WMC - First to Die

by James Patterson

  Chapter20

  NINE THE NEXT MORNING, I was in the office of Dr. Victor Medved, a pleasant, smallish man with a narrow, chiseled face, who, with a trace of an Eastern European accent, scared the hell out of me. "Negli's is a killer," he stated evenly. "It robs the body of its ability to transport oxygen. "In the beginning, the symptoms are listlessness, a weakening of the immune system, and some light-headedness. Ultimately, you may experience similar brain dysfunction to a stroke and begin to lose mental capacity as well." He got up, walked over to me, cradled my face in his gentle hands. He stared at me through thick glasses. "You're already peaked," he said, pressing my cheeks with his thumbs. "Always takes me a while for the blood to get hopping in the mornings," I said with a smile, trying to mask the fear in my heart. "Well, in three months," Dr. Medved said, "unless we re verse it, you will look like a ghost. A pretty ghost, but a ghost all the same." He went back to his desk and picked up my chart. "I see you are a police detective." "Homicide," I told him. "Then there should be no reason to go forward under any delusions. I don't mean to upset you. Aplastic anemia can be reversed. Up to thirty percent of patients respond to a regimen of biweekly transfusions of packed red blood cells. Of those who do not respond, a similar percentage can be ultimately treated through a bone marrow transplant. But this involves a painful process of chemotherapy first in order to boost up the white cells." I stiffened. Orenthaler's nightmarish predictions were coming true. "Is there any way to know who responds to the treatment?" Medved clasped his palms together and shook his head. "The only way is to begin. Then we see." "I'm on an important case. Dr. Orenthaler said I could continue to work." Medved pursed his lips skeptically. "You may continue as long as you feel the strength." I meted out a slow, painful breath. How long could I hide this? Who could I tell? "If it works, how long before we see improvement?" I asked with some hope. He frowned. "This is not like popping aspirin for a headache. I'm afraid we're in this for the long haul." The long haul. I thought of Roth's likely response. My chances at lieutenant. This is it, Lindsay. This is the greatest challenge of your life. "And if it doesn't work, how long… before things start to…" "Start to get worse? Let us attack this with optimism and hope. We'll discuss that as we go along." Everything was thrown open now. The case, my career, all the goals of my life. The stakes had changed. I was walking around with a time bomb ticking in my chest, tightly wound, incendiary. And the slow, disappearing fuse was all that I thought I might be. I asked quietly, "When do we start?" He scribbled out the location of an office in the same building. Third floor. Moffett Outpatient Services. There was no date. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to start right now."

  Chapter 21

  THE STORY ABOUT GERALD BRANDT'S business deal with the Russians had broken. It was on every newsstand: bold headline reading, "groom's father may have triggered russian wrath." The Chronicle reported that the FBI was seriously looking into the matter. Great. Two half-liter bags of hemoglobin-enriched blood were pumping through me as I finally reached my desk at about ten thirty. It took everything I had to push from my mind the image of the thick, crimson blood slowly dripping into my vein. Roth called my name- the usual disgruntled glower was all over his face. "Chronicle says its the Russians. The FBI seems to agree," he said as he leaned over my desk. He pushed a copy of the morning's paper at me. "I saw it. Don't let the FBI in on this," I said. "This is our case." I told him about last night, my going back to the crime scene. How I was pretty sure the sexual assault on the corpse, the bloody jacket, the missing rings, added up to a single, obsessed killer. "It's not some Russian professional. He put his fist inside her," I reminded him. "He did this on her wedding night." "You want me to tell the Feds to back off," Roth said, "because you have strong feelings about the case?" "This is a murder case. A kinky, very nasty sex crime, not some international conspiracy." "Maybe the Russian killer needed proof. Or maybe he was a sex maniac." "Proof of what? Every paper and TV station in the country carried the story. Anyway don't the Russki hitters usually cut off a finger, too?" Roth rattled a frustrated sigh. His face showed more than its usual tic of agitation. "I've got to run," I said. I shot my fist in the air and hoped that Roth got the joke. Gerald Brandt was still at the Hyatt, waiting for his son's body to be released. I went to his suite and found him there alone. "You see the papers?" I asked him as we sat at the umbrellaed table on the terrace. "The papers, Bloomberg, some woman reporter from the Chronicle calling all night. What they're suggesting is total madness," he said. "Your son's death was an act of madness, Mr. Brandt. You want me to be straight with you when it comes to the investigation?" "What do you mean, Detective?" "You were asked the other day if you knew anyone who might want to cause you harm-" "And I told your detective, not in this way." "You don't think certain factions in Russia might be a little angry at you for pulling out of their deal?" "We don't deal with factions, Ms. Boxer. Kolya's shareholders include some of the most powerful men in this country. Anyway, you make me seem like I'm a suspect. It was business. Negotiations, In what we do, we deal with this sort of thing every week. David's death has nothing to do with Kolya." "Mr. Brandt, how can you be so sure? Your son and his wife are dead." "Because negotiations never broke off, Detective. That was a ruse we used for the media. We closed on the deal last night." He stood up, and I knew my interview was over. My next call was to Claire. I ached to talk to her anyway. I craved my daily Claire fix. I also needed help on the case. Her secretary said she was in the middle of a conference call when my call came in. She told me to hold on. "Forensic specialists," Claire grumbled as she came on the line. "Listen to this… Some guy's driving sixty in a thirty five zone, rams into an elderly man in his Lexus, double parked, waiting for his wife. DOA. Now the driver's tying up the guy's estate with a suit that the victim was illegally parked. All each side wants is to grab a piece of the estate, experts included. Righetti's pushing me in 'cause the case's being written up in an AAFS journal. Some of these bastards, you give them a penny for their thoughts, you know what you get?" "Change," I answered with a smile. Claire was funny. "You got it. I've got about thirty-one seconds. How you doing?" she inquired. "I love you, sweetheart. I miss you. What do you want, Lindsay?" I hesitated, part of me wishing I could let the whole thing burst out, but all I asked was if the Brandts were wearing any wedding bands when they were brought in. "To my knowledge, no," she replied. "We inventoried earrings and a diamond as large as an eyeball. But no wedding bands. I noticed that myself. In fact, that's why I was calling you last night." "Great minds think alike," I said. "Busy minds, at least," she countered. "How's your grisly, godawful case coming?" 1 sighed. "I don't know. Next thing we have to do is go through three hundred guests to see if any might've been carrying any special grudges. You saw how this is being played up in the press. Russian revenge. The FBI's creeping around, and Chief Mercer's barking in Roth's ear to put a real detective on it. Speaking of which, I have Jacobi out trying to trace down the jacket. Other than that, the case is moving along smoothly." Claire laughed. "Stick with it, sweetie. If anyone can solve these murders, it's you." "I wish it were only that…" I let my voice drop. "Is everything all right?" Claire came back. "You don't sound your usual chatty, irreverent self." "Actually, I need to talk with you. Maybe we can get together Saturday?" "Sure," Claire said. "Oh, damn… we've got Reggie's graduation party. Can it keep a day? I could drive in for brunch on Sunday." "Of course it can hold," I said, swallowing my disappointment. "Sunday would be great. I'd like that." I hung up with a smile. For a moment, I actually felt better about things. Just making the date with Claire made it seem as if weights had been lifted off my shoulders. Sunday would give me some time to prepare. About how I was going to deal with the treatment, and my job. Raleigh wandered up. "You want to grab a coffee?" I thought he was needling me about what time I'd come in. He must have sensed my resentment. He wagged a legal-size manila envelope in my face and shrugged. "It's the Brandts' wedding guest list. I thought you'd want to see who made the cut."

&nb
sp; Chapter22

  WE WENT DOWN TO ROMA'S, one of those stucco on-stucco, high-ceilinged, Euro-style coffee joints, across the street from the Hall. I prefer Feet's, but Roma's is closer. I ordered a tea, and Raleigh came back with some fancy mocha latte and a slice of fresh pumpkin bread that he put in front of me. "You ever wonder how these places make any money?" he asked. "What?" I looked at him. "There's one on every corner. They all serve the same thing, and their average sale's gotta be, what… two dollars and thirty-five cents?" "This isn't a date, Raleigh," I snapped. "Ect's go through the list." "Maybe closer to three or three-fifty Lucky if the places gross four hundred thousand." "Raleigh, please," I said, losing patience. He pushed the envelope toward me. I opened it and fanned out eight or nine pages of names and addresses bearing Gerald Brandt's office crest. I recognized some of the guests on the groom's side immediately. Bert Rosen, former secretary of the treasury of the United States. Sumner Smith, some billionaire who had made his money in the eighties through big-time LBOs. Chip Stein, of E-flix, Spielberg's buddy; Maggie Sontero, the hot SoHo designer from New York. Lots of big names and big trouble. On the bride's side, there were several prominent names from the San Francisco area. Mayor Fernandez for me. Arthur Abrams, the prominent local attorney. I had gone up against his firm once or twice in the witness box, testifying in homicide cases. Willie Upton. superintendent of public schools. Raleigh pulled his seat over to me. Side by side we scanned the rest of the list. Columns of impressive-sounding couples with Doctor or Honorable in front of their names. It was a long, unrevealing, seemingly impenetrable list. I don't know what I expected--just something to jump out at me. Some flashing name resonating with a culpability even the families didn't recognize. Raleigh let out a worried breath. "This list is scary. You take fifty, I'll take fifty, and we'll give the balance to Jacobi. We'll all meet back here in two weeks and see what we've got." The prospect of hammering away at these people- each one horrified and indignant at the prospect of why we were looking into them- didn't fill me with joy or high hopes. "You think Mayor Fernandez might be a sex killer?" I muttered. "I do." What came out of me next was a complete surprise. "So you said you were married?" a U If we were going to be thrown together, we might as well get it out. And the truth was, I was curious. Raleigh nodded after a short pause. I thought I saw pain in his eyes. "Actually, I still am. Our divorce is coming up next month. Seventeen years." 1 flashed him a sympathetic wag of my eyes. "I'm sorry. Let's stop the Q and A." "It's okay. Things happen. Suddenly, it seemed we were just traveling in different circles. To be more precise, Marion fell in love with the guy who owned the real estate office where she worked. It's an old story. I guess I never quite learned which fork to use." "I could've saved you some pain," I said. "It goes left to right. Are there kids?" "Two great boys. Fourteen and twelve. Jason is the jock. Teddy's the brain. Set up a home page for his sixth-grade class. I get them every other weekend. Lights of my life, Lindsay." I could actually see Raleigh as super dad Kicking the ball around on Saturdays, installing the computer in the den. On top of it, the guy did have affectionate eyes. It was gradually dawning on me that he wasn't the enemy. "I guess-" he grinned at me" getting the order of forks right didn't exactly help you, though. You're divorced, right?" "Oohh. Somebody's been checking around," I said. "I was just out of the police academy. Tom was in his second year of law school at Berkeley. At first, he was going to go criminal. We had sort of a Carville-and-Matalin thing going. I imagined me testifying, Tom Terrific socking it to me on the cross. Ultimately, he opted for corporate." "And?" "It was his picture, not mine. I wasn't ready for the country club. It's an old story, right?" I smiled. "The truth: He walked out on me. Kind of broke my heart into tiny pieces." "Sounds like we've got some things in common," Raleigh said gently. He did have nice eyes. Stop it, Lindsay. "If you must know," I replied, deadpan, "for the past six months I've been having this torrid affair with Warren Jacobi." Raleigh laughed and pretended to look surprised. "Geez, Jacobi doesn't seem like your type. What's the fatal attraction?" I thought of my ex-husband, Tom, then one other man I had been sort of serious about. What always attracted me when I let someone get close. "Soft hands. And, I guess, a soft heart." "So what ya think?" Raleigh said. "You put a few homemade jams on the shelves. Give the coffees some sexier names. Arabian Breeze, Sirocco. You think we can hike up the average sale?" "Why are you going through this, Raleigh?" He gave me a look that was sort of between an embarrassed grin and a sparkle in his clear blue eyes. "I've been doing police work for sixteen years. So you get to thinking… I have this favorite place. Up in Tahoe. Maybe one of these franchises…" "Sorry, I don't see you behind the counter picking out the muffins." "Nicest thing you've said to me so far." I got up, tucked the envelope under my arm, and headed toward the door. "On second thought, you might make a better baker than a cop." "That's my girl." He smiled. "Wise-guy answer for everything. Keep those defenses up." As we left the shop, I softened and said to him, "I have this favorite place, too." "Maybe you'll show me one day." "Maybe I will." I was surprised by Raleigh- live and learn. He was actually a nice guy. I wondered if he had soft hands.

  Chapter23

  WHEN REBECCA PASSENEAU looked at herself in the full splendor of her wedding dress, she knew that she was no longer her mother's little girl. You're my baby. She had heard those words from her very first days on the planet. With three older brothers, it wasn't so hard to imagine why. Her mother had always wanted a girl. Daddy, too; but as the years went on they had assumed their time had passed. The oldest- Ben, the daredevil- had been killed before she was born. Her parents were crushed. They couldn't even think of more children. Then, miraculously, Becky came. "My baby," she heard her mother exclaim from where she stood behind Becky. "Oh, Mom." Becky sighed, but she also smiled. She continued to look at herself. She was beautiful. In her long, white, strapless dress, an avalanche of tulle, she shone like the most lovely and beautiful thing in the world. Michael would be so happy. With all the arrangements- the hotel in Napa, the flowers, the last-minute alterations to the dress- she had thought the day would never actually come. But now it was almost here. Friday. Ms. Perkins, the saleswoman at Saks, could only stand and admire. "You're gonna knock 'em dead, sweetheart." Becky spun around, catching herself in every view of the three-paneled mirror. She grinned. "I will, won't I?" "Your father and I want you to have something," her mother said. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small suede jewelry pouch. In it was her diamond brooch, a four carat oval on a string of pearls, passed on from her own mother. She stepped closer to Becky, clasped the strand around her neck. "It's gorgeous." Becky gasped. "Oh, Mom." "It was given to me on my wedding day," her mother said. "It has brought me a beautiful life. Now it's for you." Becky Passeneau stood there in the spell of the mirror. The glorious dress, the diamond in the hollow of her throat. She finally stepped off the alteration platform and hugged her mother. "I love you, Mom. You're the best." "Now it's complete," her mother said, with a tear in her eye. "No, not quite," said Ms. Perkins. She ran into the back and hurriedly returned with a bouquet of flowers. Imitations, sales accessories, but at the moment they looked like the most resplendent blossoms in the world. She gave them to Becky, who stepped back up onto the platform, hugging them to herself. She saw her beaming smile reflected three times. They all stood back and admired.

  I

  "Now you are complete," Ms. Perkins said. Standing nearby in Saks, watching Becky model her stunning dress, Phillip Campbell couldn't have agreed more. "Your big day is almost here," he whispered softly. "You look beautiful."

  Chapter 24

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Milt Fanning from the FBI Sex Crimes Unit reported in. His computer had popped up a handful of related crimes, but he was letting me know that none of them was a strong lead. They had started by plugging in fists used in the act of sexual assault, and that produced several cases, mostly gay crimes. One was in connection with a couple of murdered prostitutes in Compton that dated back to 1992, but Nicholas Chito was
serving twenty-five years to life in San Quentin for that. There had been several hotel murders, even one involving newlyweds in Ohio, in which the groom had opened up the womb of his beloved with a 30-30 when he discovered he wasn't the first. But there was nothing local or still outstanding, nothing tangible to give us a direction. I was disappointed but not surprised. Everything we had uncovered so far convinced me that when David and Melanie Brandt ran into their killer at the Hyatt, it wasn't the first time they had met. I saw Jacobi wandering in from outside. For two days, he had been avoiding me- running down his assignments, specifically the searches for the champagne and the jacket. After two years, I knew that when Jacobi wasn't needling me, he wasn't happy. "How's the search going?" I asked. He flashed me a tight-lipped smirk. "Chin and Murphy are calling every fricking wine store in a forty-mile radius. You think any of these guys keep track of this sort of thing? They all tell me that bottle could've been ordered from anywhere in the country. Then there's mail order to consider. The Internet. Gripes!" I knew it was a long shot. But how many people pay two hundred bucks for a bottle of champagne? "Still,"-he finally faced me with a self-satisfied smile" we came up with some names." As if to torture me, Jacobi leafed through his notepad to what must've been page thirty. Then he squinted, cleared his throat, saying, "Yeah, here we go… Golden State Wine Shop, on Crescent. Krug. Clos du Mesnil," he pronounced, bludgeoning the French. "Nineteen eighty-nine. Someone ordered a case of the stuff last March. Name of Roy C. Shoen." "You check him out?" He nodded. "Never heard of any Brandt. He's a dentist. I guess rich dentists like fancy wine, too." He flipped over the page. "Then there's Vineyard Wines in Mill Valley. Murphy handled it." For the first time in a couple of days he really smiled at me. "The guy who bought the wine was named Murphy, too. Regular customer there. Threw a dinner party for his wife's birthday. You want to give me a morning off I'll check him out, but I thought I'd send Murphy himself. Just for the laugh." "Any luck with the tuxedo jacket?" "We called the manufacturer. Fifteen stores in the area sell this brand. If it even came from around here. We're bringing in their local rep. Tracking down the owner of this thing… it ain't gonna be easy." "While you're out there, Warren," I teased, "see if you can pick yourself up a decent tie." "Ho ho. So how you getting along without me?" Jacobi asked, facing me. He flattened his lips, and I could see the disappointment all over his face. Made me feel bad. "I'm coping." Then, seriously, "I'm sorry, Warren. You know that I didn't ask for this guy." He nodded self-consciously. "You want me to check out everyone we dig up who's into fancy champagne?" I shook my head. I got up, dropped a copy of the Brandt wedding list on his desk. "What I want you to do is check and see if they match against this list." He leafed through the lists, whistling at a few of the more prominent names. "Too bad, Boxer. No Shoen or Murphy. Maybe we'll just have to wait and take a shot at couple number two." "What makes you say that?" I asked. Jacobi was a pain in the ass, but he was a good cop with a good nose for sniffing out a pattern. "We're looking for a spiffy dresser who likes to get dirty with dead brides, right?" I nodded. I remembered something my first partner had told me. Never wrestle with a pig, Lindsay. You both get dirty. The pig likes it. "I figure it's gotta be hard for a guy like that to find a date," said jacobi