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 Sutler 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 pot bellied 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," Jacob! 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 about to begin his initial examination. "Looks like three stab wounds," he said. "She must've showed a lot of heart. He got the groom with one." What flashed through my mind was that fully 90 percent of all homicides were about money or sex. This one didn't seem to be about money. "When's the last time anyone saw them?" I asked. "A little after ten last night. That's when the humongous reception ended downstairs." "And not after that?" "I know this isn't exactly your terrain, Boxer," Jacobi said. He broke into a grin. "But generally people don't see the bride and groom for a while after the party." I smiled thinly, stood up, looked back across the large, lavish suite. "So surprise me, Jacobi. Who springs for a room like this?" "The groom's father is some Wall Street big shot from back east. He and his wife are down in a room on the twelfth floor. I was told it was quite a shindig downstairs. Up here, too. Look at all these goddamn roses." I went back over to the groom and spotted what looked like a gift box of champagne on a marble console near the door. There was a spray of blood all over it. "Assistant manager noticed it," Jacobi said. "My guess is, whoever did this brought it in with him." "They see anyone around?" "Yeah, a lot of people in tuxes. It was a wedding, right?" I read the champagne bottle label. "Krug. Clos du Mesnil, 1989." "That tell you something?" Jacob! asked. "Only that the killer has good taste." I looked at the blood-smeared tuxedo jacket. There was a single slash mark on the side where the fatal knife wound had gone through. "I figure the killer must've stripped it off after he stabbed him." Jacobi shrugged. "Why the hell would he do that?" I muttered out loud. "Dunno. We'll have to ask him." Charlie Clapper was eyeing me from the hallway to see if it was okay to get started. I nodded him in. Then I went back to the bride. I had a bad, bad feeling about this one. If it's not about money… then… sex. I lifted the fancy tulle lining of her skirt. The coldest, bitterest confirmation sliced through me. The bride's panties had been pulled down and were dangling off one foot. A fierce anger rose in my chest. I looked into the bride's eyes. Everything had been ahead of her, every hope and dream. Now she was a slaughtered corpse, defiled, possibly raped on her wedding night. As I stood there, blinking as I stared down at her face, I suddenly realized that I was crying. "Warren," I said to Jacobi, "I want you to speak with the groom's parents," I said, sucking in a breath. "I want everyone who was on this floor last night interviewed. If they've checked out, I want them traced. And a list of all hotel staff on duty last night." I knew if I didn't get out now, I couldn't hold back the tide any longer. "Now, Warren. Please… now." I avoided his eyes as I skirted past him out of the suite. "What the hell's wrong with Boxer?" Charlie Clapper asked. "You know women," I heard Jacobi reply. "They always cry at weddings."