Be Mine by Rick Mofina

leads I’m developing on Hooper.”
    “You have leads? What leads?”
    “I’ve got some calls out. Just let me do what I do best rather than
babysit a team. You be the manager. I’ll be the reporter.”
    “All right. Tell you what. I’ll cut you loose to chase exclusives,
on one condition.”
    “Which is?”
    “Press Molly about that first-person piece. I’m not giving up on
that.”
    Tom eyed her briefly, reining in his distaste before returning to
his desk, where he called Molly’s apartment.
    Della answered.
    “How’s Molly doing?” he asked.
    “She’s a bit shaky but functioning.”
    “Can I talk to her?”
    “She’s out with Cliff’s sister and Ray Beamon picking out a casket.”
    Tom said nothing.
    “You sound funny,” Della said. “Is Irene getting to you?”
    “Just a little tired of all the BS.”
    “Aren’t we all?”
    “Tell me something. Remember when you took the flowers from Molly’s
desk to her place last night? She ever guess who sent them?”
    “Naw. She’s been getting so many she can’t keep track--you know the
D.A., the tactical team, newsroom people, fans. Why do you ask?”
    “Something you said got me thinking. The first flowers came so
early, like almost instantly.”
    “Right.”
    “Who would send her flowers so fast after she’d found Hooper?”
    “I agree, they were fast, but someone’s got to be first. Besides,
who’s to say they were about Cliff? Maybe they were for something else. You
know, a story. We get that sometimes. Her show with Vince Vincent or something
else in her life. I mean, without the card it’s hard to say who sent them and
for what reason.”
    “I found the card last night under her desk, but I lost it before I
could read it.”
    “Then it’s a mystery. Listen, I’ll tell Molly you called. I have to
go.”
    Tom tried to sort out his frustrations. First with Pepper, then over
the fact that he’d lost the card. Well, if he was going to work this story, he
should track down Sydowski. Standing to leave, he bumped his keyboard and an
envelope appeared.
    The card.
    There it was. A blank envelope. Unsealed. He turned it over in his
hand thinking there was no harm in looking. He opened it. The flat, square card
inside had an embossed frame and a flowered corner. Written in longhand with a
blue pen was the message Please think of me. I’m thinking of you.
    No signature.

ELEVEN

     
    A nocturne by Chopin floated through the
Chevy’s six speakers as Linda Turgeon drove them back to Hooper’s neighborhood
in the rain. Sydowski’s gut twisted as he stared at the latest ballistics
reports, because the only thing he could see was Beamon’s scraped knuckles.
    Ray was his suspect.
    But Sydowski wasn’t prepared to reveal his suspicion to anyone. If Turgeon
hadn’t come to it already, she would soon enough. Their sworn duty was to
gather the evidence for a solid case. And that was what they would do. Problem
was, he didn’t have a single shred of anything he could use to challenge Ray.
    Not yet.
    As the car’s wipers flapped, Sydowski chewed hard on a Tums and went
back to the reports. They knew Hooper’s gun hadn’t been fired. And they hadn’t
found the murder weapon. The bullet pried from Cliff’s apartment wall and the
bullet recovered from his hemorrhaged brain were confirmed as being .40-cal
Winchester SXT Talons. The standard issued to all SFPD officers. It was also
available to the public.
    “What about the lands, grooves, and twists? Were the bullets fired
from a .40-cal Beretta?” Turgeon asked.
    It was the weapon issued force-wide.
    “One of the rounds was badly damaged,” Sydowski said. “Ballistics
still has more work to do, then there’s imaging and the databases to check
against other unsolveds. Other pistols besides a Beretta can also fire this
kind of bullet.”
    “Still, your thinking on this is that Cliff knew the shooter.”
    “He was punched. That’s an intimate type of assault.”
    “Right.”
    “If he