Chapter46
WHEN I GOT TO WORK the following morning, there was a fax from Hartwig listing the partners at Sparrow Ridge. I gave them to Jacobi to check. Then I called my contacts at both wedding planners, White Lace and Miriam Campbell. I wasn't expecting much. So far, everything had come back empty. To my shock, both planners confirmed it. Melanie Brandt and Becky De George had bought their dresses at the same place. The Bridal Boutique at Saks. It was the first tangible link between the two cases. It could lead to nothing, but I felt in my bones it had the real, promising sensation of something good. 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 man158 ager 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 De George 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 De George 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."
Chapter47
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 Unit 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. Neglt'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. An overwhelming emptiness tugged at me, alternating between anger and fear. I was just starting to crack this thing. I didn't need outsiders in dark suits and tie pins buzzing around with a clumsy, ham-handed alternative investigation. I blinked into the mirror. My cheeks, which had been burning with anger, now looked pallid and lifeless. My eyes were watery and gray. My whole body seemed drained of color. I stared at myself until a familiar voice came alive inside me. Come on. Get yourself together. You win-you always win. I splashed cold water on my face. The flashing sweat on my neck began to subside. You're allowed one of these. I exhaled with a thin smile. Just don't do that again. Gradually, a familiar glimmer came to life in my eyes and normal color seeped back into my cheeks. It was four-twenty. I had to be at Moffett by five. I'd start on the names from Saks tomorrow. After applying a few dabs of makeup, I made my way back to my desk. To my chagrin, Raleigh wandered up. "Now you can manage their fallout," I snapped unnecessarily, referring to the FBI. "I didn't know," he said. "As soon as I did, I told you." "Yeah." I nodded. "I know." Raleigh got up, came around, and sat on the edge of my desk, facing me. "Something's wrong, isn't it? Tell me. Please." How did he know? Maybe he was a much better detective than I gave him credit for. For a moment, I wanted to tell him. God, I wanted it to come out. Then Raleigh did something totally unexpected. He flashed one of those trusting smiles that I couldn't help but give myself over to. He pulled me out of my chair and gave me a hug. I was so surprised I didn't even resist. I was quivering jelly in his arms. It wasn't quite sexual, but no burst of passion had ever rippled through me more powerfully. Raleigh held me until the anxiety had slowly melted away. Right there, in the fucking squad room. I didn't know what to do, but I didn't want to pull back. Or have him let me go. "I could write you up for this," I finally mumbled into his shoulder. He didn't move. "You want a pen?" Slowly, I pulled myself away. Every nerve in my body felt as if it had retreated from a tense state of alert. "Thanks," I muttered with appreciation. "You didn't seem yourself," he said gently. "Shift's almost done. Want to talk about it over coffee? Just coffee, Lindsay, not a date." I looked at my watch and suddenly saw that it was almost five o'clock. I had to be at Moffett. I gave him a look that I hoped reflected, Ask me again, but said, "I can't. Gotta go."