Prologue
INSPECTORLINDSAY BOXERIT IS AN UNUSUALLY WARM NIGHT in July, but I'm shivering badly as Istand on the substantial gray stone terrace outside my apartment.I'm looking out over glorious San Francisco and I have my servicerevolver pressed against the side of my temple.
"Goddamn you, God!" I whisper. Quite a sentiment, but appropriateand just, I think.
I hear Sweet Martha whimpering. I turn and see she is watching methrough the glass doors that lead to the terrace. She knows thatsomething is wrong. "It's okay," I call to her through the door."I'm okay. Go lie down, girl."
Martha won't leave, though, won't look away. She's a good, loyalfriend who's been nuzzling me good-night every single night for thepast six years.
As I stare into the Border collie's eyes, I think that maybe Ishould go inside and call the girls. Claire, Cindy, and Jill wouldbe here almost before I hung up the phone. They would hold me, hugme, say all the right things. You're special, Lindsay. Everybodyloves you, Lindsay.
Only I'm pretty sure that I'd be back out here tomorrow night, orthe night after. I just don't see a way out of this mess. I havethought it all through a hundred times. I can be as logical as hell,but I am also highly emotional, obviously. That was my strength asan inspector with the San Francisco Police Department. It is a rarecombination, and I think it is why I was more successful than any ofthe males in Homicide. Of course, none of them are up here gettingready to blow their brains out with their own guns.
I lightly brush the barrel of the revolver down my cheek and then upto my temple again. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I am reminded of softhands, of Chris, and that starts me crying.
Lots of images are coming way too fast for me to handle.
The terrible, indelible honeymoon murders that terrified our city,mixed with close-ups of my mom and even a few flashes of my father.My best girls - Claire, Cindy, and Jill - our crazy club. I can evensee myself, the way I used to be, anyway. Nobody ever, ever thoughtthat I looked like an inspector, the only woman homicide inspectorin the entire SFPD. My friends always said I was more like HelenHunt married to Paul Reiser in Mad About You. I was married once. Iwas no Helen Hunt; he sure was no Paul Reiser.
This is so hard, so bad, so wrong. It's so unlike me. I keep seeingDavid and Melanie Brandt, the first couple who were killed, in theMandarin Suite of the Grand Hyatt. I see that horrifying hotel room,where they died senselessly and needlessly.
That was the beginning.
Continues...
Excerpted from 1st to Dieby James Patterson Copyright © 2006 by James Patterson. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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