Women's Murder Club [01] 1st to Die Read online

  After applying a few dabs of makeup, I made my way back to my desk.

  To my chagrin, Raleigh wandered up. “Now you can manage their fallout,” I snapped unnecessarily, referring to the FBI.

  “I didn’t know,” he said. “As soon as I did, I told you.”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “I know.”

  Raleigh got up, came around, and sat on the edge of my desk, facing me. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Tell me. Please.” How did he know? Maybe he was a much better detective than I gave him credit for.

  For a moment, I wanted to tell him. God, I wanted it to come out.

  Then Raleigh did something totally unexpected.

  He flashed one of those trusting smiles that I couldn’t help but give myself over to. He pulled me out of my chair and gave me a hug.

  I was so surprised I didn’t even resist. I was quivering jelly in his arms. It wasn’t quite sexual, but no burst of passion had ever rippled through me more powerfully.

  Raleigh held me until the anxiety had slowly melted away. Right there, in the fucking squad room. I didn’t know what to do, but I didn’t want to pull back. Or have him let me go.

  “I could write you up for this,” I finally mumbled into his shoulder.

  He didn’t move. “You want a pen?”

  Slowly, I pulled myself away. Every nerve in my body felt as if it had retreated from a tense state of alert. “Thanks,” I muttered with appreciation.

  “You didn’t seem yourself,” he said gently. “Shift’s almost done. Want to talk about it over coffee? Just coffee, Lindsay, not a date.”

  I looked at my watch and suddenly saw that it was almost five o’clock. I had to be at Moffett.

  I gave him a look that I hoped reflected, Ask me again, but said, “I can’t. Gotta go.”

  Chapter 48

  THE PRETTY, SMILING RESERVATIONS clerk politely nodded for the next person in line. “Welcome to the Lakefront Hilton, sir.”

  Phillip Campbell stepped up to the counter. He noticed her name, Kaylin. Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed Kaylin. He smiled back. Flirted subtly. He handed her a confirmation slip.

  “First time with us, Mr. Campbell?” the desk clerk asked in a high-pitched chirp.

  He smiled, let her know that it was.

  As she punched in his reservation, he followed her movements, thoughtfully stroking the rough hairs of his beard.

  He wanted her to notice. To remember his face. Maybe something he said.

  One day, when some diligent FBI agent came by with a drawing or photograph, he wanted this chirpy little squirrel to think back and recall this moment in a close and chilling way. He wanted her to remember everything.

  As he had with the saleswoman in the Bridal Boutique at Saks.

  “Here for a visit to the museum, Mr. Campbell?” Kaylin asked, as she typed.

  “For the Voskuhl wedding,” he volunteered.

  “Everyone’s saying that.” She smiled.

  He followed the click of her peach-colored nails against the keys as she typed. “I’ve got you a deluxe room with a beautiful view,” she said, handing him a key. She smiled. “Enjoy the wedding. And have a nice stay.”

  “I will,” Campbell said pleasantly. Before he turned away, he caught her eye and said, “Speaking of weddings — I like your ring.”

  Upstairs, he pulled the curtains aside and, as promised, before him was a sweeping view.

  Of Cleveland, Ohio.

  Chapter 49

  I SAW HIM …. That bastard. What was he doing here?

  In a large, fast-moving crowd, on lower Market. Just a quick movement in the throng fighting its way toward the ferry.

  My blood froze with the sight of him.

  He was wearing an open blue shirt, brown corduroy jacket. He looked like some college professor. On any other day, I could have passed him by, never noticed. He was thin, gaunt, totally unremarkable in every way but one.

  It was the reddish-brown beard.

  His head bobbed in and out of the crowd. I followed, unable to narrow the distance.

  “Police!” I shouted over the din.

  My cry dissolved into the hurrying, unheeding mass of people. At any moment I might lose him.

  I didn’t know his name, I only knew his victims. Melanie Brandt. Rebecca DeGeorge.

  Suddenly, he stopped. He bucked against the flow, turned right toward me.

  His face seemed illuminated, shining against a dark background like one of those medieval Russian icons. Amid the commotion, our eyes met.

  There was a moment of captured, enlightened recognition. He knew that it was me. That I was the one after him.

  Then, to my horror, he fled; the swarm of people engulfed him, swept him away.

  “Stop,” I shouted. “I’ll shoot!”

  A cold sweat broke out on my neck. I drew my gun.

  “Get down,” I cried, but the rush-hour commuters pushed on, shielding him. I was going to lose him. The killer was getting away.

  I raised the gun, focused on the image of his red beard.

  He turned — with the sneer of someone who had totally outwitted me.

  I drew a breath, steadied my aim.

  As if in slow motion, every face in the crowd turned toward me, too.

  I stepped back. In horror, I lowered the gun.

  Every face had the same red beard.

  I had been dreaming. I found myself at my kitchen counter, blinking into swirling circles in my glass of chardonnay. There was a familiar calm in my apartment. No rushing crowds, no fleeing faces. Only Sweet Martha, lounging on her futon.

  A pot of boiling water was steaming on the stove. I had my favorite sauce ready to go — ricotta, zucchini, basil. A CD was on, Tori Amos.

  Only an hour ago, I had had tubes and IV lines sticking out of me. My heart had kept pace to the metro-nomelike rhythm of a monitor’s steady beep.

  Damn it, I wanted my old life back. My old, favorite dreams. I wanted Jacobi’s sarcasm, Sam Roth’s scorn, jogging on the Marina Green. I wanted kids — even if it meant I had to get married again.

  Suddenly, the downstairs buzzer rang. Who would be here now? I shuffled over and said, “Who is it?”

  “I thought you had somewhere to go,” a static voice replied.

  It was Raleigh.

  Chapter 50

  “WHAT’RE YOU DOING HERE?” I called back in surprise.

  I was pleased but suddenly tingling with nerves. My hair was pulled up, I was in an old Berkeley T-shirt that I sometimes slept in, and I felt drained and anxious from my transfusion. My little place was a mess.

  “Can I come up?” Raleigh said.

  “This business or personal?” I asked. “We don’t have to go back to Napa, do we?”

  “Not tonight.” I heard him laugh. “This time I brought my own.”

  I didn’t quite understand that, but I buzzed him up. I ran back to the kitchen, turned the heat down on the pasta, and in the same breath threw a couple of pillows from the floor onto the couch and transferred a pile of magazines to a chair in the kitchen.

  I put some lip gloss on and shook out my hair as the doorbell rang.

  Raleigh was in an open shirt and baggy khakis. He was carrying a bottle of wine. Kunde. Very nice. He tossed me an apologetic smile. “I hope you don’t mind me barging in.”

  “Nobody barges in here. I let you in,” I said. “What’re you doing here?”

  He laughed. “I was in the neighborhood.”

  “The neighborhood, huh? You live across the bay.”

  He nodded, abandoning his alibi without much resistance. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You didn’t seem yourself back at the station.”

  “That’s nice, Raleigh,” I said, looking into his eyes.

  “So? Are you?”

  “So. I was just feeling a little overwhelmed. Roth. This FBI thing. I’m fine now. Really.”

  “I’m glad,” he said. “Something smells good.”

  “I was just throwing something
together.” I paused, thinking about what I wanted to say next. “You had dinner?”

  He shook his head. “No, no. I don’t want to intrude.”

  “That why you came with the wine?”

  He flashed one of those irresistible smiles. “If you weren’t home, I have a corner on Second and Brannan I always head to.”

  I smiled back and finally held open the door.

  Raleigh came into my apartment. He looked around with sort of an impressed nod, gazing at some of the pottery, a black-and-gold satin baseball jacket from Willie Mays, my terrace with its view of the bay. He held out the bottle.

  “There’s one already open on the counter,” I said. “Pour yourself a glass. I’ll check on the food.”

  I went into the kitchen, reminding myself that I had just come from the outpatient clinic for a serious disease, and we were partners, anyway. With an irrepressible flicker of excitement, I took out an extra place setting.

  “Number twenty-four, Giants?” he called to me. “This warm-up jacket is the real thing?”

  “Willie Mays. My father gave it to me for my tenth birthday. He wanted a boy. I kept it all these years.”

  He came into the kitchen, spun a stool around at the counter. While I stirred the penne he poured himself a glass of wine. “You always cook for yourself like this?”

  “Old habit,” I said. “Growing up, my mother worked late. I had a sister six years younger. Sometimes my mother didn’t get home till eight. From the time I can remember, I had to make dinner.”

  “Where was your dad?”

  “Left us,” I said, whipping together some mustard, grape seed oil, balsamic vinegar, and lemon into a vinaigrette for the salad. “When I was thirteen.”

  “So your mother brought you up?”

  “You could say. Sometimes I feel like I brought myself up.”

  “Until you got married.”

  “Yeah, then I sort of brought him up, too.” I smiled. “You’re pretty nosy, Raleigh.”

  “Cops are generally nosy. Didn’t you know that?”

  “Yeah. Real cops.”

  Raleigh feigned being hurt. “What can I help you with?” he offered.

  “You can grate,” I said, and grinned. I pushed a block of Parmesan and a metal grater his way.

  We sat there as he grated, waiting for the pasta to cook. Sweet Martha padded into the kitchen and let Raleigh pet her.

  “You didn’t seem yourself this afternoon,” he said as he stroked Martha’s head. “Usually, you handle Roth’s bullshit without even blinking. Seemed like there was something wrong.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” I lied. “At least not now. If you were asking.”

  I leaned against the counter and looked at him. He was my partner, but even more than that, he was a person I thought I could trust. It had been a long, hard time since I had put my trust in anybody whose gender started with an M. Maybe, in a different time …I was thinking.

  Tori Amos’s haunting voice hung in the air.

  “You like to dance?” Raleigh suddenly asked.

  I looked at him, really surprised. “I don’t dance. I cook.”

  “You don’t dance…you cook?” Raleigh repeated, scrunching up his brow.

  “Yeah. You know what they say about cooking.”

  He looked around. “What I’d say is that it doesn’t seem to be working. Maybe you should try dancing.”

  The music was soft and languorous, and as much as I tried to deny it, part of me just yearned to be held.

  Without my even saying yes, my goddamn partner took my hand and pulled me from around the counter. I wanted to hold back, but a soft, surrendering voice inside me said, Just go with it, Lindsay. He’s okay. You know you trust him.

  So I gave in and let Chris Raleigh hold me. I liked being in his arms.

  At first we sort of stood there, swaying stiffly. Then I found myself letting my head fall on his shoulder, and feeling like nothing could ail me, at least for a while.

  “This isn’t a date,” I muttered.

  I let myself drift to a real nice place, where I felt love and hope and dreams were still there to reach for.

  “To tell the truth,” I told Raleigh, “I’m glad you stopped by.”

  “Me, too.”

  Then I felt him hold me close. A tingle raced down my spine, one that I almost didn’t recognize anymore.

  “You’ve got it, don’t you, Raleigh?” I said.

  “What’s that, Lindsay?”

  Soft hands.

  Chapter 51

  KATHY AND JAMES VOSKUHL were having their first dance — and to break with tradition, it was a rocker.

  The driving beat of “La Bamba” jolted through the brightly lit atrium of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland.

  “Everybody!” the groom shouted. “Rock and roll! Join us!”

  Hip young girls with dyed hair and wearing shiny green and red prom dresses — sixties style — swung around on the dance floor, their partners in retro silk shirts, Travolta-like. The bride and groom, having changed into party garb, joined in, butting thighs, whooping, arms in air.

  It almost ruined everything, Phillip Campbell thought.

  He had wanted her in white.

  And here she was, sweaty red-streaked hair, cat-eye-shaped glasses, a tight green dress.

  This time, Kathy, you’ve gone too far.

  Forty tables, each with the likeness of some rock and roll icon as a centerpiece, filled out the Great Hall of the museum. A glittery banner that hung from the glass roof proclaimed: James and Kathy.

  After a loud crescendo the song ended. A throng of sweaty wedding guests milled back toward their tables, catching their breath, fanning themselves. Waiters in black waistcoats scurried about the room, filling wine-glasses.

  The bride went over and embraced a happy couple in formal dress. Mom and Dad. Phillip Campbell couldn’t take his eyes off her. He saw her father give her a loving look, like, We’ve come through a lot, honey, but now everything will be all right. Now you’re part of the club, trust funds and Country Day, little peach-haired grand-kids.

  The groom wandered over and whispered something in Kathy’s ear. She squeezed his arm, flashing him a smile that was both affectionate and coy. As he walked away, the tips of her fingers lingered, as if she were saying, I’ll be right along.

  With a hitch of his belt, the groom drifted out of the main hall. He glanced back once or twice, and Kathy waved.

  Campbell decided to follow, hanging back at a safe distance. He went down a wide, well-lit corridor off the atrium. Halfway down, James Voskuhl glanced back once, cautiously. Then he opened a door and went in. The men’s room.

  The killer moved forward. No one else was in the hall. He felt an irrepressible urge building with force.

  His fingers made their way into his jacket pocket, touched the cold heel of the gun. He flicked the safety off. He could no longer control what was going on inside his head.

  Go in, a voice dared him. Do it.

  He entered a filmy, sallow light. No one at the urinals or sinks. The groom was in a closed stall. A pungent smell filled his nostrils: marijuana.

  “That you, love?” the groom’s affectionate voice called out.

  Every wicklike nerve in Campbell’s body stood at attention. He mumbled something barely audible.

  “Better get in here, hon,” the groom gulped, “if you want the end of this bone.”

  Phillip Campbell pushed open the door.

  The groom looked up, bewildered, the tip of a joint on his lip. “Hey, man, who the hell are you?”

  “I’m the one who kills useless worms like you.” With that, he fired. Just once.

  James Voskuhl’s head snapped back. A splatter of red sprayed against the tile. The groom rocked once, then crumpled forward in a heap.

  The echo of the gun blast seemed to concuss the entire room. It left an effluvium of cordite that mingled with the pot smoke.

  A strange calm took over Phillip Campbell,
a fearlessness. He pulled the groom’s head back and set him upright.

  Then he waited.

  The sound of the outer door opening and echoes of the distant party rushing in went right through him.

  “That you, Vosk?” a woman’s voice called out.

  It was her. The bride.

  “What’re you smoking in there, tar?” Kathy giggled. She went over to the sinks, and he heard the sound of running water.

  Campbell could see her through a crack in the stall. She was at the sink, thrashing a comb through her hair. A vision came to him. How he would set this up. What the police would find.

  It took everything he had to control himself — to let her come to him.

  “You better save me a hit or two, mister,” the bride called out.

  He watched her dance over to the stall. So close now. So unbelievably delicious. What a moment.

  When she opened the door, it was her look that meant everything to him.

  The sight of James, red drool leaking from his mouth. The startled recognition of the killer’s face suddenly clicking in; the gun aimed right at her eyes.

  “I like you better in white, Kathy,” was all the killer said.

  Then he squeezed the trigger — and a blinding white flash exploded through the cat-eye lenses.

  Chapter 52

  I WAS IN EARLY Monday morning, feeling a little nervous about my first contact with Raleigh after our dancing-and-dining experience, wondering where all this was going to go, when one of the task force inspectors, Paul Chin, rushed up to me. “Lindsay, there’s a woman in Interrogation Room Four I think you should check out.”

  Ever since a physical description of the assailant had hit the airwaves, people had been calling in with fake sightings and dead-end leads. One of Chin’s jobs was to follow them up, no matter how unlikely.

  “This one a psychic or a police buff?” I asked with a skeptical smile.

  “I think this one’s the genuine article,” said Chin. “She was at the first wedding.”

  I almost leaped out of my chair after him. At the front of the squad room, I spotted Raleigh coming in. Chris.