1st To Die

Book 1: A Women's Murder Club Thriller

by James Patterson

Genres: Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Four women—four friends—share a determination to stop a killer who has been stalking newlyweds in San Francisco. Each one holds a piece of the puzzle: Lindsay Boxer is a homicide inspector in the San Francisco Police Department, Claire Washburn is a medical examiner, Jill Bernhardt is an assistant D.A., and Cindy Thomas just started working the crime desk of the San Francisco Chronicle.

But the usual procedures aren't bringing them any closer to stopping the killings. So these women form a Women's Murder Club to collaborate outside the box and pursue the case by sidestepping their bosses and giving one another a hand.

1st to Die is the start of a blazingly fast-paced and sensationally entertaining new series of crime thrillers.

Release date: March 5, 2001

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 432

Sample

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. I’m looking out over glorious San Francisco and I have my service revolver pressed against the side of my temple.


“Goddamn you, God!” I whisper. Quite a sentiment, but appropriate and just, I think.


I hear Sweet Martha whimpering. I turn and see she is watching me through the glass doors that lead to the terrace. She knows
that something 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, loyal friend who’s been nuzzling me good-night every single night
for the past six years.


As I stare into the Border collie’s eyes, I think that maybe I should go inside and call the girls. Claire, Cindy, and Jill would be here almost before I hung up the phone. They would hold me, hug me, say all the right things. You’re special, Lindsay. Everybody loves you, Lindsay.

Only I’m pretty sure that I’d be back out here tomorrow night, or the night after. I just don’t see a way out of this mess.
I have thought it all through a hundred times. I can be as logical as hell, but I am also highly emotional, obviously. That
was my strength as an inspector with the San Francisco Police Department. It is a rare combination, and I think it is why
I was more successful than any of the males in Homicide. Of course, none of them are up here getting ready to blow their brains
out with their own guns.


I lightly brush the barrel of the revolver down my cheek and then up to my temple again. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I am reminded
of soft hands, 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 even see myself, the way I used to be, anyway. Nobody
ever, ever thought that I looked like an inspector, the only woman homicide inspector in the entire SFPD. My friends always said I was
more like Helen Hunt married to Paul Reiser in Mad About You. I was married once. I was no Helen Hunt; he sure was no Paul Reiser.


This is so hard, so bad, so wrong. It’s so unlike me. I keep seeing David and Melanie Brandt, the first couple who were killed,
in the Mandarin Suite of the Grand Hyatt. I see that horrifying hotel room, where they died senselessly and needlessly.


That was the beginning.


BEAUTIFUL LONG-STEMMED RED ROSES filled the hotel suite—the perfect gifts, really. Everything was perfect.


There might be a luckier man somewhere on the planet, David Brandt thought as he wrapped his arms around Melanie, his new
bride. Somewhere in Yemen, maybe—some Allah-praising farmer with a second goat. But certainly not in all of San Francisco.


The couple looked out from the living room of the Grand Hyatt’s Mandarin Suite. They could see the lights of Berkeley off
in the distance, Alcatraz, the graceful outline of the lit-up Golden Gate Bridge.


“It’s incredible.” Melanie beamed. “I wouldn’t change a single thing about today.”

“Me either,” he whispered. “Well, maybe I wouldn’t have invited my parents.” They both laughed.

Only moments before, they had bid farewell to the last of the three hundred guests in the hotel’s ballroom. The wedding was finally over. The toasts, the dancing, the schmoozing, the photographed kisses over the cake. Now it was just
the two of them. They were twenty-nine years old and had the rest of their lives ahead of them.


David reached for a pair of filled champagne glasses he had set on a lacquered table. “A toast,” he declared, “to the second-luckiest
man alive.”


“The second?” she said, and smiled in pretended shock. “Who’s the first?”

They looped arms and took a long, luxurious sip from the crystal glasses. “This farmer with two goats. I’ll tell you later.

“I have something for you,” David suddenly remembered. He had already given her the perfect five-carat diamond on her finger,
which he knew she wore only to please his folks. He went to his tuxedo jacket, which was draped over a high-backed chair,
and returned with a jewelry box from Bulgari.


“No, David,” Melanie protested. “You’re my gift.”

“Open it anyway,” he said to her. “This you’ll like.”

She lifted the top. Inside a suede pouch was a set of earrings, large silver rings around a pair of whimsical moons made from
diamonds.


“They’re how I think of you,” he said.

Melanie held the moons against the lobes of her ears. They were perfect, and so was she.

“It’s you who pulls my tides,” David murmured.

They kissed, and he unfastened the zipper of her dress, letting the neckline fall just below her shoulders. He kissed her
neck. Then the tops of her breasts.


There was a knock on the door of the suite.

“Champagne,” called a voice from outside.


For a moment, David thought of just yelling, “Leave it there!” All evening, he had longed to peel away the dress from his
wife’s soft white shoulders.


“Oh, go get it,” Melanie whispered, dangling the earrings in front of his eyes. “I’ll put these on.”

She wiggled out of his grasp, backing toward the Mandarin’s master bathroom, a smile in her liquid brown eyes. God, he loved those eyes.

As he went to the door, David was thinking he wouldn’t trade places with anybody in the world.

Not even for a second goat.

PHILLIP CAMPBELL had imagined this moment, this exquisite scene, so many times. He knew it would be the groom who opened the
door. He stepped into the room.


“Congratulations,” Campbell muttered, handing over the champagne. He stared at the man in the open tuxedo shirt with a black
tie dangling around his neck.


David Brandt barely looked at him as he inspected the brightly ribboned box. Krug. Clos du Mesnil, 1989.

“What is the worst thing anyone has ever done?” Campbell murmured to himself. “Am I capable of doing it? Do I have what it
takes?”


“Any card?” the groom said, fumbling in his pants pocket for a tip.

“Only this, sir.”

Campbell stepped forward and plunged a knife deep into the groom’s chest, between the third and fourth ribs, the closest route
to the heart.


“For the man who has everything,” Campbell said. He pushed his way into the room and slammed the door shut with a swift kick.
He spun David Brandt around, shoved his back against the door, and powered the blade in deeper.


The groom stiffened in a spasm of shock and pain. Guttural sounds escaped from his chest—tiny, gurgling, choking breaths.
His eyes bulged in disbelief.


This is amazing, Campbell thought. He could actually feel the groom’s strength leaking away. The man had just experienced
one of the great moments of his life and now, minutes later, he was dying.


Campbell stepped back, and the groom’s body crumpled to the floor. The room began to tilt like a listing boat. Then everything
began to speed up and run together. He felt as if he were watching a flickering newsreel. Amazing. Nothing like he had expected.


Campbell heard the wife’s voice and had the presence of mind to pull the blade out of David Brandt’s chest.

He rushed to intercept her as she came from the bedroom, still in her long, lacy gown.

“David?” she said with an expectant smile that turned to shock at the sight of Campbell. “Where’s David? Who are you?”

Her eyes traveled over him, terror ridden, fixing on his face, the knife blade, then her husband’s body on the floor.

“Oh, my God! David!” she screamed. “Oh, David, David!”

Campbell wanted to remember her like this. The frozen, wide-eyed look. The promise and hope that just moments ago had shined so brightly were now shattered.


The words poured from his mouth. “You want to know why? Well so do I.”


“What have you done?” Melanie screamed again. She struggled to understand. Her terrified eyes darted back and forth, sweeping
the room for a way out.


She made a sudden dash for the living room door. Campbell grabbed her wrist and brought the bloody knife up to her throat.

“Please,” she whimpered, her eyes frozen. “Please don’t kill me.”

“The truth is, Melanie, I’m here to save you,” he said as he smiled into her quivering face.

Campbell lowered the blade and sliced into her. The slender body jolted up with a sudden cry. Her eyes flickered like a weak
electric bulb. A deathly rattle shot through her. Why? her begging eyes pleaded. Why?


It took a full minute for him to regain his breath. The smell of Melanie Brandt’s blood was deep in his nostrils. He almost
couldn’t believe what he had done.


He carried the bride’s body back into the bedroom and placed her on the bed.

She was beautiful. Delicate features. And so young. He remembered when he had first seen her and how he had been taken with
her then. She had thought the whole world was in front of her.


He rubbed his hand against the smooth surface of her cheek and cupped one of her earrings—a smiling moon.

What is the worst thing anyone has ever done? Phillip Campbell asked himself again, heart pounding in his chest.


Was this it? Had he just done it?

Not yet, a voice inside answered. Not quite yet.

Slowly, he lifted the bride’s beautiful white wedding dress.

IT WAS A LITTLE BEFORE EIGHT-THIRTY on a Monday morning in June, one of those chilly, gray summer mornings San Francisco is
famous for. I was starting the week off badly, flipping through old copies of The New Yorker while waiting for my G.P., Dr. Roy Orenthaler, to free up.


I’d been seeing Dr. Roy, as I still sometimes called him, ever since I was a sociology major at San Francisco State University,
and I obligingly came in once a year for my checkup. That was last Tuesday. To my surprise, he had called at the end of the
week and asked me to stop in today before work.


I had a busy day ahead of me: two open cases and a deposition to deliver at district court. I was hoping I could be at my
desk by nine.


“Ms. Boxer,” the receptionist finally called to me, “the doctor will see you now.”

I followed her into the doctor’s office.

Generally, Orenthaler greeted me with some well-intended stab at police humor, such as, “So if you’re here, who’s out on the
street after them?” I was now thirty-four, and for the past two years had been lead inspector on the homicide detail out of the Hall of Justice.


But today he rose stiffly and uttered a solemn “Lindsay.” He motioned me to the chair across from his desk. Uh-oh.

Up until then, my philosophy on doctors had been simple: When one of them gave you that deep, concerned look and told you
to take a seat, three things could happen. Only one of them was bad. They were asking you out, getting ready to lay on some
bad news, or they’d just spent a fortune reupholstering the furniture.


“I want to show you something,” Orenthaler began. He held a slide up against a light.

He pointed to splotches of tiny ghostlike spheres in a current of smaller pellets. “This is a blowup of the blood smear we
took from you. The larger globules are erythrocytes. Red blood cells.”


“They seem happy,” I joked nervously.

“They are, Lindsay,” the doctor said without a trace of a smile. “Problem is, you don’t have many.”

I fixed on his eyes, hoping they would relax and that we’d move on to something trivial like, You better start cutting down
those long hours, Lindsay.


“There’s a condition, Lindsay,” Orenthaler went on. “Negli’s aplastic anemia. It’s rare. Basically, the body no longer manufactures
red blood cells.” He held up a photo. “This is what a normal blood workup looks like.”


On this one, the dark background looked like the intersection of Market and Powell at 5:00 P.M., a virtual traffic jam of compressed, energetic spheres. Speedy messengers, all carrying oxygen to parts of someone else’s
body.


In contrast, mine looked about as densely packed as a political headquarters two hours after the candidate has conceded.

“This is treatable, right?” I asked him. More like I was telling him.

“It’s treatable, Lindsay,” Orenthaler said, after a pause. “But it’s serious.”

A week ago, I had come in simply because my eyes were runny and blotchy and I’d discovered some blood in my panties and every
day by three I was suddenly feeling like some iron-deficient gnome was inside me siphoning off my energy. Me, of the regular
double shifts and fourteen-hour days. Six weeks’ accrued vacation.


“How serious are we talking about?” I asked, my voice catching.

“Red blood cells are vital to the body’s process of oxygenation,” Orenthaler began to explain. “Hemopoiesis, the formation
of blood cells in the bone marrow.”


“Dr. Roy, this isn’t a medical conference. How serious are we talking about?”

“What is it you want to hear, Lindsay? Diagnosis or possibility?”

“I want to hear the truth.”

Orenthaler nodded. He got up and came around the desk and took my hand. “Then here’s the truth, Lindsay. What you have is
life threatening.”


“Life threatening?” My heart stopped. My throat was as dry as parchment.

“Fatal, Lindsay.”

THE COLD, BLUNT SOUND of the word hit me like a hollow-point shell between the eyes.


Fatal, Lindsay.

I waited for Dr. Roy to tell me this was all some kind of sick joke. That he had my tests mixed up with someone else’s.

“I want to send you to a hematologist, Lindsay,” Orenthaler went on. “Like a lot of diseases, there are stages. Stage one
is when there’s a mild depletion of cells. It can be treated with monthly transfusions. Stage two is when there’s a systemic
shortage of red cells.


“Stage three would require hospitalization. A bone marrow transplant. Potentially, the removal of your spleen.”

“So where am I?” I asked, sucking in a cramped lungful of air.


“Your erythrocytic count is barely two hundred per cc of raw blood. That puts you on the cusp.”


“The cusp?”

“The cusp,” the doctor said, “between stages two and three.”

There comes a point in everybody’s life when you realize the stakes have suddenly changed. The carefree ride of your life
slams into a stone wall; all those years of merely bouncing along, life taking you where you want to go, abruptly end. In
my job, I see this moment forced on people all the time.


Welcome to mine.

“So what does this mean?” I asked weakly. The room was spinning a little now.

“What it means, Lindsay, is that you’re going to have to undergo a prolonged regimen of intensive treatment.”

I shook my head. “What does it mean for my job?”

I’d been in Homicide for six years now, the past two as lead homicide inspector. With any luck, when my lieutenant was up
for promotion, I’d be in line for his job. The department needed strong women. They could go far. Until that moment, I had
thought that I would go far.


“Right now,” the doctor said, “I don’t think it means anything. As long as you feel strong while you’re undergoing treatment,
you can continue to work. In fact, it might even be good therapy.”


Suddenly, I felt as if the walls of the room were closing in on me and I was suffocating.

“I’ll give you the name of the hematologist,” Orenthaler said.


He went on about the doctor’s credentials, but I found myself no longer hearing him. I was thinking, Who am I going to tell?
Mom had died ten years before, from breast cancer. Dad had been out of the picture since I was thirteen. I had a sister, Cat,
but she was living a nice, neat life down in Newport Beach, and for her, just making a right turn on red brought on a moment
of crisis.


The doctor pushed the referral toward me. “I know you, Lindsay. You’ll pretend this is something you can fix by working harder.
But you can’t. This is deadly serious. I want you to call him today.”


Suddenly my beeper sounded. I fumbled for it in my bag and looked at the number. It was the office—Jacobi.

“I need a phone,” I said.

Orenthaler shot me a reproving look, one that read, I told you, Lindsay.

“Like you said,”—I forced a nervous smile—“therapy.”

He nodded to the phone on his desk and left the room. I went through the motions of dialing my partner.

“Fun’s over, Boxer,” Jacobi’s gruff voice came on the line. “We got a double one-eight-oh. The Grand Hyatt.”

My head was spinning with what the doctor had told me. In a fog, I must not have responded.

“You hear me, Boxer? Work time. You on the way?”


“Yeah,” I finally said.

“And wear something nice,” my partner grunted. “Like you would to a wedding.”

HOW I GOT from Dr. Orenthaler’s office, out in Noe Valley, all the way to the Hyatt in Union Square, I don’t remember.


I kept hearing the doctor’s words sounding over and over in my head. In severe cases, Negli’s can be fatal.

All I know is that barely twelve minutes after Jacobi’s call, my ten-year-old Bronco screeched to a halt in front of the hotel’s
atrium entrance.


The street was ablaze with police activity. Jesus, what the hell had happened?

The entire block between Sutter and Union Square had been cordoned off by a barricade of blue-and-whites. In the hotel entrance,
a cluster of uniforms crowded about, checking people going in and out, waving the crowd of onlookers away.


I badged my way into the lobby. Two uniformed cops whom I recognized were standing in front: Murray, a potbellied cop in the last year of his hitch, and his younger partner, Vasquez. I asked Murray to bring me up to speed.


“What I been told is that there’s two VIPs murdered on the thirtieth floor. All the brainpower’s up there now.”

“Who’s presiding?” I asked, feeling my energies returning.

“Right now, I guess you are, Inspector.”

“In that case, I want all exits to the hotel immediately shut down. And get a list from the manager of all guests and staff.
No one goes in or out unless they’re on that list.”


Seconds later, I was riding up to the thirtieth floor.

The trail of cops and official personnel led me down the hall to a set of open double doors marked “Mandarin Suite.” I ran
into Charlie Clapper, the Crime Scene Unit crew chief, lugging in his heavy cases with two techs. Clapper’s being here himself
meant this was big.


Through the open double doors, I saw roses first—they were everywhere. Then I spotted Jacobi.

“Watch your heels, Inspector,” he called loudly across the room.

My partner was forty-seven, but he looked ten years older. His hair was white, and he was beginning to bald. His face always
seemed on the verge of a smirk over some tasteless wisecrack. He and I had worked together for two and a half years. I was
senior, inspector-sergeant, though he had seven years on me in the department. He reported to me.


Stepping into the suite, I almost tripped across the legs of body number one, the groom. He was lying just inside the front
door, crumpled in a heap, in an open tuxedo shirt and pants. Blood matted the hair on his chest. I took a deep breath.


“May I present Mr. David Brandt,” Jacobi intoned with a crooked smile. “Mrs. David Brandt’s in there.” He gestured toward
the bedroom. “Guess things went downhill for them quicker than most.”


I knelt down and took a long, hard look at the dead groom. He was handsome, with short, dark, tousled hair and a soft jaw;
but the wide, apoplectic eyes locked open and the rivulet of dried blood on his chin marred the features. Behind him, his
tuxedo jacket lay on the floor.


“Who found them?” I asked, checking his pocket for a wallet.

“Assistant manager. They were supposed to fly to Bali this morning. The island, not the casino, Boxer. For these two, assistant
managers do wake-up calls.”


I opened the wallet: a New York driver’s license with the groom’s smiling face. Platinum cards, several hundred-dollar bills.

I got up and looked around the suite. It opened up into a stylish museum of Oriental art: celadon dragons, chairs and couches
decorated with imperial court scenes. The roses, of course. I was more the cozy bed-and-breakfast type, but if you were into
making a statement, this was about as substantial a statement as you could make.


“Let’s meet the bride,” Jacobi said.

I followed through a set of open double doors into the master bedroom and stopped. The bride lay on her back on a large canopy
bed.


I’d been to a hundred homicides and could radar in on the body as quick as anyone, but this I wasn’t prepared for. It sent
a wave of compassion racing down my spine.


The bride was still in her wedding dress.

YOU NEVER SEE so many murder victims that it stops making you hurt, but this one was especially hard to look at.


She was so young and beautiful: calm, tranquil, and undisturbed except for the three crimson flowers of blood spread on her
white chest. She looked as if she were a sleeping princess awaiting her prince, but her prince was in the other room, his
guts spilled all over the floor.


“Whaddaya want for thirty-five hundred bucks a night?” Jacobi shrugged. “The whole fairy tale?”

It was taking everything I had just to keep my grip on what I had to do. I glared, as if a single, venomous look could shut
Jacobi down.


“Jeez, Boxer, what’s goin’ on?” His face sagged. “It was just a joke.”

Whatever it was, his childlike, remorseful expression brought me back. The bride was wearing a large diamond on her right
hand and fancy earrings. Whatever the killer’s motive, it wasn’t robbery.


A tech from the medical examiner’s office was abou. . .