1st to Die (Women's Murder Club 1)

As he had with the saleswoman in the Bridal Boutique at Saks.

“Here for a visit to the museum, Mr. Campbell?” Kaylin asked, as she typed.

“For the Voskuhl wedding,” he volunteered.

“Everyone’s saying that.” She smiled.

He followed the click of her peach-colored nails against the keys as she typed. “I’ve got you a deluxe room with a beautiful view,” she said, handing him a key. She smiled. “Enjoy the wedding. And have a nice stay.”

“I will,” Campbell said pleasantly. Before he turned away, he caught her eye and said, “Speaking of weddings — I like your ring.”

Upstairs, he pulled the curtains aside and, as promised, before him was a sweeping view.

Of Cleveland, Ohio.

Chapter 49

I SAW HIM …. That bastard. What was he doing here?

In a large, fast-moving crowd, on lower Market. Just a quick movement in the throng fighting its way toward the ferry.

My blood froze with the sight of him.

He was wearing an open blue shirt, brown corduroy jacket. He looked like some college professor. On any other day, I could have passed him by, never noticed. He was thin, gaunt, totally unremarkable in every way but one.

It was the reddish-brown beard.

His head bobbed in and out of the crowd. I followed, unable to narrow the distance.

“Police!” I shouted over the din.

My cry dissolved into the hurrying, unheeding mass of people. At any moment I might lose him.

I didn’t know his name, I only knew his victims. Melanie Brandt. Rebecca DeGeorge.

Suddenly, he stopped. He bucked against the flow, turned right toward me.

His face seemed illuminated, shining against a dark background like one of those medieval Russian icons. Amid the commotion, our eyes met.

There was a moment of captured, enlightened recognition. He knew that it was me. That I was the one after him.

Then, to my horror, he fled; the swarm of people engulfed him, swept him away.

“Stop,” I shouted. “I’ll shoot!”

A cold sweat broke out on my neck. I drew my gun.

“Get down,” I cried, but the rush-hour commuters pushed on, shielding him. I was going to lose him. The killer was getting away.

I raised the gun, focused on the image of his red beard.

He turned — with the sneer of someone who had totally outwitted me.

I drew a breath, steadied my aim.

As if in slow motion, every face in the crowd turned toward me, too.

I stepped back. In horror, I lowered the gun.