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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 pe
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 fa