Chapter 51
KATHY AND JAMES VOSKUHL were having their first dance- and to break with tradition, it was a rocker. The driving beat of "La Bamba" jolted through the brightly lit atrium of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland. "Everybody!" the groom shouted. "Rock and roll! Join us!" Hip young girls with dyed hair and wearing shiny green and red prom dresses- sixties style- swung around on the dance floor, their partners in retro silk shirts, Travolta like. The bride and groom, having changed into party garb, joined in, butting thighs, whooping, arms in air. It almost ruined everything, Phillip Campbell thought. He had wanted her in white. And here she was, sweaty red-streaked hair, cat-eye- shaped glasses, a tight green dress. This time, Kathy, you've gone too far. Forty tables, each with the likeness of some rock and roll icon as a centerpiece, filled out the Great Hall of the museum. A glittery banner that hung from the glass roof proclaimed: James and Kaihy. After a loud crescendo the song ended. A throng of sweaty wedding guests milled back toward their tables, catching their breath, fanning themselves. Waiters in black waistcoats scurried about the room, filling wineglasses. The bride went over and embraced a happy couple in formal dress. Mom and Dad. Phillip Campbell couldn't take his eyes off her. He saw her father give her a loving look, like, We've come through a lot, honey, but now everything will be all right. Now you're part of the club, trust funds and Country Day, little peach-haired grandkids. The groom wandered over and whispered something in Kathy's ear. She squeezed his arm, flashing him a smile that was both affectionate and coy. As he walked away, the tips of her fingers lingered, as if she were saying, I'll be right along. With a hitch of his belt, the groom drifted out of the main hall. He glanced back once or twice, and Kathy waved. Campbell decided to follow, hanging back at a safe distance. He went down a wide, well-lit corridor off the atrium. Halfway down, James Voskuhl glanced back once, cautiously. Then he opened a door and went in. The men's room. The killer moved forward. No one else was in the hall. He felt an irrepressible urge building with force. His fingers made their way into his jacket pocket, touched the cold heel of the gun. He flicked the safety off. He could no longer control what was going on inside his head. Go in, a voice dared him. Do it. He entered a filmy, sallow light. No one at the urinals or sinks. The groom was in a closed stall. A pungent smell filled his nostrils: marijuana. "That you, love?" the groom's affectionate voice called out. Every wick like nerve in Campbell's body stood at attention. He mumbled something barely audible. "Better get in here, hon," the groom gulped, "if you want the end of this bone." Phillip Campbell pushed open the door. The groom looked up, bewildered, the tip of a joint on his lip. "Hey, man, who the hell are you?" "I'm the one who kills useless worms like you." With that, he fired. Just once. James Voskuhl's head snapped back. A splatter of red sprayed against the tile. The groom rocked once, then crumpled forward in a heap. The echo of the gun blast seemed to concuss the entire room. It left an effluvium of cordite that mingled with the pot smoke. A strange calm took over Phillip Campbell, a fearlessness. He pulled the groom's head back and set him upright. Then he waited. The sound of the outer door opening and echoes of the distant party rushing in went right through him. "That you, Vbsk?" a woman's voice called out. it was her. The bride. "What're you smoking in there, tar?" Kathy giggled. She went over to the sinks, and he heard the sound of running water. Campbell could see her through a crack in the stall. She was at the sink, thrashing a comb through her hair. A vision came to him. How he would set this up. What the police would find. It took everything he had to control himself- to let her come to him. "You better save me a hit or two, mister," the bride called out. He watched her dance over to the stall. So close now. So unbelievably delicious. What a moment. When she opened the door, it was her look that meant everything to him. The sight of James, red drool leaking from his mouth. The startled recognition of the killer's face suddenly clicking in; the gun aimed right at her eyes. "I like you better in white, Kathy," was all the killer said. Then he squeezed the trigger- and a blinding white flash exploded through the cat-eye lenses.
Chapter 52
I WAS IN EARLY Monday morning, feeling a little nervous about my first contact with Raleigh after our dancing and-dining experience, wondering where all this was going to go, when one of the task force inspectors, Paul Chin, rushed up to me. "Lindsay, there's a woman in Interrogation Room Four I think you should check out." Ever since a physical description of the assailant had hit the airwaves, people had been calling in with fake sightings and dead-end leads. One of Chin's jobs was to follow them up, no matter how unlikely. "This one a psychic or a police buff?" I asked with a skeptical smile. "I think this one's the genuine article," said Chin. "She was at the first wedding." I almost leaped out of my chair after him. At the front of the squad room, I spotted Raleigh coming in. Chris. For a moment, a tingle of pleasure rushed through me. He'd left about eleven, after we ended up polishing off both bottles of wine. We ate, chewed over our separate stints on the force, and the ups and downs of being married or single. It had been a sweet evening. Took the heat off from the case. It even got my mind off Negli's. What scared me a little was the tremor inside that it could be something more. I had caught myself staring at him Friday night, while he helped out with the dishes, thinking, If times were different… Raleigh ran into me, carrying coffee and a paper. "Hey." He smiled. "Nice vest." "Chin's got a live one in four," I said, grabbing his arm. "Claims to have a physical sighting. You want to come along?" In my haste, I was already by him, not even giving him a second of recognition. He put down his paper on our civilian clerk's desk and caught up on the stairs. In the cramped interrogation room sat a nicely dressed, attractive woman of about fifty. Chin introduced her to me as Laurie Birnbaum. She seemed tight, nervous. Chin sat down next to her. "Ms. Birnbaum, why don't you tell Inspector Boxer what you just told me." She was frightened. "It was the beard that made me remember. I didn't even think of it until now. It was so horrible." "You were at the Brandts' wedding?" I asked her. "Yes, as guests of the bride's family," she replied. "My husband works with Chancellor Weil at the university." She took a nervous sip from a cup of coffee. "It was just a brief thing. But he gave me the chills." Chin pushed down the record button of a portable recorder. "Please, go ahead," I told her soothingly. Once again, I felt close to him- the bastard with the red beard. "I stood next to him. He had this graying red beard. Like a goatee. The kind they wear in Los Angeles. He looked older, maybe forty-five, fifty, but there was something about him. I'm not saying this right, am I?" "You spoke to him?" I asked, trying to communicate that even though she didn't do this every day, I did. Even the male detectives admitted that I was the best at Q and A on the floor. They joked that it was "a girl thing." "I had just come in from the dance floor," she said. "I looked up, and there he was. I said something like, "Nice affair. bride or groom?" For a moment, I thought he looked kind of appealing. Then he just sort of glared at me. I took him for one of those arrogant investment-banker types from the Brandt side." "What did he say to you?" I said. She massaged her brow, straining to recall. "He said, in the weirdest way, that they were lucky." "Who was lucky?" "Melanie and David. I may have said, "Aren't they lucky?" Meaning the two of them. They were so stunning. And he replied, "Oh, they're lucky." She looked up with a confused expression on her face. "He called them something else… chosen." "Chosen?" "Yes. He said, "Oh, they're lucky… You could even say they were chosen."" "You say he had a goatee?" "That's what was so strange. The beard made him seem older, but the rest of him was young." "The rest of him? What do you mean?" "His face. His voice. I know this must sound strange, but it was only for a moment, as I came off the dance floor." We got as much as we could from her. Height, hair color. What he was wearing. Everything confirmed the sparse details that we already had. The killer was a man with a short, reddish beard. He had been wearing a tux- the tux jacket he had left behind in the Mandarin Suite. A fire was building inside me. I felt sure that Laurie Birnbaum was credible. The beard. The tux. We were piecing together his appearance. "Is there anything more, anything at all that stands out to you? Some physical characteristic? A mannerism?" She shook her head. "It happened so quickly. It was only when I saw the drawing of him in the Chronicle…" I looked at Chin, conveying that it was time to call down an artist to firm up the details. I thanked her, made my way back to my desk. We'd get a sketch from her to use along with the one from Maryanne Perkins at Saks. The murder investigation had entered a new phase. It was very hot. We had a stakeout operational outside the Bridal Boutique at Saks. One by one, we were contacting the names on the store's list, anyone who had ordered a wedding dress in the past several months. My heart was pounding. The face I had imagined, my dream of the red-bearded man, was starting to fill in. I felt we had him contained. My phone rang. "Boxer," I answered, still shuffling through the names in the Saks wedding folder. "My name's McBride," a deep, urgent voice said. "I'm a homicide detective. In Cleveland."