I was at Saks by the time the store opened at ten. The Bridal Boutique was on the third floor, tucked away in a corner next to Gifts and Fine China.
I caught Maryanne Perkins as she was arriving for the day, a cup of steaming coffee in her hand. The department manager was a stylish, affable woman of about fifty, just the type who would work with brides for twenty years. She had someone cover for her and sat down with me in a cluttered back room filled with magazine photos of brides.
“I was devastated when I heard it,” she said. She shook her head, ashen faced. “Melanie was just here, two weeks ago.” She stared at me glassily. “She was so beautiful…. My brides are like my children, Inspector. I feel as if I’ve lost one of my own.”
“One?” I fixed on her eyes. “You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
I told Maryanne Perkins about Becky DeGeorge.
Shock and horror swept over her face. Her green eyes bulged, welled with a rush of tears. She stared through me as if she were looking into the wall. “Oh, my God….” She took in a heart-jolting breath. “My husband and I were at our cabin in Modesto for a few days. She was just in…. Oh, my God…. What’s going on here, Inspector?”
An immediate flood of questions tumbled out. Who would know about their customers? Other salespeople? Managers? The killer had been pegged as a male. Did any men work in the department?
Each of these questions elicited a disbelieving negative response from Maryanne Perkins. The staff had all been together for a minimum of eight years. No males. Just like our murder club.
She leaned back in her chair, scrolling her memory for any details that she could muster. “We were admiring her. Becky… she was stunning. It was as if she had never thought of herself in quite that way, but seeing herself in her dress, it suddenly became clear. Her mother had given her this brooch — pearls, diamonds — and I ran back to the office for flowers. That’s when I noticed someone. Standing over there.” She pointed. “He was staring in Becky’s direction. I remember thinking, ‘See, even he thinks you’re beautiful.’ I remember now.”
Frantically, I took down a description: late forties, maybe younger. “I didn’t get a really good look,” the bridal manager said. “He had a beard.”
I was sure it was him! It confirmed that Claire was right. Saks had to be where he found his victims, where he tracked them.
I pressed her hard. “How would anyone find out details about someone’s wedding? Dates? Locations? Where they would honeymoon?”
“We keep that information,” Maryanne Perkins said, “when the girls choose a gown. Some of it we need to know to help us, like dates, deadlines. And it just helps us get a feel for the bride. Most of them register with us as well.”
A feel for the bride.
“Who has access to this information?”
She shook her head. “Just us…my assistants. It’s a small department. Sometimes we share it with Fine China and Gifts.”
I felt I was finally close. My heart was slamming inside my chest. “I need to see a copy of anything you have on Melanie Brandt and Becky DeGeorge, and every customer you’re currently working with.” He was spotting his potential victims here, wasn’t he? There was a good chance he would come back. Someone on the store’s list could be next in line.
I saw Ms. Perkins’s jaw drop. She appeared to be focusing on a horrible sight. “There’s something else you’ll want to know.”
“What?”
“About a month ago, after inventory, we noticed that our folder on the brides was missing.”
Chapter 47
AS SOON AS I GOT BACK to the Hall, I did two things: I called Claire and Cindy and told them what I’d found out at Saks, then I went to find Chris Raleigh.
I shared everything with Chris, and we decided to put a woman detective from the Sex Crimes U
nit inside the department store. I sent a sketch artist over to see Maryanne Perkins at Saks.
Then Chris shared something important with me. Roth and Mercer had handed over our case files to the FBI.
I felt a knifing pain deep in my chest. I rushed into the bathroom, closed the door behind me, pressed my back against the cold, chipped tile. Goddamn, son-of-a-bitch, controlling men. Goddamn Roth and Mercer!
I stared at my face in the mirror. My cheeks were flushed. My skin was burning.
The FBI. This was my case — and Claire’s, and Cindy’s, and Raleigh’s. It meant more to me than any other I’d ever worked on.
Suddenly, my legs felt wobbly. Negli’s? The doctor had said I’d be feeling fits of nausea or light-headedness. I had my fourth transfusion scheduled at Moffett, the hematology unit, at five-thirty.