“You know, I won’t always be your partner, Lindsay.”
“I know that. And maybe I won’t always be able to say no.”
I don’t know if I was disappointed or relieved to see our hotel up ahead. Part of me wanted to run to my room, throw open the windows, and just breathe in the night air.
I was sort of happy I wouldn’t have to make that decision, when Raleigh took me by surprise.
He leaned over without warning and pressed his lips on mine. The kiss was so soft, as if he were gently asking, Is this okay?
I let the kiss linger warmly. Soft hands… soft lips.
It wasn’t as if I hadn’t imagined this happening. It was just as I had imagined. I wanted to be in control, but here it was, out of the blue, and I was giving in. But just as I was starting to give him myself, the fear caught up to me — the fear of the inescapable truth.
I dropped my head, slowly pulled away.
“That was nice. For me, anyway,” Raleigh said, resting his forehead against mine.
I nodded but said, “I can’t, Chris.”
“Why are you always holding back, Lindsay?” he asked.
I wanted to say, Because I am deceiving you. Tell him everything that was going on.
But I was content to deceive, though I did it with the greatest yearning I had felt in years. “I just want to nail Red Beard,” I answered.
Chapter 60
THE NEXT MORNING, Detective McBride left a message for us to meet him in Sharp’s office at the Hall of Fame.
Something had come back on the film.
In a sparsely decorated conference room, the museum’s security chief, McBride, and several members of the CPD Homicide staff sat facing a wide-screen video monitor on a walnut cabinet.
“At first,” Sharp began self-importantly, “we were just randomly going through the tape with members of the families, stopping on anyone who didn’t look familiar. Your sketch,” he turned to me, “helped narrow it down.”
He flicked a handheld controller toward the screen. “The first clips you’re gonna see are the main entrance.”
The screen lit up, standard black-and-white surveillance footage. It was so weird and strange. Several gaudily dressed guests seemed to be arriving at once, many of them outfitted as famous rockers. One was Elton John. His date had teased hair dyed in various light and dark shades, Cyndi Lauper–style. I recognized a Chuck Berry, a Michael Jackson, a couple of Madonnas, Elvis, Elvis Costellos.
Sharp fast-forwarded, the film advancing like individual, edited stills. An older couple arrived dressed in traditional evening wear. Behind them, almost tucked into their backs, came a man who was clearly shying from the camera, averting his face.
“There!” Sharp said.
I saw him! My heart pumped madly in my chest. Goddamn Red Beard!
It was a horrible, grainy likeness. The man, sensing the direction of the camera, quickly hurried by. Maybe he had come there earlier, scouting for security cameras. Maybe he was just smart enough to avoid a direct shot. Whatever it was, he sneaked into the crowd and disappeared.
A ball of anger knotted in my chest. “Can you back up, home in?” I said to Sharp. “I need to see his face.”
He leveled his remote, and the image channeled in to a higher magnification.
I stood up. I was staring at a partially obscured shot of the killer’s face.
No eyes, no clear feature. Only a shadowy profile. A jutting chin. And the outline of a goatee.
There was no doubt in my mind that this was the killer. I didn’t know his name. I could barely see his face. But the fuzzy ima
ge I had first sketched together in my mind with Claire was now in front of me.