Chapter 19

I DIDN'T WANT TO GO HOME. And I knew I couldn't stay at the Hall any longer. I grabbed my bag, rushed down to the underground garage, and started up my trusty-dusty Bronco without a clear sense of where I was headed. I just drove- Fourth, Third, onto Mission, past the Moscone Center- cafes, closed-up shops. All the way down toward the Embarcadero. I wrapped around Battery, heading away from the bay. I had nowhere to go, but my hands seemed to act on their own, leading me somewhere. Flashes of the murdered bride and groom flickered in my head. Echoes of Orenthaler. I had finally called Dr. Medved, the hematologist, for an appointment. I was approaching Sutler, and I turned. Suddenly, I knew where I was heading. I pulled into Union Square. Without even trying, I found myself in front of the brightly lit entrance of the Hyatt. I badged the manager and took the elevator up to the thirtieth floor. A single uniformed guard sat in front of the Mandarin Suite. I recognized him, David Hale out of Central. He stood up as he saw me approach. "Nowhere to go, Inspector?" A crisscrossing barrier of yellow tape blocked the entrance to the Mandarin Suite. Hale gave me the key. I peeled off a band or two of tape and slipped under the rest. I turned the lock and I was inside. If you've never wandered alone at the site of a freshly committed murder, you don't really know the feeling of restless unease. I felt the dark ghosts of David and Melanie Brandt were still in the room. I was sure I had missed something. I was also sure it was here. What? The suite was pretty much as I had left it. The Oriental carpet in the living room had gone to Clapper's lab. But body positions and blood sites were clearly marked out with blue chalk. I looked at the spot where David Brandt had died. In my mind, I retraced what had likely taken place. They are toasting each other. (I knew that from the half filled champagne glasses on a table near the terrace.) Maybe he just gave her the earrings. (The open box was on the master bathroom counter.) There's a knock. David Brandt goes to answer. It was as if secrets were buzzing in the thick air, alive with whispers. The killer comes in, carrying the champagne box. Maybe David knows him. Maybe he just left him an hour before at the reception. The knife comes out. Only one thrust. The groom is pinned against the door, apoplectic. It happens so fast that he cannot scream. "Poor man went in his pants," Claire had said. The bride doesn't scream? Maybe she's in the bathroom. (The jewelry box.) Maybe she went in there to put on the earrings. The killer hunts through the suite. He intercepts the bride, coming out unsuspectingly. I envision Melanie Brandt- radiant, full of joy. He sees it, too. Was he someone she knew? Had she just left him? Did Melanie know her killer? There's a Navajo saying, "Even the still wind has a voice." In the quiet, confessing hotel room, I listen. Tell me, Melanie. I am here for you. I'm listening. My skin tingles with the chill of resurrecting each detail of the murder. She fights, tries to run away. (The bruises and small abrasions on her arms and neck.) The killer stabs her at the foot of the bed. He is horrified, yet wildly excited about what he has done. She doesn't die immediately. He has to stab her again. And once more. When he is finished, he carries her to the bed. (Not drags. There is no sign of blood trailing behind.) This is important. He is gentle with her. It makes me think he knows her. Maybe he once loved Melanie? He folds her arms on her waist in a restful pose. A princess sleeping. Maybe he pretends that what has taken place is only a bad dream. Nowhere in the room do I feel the clinical pattern of professionals or hired killers. Or even someone who has killed before. I'm listening. A ferocious anger rises up in his blood. He realizes he will never see her again. His princess… He's so angry. He wants to lie down with her this one time. Feel her. But he cannot. That would defile her. But he must have her. So he lifts her dress. Uses his fist. It is all screaming at me. I'm sure there is one last thing I am not seeing. Unrevealed. What am I missing? What has everyone missed so far? I step over to the bed. I envision Melanie, her horrifying stab wounds, but her face is calm, un accusing He leaves her like that. He doesn't take the earrings. He doesn't take the huge diamond ring. Then it hit me with the power of a train exploding from a dark tunnel. What was missing. What I hadn't seen. Jesus Christ, Lindsay. Rings! I ran my mind over the image of her lying there. Her delicate, blood-smeared hands. The diamond was still there, but.. Jesus! Is it possible? I ran back to the foyer and brought to mind the crumpled body of the groom. They had been married just a few hours before. They had just completed their vows. But they weren't wearing gold bands. Wedding rings. The killer doesn't take the earrings, I realized. He takes the rings.

Chapter20

NINE THE NEXT MORNING, I was in the office of Dr. Victor Medved, a pleasant, smallish man with a narrow, chiseled face, who, with a trace of an Eastern European accent, scared the hell out of me. "Negli's is a killer," he stated evenly. "It robs the body of its ability to transport oxygen. "In the beginning, the symptoms are listlessness, a weakening of the immune system, and some light-headedness. Ultimately, you may experience similar brain dysfunction to a stroke and begin to lose mental capacity as well." He got up, walked over to me, cradled my face in his gentle hands. He stared at me through thick glasses. "You're already peaked," he said, pressing my cheeks with his thumbs. "Always takes me a while for the blood to get hopping in the mornings," I said with a smile, trying to mask the fear in my heart. "Well, in three months," Dr. Medved said, "unless we re verse it, you will look like a ghost. A pretty ghost, but a ghost all the same." He went back to his desk and picked up my chart. "I see you are a police detective." "Homicide," I told him. "Then there should be no reason to go forward under any delusions. I don't mean to upset you. Aplastic anemia can be reversed. Up to thirty percent of patients respond to a regimen of biweekly transfusions of packed red blood cells. Of those who do not respond, a similar percentage can be ultimately treated through a bone marrow transplant. But this involves a painful process of chemotherapy first in order to boost up the white cells." I stiffened. Orenthaler's nightmarish predictions were coming true. "Is there any way to know who responds to the treatment?" Medved clasped his palms together and shook his head. "The only way is to begin. Then we see." "I'm on an important case. Dr. Orenthaler said I could continue to work." Medved pursed his lips skeptically. "You may continue as long as you feel the strength." I meted out a slow, painful breath. How long could I hide this? Who could I tell? "If it works, how long before we see improvement?" I asked with some hope. He frowned. "This is not like popping aspirin for a headache. I'm afraid we're in this for the long haul." The long haul. I thought of Roth's likely response. My chances at lieutenant. This is it, Lindsay. This is the greatest challenge of your life. "And if it doesn't work, how long… before things start to…" "Start to get worse? Let us attack this with optimism and hope. We'll discuss that as we go along." Everything was thrown open now. The case, my career, all the goals of my life. The stakes had changed. I was walking around with a time bomb ticking in my chest, tightly wound, incendiary. And the slow, disappearing fuse was all that I thought I might be. I asked quietly, "When do we start?" He scribbled out the location of an office in the same building. Third floor. Moffett Outpatient Services. There was no date. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to start right now."