THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Milt Fanning from the FBI Sex Crimes Unit reported in. His computer had popped up a handful of related crimes, but he was letting me know that none of them was a strong lead.
They had started by plugging in fists used in the act of sexual assault, and that produced several cases, mostly gay crimes. One was in connection with a couple of murdered prostitutes in Compton that dated back to 1992, but Nicholas Chito was serving twenty-five years to life in San Quentin for that.
There had been several hotel murders, even one involving newlyweds in Ohio, in which the groom had opened up the womb of his beloved with a 30-30 when he discovered he wasn’t the first. But there was nothing local or still outstanding, nothing tangible to give us a direction.
I was disappointed but not surprised. Everything we had uncovered so far convinced me that when David and Melanie Brandt ran into their killer at the Hyatt, it wasn’t the first time they had met.
I saw Jacobi wandering in from outside. For two days, he had been avoiding me — running down his assignments, specifically the searches for the champagne and the jacket.
After two years, I knew that when Jacobi wasn’t needling me, he wasn’t happy.
“How’s the search going?” I asked.
He flashed me a tight-lipped smirk. “Chin and Murphy are calling every fricking wine store in a forty-mile radius. You think any of these guys keep track of this sort of thing? They all tell me that bottle could’ve been ordered from anywhere in the country. Then there’s mail order to consider. The Internet. Cripes!”
I knew it was a long shot. But how many people pay two hundred bucks for a bottle of champagne?
“Still,”— he finally faced me with a self-satisfied smile —“we came up with some names.”
As if to torture me, Jacobi leafed through his notepad to what must’ve been page thirty.
Then he squinted, cleared his throat, saying, “Yeah, here we go… Golden State Wine Shop, on Crescent. Krug. Clos du Mesnil,” he pronounced, bludgeoning the French. “Nineteen eighty-nine. Someone ordered a case of the stuff last March. Name of Roy C. Shoen.”
“You check him out?”
He nodded. “Never heard of any Brandt. He’s a dentist. I guess rich dentists like fancy wine, too.” He flipped over the page. “Then there’s Vineyard Wines in Mill Valley. Murphy handled it.” For the first time in a couple of days he really smiled at me. “The guy who bought the wine was named Murphy, too. Regular customer there. Threw a dinner party for his wife’s birthday. You want to give me a morning off I’ll check him out, but I thought I’d send Murphy himself. Just for the laugh.”
“Any luck with the tuxedo jacket?”
“We called the manufacturer. Fifteen stores in the area sell this brand. If it even came from around here. We’re bringing in their local rep. Tracking down the owner of this thing…it ain’t gonna be easy.”
“While you’re out there, Warren,” I teased, “see if you can pick yourself up a decent tie.”
“Ho ho. So how you getting along without me?” Jacobi asked, facing me. He flattened his lips, and I could see the disappointment all over his face. Made me feel bad.
“I’m coping.” Then, seriously, “I’m sorry, Warren. You know that I didn’t ask for this guy.”
He nodded self-consciously.
“You want me to check out everyone we dig up who’s into fancy champagne?”
I shook my head. I got up, dropped a copy of the Brandt wedding list on his desk. “What I want you to do is check and see if they match against this list.”
He leafed through the lists, whistling at a few of the more prominent names. “Too bad, Boxer. No Shoen or Murphy. Maybe we’ll just have to wait and take a shot at couple number two.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked. Jacobi was a pain in the ass, but he was a good cop with a good nose for sniffing out a pattern.
“We’re looking for a spiffy dresser who likes to get dirty with dead brides, right?”
I nodded. I remembered something my first partner had told me. Never wrestle with a pig, Lindsay. You both get dirty. The pig likes it.
“I figure it’s gotta be hard for a guy like that to find a date,” said Jacobi.
Chapter 25
THE FIRST WEEK of the bride and groom investigation was gone. Unbelievable.
Jacobi’s team had pounded the jacket-and-champagne search, but so far they had come up empty. Raleigh and I had spoken to twenty wedding guests, from the mayor to the groom’s best friend. All of them were numb and sickened, but unable to put a finger on any one thing that might move us along.