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

  The byline read Cindy Thomas.

  I thought of the card in my purse, letting out a long sigh. Cindy goddamn Thomas.

  “Maybe I should call her up and ask her if we got any leads,” Roth went on.

  “You want to come on in?” I asked. “Look at the board. We could use the help.”

  Roth just stood there, chewing on his puffy lower lip. He was about to close the door behind him, but he turned back. “Lindsay, be in my office at a quarter of nine tomorrow. We need to lay this thing out carefully. For now, it’s yours.” Then he shut the door.

  I sat down on the table. A heavy weight seemed to be pressing on me. The whole day had passed. I hadn’t found a single moment to deal with my own news.

  “You okay?” Jacobi asked.

  I looked at him, on the verge of letting it all out, or maybe crying again.

  “That was a tough crime scene,” he said at the door. “You should go home, take a bath or something.”

  I smiled at him, grateful for a sudden, out-of-character sensitivity.

  After he left, I faced the mostly blank columns of the board. I felt so weak and empty I could barely push myself up. Slowly, the events of the day, my visit to Orenthaler’s, wove their way back into my mind. My head spun with his warning: Fatal, Lindsay.

  Then I was hit with the crushing realization. It was going on eight o’clock.

  I had never called Orenthaler’s specialist.

  Chapter 11

  THAT NIGHT when I got home, I did sort of take Jacobi’s advice.

  First, I walked my dog, Sweet Martha. Two of my neighbors take care of Martha during the day, but she’s always ready for our nightly romp. After the walk, I kicked off my Aerosole pumps, tossed my gun and clothes on the bed, and took a long, hot shower, bringing in a Killian’s with me.

  The image of David and Melanie Brandt washed away for the night; they could sleep.

  But there was still Orenthaler, and Negli’s. And the call to the specialist I had dreaded the whole day and never made.

  No matter how many times I lifted my face into the hot spray, I could not rinse the long day away. My life had changed. I was no longer just fighting murderers on the street. I was fighting for my life.

  When I got out, I ran a brush through my hair and looked at myself for a long time in the mirror. A thought came into my mind that rarely occurred to me: I was pretty. Not a beauty, but cute. Tall, almost five-ten; decent shape for somebody who occasionally binges on beer and butterscotch-praline ice cream. I had these animated, bright brown eyes. I didn’t back down.

  How could it be that I was going to die?

  Tonight, my eyes were different, though. Scared. Everything seemed different. Surf the waves, I heard a voice inside me say. Stand tall. You always stand tall.

  As much as I tried to press it back, the question formed: Why me?

  I threw on a pair of sweats, tied up my hair in a short ponytail, and went into the kitchen to boil water for pasta and heat up a sauce I had put in the fridge a couple of nights before.

  While it simmered, I put on a CD, Sarah McLachlan, and sat at the kitchen counter with a glass of dayold Bianco red. I petted Sweet Martha as the music played.

  Ever since my divorce had become final two years ago, I had lived alone. I hate living alone. I love people, friends. I used to love my husband, Tom, more than life itself — until he left me, saying, “Lindsay, I can’t explain it. I love you, but I have to leave. I need to find somebody else. There’s nothing else to say.”

  I guess he was being truthful, but it was the dumbest, saddest thing I’d ever heard. Broke my heart into a million pieces. It’s still broken. So even though I hate living alone — except for Sweet Martha, of course — I’m afraid to be with somebody again. What if he suddenly stopped loving me? I couldn’t take it. So I turn down, or shoot down, just about every man who comes anywhere near me.

  But God, I hate being alone.

  Especially this night.

  My mother had died from breast cancer when I was just out of college. I had transferred to the city school from Berkeley to assist her and help take care of my younger sister, Cat. Like most things in her life, even Dad’s walking out, Mom dealt with her illness only when it was too late to do anything about it.

  I had seen my father only twice since I was thirteen. He wore a uniform for twenty years in Central. Was known as a pretty good cop. He used to go down to this bar, the Alibi, and stay for the Giants game after his shift. Sometimes he took me, “his little mascot,” for the boys to admire.

  When the sauce was ready I poured it over fusilli and dragged the plate and a salad out to my terrace. Martha tagged along. She’d been my shadow since I adopted her from the Border Collie Rescue Society. I lived on Potrero Hill, in a renovated blue Michaelian town house with a view of the bay. Not the fancy view like the one from the Mandarin Suite.

  I sat down, propped my feet up on a neighboring chair, and balanced the plate on my lap. Across the bay, the lights of Oakland glimmered like a thousand unsympathetic eyes.

  I looked out at the galaxy of flashing lights, felt my eyes well up, and for the second time that day I realized that I was crying. Martha nuzzled me gently, then she finished the fusilli for me.

  Chapter 12

  QUARTER TO NINE the next morning, I was rapping at the fogged window of Lieutenant Roth’s office at the Hall. Roth likes me — like another daughter, he says. He has no idea how condescending he can be. I’m tempted to tell Roth that I like him — like a grandfather.

  I was expecting a crowd — at least a couple of suits from Internal Affairs, or maybe Captain Welting, who oversaw the Bureau of Inspectors — but, as he motioned me in, I saw that there was only one other person in the room.

  A nice-looking type dressed in a chambray shirt and striped tie, with short, dark hair and strong shoulders. He had a handsome, intelligent face that seemed to come to life as I walked in, but it only meant one thing to me:

  Polished brass. Someone from the department’s press corps, or City Hall.

  I had the blunt, uneasy feeling they’d been talking about me.

  On the way over, I had rehearsed a convincing rebuttal about the breach in press security — how I’d arrived late on the scene myself, and the real issue was the crime. But Roth surprised me. “‘Wedding Bell Blues,’ they’re calling it,” he said tossing the morning’s Chronicle in my face.

  “I saw it,” I replied, relieved to focus back on the case.

  He looked at Mr. City Hall. “We’ll be reading about this one every step of the way. Both kids were rich, Ivy League, popular. Sort of like young Kennedy and that blond wife of his — their tragedy.”

  “Who they were doesn’t matter to me,” I answered. “Listen, Sam, about yesterday…”

  He stopped me with his hand. “Forget about yesterday. Chief Mercer’s already been on the line with me. This case has his full attention.”

  He glanced at the smartly dressed political type in the corner. “Anyway, he wants there to be close reins on this case. What happened on other high-profile investigations can’t happen here.” Then he said to me, “We’re changing the rules on this one.”

  Suddenly, the air in the room got thick with the uneasy feel of a setup.

  Then Mr. City Hall stepped forward. I noticed his eyes bore the experienced lines of someone who had put in his time. “The mayor and Chief Mercer thought we might handle this investigation as an interdepartmental alliance. That is, if you were up for working with someone new,” he said.

  “New?” My eyes bounced back and forth between the two, ultimately settling on Roth.

  “Meet your new partner,” Roth announced.

  I’m getting royally screwed, a voice inside me declared. They wouldn’t do this to a man.

  “Chris Raleigh,” Mr. City Hall Hotshot said, extending his hand.

  I didn’t reach out to take it.

  “For the past few years,” Roth went on, “Captain Raleigh has worked as a Com
munity Action liaison with the mayor’s office. He specializes in managing potentially sensitive cases.”

  “Managing?”

  Raleigh rolled his eyes at me. He was trying to be self-effacing. “Containing… controlling the damage… healing any wounds in the community afterwards.”

  “Oh,” I shot back, “you’re a marketing man.”

  He smiled. Every part of him oozed a practiced, confident air I associated with the kind of men who sat around large tables at City Hall.

  “Before that,” Roth went on, “Chris was a district captain over in Northern.”

  “That’s Embassy Row.” I sniffed. Everybody joked about the blue-blooded Northern district, which ranged from Nob Hill to Pacific Heights. Hot crimes there were society women who heard noises outside their town houses and late-arriving tourists locked out of their bedand-breakfasts.

  “We also handled traffic around the Presidio,” Raleigh countered with another smile.

  I ignored him. I turned to Roth. “What about Warren?” He and I had shared every case for the past two years.

  “Jacobi’ll be reassigned. I’ve got a plum job for him and his big mouth.”

  I didn’t like leaving my partner behind, dumb-ass wisecracks and all. But Jacobi was his own worst enemy.

  To my surprise, Raleigh asked, “You okay with this, Inspector?”

  I didn’t really have a choice. I nodded yes. “If you don’t get in the way. Besides, you wear nicer ties than Jacobi.”

  “Father’s Day present.” He beamed. I couldn’t believe I felt a tremor of disappointment shooting through me. Jesus, Lindsay. I didn’t see a ring. Lindsay!

  “I’m taking you off all other assignments,” Roth announced. “No conflicting obligations. Jacobi can handle the back end, if he wants to stay on the case.”

  “So who’s in charge?” I asked Cheery. I was senior partner to Jacobi; I was used to running my own cases.

  Roth chortled. “He works with the mayor. He’s an ex–district captain. Who do you think’s in charge?”

  “How about, in the field you lead?” Raleigh suggested. “What we do with what we find is mine.”

  I hesitated, giving him an evaluating stare. God, he was so smooth.

  Roth looked at me. “You want me to ask Jacobi if he’s got similar reservations?”

  Raleigh met my eyes. “Look, I’ll let you know when we can’t work it out.”

  It was as good a negotiation as I was going to get. The deal had changed. But at least I kept my case. “So what do I call you? Captain?”

  With a casual ease, Raleigh tossed a light brown sport coat over his shoulder and reached for the door. “Try my name. I’ve been a civilian now for five years.”

  “Okay, Raleigh,” I said with a faint smile. “You ever get to see a dead body while you were in Northern?”

  Chapter 13

  THE JOKE IN HOMICIDE about the morgue was that in spite of the lousy climate, the place was good for business. There’s nothing like the sharp smell of formaldehyde or the depressing sheen of hospital-tiled halls to make the drudgery of chasing down dead leads seem like inspired work.

  But as they say, that’s where the bodies are.

  That, and I got to see my buddy Claire.

  There wasn’t much to say about Claire Washburn, except that she was brilliant, totally accomplished, and absolutely my best friend in the world. For six years, she had been the city’s chief medical examiner, which everyone in Homicide knew was as underdeserving a title as there was, since she virtually ran the office for Anthony Righetti. Righetti is her overbearing, power-thumping, credit-stealing boss, but Claire rarely complains.

  In our book, Claire is the Office of the Coroner. But maybe the idea of a female M.E. still didn’t cut it, even in San Francisco.

  Female, and black.

  When Raleigh and I arrived, we were ushered into Claire’s office. She was wearing her white doctor’s coat with the nickname “Butterfly” embroidered on the upper-left pocket.

  The first thing you noticed about Claire was that she was carrying fifty pounds she didn’t need. “I’m in shape,” she always joked. “Round’s a shape.”

  The second was her bright, confident demeanor. You knew she couldn’t give a damn. She had the body of a Brahman, the mind of a hawk, and the gentle soul of a butterfly.

  As we walked in, she gave me a weary but satisfied smile, as if she’d been up working most of the night. I introduced Raleigh, and Claire flashed me an impressed wag of the eyes.

  Whatever I had accumulated over the years in street smarts, she threw off in natural wisdom. How she balanced the demands of her job, and placating her credit-seeking boss, with raising two teenage kids was a marvel. And her marriage to Edmund, who played bass drum for the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra, gave me faith that there was still some hope for the institution.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” she said as we hugged. “I called you last night from here. Didn’t you get the message?”

  With her comforting arms around me, a flood of emotion welled up. I wanted to tell her everything. If it weren’t for Raleigh, I think I would’ve spilled it all — Orenthaler, Negli’s — right there.

  “I was beat,” I answered. “And beat up. Long, tough day.”

  “Don’t tell me.” Raleigh chuckled. “You guys have met.”

  “Standard autopsy preparation.” Claire grinned as we pulled apart. “Don’t they teach you that stuff down at City Hall?”

  He playfully spread his arms.

  “Uh-uh,” said Claire, squeezing my shoulder. “This you gotta earn. Anyway,” she regained a tone of seriousness, “I finished the preliminaries just this morning. You want to see the bodies?”

  I nodded yes.

  “Just be prepared: these two don’t make much of an advertisement for Modern Bride.”

  She led us through a series of closed compression doors toward the Vault, the large, refrigerated room where the bodies were stored.

  I walked ahead with Claire, who pulled me close and whispered, “Let me guess. You gave Jacobi a kiss on the nose, and all of a sudden there was this charming prince.”

  “He works for the mayor, Claire.” I smiled back. “They sent him here to make sure I don’t faint at the first sign of blood.”

  “In that case,” she replied, pushing the heavy door to the Vault open, “you better hold on to that man tight.”

  Chapter 14

  I HAD BEEN HAVING very close encounters with dead bodies for six years now. But what I saw sent a shiver of revulsion racing through me.

  The mutilated bodies of the bride and groom were lying side by side. They were on gurneys, their faces frozen in the horrifying moment of their deaths.

  David and Melanie Brandt.

  In their stark, ghostly expressions was the strongest statement I have ever seen that life may not be governed by anything fair or clement. I locked on the face of Melanie. Yesterday, in her wedding dress, she had seemed somehow tragic and tranquil.

  Today, in her slashed, naked starkness, her body was snarled in a freeze-frame of grotesque horror. Everything I had buried deep yesterday rushed to the surface again.

  Six years in Homicide, and I had never turned away. But I turned away now.

  I felt Claire’s hand bolstering my arm, and leaned into her.

  To my surprise, it turned out to be Raleigh. I righted myself with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. “Thanks.” I exhaled. “I’m okay.”

  “I’ve been doing this job eight years,” Claire said, “and this one, I wanted to turn away myself.”

  She picked up a folder from an examining table across from David Brandt. She pointed to the raw, gaping knife wound on the left side of his chest. “He was stabbed once in the right ventricle. You can see here the blade pierced the juncture between the fourth rib and the sternum on the way in. Ruptured the AV node, which provides the heart’s electrical powering. Technically, he arrested.”

  “He died of a heart attack?”
Raleigh asked.

  She pulled a pair of tight surgical gloves over her hands and red-lacquered nails. “Electromechanical dissociation. Just a fancy way of describing what happens when you get stabbed in the heart.”

  “What about the weapon?” I spoke up.

  “At this point, all I know is that it was a standard, straight-edged blade. No distinguishing marks or entry pattern. One thing I can tell you is that the killer was medium height, anywhere from five-seven to five-ten, and right-handed, based on the angle of impact. You can see here the path of the incision is angled slightly upward. Here,” she said, poking around the wound. “The groom was six feet. On his wife, who was five-five, the angle of the first incision was slanted in a downward path.”

  I checked the groom’s hands and arms for abrasions. “Any signs of a struggle?”

  “Couldn’t. The poor man was scared right out of his mind.”

  I nodded as my eyes fell on the groom’s face.

  Claire shook her head. “That’s not exactly what I meant. Charlie Clapper’s boys scraped up samples of a fluid from the groom’s shoes and the hardwood floor in the foyer where he was found.” She held up a small vial containing droplets of a cloudy liquid.

  Raleigh and I stared at it, uncomprehending.

  “Urine,” explained Claire. “The poor man apparently went in his pants. Must have been a gusher.”

  She pulled a white sheet over David Brandt’s face and shook her head. “I figure that’s one secret we can keep to ourselves.

  “Unfortunately,” she said with a sigh, “things didn’t happen nearly as swiftly for the bride.” She led us over to the bride’s gurney. “Maybe she surprised him. There are marks on her hands and wrists that indicate a struggle. Here,” she pointed to a reddened abrasion on her neck. “I tried to lift some tissue from under her nails, but we’ll see what comes back. Anyway, the first wound was in the upper abdomen and tore through the lungs. With time, given the loss of blood, she might have died from that.”