First to Die

Chapter54

SIX-THIRTY THE NEXT MORNING, Raleigh and I were on our way to Cleveland, of all places. McBride met us at the plane. He wasn't how I had imagined him. He wasn't flabby, middle-aged, Irish Catholic. He was was intense, sharp boned, maybe thirty-eight, and black. "You're younger than I thought." He smiled at me. I smiled back. "And you're definitely less Irish." On the way into town, he brought us up to speed. "Groom's from Seattle. Had something to do with the music business. Worked with rock bands. Producer… marketing guy. Bride grew up here in Ohio. Shaker Heights. Father's a corporate attorney. Girl was cute, redhead, freckles, glasses." He pulled a manila envelope off the dashboard and tossed it over to me in the passenger seat. Inside were a series of glossy eight-by-elevens of the crime scene: stark, graphic, somewhat resembling old photos of gangland rub outs The groom was sitting in the stall with a surprised expression and the top of his head blown off. The bride was slumped over his lap, curled in a pool of blood, hers and his. The sight of the couple filled me with a cold dread. As long as the killer was in northern California, I felt we had him contained. Now he was on the loose. We grilled McBride about the venue- how the victims might have ended up in the men's room and what security was like at the Hall of Fame. Each answer I heard convinced me even more that it was our guy. What the hell was he doing here? We pulled off the highway at Lake Shore Boulevard. A modern skyline rose all around us. "There she is," McBride announced. From a distance, I saw the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame glinting up ahead like a jaggedly cut jewel. A twisted killer had struck in the city's most celebrated venue. By now, he might already be back in San Francisco. Or Chicago? New York? Topeka? Planning another gruesome double murder. Or maybe he was in a hotel room across the square, watching us arrive. Red Beard could be anywhere.