Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

“But those pictures were taken surreptitiously.”

“What the fuck do we care? You’ve got him pegged as achild-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 thirtyinches. You send the story to me and see me before you leave. Is thatunderstood?”

“I think this is wrong.”

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

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

Resign , he toldhimself.

Reed sat before his computer terminal and logged on. Quiton the spot . Benson was making him walk the plank, setting him up to befired. 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 heshould call Sydowski. Right, if he needed more abuse, Sydowski was the man tocall. Reed kicked everything to the back of his mind and began writing whatBenson ordered.

Two hours later, he knocked on Benson’s open officedoor. 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 ofJustice.”

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 thetask 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’tcome 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 herehinges on the integrity of the story you just wrote.”

Walking to his old Comet in the parking lot, itoccurred to Reed that he had a few things to be grateful for. Edward Keller didnot 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 wouldstop at Harry’s Liquor Store for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee SippingWhiskey.

He realized he had just been fired.

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

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

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

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

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

Three: the back, the front,”-Louey pointed to a farcorner 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 onLouey’s arm.

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

“Yeah? For what?”

“We’ll let you in on it a little later,” Sydowski toldhim. 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 tablesdivided by a middle aisle. A fire marshal’s certificate near the door put thecapacity at four hundred. Supper had begun. Less than two dozen people wereseated and eating. A few hundred more were queued at the serving tables at thekitchen end of the hall. Volunteers dished up meals and encouragement.

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

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

Barney Tucker, a retired diesel mechanic and devoutCatholic, greeted the shelter’s “guests” at the door, his stomach expanding thewords: JESUS IS LOVE on his T-shirt. Barney clasped his big hand warmly overVirgil Shook’s as Shook passed by with the others making their way to theserving 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 withthe tinkling of cutler as the holy ones tended their miserable flock. Contemptslowly painted Shook’s face. He battled the urge to scream: Do you know whoI 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 hadbeen too long. So long. He searched the hall for someone. Maybe that littletemptress 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 anickel.

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

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

A possibility jumped at Sydowski as he went from tableto 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 offgrabbing him so they could surveil him. He might lead them to the children. Ifthey were still alive. He might lead them to evidence. They could also, losehim. He could abduct another child. It was a risk Sydowski weighed, studyingthe line that reached from the serving table to the door, searching fortattoos, the right body type and face. He constantly checked to be sure hissports jacket was buttoned so his gun was unseen. He concentrated, taking stockof the hall, the exits. How fast could he make them if Shook bolted? What wouldhe do?

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

“Oh. No, Marty. I’m sorry.” Florence distracted him byputting 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.” Atoothless smile came out from hiding in Marty’s grizzled beard.