWO

  Across San Francisco, Walt Sydowski looked upon his father sleeping in the hospital bed.

  Johnny.

  Born a Polish peasant, he was a potato farmer and village barber who’d kept his family alive in a labor camp during the Second World War by cutting the hair of Nazi officers.

  Now his heart was deteriorating. The doctors gave him a year.

  Sydowski saw San Francisco’s skyline glittering in the night. Several years ago he’d lost his wife, Basha. She died in this very hospital calling his name. His first years without her were dark. He nearly gave up. His daughters helped get him through it, visiting from the East in shifts. Sydowski wished they’d visit more but he’d endured. Kept going. He had his work. It was his salvation.

  Visiting hours were over. He kissed his old man’s head. Then popped another Tums into his mouth. As he neared the hospital’s main exit he nearly bumped into his partner, Linda Turgeon, as she was rushing in.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Leo said you might be here.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Cliff.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Sydowski steadied himself against the wall. Turgeon gripped his shoulder.

  “It can’t be. How?”

  “Appears he was shot. In his apartment.”

  “In his apartment.”

  “Leo wants you to be the primary. We have to go now.”

  Sydowski stared at Turgeon, not believing what she’d told him. Then they hurried to where she’d parked their unmarked Chevy. A crumpled tissue was on the passenger side. She drove.

  “A few hours ago in the detail Cliff’s goofing around, holding my coffee mug hostage for a Hershey bar, and now he’s dead,” Turgeon said.

  Alarm bells screamed in Sydowski’s ears until he got control of himself. He ran his hand over his face, then shook his head.

  Hooper’s dead. Christ almighty. Hoop.

  The city blurred by like Sydowski’s life.
Over twenty years in San Francisco’s homicide detail. Four hundred and ten murder investigations. The highest clearance rate in the state. He could retire anytime. And some days he thought about it. Dreamed of a fishing cabin in British Columbia, and raising his birds. But no matter how he looked at it, he could not get his head around the idea of hanging it up. He needed the job. It was how he defined himself. Yet, he knew it wouldn’t last forever. Nothing does.

  His wife. His old man. His job. Now Cliff.

  Sydowski had investigated the deaths of police officers. Some were his friends. But nobody this close.

  In the coffee room that afternoon, Cliff had patted his shoulder. “My best to your old man. See you tomorrow.”

  In the Upper Market, Sydowski and Turgeon came upon a knot of radio cars, their flashing lights painting the rubberneckers who’d crowded at the yellow scene tape cordoning off Hooper’s house. As he stepped from the car, it dawned on Sydowski: Cliff’s girlfriend was Molly Wilson, one of the Star’s crime reporters. He pulled out his notebook and started a case log as he and Turgeon approached the first officer on the scene, who briefed them from his own notes.

  “His girlfriend found him. Came to check on him when he didn’t show for their date. Cabdriver called it in.” The officer recited the times and names. Sure enough, Molly Wilson. “And we confirmed no sign of life. No weapons there, except his.”

  “How’s that?” Sydowski looked up from his notebook.

  “It’s not a suicide.”

  “How about we let the investigation determine what it is or isn’t?”

  The officer understood. “Look, we know he was in your detail.”

  Sydowski and Turgeon stared hard at the officer.

  “I just want to say I’m sorry.”

  The officer lifted the tape. Sydowski and Turgeon started down the walkway, nodding to the uniform posted at the back. They ascended the staircase at the rear to the landing, pulled on latex gloves and shoe covers.

  “All set?” Sydowski’s hand gripped the doorknob.

  Turgeon nodded and they entered.

  They studied the kitchen, making notes, taking stock of the sink and trash.

  “Walt?”

  Turgeon pointed her pen to a dime-sized hole in the kitchen wall, about five feet from the floor. Sydowski drew his face close, shone his penlight into the hole, then glanced back to the doorway. He tapped his knuckle on the wall.