WMC - First to Die

Chapter 17

THE WINDOW that Phillip Campbell was staring out had a startling view of the bay, but he didn't really notice the sights. He was lost in his thoughts. It's finally started. Everything is in play, he was thinking. The City on the Bay will never be the same, will it? I will never be the same. This was complicated- not what it seemed to be but beautiful in its own way. He had closed his office door, as he always did when he was absorbed in research. Lately, he had stopped catching lunch with his coworkers. They bored him. Their lives were filled with petty concerns. The stock market. The Giants and the 49ers. Where they were headed on vacation. They had such shallow, simple, middle-class dreams. His were soaring. He was like the moguls thinking up their new, new things over in Silicon Valley. Anyway, that was all in the past. Now he had a secret. The biggest secret in the world. He pushed his business papers to the corner of his desk. This is the old world, he thought. The old me. The bore. The worker bee. He unlocked the top left drawer of his desk. Behind the usual personal clutter was a small gray lockbox. It was barely large enough to hold a packet of three-by-five-inch cards. This is my world now. He thought back to the Hyatt. The bride's beautiful porcelain face, the blossoms of blood on her chest. He still couldn't believe what had taken place. The sharp crack of the knife ripping through cartilage. The gasp of her last breath. And his, of course. What were their names? Oh, Jesus Christ, he'd forgotten. No, he hadn't! The Brandts. They were all over the newspapers and the TV news. With a key from his chain, he opened the small box. What spilled out into the room was the intoxicating spell of his dreams. A stack of index cards. Neat and orderly. Alphabetically arranged. One by one, he skimmed through them. New names… King… Merced… Passeneau… Peterson. All the brides and grooms.

Chapter 1 8

SEVERAL URGENT MESSAGES were on my desk when I got back from the morgue. Good- urgent was appropriate. Charlie Clapper from CSU. Preliminary report in. Some reporters: from the AP, local television stations. Even the woman from the Chronicle who had left me her card. I picked at a grilled chicken and pear salad I had brought up as I dialed Clapper back. "Only good news," I joked, as his voice came on the phone. "In that case, I can give you a nine hundred number. For two bucks a minute they'll tell you anything you want to hear." I could hear it in the tone of his voice. "You got nothing?" "Tons of parti als Lindsay" the CSU chief replied, meaning inconclusive prints his team had lifted from the room. "The bride's, the groom's, the assistant manager's, housekeeping's." "You dusted the bodies?" I pressed. The killer had pulled Melanie Brandt up off the floor. "And the box of champagne?" "Of course. Nothing. Somebody was careful." "What about off the floor? Fibers, shoeprints." "Besides the pee." Clapper laughed. "You think I'm holding out on you? You're cute, Lindsay, but I get off on bagging killers more. Meanwhile, I've got someone ru

ing that tux jacket under the microscope. I'll let you know. Roger wilco." "Thanks, Charlie," I muttered disappointedly. As I flipped further through my stack of messages, Cindy Thomas's name came to the top. Normally, I wasn't in the habit of phoning back reporters in the middle of an ongoing investigation. But this one had been smart and cool making her way up to the crime scene, yet kind in backing off when she had me cornered in the bathroom. I found her at her desk. "Thanks for calling me back, Inspector," she said in an appreciative tone. "I owed you, I guess. Thanks for cutting me some slack at the hotel." "Happens to us all. But I have to ask: Do you always react so personally at a crime scene? You're a homicide detective, right?" I didn't have the time or heart to get into a battle of wits, so I used Jacobi's line. "It was a wedding. I always cry at them. What can I do for you, Ms. Thomas?" "Cindy… I'm going to do you a favor. When I reach five, maybe you'll do one for me." "We have a homicide, a very bad one. We're not going to play Let's Make a Deal. And if we meet again, you'll find I'm not my cheeriest when I feel indebted." "I guess what I was hoping for," she said, "was to hear your spin on the bride and groom." "Doesn't Tom Stone cover homicide for the Chronicle?" I asked. I heard her take in a breath. "I won't lie to you. I normally handle local interest out of Metro." "Well, you got yourself a real story now. "Marriage Made in Heaven Ends Up in Hell." You're quick out of the gate." "Truth is, Inspector," -her voice grew softer"I'd never seen anything like that before. Seeing David Brandt lying there… on his wedding night. I know what you must think, but it's not just about the story. I'd like to help any way I can." "I appreciate that, but since we've got all these eager people with badges walking around here. We ought to give them a shot? Anyway, you should know that you sneaking your way up to the thirtieth floor didn't exactly get me invited to the commissioner's for brunch. I had tactical responsibility at the crime scene." "I never thought I'd actually make it through." "So we've established we don't know who owes whom here. But since it's my dime…" The reporter's voice went back to a peremptory tone. "I called to get your reaction to a story we're going to break later today. You know the groom's father runs a buy out firm. Our business editor pulled off Bloomberg that they backed out of a proposed agreement at the last minute with the third-largest Russian automaker, Kolya-Novgorod. Brandt was providing up to two hundred million dollars for a significant stake. Kolya's one of those Russian conglomerates taken over by a new branch of black-market capitalists. Without the cash, I'm told it's virtually bankrupt. My source tells me the mood got very fractious." I laughed. "Fractious, Ms. Thomas? I might be getting a little fractious myself." "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."