The Speed of Dark

By Jackie Rae

A homeless man is killed by a hit and run driver on a foggy San Francisco night in North Beach. Ambitious journalist Ainsley Byrne discovers that he comes from a prominent and wealthy San Francisco family. As she looks for answers about how Charles Bedford ended up on the street, one of her best police sources catches the case. As both Ainsley and Detective Joe Crane search for answers about the victim and the killer, they are each hiding a dark secret. Ainsley writes a series of articles about San Francisco's growing homeless problem that sets a fire under city hall and the police. She also falls for the victim's brother, Raymond, and a strange romance ensues in the midst of the tragedy. Ainsley's romance is threatened by her festering secret and the subsequent murder of another homeless person puts pressure on her to reveal that secret. Joe Crane doggedly pursues his last case, determined to solve it before he is forced into retirement.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jackie Rae
• Release date: Jul 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466089556

Jackie Rae

Jackie Rae is a journalist and marketing writer who has been published in various publications over the last 20 years. She previously was a corporate communications professional in Silicon Valley. Rae lives in Northern California.

Book preview

Chapter One

December was a tough time to be homeless in San Francisco. Mickey watched as Charles walked to the center of Beach Street and stood on the meridian, waiting. There was no traffic on the street at this late hour. Mickey pulled his coat tightly around him against the winter chill and reached into his pocket for a cigarette butt he had saved. He reached deeper into another coat pocket and fingered a matchbook. Lighting the cigarette, he waited for Charles to cross the intersection and wondered where his friend was headed at this time of night in North Beach. The fog enveloped the night, dense and moist, even cloying.

Up the street a pair of headlights appeared over the crest of the hill and he could barely make out a car approaching through the fog. Charles just stood there and stamped his feet against the cold. Mickey almost called out to him, but decided against it. He was ready to settle down somewhere and wasn’t in the mood for talking. He took a drag off the cigarette and watched the Christmas lights blink across the street at a local deli. They added a bit of warmth to the cold night. He backed up into the shadows of an Italian restaurant and leaned his backpack against the wall.

The car came down the hill and picked up speed. Charles didn’t cross the street, he just stood there, composing himself, Mickey thought later. As the car neared the intersection Mickey could see it was a dark-colored sedan. The traffic light turned green and the driver shifted into a higher gear. Off in the distance, Mickey heard the lonely moan of a foghorn.

As the car accelerated to pass through the light, Charles stepped out in front of it. Mickey heard a loud thump as Charles’ body bounced off the car and landed in a heap at the opposite curb. There was a screech of tires as the car jolted to a halt two thirds of the way through the intersection. Mickey held his breath and watched as the driver climbed out. Charles wasn’t moving.

The driver approached the lifeless form hesitantly, reached out to feel for a pulse and pulled back in horror, glancing up and down the deserted street in a panic. Running back to the car, the driver climbed in and screeched off into the thickening fog.

Mickey tossed the cigarette and crossed the street, quickly reaching Charles. Son of a bitch. He realized that his friend was dead and collapsed on the curb. Shocked. Keeping watch. He sat there for a few minutes when he heard another car approaching. A police cruiser on routine patrol appeared over the hill and slid to a halt in front of Mickey. He braced himself for the onslaught of questions.

Did you see what happened? asked the police officer, after he had briefly examined the body. A porcine specimen, the cop’s belly bulged under his uniform.

Mickey shook his head, Nope. Just stumbled on him while I was looking for a place to bed down.

The fat cop looked suspicious. You sure you didn’t see anything?

Got a spare cigarette? Mickey asked, not bothering to answer a second time.

The cop reached into his front shirt pocket and fished out a pack of cigarettes, offering him one. Mickey took two and slid them into a front pocket. A second police car pulled up and Mickey watched as the first cop crossed over and briefed the driver. He heard the officer in the second car call the coroner.

Mickey stood up and shoved his hands into his pockets.

The big cop came back over and dug out a notepad and asked, So, what’s your name?

Mickey Cronin.

Was he alive when you found him?

Nope.

The cop ran his hand over his fleshy face. How did you know he was dead?

He had the look in his eyes. He was staring hard at nothing.

You see a car or anybody else out here?

Mickey shook his head and pulled up the collar of his coat.

The cop made a note. What the hell are you doing out here this time of night?

Like I said, I was getting ready to call it a night.

Mickey heard sirens screaming from somewhere behind the hill. Charles was getting a lot of attention now that he was dead.

Did you know him? the cop asked.

Yeah. His name is Charles Bedford. Hangs around North Beach most of the time.

He watched as the cop made a few notes and gestured to the other officer to come forward. The two of them were deep in a confab when Mickey saw a burgundy-colored Toyota pull up to the other side of the intersection and stop at the light. The driver stared first at the cops and then at Charles’ body. When the light turned green, the car slowly pulled away and headed on up the hill.

Mickey watched as the coroner’s van crested the hill and landed roughly on the asphalt.

The fat cop ambled back over to him and said, We got a detective coming to check out the scene. He’s gonna want to talk to you, so stick around. Porky pointed a finger at him, mimicking a gun.

I’m just going to grab my pack, I left it across the street.

The cop stopped him. You got any idea how to reach his people?

They live somewhere here in the city. That’s all I know.

Think the Homeless Coalition knows him?

Yeah, he hung around there from time to time.

Porky walked over to the coroner’s van and Mickey crossed the street and retrieved his pack. Two men from the van pulled a stretcher out of the back and rolled it over next to Charles’ body. Mickey realized this was the last he would ever see of his friend and felt a tug of grief. He and Charles had enjoyed many a heart-to-heart over the years. He would miss that. He crossed the street again and lit one of the cigarettes, sitting down on the curb to smoke it.

An unmarked Crown Victoria pulled up behind the patrol cars. A tall, thin man in plain clothes got out and conferred with the two cops for a few minutes. Mickey figured he was the detective. The man cast an eye at Mickey at one point in the discussion. The detective walked over to the body and knelt down beside it. After a few minutes, he stood up again and examined the tire tracks in the middle of the intersection, still ignoring Mickey.

The two guys from the coroner’s office laid a black body bag next to Charles. The detective watched as one of the men drew a chalk line around the body. Afterward, they lifted Charles and placed him on the body bag, zipping him into it. Mickey overheard the detective tell them to contact him as soon as the autopsy results were ready.

At this point, the detective turned his attention to Mickey and walked over to where he was seated on the curb. Wearing a wool cap, muffler and winter coat, the detective still looked like a guy who couldn’t get warm.

I’m Detective Crane from the SFPD. I understand you found the body.

That’s right, Mickey blew smoke away from the other man.

He was already dead when you found him?

He was.

The detective nodded and scribbled something in his notepad. Did you see anyone else in the area when you got here, either on foot or in a car?

Nope.

You knew the victim? The detective consulted his notes and said, Charles Bedford.

Yeah.

You have anything else to add?

Mickey took a last puff off of the cigarette and put it out on the curb, pocketing the stub. He stood up and shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

Where can I find you if I need to talk to you again?

You can leave a message at the North Beach Homeless Coalition. I stop by there most days around mealtimes.

The detective handed him a card. Don’t leave town without letting me know.

I’m not going anywhere. Mickey picked up his pack and turned and walked down the street, disappearing into the fog.

Chapter Two

Ainsley Byrne stood in the shower, the hot water cascading over her head and body. Only a few hours of restless sleep had visited and she counted on the steaming water to revive her. Insomnia was a constant bedfellow these days, but last night was the worst ever. She grabbed the soap and hurriedly ran it over her body. There was a lot to do before she went to work and very little time. She shampooed her long hair and rinsed it, squeezed out the excess water and stepped out of the claw-footed tub onto the bath mat.

She toweled off quickly in the warm room and wiped the steam off the medicine cabinet mirror. Plugging in the blow dryer, she gave her auburn hair a few licks; in too big a hurry to dry it thoroughly. She slipped into her robe and slippers and braced herself for the cold when she opened the door. She had turned up the heat in her apartment, but it would take a while for the furnace to thaw the place.

The smell of freshly-brewed coffee greeted her when she opened the bathroom door and she rushed into the kitchen and poured a cup to carry with her to the bedroom. She popped one of her antidepressants and a couple of aspirin, washed them down with the hot coffee and poured dry cat food into a bowl on the floor. Her Siamese cat, Jasper, swished his tail playfully, ignored the food, and followed her to the bedroom.

She dressed in jeans, a camisole and navy blue sweater, pulled her boots on and took a big gulp of coffee. Her head was killing her. After she treated Jasper to some badly needed attention, she ran a brush through her damp hair and fluffed it with long fingers. A pair of silver earrings and some lipstick completed her primping.

She groaned when she remembered the long message Andrew had left on her answering machine the night before. Damn him. Why did he always manage to surface when she was the least prepared to deal with him? His voice had been tentative, so unlike his normal cocky attitude, and she knew he was working up to asking for a reconciliation. She didn’t know how she felt about him right now and she sure as hell wasn’t going to call back until she had some idea how to handle his overtures.

Her leather jacket and muffler hung on the coat rack by the door and she put them on and locked up. Outside, the wind was frosty and the day overcast. It matched her mood. She stopped in front of her car, shook off the remnants of last night’s disturbing dreams and turned her mind to work.

Come on, Ainsley, you can do this, she muttered to herself as she walked around to the driver’s side of the car. She hesitated at the door, but finally took a deep breath and put the key in the slot and climbed in. There was a gas station a mile away in Noe Valley where she could get a free car wash with a fill up.

The bank ATM was a few blocks away and she left the car running at the curb while she punched up some cash.

When she arrived at the gas station, there was a line and she took a few deep breaths to calm herself as she waited. She ticked off the things she had to get through today. Her editor, Owen Padgett, expected an expanded analysis of last night’s city council meeting first thing this morning. She’d filed a brief recap of the meeting at 10:30 last night for this morning’s edition, but Owen wanted an analysis piece for tomorrow. Working on the metro desk had its rewards, but sitting through the Wednesday night council meetings wasn’t one of them.

She rummaged in her bag for her notepad as the car in front of her pulled up to the pumps. It had been an uneventful meeting and she calculated how many column inches she could get from a long discussion on the search for a new city manager to replace the man who had just vacated the position under a flurry of sexual harassment accusations. She hoped that Owen, the czar of skeptics, would go for her idea to do a profile of Kate Bloodworth, the woman who had initiated the torrent of charges by filing the first harassment suit against Ernie Thomas and the city. Bloodworth was head of the budget office and it had taken guts to come out against a popular city official. Ainsley wanted her story, complete with all the messy details. So far, Kate had clammed up under instructions from her lawyer, but Ainsley felt she could finesse an interview now that Thomas had been removed from office by the board of supervisors. After all, she was famed for landing the interviews nobody else could. But that was before the depression had settled in.

The car in front of her drove off and she pulled up to the pumps and filled up the tank. The car wash only took a few minutes and soon she was heading up Market Street to the offices of the San Francisco Herald. It would take all her energy to get through this day. Lack of sleep hadn’t stopped her in the past, but she’d lost her resilience over time. Dr. Leopold had prescribed a new antidepressant to improve her sleeping patterns and keep at bay the grayness that threatened to overwhelm her. He warned her that it would take a few weeks for the medication to take full effect and she ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. She longed to be free of the heavy blanket of depression she had been suffocating under these last six months since Andrew had given her the devastating news that he was in love with another woman. She was only 33-years old, too young to be feeling so depressed.

A note on her desk instructed her to see Owen as soon as she arrived. She hung her jacket over the chair, dropped her bag on the desk, removed a notepad, and stopped off in the coffee room. She poured herself a cup and took a few tentative sips of the hot liquid before heading for Owen’s glass-enclosed, corner office. She liked and respected her editor, but he was a raging workaholic and lately their relationship had been strained. Her on-going depression had interfered with her job performance and Owen recently warned her to get back into high gear soon or there would be hell to pay. As one of his best reporters, he couldn’t afford to let her coast. Although he had been sympathetic when her husband abandoned her for another woman, his compassion was running dry.

Morning, Owen, she said, as she walked into his office and took a chair in front of a massive desk overflowing with paper and the goofy toys his reporters collected for him. The walls were papered with pages of the metro section, and pages from their competitors. Owen did all his postmortems on these walls and scribbled on the pages with black and red felt pen. With his sleeves rolled up and his hair mussed, he epitomized the harried editor as he scrutinized today’s edition of the San Francisco Chronicle. When he did not look up, she waited for the dime to drop and he finally tore his eyes away from the article he had been critiquing and smiled at her. Morning, Ains, he said, I’ve got an assignment for you.

She straightened up in her chair and flipped to a blank page in her notepad.

There was a hit-and-run in North Beach last night--a homeless man. I want you to cover the police investigation and write up something for tomorrow. Then I want you to get into this guy’s background and start working on a profile for Sunday.

Ainsley flinched, Do we know who he is?

Not yet. Jamison just told me about it. One of his police sources put him onto it. But I want you to work this one. I want a profile that humanizes the guy. He was left in the street like a pile of garbage.

Owen was obviously excited about the idea. Now that Prop N has passed, I’ve been planning an updated series on homelessness in San Francisco. This guy’s story could be a perfect way to kick it off. Let me know what you come up with asap.

Proposition N had been passed by 60 percent of San Francisco voters in November. It was called the Care Not Cash measure and involved holding back general assistance grants to the homeless and using the cache of money, about $15 million, to fund low-cost housing and shelters as well as to increase drug and alcohol rehabilitation beds across the city.

She hesitated before asking, You want me to do the whole series?

That’s right. It’s your beat. This is your chance to get back into the game in a big way. You handle this right and it could be killer. The politicians need another kick in the pants about the homeless crisis in this city. I want you to get in their faces. Make the whole city feel the loss of this guy. Take a hard look at the proposed implementation of Prop N.

What about the story on last night’s council meeting?

Did anything big happen?

Just a long discussion on replacing Thomas as city manager.

Owen waved a hand, dismissing it. That can wait. We’ll do something more in depth after next week’s meeting.

Ainsley waited, her heart quickening. She felt the burden of the assignment already and knew she couldn’t beg off this one. She hadn’t seen Owen so worked up in a while. He was probably testing her. I’ll need a new cell phone, my old one crapped out.

Sheila will get you one, just tell her I authorized it. Get with Jamison and your police sources. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes fastened on her. You got a problem with this?

She shook her head. No problem. I’ll get to it.

She stood and walked out of his office in a daze. He was giving her a great opportunity, but it was also an enormous responsibility. It would take all her skills to pull together a good series on the current homeless situation. Ironically, she had wanted to do the story for a while. To put a face on the faceless was daunting, but worthwhile. The timing, though, was about as bad as it could get. Her depression was eating away at her confidence and the thought of such a huge project scared the hell out of her. She felt herself trembling and took a deep breath and tried to shake off the anxiety. It was time to dig in.

In the research department, Peter Brown was riveted to his computer screen when Ainsley approached him. Peter, I need your help on a story. You got time?

I’m all yours, baby, he said turning in his swivel chair after closing what was on the screen. I just finished that big piece for Jenny. He grinned and added, That was quite a party last night. You really tied one on.

Yeah, and I’ve got the headache to prove it.

Thank God the weekend’s coming up.

Not for me. Owen just hit me with this assignment, she sighed. I’ll make a few phone calls and get back to you with the details.

You gonna need a lot of my time?

Check with Owen, I’m going to keep you pretty busy over the next few weeks. She smiled and added, Sorry if I’m interrupting your study on internet porn.

Peter blushed and said, Don’t go spreading that around.

She checked her voice mail and called over to tell Owen’s secretary, Sheila Madison, about the cell phone before settling in at her desk. Across the newsroom, Rick Jamison was on the telephone. She watched him hang up and walked over to his desk.

Rick, I need all the info you have on last night’s hit-and-run. Owen just assigned me the story.

A look of resentment flashed across his face before he could hide it. He covered the police beat and was very territorial. She knew he was disappointed that Owen had whisked the story out from under him, but he also understood that there was no point in kicking up a fuss. With a shrug of resignation, he dug around his messy desk for his notes and ripped them out of a pad and handed them to her.

Here’s what my source gave me, it’s not much. The guy was killed sometime around 11:30 p.m. on Beach Street. They hadn’t notified the family, so they weren’t giving out his name yet. Whoever hit him fled the scene. There were no witnesses. Another homeless guy found the body.

He threw her a dismissive glance and turned back to his computer.

Who’s handling the investigation?

My contact wasn’t sure. You’ll have to check around.

Thanks, Rick. She ignored his irritation and headed back to her desk, where she reached for her Rolodex. Her best contact at the SFPD was Joe Crane in the homicide division. They’d formed a good relationship back when she had covered the police beat during her early days at the paper. Over the years their professional relationship had blossomed into a friendship that she valued. She gave Joe a call and lucked out when he picked up his phone personally.

Joe, Ainsley here. How have you been?

A little under the weather, but still hanging in there. We haven’t talked for a while. We should have lunch.

Sounds good. Maybe next week. I’m working on a story about the homeless man who was killed last night in North Beach. Do you know who’s working the case?

Joe was an unusual cop who never flirted and tried to avoid publicity. He and Ainsley had clicked the first time they met and she had come to rely on his no nonsense style and professionalism.

Actually, it’s my case. What do you need?

Owen’s looking to put some heat on city hall and thinks this story may be a good starting point. Do you have an ID yet?

His name was Charles Bedford. A manic-depressive. He’d been picked up a few times for being off his rocker. Hospitalized twice in the last few years. Evidently, he comes from an upper crust San Francisco family. His father is Winston Bedford of Everett, Lloyd and Bedford, a top corporate law firm. I spoke to the mother, Lily Whitehill Bedford...she didn’t take the news well. I-

Ainsley interrupted, I heard there were no witnesses.

That’s right. It happened late in the evening. Nobody was around.

So, are you treating this as a homicide? she asked.

You bet. Whoever hit him left him lying there. Without witnesses, it’s classified as a homicide.

Was he drunk or drugged?

The medical examiner is doing the autopsy today. Things are slow, so I may have the tox screen results later this afternoon.

I heard there was another homeless man at the scene when the police arrived. Any idea where I can reach him?

Mickey Cronin. A regular in the North Beach area. You can find him through the Homeless Coalition. Anyway, he said he didn’t see anything.

Did he know the victim? she asked.

Yeah. He can probably give you some background. I’m on my way out to talk to him again myself.

Thanks, Joe. I appreciate the info. Do you want to be quoted on this?

Just say that we’re treating this with the same seriousness as any other homicide case. The fact that the guy was homeless doesn’t mean we’re low-balling it. We don’t have any leads on the driver yet, but we’re working on it. You might ask anyone who saw anything last night to contact me. You give it to her right away. She picked up the police report from the fax machine and, after alerting the obituary writer, settled down to write up the news article on the accident and the police investigation.

"Good. Any chance you could fax me a copy of the police report? I’d go through regular channels, but I’m on a tight deadline.

Yeah, alright, but you didn’t get it from me. Give me your fax number.

Ainsley gave him the number and thanked him again before hanging up. They agreed to set up a lunch date for early next week. She scribbled a few additional notes to herself and then glanced back at Owen’s office to see if he was with anybody. He was still studying a layout and marking it up. She knocked on the open door and he looked up and waved her in.

Preliminary info on that hit an run. No witnesses, but get this, he comes from a wealthy San Francisco family, the Bedfords. Do you know them?

He nodded, Sure, Winston Bedford is a high priced corporate attorney and he and his wife are well-known philanthropists. This is good. What was junior doing out on the streets?

Evidently, he was a manic depressive. I’ll need to contact the family, which could be iffy. They probably won’t want the publicity. My source at the SFPD said the mother took it pretty hard.

Well, give it a shot. See if you can get a quote for today’s article. Also, give whoever’s covering obits the info. Just don’t burn any bridges, we’re going to need the parent’s cooperation for the profile. Hell, why am I telling you this? You know how to handle it. He waved her off.

Ainsley was relieved when she felt a surge of energy as she walked back to her desk. The story was coming together in her head and she was already sketching out the profile on Charles Bedford. She wasn’t just researching an