WMC - First to Die Read online

  Chapter25

  THE FIRST WEEK of the bride and groom investigation was gone. Unbelievable. Jacobi's team had pounded the jacket-and-champagne search, but so far they had come up empty. Raleigh and I had spoken to twenty wedding guests, from the mayor to the groom's best friend. All of them were numb and sickened, but unable to put a finger on any one thing that might move us along. All I could focus on was that we needed something firm- fast- before this guy who took the rings killed again. I underwent my second transfusion. I watched the thick red blood drip into my vein. I prayed it was making me stronger, but I didn't know. It had the slow, steady beat of a ticking clock. And the clock was ticking. Mine, Chief Mercer's. Saturday at six, Jacobi closed his pad, put on his sport jacket, and tucked his gun into his belt. "See ya, Boxer," he said. Raleigh stopped by before heading out. "I owe you a beer. You want to collect?" A beer would be nice, I thought. I was even growing used to Raleigh's company. But something told me that if I went with him now, I'd let everything out: Negli's, my treatments, the fear in my heart. I shook my head. "Think I'll stick around," I said with a polite shrug. "You got plans tomorrow?" "Yeah. I'm meeting Claire. Then I'll come in here. What about you?" "Jason's in a soccer tournament in Palo Alto. I'm taking both boys down." "Sounds nice." It did sound nice. It had the ring of something I might miss out on in life. "I'll be back tomorrow evening." He had given me his beeper the first day we hooked up. "I'm an hour away. Call if anything comes up." With Raleigh gone, my corner of the squad room became shrouded in silence. The investigation was shut down for the night. One or two of the night staff were chatting out in the hall. I had never felt so lonely. I knew that if I went home now I'd be leaving behind some vital nexus to the case. Failing some unsaid promise I had made to Melanie. One more look, I said. One more pass. Why would the killer take the rings? A wave of exhaustion washed through my veins. My new fighting cells were sapping my strength even as they defended me, multiplied. The cavalry, charging in to the rescue. Hope attacking doubt. It seemed crazy. I had to let David and Melanie sleep for the night. I bound the thick crime file up in its elastic cord and placed it in the gray bin marked "Open Cases." Next to similar files, with similar names. Then I sat at my desk in the dark squad room for a couple of minutes more. I started to cry. Book Two

  THE WOMEN'S MURDER CLUB

  Chapter26

  BECKY DE GEORGE in the bloom of her first full day as Michael's wife, walked out of the hotel lobby holding her husband's hand. She breathed in the cool night air, the first fresh air she had inhaled all day. In the brief span of their marriage, she and Michael had made love several times and taken two steamy showers together. They had poked their heads out for an obligatory but, at last, final brunch with the families. They had begged off the trip to Opus One, scurried back upstairs, and popped a last bottle of champagne. Michael had put on a sex video and as they watched the film they played out some unusual and exciting roles. He seemed to have several fantasies about wearing women's clothes. Tomorrow, they'd be off to Mazatlan, for a heavenly week exploring all those sexy spots on his body she had yet to find. Maybe they'd even come out once or twice to see the dolphins. So far, she decided, things were going very well. Tonight, they were headed to the French Laundry, the finest restaurant in Napa. Everyone said it was the place to eat, and they had booked the reservation almost six months in advance. Becky's mouth watered as she dreamed of some fabulous sequence of tastes: foie gras, wild-berry duck, all washed down with an expensive champagne. On the short walk to the car, a black limo pulled up alongside them. The passenger window opened, and a uniformed driver stuck his head out. "Mr. and Mrs. De George They looked at each other, puzzled, then smiled. "That's us." "I'm at your service," the driver announced. "Compliments of the hotel." Becky was ecstatic. "You mean for us?" Once, in her job as a legal secretary, at a big closing, she had ridden in a fabulous stretch; but she had been jammed in the backseat with four preoccupied lawyers. "Booked and paid for the night," the driver said, and winked. The newlyweds exchanged a bright, exclamatory look. "No one mentioned anything about this," said Michael, who seemed pleased with the notion that he was thought of as a VIP. Becky peeked inside. "Oh, Michael." There were lush leather seats and a polished mahogany bar with crystal glasses. The lights were dimmed to a romantic glow. There was even a bottle of chardonnay on ice. She thought of pulling up to the most fashionable restaurant in Napa in this wonderful car. "C'mon, Michael." She laughed, almost pulling him in. "It'll be a trip." "I can be waiting at the restaurant when you come out," the driver said, "and as it happens, you're talking to someone who happens to know the most scenic routes through Napa." She saw Michael's mild hesitation begin to crack. "Don't you want to take your princess in style?" Just as he had when she first smiled his way in the office, just as he had in bed last night, she saw him slowly come around. He was a little cautious sometimes. Accountants often were. But she'd always found ways of loosening him up. "Whatever Becky wants," Michael finally said.

  Chapter27

  "JUST MARRIED?" Phillip Campbell asked, his heart jumping. The bright lights of oncoming cars shot through him like X rays, exposing innermost desires. "Twenty-six hours, twenty-two minutes, and… forty five seconds," Becky chirped. Campbell's heart pounded loudly. She was perfect. They were perfect together. Even better than he had hoped. The road was blank and seemed directionless, but he knew where he was going. "Help yourself to a drink. That's a Palmeyer in the bucket. Some people think it's the best in the valley." As he drove, the killer's nerves were taut and excited. What is the worst thing anyone has ever done? Can I do it again? More to the point, can I ever stop doing it? He glanced back and saw Becky and Michael pouring the Palmeyer wine. He heard the clink of raised glasses, then something about years of good luck. With a chill in his heart, he watched them kiss. He hated every smug, deluded pore in their bodies. Don't you want to take your princess in style? He fingered the gun resting in his lap. He was changing murder weapons. After a while, Campbell turned the limo up a steep hill off the main road. "Where're we heading, driver?" the husband's voice came from the back. He glanced in the mirror and smiled confidently at the De Georges "I thought I'd take you the scenic way. Best views in the valley. And I'll still have you to the restaurant by eight." "We don't want to be late," the groom warned sheepishly. "These reservations were harder to get than the damn hotel." "Oh, c'mon, honey," Becky chimed in with perfect timing. "Things start to open up just ahead," he told them. "Real pretty. In the meantime, relax. Put on some music. I'll show you the best views. Very romantic." He pushed a button, and a thin band of pulsing lights began to shoot around the roof of the back compartment, a soft, romantic light show. "Oooh," Becky said as the lights came on. "This is so great." "I'll put up the privacy screen for the rest of the trip. You're only newlyweds once. Feel free to do whatever. Just look at it as your night." He left the screen slightly open, so he could still see and hear them as he drove deeper into the hills. They were nuzzling now, sharing kisses. The groom's hand was moving up Becky's thigh. She pushed her pelvis into him. The road became bumpy, and at intermittent points the rough, split concrete gave way to gravelly dirt. They were climbing. On both sides, the slopes were patterned with grids of darkened vines. Becky's teasing laughter gave way to a steady rhythm of deep-throated sighs. Phillip Campbell's breath began to race. Only inches away, he could hear her panting. A warm, velvety sensation began to burn in his thighs, as it had a week ago at the Grand Hyatt. Michael was entering Becky, and she moaned. What is the worst thing! At a clearing, he pulled the car to a stop, turned the headlights off. He took the gun and pulled back the double-clicking action. Then he lowered the privacy screen. In the ambient light, there was Becky, her black cocktail dress pulled up around her waist. "Bravo!" he exclaimed. They looked up, startled. He saw a flicker of fear in the bride's eyes. She tried to cover herself. Only then did the killer recognize that the warm flood burning his thighs and his knees was his own urine. He emptied the gun into Becky and Michael De Georger />
  Chapter28

  THAT SUNDAY MORNING, I woke for the first time all week with a sense of hopefulness. It's the way I am… or was. It was clear and beautiful outside; the bay was shimmering as if it were thrilled, too. And it was the day of my brunch with Claire. My confession to her. Sunday mornings I had this place I always went to. My favorite place, I had told Raleigh. First I drove downtown, to the Marina Green, in my tights, and jogged in the shadow of the bridge. Mornings like this, I felt infused with everything that was beautiful about living in San Francisco. The brown coast of Marin, the noises of the bay, even Alcatraz, standing guard. I ran my usual three-plus miles south on the harbor, then up the two hundred and twelve stone stairs into Fort Mason Park. Even with Negli's I could still do it. This morning it seemed to be letting me free. I jogged past yelping dogs running loose, lovers on a morning walk, gray-clad, bald-headed Chinese men bickering over mahjongg. Always to the same spot, high on the cliff, looking east over the bay. It was 7:45. No one knew I came here. Or why. Like every Sunday, I came upon a small group practicing their tai chi. They were mostly Chinese, led, as every week, by the same old man in a gray knit cap and sweater vest. I huffed to a stop and joined in, as I had every Sunday for the past ten years, since my mother died. They didn't know me. What I did. Who I was. I didn't know them. The old man gave me the same quick, welcoming nod he always did. There's a passage in Thoreau: "Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it, but while I drink, I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its current slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper, fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars." I guess I've read that a hundred times. It's the way I feel up here. Part of the stream. No Negli's. No crimes, no faces twisted in death. No bride and groom murders. I did my Morning Swan, my Dragon, and I felt as light and free as I had before Orenthaler first dropped the news on me. The leader nodded. No one asked me if I was well. Or how the week was. I just welcomed the day, and knew that I was lucky to have it. My favorite place. I got home just before eleven, a half-finished coffee and the Sunday Chronicle in my hands. I figured I'd poke through the Metro section, see if there was anything on the case from my new best friend Cindy Thomas, shower, and be ready to meet Claire at one. It was 11:25 when the phone rang. To my surprise, the voice on the line was Raleigh's. "You dressed?" he asked. "Sort of. Why? I have plans." "Cancel them. I'm picking you up. We're going to Napa." "Napa?" There was no trace of anything light or playful in his voice. "What's up?" "I went into the office this morning just to check. While I was there, someone named Hartwig got transferred from Central Dispatch. He's a lieutenant in Napa. He's got some couple out there who are missing. They're newlyweds on their honeymoon."

  Chapter29

  BY THE TIME I HAD CALLED Claire to cancel, showered, put my wet hair under a turned-back Giants cap, and thrown on some clothes, Raleigh's white Explorer was beeping me from below. When I got downstairs, I couldn't help but notice him looking me over- wet hair, jeans, black leather jacket. "You look nice, Boxer," he said. He smiled as he put the car in gear. He was casually dressed, in crumpled khakis and a faded blue polo shirt. He looked nice, too, but I wasn't going to say it. "This isn't a date, Raleigh," I told him. "You keep saying that," he said with a shrug, then stepped down on the gas. We pulled up to the Napa Highlands Inn an hour and fifteen minutes later, the exact time, I noted, I was supposed to be pouring my heart out to Claire. The inn turned out to be one of those fancy, high-end spas lit I always dreamed about going to. It was tucked into the mountains on Stag's Leap Road. By the looks of it, with its main lodge built of stacked giant redwoods and arcing windows of tempered glass, the guests here were not exactly into self-denial. Two green-and-white police units were parked along the rotary outside the hotel's entrance. In the lobby, we were directed to the manager's office, where a nervous, red-haired management type, who seemed just a few days out of the training program, was standing with a couple of local cops. "I'm Hartwig," said a tall, lanky man in street clothes. He was holding a paper cup from Starbucks. "Sorry to bust up your weekend," he apologized in a friendly drawl. He passed us a wedding photo of the missing couple. It was enclosed in one of those Plexiglas "shaky toys" with the Golden Gate Bridge in the foreground. "Party favor," he acknowledged. "Mr. and Mrs. Michael De George From down your way. They both worked in the city at a large accounting firm. Married on Friday night." Actually, it was a sweet photo. She, bright-eyed, with thick brown hair; he, ruddy and serious looking, wire rimmed glasses. Oh, God, not them. Not again. "So when were they last seen?" I asked. "Seven-fifteen last night. Hotel staff saw them come down on their way to dinner. French Laundry," Hartwig said. "The concierge wrote them out directions, but they never showed." "They drove off to go to dinner and were never heard from again?" Hartwig kept rubbing the side of his face. "The manager said they checked in the day before in a gold Lexus. Door staff confirms they drove it briefly that afternoon." "Yeah?" I nodded, fast-forwarding him. "Car's still in the lot." I asked, "Any messages from the outside we should know about?" Hartwig went back to a desk and handed me a small stack of slips. I skipped through them. Mom. Dad. Julie and Sam. Vicki and Don. Eon voyage. "We thoroughly searched the grounds around the property. Then we widened the search. It's sort of like your murders down there. Big wedding, celebration. Then poof, they're gone." "Sort of like our thing," I said. "Except we had bodies." The Napa cop's face tightened. "Believe me, I didn't call you guys all the way out here just to help us with the missing persons forms." "What makes you so sure?" Raleigh asked. ""Cause the concierge did receive one call last night. It was from the restaurant, confirming their reservations." "So?" Hartwig took a sip of his coffee before he met our eyes. "No one at the restaurant ever called them."

  Chapter 30

  THE HONEYMOON COUPLE had received no unusual visitors, scheduled no conflicting side trips. The reservation at the French Laundry had been for just two. What made this all the more grave was that they had missed their scheduled flight to Mexico. While Raleigh poked around outside, I made a quick check of their room. There was this enormous redwood bed neatly turned down, a suitcase laid out, clothes stacked, toiletries. Lots of flowers- mostly roses. Maybe Becky De George had brought them from the reception. There was nothing to indicate that the De Georges weren't set to board that plane the next morning. I caught up with Raleigh outside. He was talking with a bellhop who was apparently the last person who saw the De Georges leaving. When it was just the two of us, Raleigh said, "Two of the