But certainly not in all of San Francisco. Somewhere in Yemen, maybe some Allah-praising farmer with a second goat. There might be a luckier man somewhere on the planet, David Brandt thought as he wrapped his arms around Melanie, his new bride. I see that horrifying hotel room, where they died senselessly and needlessly.īEAUTIFUL LONG-STEMMED RED ROSES filled the hotel suite the perfect gifts, really. I keep seeing David and Melanie Brandt, the first couple who were killed, in the Mandarin Suite of the Grand Hyatt. I was no Helen Hunt he sure was no Paul Reiser.
My friends always said I was more like Helen Hunt married to Paul Reiser in Mad About You. Nobody ever, ever thought that I looked like an inspector, the only woman homicide inspector in the entire SFPD. I can even see myself, the way I used to be, anyway. My best girls Claire, Cindy, and Jill our crazy club. The terrible, indelible honeymoon murders that terrified our city, mixed with close-ups of my mom and even a few flashes of my father. Lots of images are coming way too fast for me to handle. I am reminded of soft hands, of Chris, and that starts me crying. I lightly brush the barrel of the revolver down my cheek and then up to my temple again. Of course, none of them are up here getting ready to blow their brains out with their own guns. It is a rare combination, and I think it is why I was more successful than any of the males in Homicide. That was my strength as an inspector with the San Francisco Police Department. I can be as logical as hell, but I am also highly emotional, obviously. I have thought it all through a hundred times. Only I'm pretty sure that I'd be back out here tomorrow night, or the night after. They would hold me, hug me, say all the right things.
Claire, Cindy, and Jill would be here almost before I hung up the phone.
She's a good, loyal friend who's been nuzzling me good-night every single night for the past six years.Īs I stare into the Border collie's eyes, I think that maybe I should go inside and call the girls. Martha won't leave, though, won't look away. "It's okay," I call to her through the door. I turn and see she is watching me through the glass doors that lead to the terrace. Quite a sentiment, but appropriate and just, I think. I'm looking out over glorious San Francisco and I have my service revolver pressed against the side of my temple. IT IS AN UNUSUALLY WARM NIGHT in July, but I'm shivering badly as I stand on the substantial gray stone terrace outside my apartment.
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