1st to Die - James Patterson [18]
“Apparently, some of the Russians were left hanging with their Uncle Vanyas out.”
I laughed again. “Conspiracy to commit murder is a federal crime,” I told her. “If there’s something to it, you should make the call to Justice.”
“I just thought I’d let you know. In the meantime, you want to throw me a comment on any other possibilities you’re looking into?”
“Sure. I’d feel safe in saying that they’re ‘ongoing.’”
“Thanks.” She sighed. “Have you narrowed in on any suspects yet?”
“This is what they tell you to ask at the Chronicle? You know I can’t divulge that.”
“Off the record. No attribution. As a friend.”
As I listened, I remembered when I was a recruit trying to elbow my way in. How the police world had been barred, closed off, until someone had opened up the tiniest crack to let me crawl through. “Like I said, Ms. Thomas,” my tone starting to soften, “no promises.”
“Cindy,” the reporter said. “At least call me Cindy. For the next time you get cornered in the bathroom with your guard down.”
“Okay, Cindy. I’ll be sure to keep you in mind.”
Chapter 19
I DIDN’T WANT TO GO HOME. And I knew I couldn’t stay at the Hall any longer.
I grabbed my bag, rushed down to the underground garage, and started up my trusty-dusty Bronco without a clear sense of where I was headed.
I just drove—Fourth, Third, onto Mission, past the Moscone Center—cafés, closed-up shops. All the way down toward the Embarcadero.
I wrapped around Battery, heading away from the bay. I had nowhere to go, but my hands seemed to act on their own, leading me somewhere. Flashes of the murdered bride and groom flickered in my head. Echoes of Orenthaler. I had finally called Dr. Medved, the hematologist, for an appointment.
I was approaching Sutter, and I turned. Suddenly, I knew where I was heading.
I pulled into Union Square. Without even trying, I found myself in front of the brightly lit entrance of the Hyatt.
I badged the manager and took the elevator up to the thirtieth floor.
A single uniformed guard sat in front of the Mandarin Suite. I recognized him, David Hale out of Central. He stood up as he saw me approach. “Nowhere to go, Inspector?”
A crisscrossing barrier of yellow tape blocked the entrance to the Mandarin Suite. Hale gave me the key. I peeled off a band or two of tape and slipped under the rest. I turned the lock and I was inside.
If you’ve never wandered alone at the site of a freshly committed murder, you don’t really know the feeling of restless unease. I felt the dark ghosts of David and Melanie Brandt were still in the room.
I was sure I had missed something. I was also sure it was here. What?
The suite was pretty much as I had left it. The Oriental carpet in the living room had gone to Clapper’s lab. But body positions and blood sites were clearly marked out with blue chalk.
I looked at the spot where David Brandt had died. In my mind, I retraced what had likely taken place.
They are toasting each other. (I knew that from the half-filled champagne glasses on a table near the terrace.) Maybe he just gave her the earrings. (The open box was on the master bathroom counter.)
There’s a knock. David Brandt goes to answer. It was as if secrets were buzzing in the thick air, alive with whispers.
The killer comes in, carrying the champagne box. Maybe David knows him. Maybe he just left him an hour before at the reception. The knife comes out. Only one thrust. The groom is pinned against the door, apoplectic. It happens so fast that he cannot scream. “Poor man went in his pants,” Claire had said.
The bride doesn’t scream? Maybe she’s in the bathroom. (The jewelry box.) Maybe she went in there to put on the earrings.
The killer hunts through the suite. He intercepts the bride, coming out unsuspectingly.
I envision Melanie Brandt—radiant, full of joy. He sees it, too. Was he someone she knew? Had she just left him? Did Melanie know her killer?
There’s a Navajo saying, “Even the still wind has a voice.” In the quiet, confessing hotel room, I listen.