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

  “Merrill told me a few things about Kathy. Her lifestyle…”

  “We told you all that,” she replied defensively. “But we also told you that after meeting James she had begun to settle down.”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about. Merrill recalled there was someone she was seeing in San Francisco.”

  “I thought we told you Kathy dated lots of men.”

  “This one went on for a long time. He was older. Married. Some kind of big shot. Possibly famous.”

  “I wasn’t my sister’s keeper,” Hillary complained.

  “I need a name, Ms. Bloom. This man could be her killer.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand. I already told you what I know. My sister didn’t exactly confide in me. We lived very different lives. I’m sure you’ve put two and two together already — there was a lot I didn’t approve of.”

  “You said something to me the first time we talked. Old habits are hard to crack. What sort of habits were you referring to?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. The Cleveland police are handling this, Inspector. Can’t we just let them do their job?”

  “I’m trying to help you, Ms. Bloom. Why did Kathy move away from San Francisco? I think you know. Was someone abusing her? Was Kathy in trouble?”

  Hillary sounded frightened. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m going to hang up now, Inspector.”

  “It’s going to come out, Hillary. It always does. An address book. Her phone bill. It’s not just Kathy. There are four others, back in California. They were just as hopeful about the rest of their lives as your sister. Just as deserving.”

  There was a tiny sob in her voice. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I felt I had one last chance. “Here’s the really ugly truth about murder. If I’ve learned one thing as a homicide detective, it’s that the lines don’t stay fixed. Yesterday you were an innocent victim, but now you’re in this, too. This killer will strike again, and you will regret whatever you didn’t tell me for the rest of your life.”

  There was a heavy silence on the line. I knew what it meant. It was the struggle inside Hillary Bloom’s conscience.

  I heard a click. She had hung up the phone.

  Chapter 62

  OUR FLIGHT BACK to San Francisco left at 4:00 p.m. I hated, hated to leave without a name. Especially when I felt we were so close. Somebody famous.

  Kinky.

  Why were they protecting him?

  Anyway, we had accomplished a lot in just two days. It was clear to me that all three murders were committed by the same person. We had a strong lead tying him to San Francisco, a possible identity, a confirmed description. The trail was warm here, and would grow ever hotter when we got home.

  Both investigations would proceed locally. Cleveland would contact the Seattle police force to do a search of the bride’s home. Maybe something in her personal effects, an address book, an e-mail in her computer, would divulge who her San Francisco lover was.

  Waiting to board our plane out of Cleveland, I called my voice mail for messages. One each from Cindy and Claire inquiring about my trip, our case. Reporters pushing for my comments on the Cleveland crime.

  Then I heard the throaty voice of Merrill Shortley. She had left her California number.

  I punched the number as fast as I could. A housekeeper answered, and I could hear the wail of a baby crying.

  When Merrill got on, I could tell that some of her cool veneer had cracked. “I was thinking,” she began, “there was something I didn’t mention yesterday.”

  “Yes? That’s good to hear.”

  “This guy I told you about? The one Kathy was hooked up with in San Francisco? I was telling you the truth. I never knew his name.”

  “Okay, I hear you.”

  “But there were some things…I said he didn’t treat her well. He was into intense sex games. Props, scenarios. Maybe even a little filming. Problem was, Kathy liked the games.”

  There was a long pause before Merrill went on. “Well…I think he pushed her, forced her, to do more than she was comfortable with. I remember marks on her face, bruises on her legs. Mostly it was her spirit that was broken. None of us were exactly bringing home Tom Cruise then, but there was a time when Kathy was real scared. She was in his control.”

  I began to see where this was heading. “It’s why she moved away, isn’t it?” I said.

  I could hear Merrill Shortley sigh on the other end. “Yes, it was.”

  “Then why did she continue to see him from Seattle? You said she was involved with him right up to the end.”

  “I never said,” Merrill Shortley replied, “that Kathy knew what was good for her.”

  Now I saw Kathy Kogut’s life take on the shape of tragic inevitability. I was sure she had fled San Francisco, tried to break away from the grip of this man. But she couldn’t break free.

  Was that true of the other murdered brides?

  “I need a name, Ms. Shortley. Whoever this was, he might’ve killed your friend. There are four others. The longer he’s out there, the greater the chance he’ll do it again.”

  “I told you, I don’t know his name, Inspector.”

  I raised my voice above the din in the terminal. “Merrill, someone must know. You knew her for years, partied together.”

  Merrill hesitated. “In her own way, Kathy was loyal. She said his name was well known. Some kind of celebrity. Someone I would know. She was protecting him. Or maybe protecting herself.”

  My mind raced to the film and music businesses. She was into a bad scene. She was in over her head, and like many people who feel trapped, she ran. She just couldn’t get far enough away.

  “She must’ve told you something,” I pressed. “What he did? Where he lived? Where they would meet? You guys were like sisters.” Wicked sisters?

  “I swear, Inspector. I’ve been racking my brain.”

  “Then someone must know. Who? Tell me.”

  I heard Merrill Shortley let out a mirthless laugh. “Ask her sister.”

  Before we boarded, I beeped McBride and left a detailed message on his voice mail. Kathy’s lover was probably someone famous. It was why she had moved away from San Francisco. The profile fit the pattern of our killer. Her sister, Hillary, might know the killer’s name.

  On board, all I could think about was that we were getting close. Raleigh was there beside me. As the plane rose, I leaned into his arm, surrendering to total exhaustion.

  All my physical troubles seemed a million miles away. I remembered something I’d said to Claire. I had told her that finding this bastard gave me the resolve to go on. The red-bearded man in my dream who had gotten away.

  “We’re going to get him,” I said to Raleigh. “We can’t let him kill another bride and groom.”

  Chapter 63

  EIGHT THE NEXT MORNING, I was at my desk.

  There were several ways I could go with this investigation. Hillary Bloom was the most direct, assuming, as Merrill had implied, that she was able to give us a name. It was clear that in a twisted way she was trying to save her family the added pain of having Kathy publicly branded as some kind of pathetic sexual victim, cheating on her husband-to-be right up until their vows.

  Sooner or later a name would emerge. From her, or from Seattle.

  Before I did anything else, I called Medved’s office and rescheduled the blood treatment I had canceled for five o’clock today. After a brief wait, the receptionist said the doctor would see me himself.

  Maybe it was good news. Truth was, I was feeling a little stronger. Maybe the treatments were beginning to do their work.

  It was hard picking up where I had left off in San Francisco. The best leads were now in Cleveland. I read some reports on the evidence Jacobi was tracking down, held a meeting of the task force at ten.

  Actually, the most promising leads — the hair and the Bridal Boutique at Saks — had come from my meetings with Claire a
nd Cindy. I couldn’t resist calling Claire a little before noon.

  “Bring me up to date,” she said excitedly. “I thought we were partners.”

  “I will,” I replied. “Get Cindy. Meet me for lunch.”

  Chapter 64

  THE THREE OF US leaned against a stone wall in City Hall Park, picking at salad sandwiches we had bought at a nearby grocer’s. The murder club meets again.

  “You were right,” I said to Claire. I passed her a copy of the security photo showing Red Beard sneaking into the Cleveland wedding.

  She stared at it, her eyes focusing intensely. Claire looked up only when the confirmation of her first physical supposition brought out a curious half smile. “I only read whatever that bastard left behind.”

  “Maybe,” I said, tossing her a wink. “But I bet Righetti would’ve missed it.”

  “This is true,” she allowed with a satisfied beam.

  It was a bright, breezy late-June day; the air was fragrant from a crisp Pacific breeze. Office folk worked on their tans; secretaries gabbed in groups.

  I recounted what I had found in Cleveland. I never mentioned what had taken place by the lake between Chris Raleigh and me.

  When I finished with Merrill Shortley’s shocking revelation, Cindy said, “Maybe you should’ve stayed out there, Lindsay.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not my case. I was only there on a consult. Now I’m running point between three jurisdictions.”

  “You think Merrill Shortley has more to tell?” asked Claire.

  “I don’t think so. If she knew, I think she would have told me.”

  “The bride must have had other friends here,” said Cindy. “She was in publicity. If this guy was famous, maybe she met him through her job.”

  I nodded. “I have someone checking that out. We also have the Seattle PD combing through her apartment.”

  “Where’d she work when she lived here?” Claire asked.

  “An outfit called Bright Star Media. Apparently, she was connected into the local music scene.”

  Cindy took a sip of iced tea. “Why not let me have a go at it?”

  “You mean like you did at the Hyatt?” I said.

  She grinned. “No, more like Napa. C’mon… I’m a reporter. I sit all day with people trained to find the dirt on anybody.”

  I bit into my sandwich. “Okay,” I finally said, “be my guest.”

  “In the meantime,” Cindy inquired, “can I run with what we have so far?”

  Much of it was classified. If it came out, it would point back to me. “You can run with the similar pattern of murder in Cleveland. How we found the bodies. The bride’s background here. Absolutely no mention of Merrill Shortley.” In that way, I hoped the killer would sense that we were closing in on him. It might cause him to think twice about killing again.

  Cindy went over to a nearby ice cream cart to buy a gelato. Claire took the moment to ask, “So how are you feeling? You okay?”

  I blew out a long breath and shrugged. “Queasy. Light-headed. I was told to expect it. I’m having a blood treatment this afternoon. Medved said he’d be there.” I saw Cindy on her way back.

  “Here,” Cindy announced brightly. She was carrying three gelatos.

  Claire clutched her chest and pretended she was going into cardiac arrest. “I need gelato about as much as Texas needs a warm breeze in August.”

  “Me, too.” I laughed. But it was mango, and with the infection attacking me inside, it seemed like wasted caution to refuse.

  Claire ended up taking hers, too. “So what you specifically haven’t told us,” she said with a slow roll of her tongue, “is what went on between you and Mr. Chris Raleigh in Oh-hi-oh.”

  “’Cause there was nothing to tell,” I said and shrugged.

  “One thing about cops” — Cindy laughed — “is you would think they would learn how to lie.”

  “You writing for the gossip page now?” I asked.

  Against my will, I felt my face blush. Claire and Cindy’s greedy eyes bore down on me, driving home that it was pointless to resist.

  I pulled a knee up on the edge of the wall and sat yoga style. Then I took them through where things stood: the long, slow dance in my apartment, eliciting “You don’t dance, girl,” from Claire. “You cook.” I described the anticipation of sitting next to him on the plane; the nervous walk down by the lake; my own doubts, hesitation; the inner conflicts holding me back.

  “Basically, it took every bit of self-control not to rip his clothes off right there on Lakefront Walk.” I laughed at how it must have sounded.

  “Girl, why didn’t you?” Claire said, wide-eyed. “Might’ve done you some good.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head.

  But I did know. And though she tried to smile through it, Claire knew, too. She squeezed my hand. Cindy looked on, not knowing what was going on.

  Claire joked, “I’d give up losing twenty pounds to see Cheery’s expression if the two of you got picked up for going at it in the woods.”

  “Two San Francisco cops,” announced Cindy in a newscaster tone, “in Cleveland in pursuit of the bride and groom killer, were discovered au naturel in the bushes by the Cleveland waterfront.”

  The three of us choked with laughter, and it felt so good.

  Cindy shrugged. “That, Lindsay, I would’ve had to print.”

  “From now on” — Claire giggled — “I can see things growing pretty humid in that squad car.”

  “I don’t think that’s Chris’s style,” I defended him. “You forget, the man’s into The Shipping News.”

  “Oh…it’s Chris now, huh?” mooned Claire. “And don’t be so sure about that. Edmund plays three instruments, knows everything from Bartok to Keith Jarrett, but he’s risen to the occasion in some very unexpected places.”

  “Like where?” I laughed, the surprise caught in my throat.

  She coyly shook her head. “I just don’t want you thinking that ’cause a man keeps himself with a certain dignity there’s any dignity when it comes to that.”

  “C’mon,” I exhorted, “you put it in play. Let’s hear.”

  “Let’s just say that a few John Does aren’t the only thing that have been stiff on our examining tables.”

  I almost fumbled my gelato onto the ground. “You’ve got to be kidding. You? And Edmund?”

  Claire’s shoulders jiggled in delight. “As long as I’ve gone this far… Once we did it in a parterre box at the symphony. After a rehearsal, of course.”

  “Whatta you guys do? Just go around leaving your mark like poodles?” I exclaimed.

  Claire’s round face broadened with delight. “You know, it was a long time ago. But as I think of it, that time in my office at the coroner’s Christmas party — that wasn’t so long ago.”

  “As long as we’re baring our souls,” injected Cindy, “when I first got to the Chronicle I had this fling with one of the senior guys from Datebook. We used to meet down in the library. In the far reaches of the Real Estate section. Nobody ever went there.”

  Cindy scrunched her face, abashed, but Claire cackled with approval.

  I was amazed. I was learning the hidden, suppressed side of a person I had known for ten years. But there was a little shame building in me as well. I didn’t have a story.

  “So,” Claire said, looking at me. “What’s Inspector Boxer got to share from her closet?”

  I tried to recall a single moment when I’d done something totally crazy. I mean, when it came to sex I didn’t think of myself as someone who held back. But somehow, no matter how hard I searched my memory, my passion always ended up between the sheets.

  I shrugged, empty-handed.

  “Well, you better get started,” Claire said with a wag of her finger. “When I’m drawing my last breath, I won’t be thinking about all those fancy degrees or conferences I spoke at. You only have a few times in your life to really cut loose, so you might as well take them when they come.”


  A little tremor of remorse knifed through me. At that moment, I didn’t know what I wanted more: my place on the list — or a goddamn name for Red Beard. I suppose I wanted both.

  Chapter 65

  A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER, I sat in my hospital smock in the hematology clinic at Moffett.

  “Dr. Medved would like a word with you before we start,” said Sara, my transfusion nurse.

  I felt nervous as she unpacked an IV setup for my treatment. Truth was, I had been feeling okay. Not much pain or nausea other than the incident in the ladies’ room last week.

  Dr. Medved walked in with a manila folder under his arm. His face was friendly but unconfiding.

  I smiled weakly. “Only good news?”

  He sat across from me on the ledge of a counter. “How are you feeling, Lindsay?”

  “I wasn’t feeling so bad when I saw you before.”

  “Fatigued?”

  “Only a little. End-of-day kind of thing.”

  “Sudden nausea? Queasiness?”

  I admitted I had vomited suddenly once or twice.

  He made a quick notation on a chart.

  He paged through some medical charts in the folder. “I see we’ve undergone four packed–red cell transfusions so far….”

  My heart was racing the longer he took. Finally, he put down the folder and he looked squarely at my face.

  “I’m afraid your erythrocyte count has continued to decline, Lindsay. You can see the trend line here.”

  Medved passed me a sheet.

  Leaning forward, he took a Cross pen out of his breast pocket. The paper had a computer graph on it.

  He traced the pattern with his pen. The line went steadily down. Shit.

  I felt the air rush out of my lungs with disappointment. “I’m getting worse,” I said.

  “To be frank,” the doctor acknowledged, “it’s not the trend we were hoping for.”

  I had ignored the possibility that this might happen, burying myself in the case, sure that the numbers would improve. I had built this view on a natural trust that I was too young and energetic to be truly sick. I had work to do, important work, a life to live.