who covered homicide for the entire city shared a twenty-by-thirty squad room lit by harsh fluorescent lights. My desk was choice — by the window, “cheerily” overlooking the entrance ramp to the freeway. It was always covered with folders, stacks of photos, department releases. The one really personal item on it was a Plexiglas cube my first partner had given me. It was inscribed with the words You can’t tell which way the train went by looking at the tracks.
I made myself a cup of tea and met Jacobi in Interrogation Room 1. I drew two columns on a freestanding chalkboard: one for what we knew, one for what we had to check out.
Jacobi’s initial talk with the groom’s parents had produced nothing. The father was a big-time Wall Street guy who ran a firm that handled international buyouts. He said that he and his wife had stayed until the last guest had left, and “walked the kids upstairs.” They didn’t have an enemy in the world. No debts, addictions, threats. Nothing to provoke such a horrible, unthinkable act.
A canvass of guests on the thirtieth floor had been slightly more successful. A couple from Chicago had noticed a man lingering in the hallway near the Mandarin Suite last night around 10:30 p.m. They described him as medium build, with short, dark hair, and said he wore a dark suit or maybe a tuxedo. He was carrying what may have been a box of liquor in his hands.
Later, two used tea bags and two empty push-throughs of Pepcid tablets on the table were the clearest signs that we’d been bouncing these questions back and forth for several hours. It was quarter past seven. Our shift had ended at five.
“No date tonight, Lindsay?” Jacobi finally asked.
“I get all the dates I want, Warren.”
“Right, like I said — no date tonight.”
Without knocking, our lieutenant, Sam Roth, whom we called Cheery, stuck his head into the room. He tossed a copy of the afternoon Chronicle across the table. “You see this?”
The boldface headline read, “WEDDING NIGHT MASSACRE AT HYATT.” I read aloud from the front page. “Under a stunning view of the bay, in a world only the rich would know, the body of the twenty-nine-year-old groom lay curled up near the door.” He knotted his brow. “What, did we invite this reporter in for a house tour of the crime scene? She knows the names, maps out the scene.”
The byline read Cindy Thomas.
I thought of the card in my purse, letting out a long sigh. Cindy goddamn Thomas.
“Maybe I should call her up and ask her if we got any leads,” Roth went on.
“You want to come on in?” I asked. “Look at the board. We could use the help.”
Roth just stood there, chewing on his puffy lower lip. He was about to close the door behind him, but he turned back. “Lindsay, be in my office at a quarter of nine tomorrow. We need to lay this thing out carefully. For now, it’s yours.” Then he shut the door.
I sat down on the table. A heavy weight seemed to be pressing on me. The whole day had passed. I hadn’t found a single moment to deal with my own news.
“You okay?” Jacobi asked.
I looked at him, on the verge of letting it all out, or maybe crying again.
“That was a tough crime scene,” he said at the door. “You should go home, take a bath or something.”
I smiled at him, grateful for a sudden, out-of-character sensitivity.
After he left, I faced the mostly blank columns of the board. I felt so weak and empty I could barely push myself up. Slowly, the events of the day, my visit to Orenthaler’s, wove their way back into my mind. My head spun with his warning: Fatal, Lindsay.
Then I was hit with the crushing realization. It was going on eight o’clock.
I had never called Orenthaler’s specialist.
Chapter 11
THAT NIGHT when I got home, I did sort of take Jacobi’s advice.
First, I walked my dog, Sweet Martha. Two of my neighbors take care of Martha during the day, but she’s always ready for our nightly romp. After the walk, I kicked off my Aerosole pumps, tossed my gun and clothes on the bed, and took a long, hot shower, bringing in a Killian’s with me.
The image of David and Melanie Brandt washed away for the night; they could sleep.
But there was still Orenthaler, and Negli’s. And the call to the specialist I had dreaded the whole day and never made.
No matter how many times I lifted my face into the hot spray, I could not rinse the long day away. My life had changed. I was no longer just fighting murderers on the street. I was fighting for my life.
When I got out, I ran a brush through my hair and looked at myself for a long time in the mirror. A thought came into my mind that rarely occurred to me: I was pretty. Not a beauty, but cute. Tall, almost five-ten; decent shape for somebody who occasionally binges on beer and butterscotch-praline ice cream. I had these animated, bright brown eyes. I didn’t back down.