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Chapter48
politely nodded for the next person in line. "Welcome to the Lakefront Hilton, sir." Phillip Campbell stepped up to the counter. He noticed her name, Kaylin. Bright-eyed, bushy-bushed Kaylin. He smiled back. Flirted subtly. He handed her a confirmation slip. "First time with us, Mr. Campbell?" the desk clerk asked in a high-pitched chirp. He smiled, let her know that it was. As she punched in his reservation, he followed her movements, thoughtfully stroking the rough hairs of his beard. He wanted her to notice. To remember his face. Maybe something he said. One day, when some diligent FBI agent came by with a drawing or photograph, he wanted this chirpy little squirrel to think back and recall this moment in a close and chilling way. He wanted her to remember everything. As he had with the saleswoman in the Bridal Boutique at Saks. "Here for a visit to the museum, Mr. Campbell?" Kaylin asked, as she typed. "For the Voskuhl wedding," he volunteered. "Everyone's saying that." She smiled. He followed the click of her peach-colored nails against the keys as she typed. "I've got you a deluxe room with a beautiful view," she said, handing him a key. She smiled. "Enjoy the wedding. And have a nice stay." "I will," Campbell said pleasantly. Before he turned away, he caught her eye and said, "Speaking of weddings- I like your ring." Upstairs, he pulled the curtains aside and, as promised, before him was a sweeping view. Of Cleveland, Ohio.
Chapter49
I SAW HIM… That bastard. What was he doing here? In a large, fast-moving crowd, on lower Market. Just a quick movement in the throng fighting its way toward the ferry. My blood froze with the sight of him. He was wearing an open blue shirt, brown corduroy jacket. He looked like some college professor. On any other day, I could have passed him by, never noticed. He was thin, gaunt, totally unremarkable in every way but one. It was the reddish-brown beard. His head bobbed in and out of the crowd. I followed, unable to narrow the distance. "Police}" I shouted over the din. My cry dissolved into the hurrying, unheeding mass of people. At any moment I might lose him. I didn't know his name, I only knew his victims. Melanie Brandt. Rebecca De George Suddenly, he stopped. He bucked against the flow, turned right toward me. His face seemed illuminated, shining against a dark background like one of those medieval Russian icons. Amid the commotion, our eyes met., There was a moment of captured, enlightened recognition. He knew that it was me. That I was the one after him. Then, to my horror, he fled; the swarm of people engulfed him, swept him away. "Stop," I shouted. "I'll shoot!" A cold sweat broke out on my neck. I drew my gun. "Get down," I cried, but the rush-hour commuters pushed on, shielding him. I was going to lose him. The killer was getting away. I raised the gun, focused on the image of his red beard. He turned- with the sneer of someone who had totally outwitted me. I drew a breath, steadied my aim. As if in slow motion, every face in the crowd turned toward me, too. I stepped back. In horror, I lowered the gun. Every face had the same red beard. I had been dreaming. I found myself at my kitchen counter, blinking into swirling circles in my glass of chardo
Chapter 50
"WHAT'RE YOU DOING HERE?" I called back in surprise. I was pleased but suddenly tingling with nerves. My hair was pulled up, I was in an old Berkeley T-shirt that I sometimes slept in, and I felt drained and anxious from my transfusion. My little place was a mess. "Can I come up?" Raleigh said. "This business or personal?" I asked. "We don't have to go back to Napa, do we?" "Not tonight." I heard him laugh. "This time I brought my own." I didn't quite understand that, but I buzzed him up. I ran back to the kitchen, turned the heat down on the pasta, and in the same breath threw a couple of pillows from the floor onto the couch and transferred a pile of magazines to a chair in the kitchen. 1 put some lip gloss on and shook out my hair as the doorbell rang. Raleigh was in an open shirt and baggy khakis. He was carrying a bottle of wine. Kunde. Very nice. He tossed me an apologetic smile. "I hope you don't mind me barging in." "Nobody barges in here. I let you in," I said. "What're you doing here?" He laughed. "I was in the neighborhood." "The neighborhood, huh? You live across the bay." He nodded, abandoning his alibi without much resistance. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You didn't seem yourself back at the station." "That's nice, Raleigh," I said, looking into his eyes. "So? Are you?" "So. I was just feeling a little overwhelmed. Roth. This FBI thing. I'm fine now. Really." "I'm glad," he said. "Something smells good." "I was just throwing something together." I paused, thinking about what I wanted to say next. "You had di