AT THE OFFICES of the San Francisco Chronicle, Cindy Thomas's frantic brain was just barely staying ahead of her fingers. The afternoon deadline was barely an hour away. From a bellhop at the Hyatt, she had been able to obtain the names of two guests who had attended the Brandt wedding and who were still at the hotel. After running down there again last night, she had been able to put together a heart-wrenching, tragic picture- complete with vows, toasts, and a romantic last dance- of the bride and groom's final moments. All the other reporters were still piecing together the sparse details released by the police. She was ahead so far. She was winning, and it felt great. She was also certain this was the best writing she'd done since arriving at the Chronicle, and maybe since she'd been an undergraduate at Michigan. At the paper, Cindy's coup at the Hyatt had turned her into an instant celebrity. People she scarcely knew were suddenly stopping and congratulating her. Even the publisher, whom she rarely saw on the Metro floor, came down to find out who she was. Metro was covering some demonstration in Mill Valley about a construction rerouting that had built up traffic near a school zone. She was writing page one. As she typed, she noticed Sidney Glass, her city editor, coming up to her desk. Glass was known at the newspaper as El Sid. He parked himself across from her with a stiff sigh. "We need to talk." Her fingers slowly settled to a halt as she looked up. "I've got two very pissed-off senior crime reporters itching to get into this. Suzy's at City Hall awaiting a statement by the police chief and the mayor. Stone's put together profiles on both families. They have twenty years and two Pulitzers between them. And it is their beat." Cindy felt her heart nearly come to a stop. "What did you tell them?" she asked. In El Sid's hardened eyes, she could see the greedy first team crime staff, senior reporters with their own researchers, trying to hack their way in and carve this story up. Her story. "Show me what you've got," the city editor finally said. He came around, peered over her shoulder, read a few lines off the computer screen. "A lot of it's okay. You probably know that. "Anguished' belongs over here," he said, pointing at the screen. "It modifies 'bride's father." Nothing pisses Ida Morris off like misplaced modifiers and inversions." Cindy could feel herself blushing. "I know, I know. I'm trying to get this in. Deadline's at…" "I know when deadline is." The editor glowered. "But down here, if you can get it in, you can get it in right." He studied Cindy for what seemed an interminable duration, a deep, assessing stare that kept her on edge. "Especially if you intend to stay on this thing." Glass's generally implacable face twitched, and he almost smiled at her. "I told them it was yours, Thomas." Cindy repressed an urge to hug the cranky, domineering editor right on the bull pen floor. "You want me at City Hall?" she asked. "The real story's in that hotel suite. Go back to the Hyatt." El Sid began to walk away with his hands, as always, thrust into his trouser pockets. But a moment later, he turned back. "Course, if you intend to stay on this story, you'd better find a police source on the inside- and quick." Jl,

AFTER LEAVING THE MORGUE, Raleigh and I walked back to the office, mostly in silence. Lots of details about the murders were bothering me. Why would the killer take away the victim's jacket? Why leave the champagne bottle? It made no sense. "We've got a sex crime now. Bad one." I finally turned to him on the asphalt walkway leading to the Hall. "I want to run the autopsy results through Milt Fanning and the FBI computers. We also need to meet with the bride's parents. We'll need a history on anyone she may have been involved with before David. And a list of everyone at that wedding." "Why don't we wait for some confirmation on that one," my new partner said, "before we go all out on that angle." I stopped walking and stared at him. "You want to see if anybody checked in for a bloody jacket with the lost and found? I don't understand. What's your concern?" "My concern," Raleigh said, "is that I don't want the de58 partment intruding on the grief of the families with a lot of hypotheticals until we have more to go on. We may or may not have the killer's jacket. He may or may not have been a guest." "Who do you think it belonged to, the rabbi?" He flashed me a quick smile. "It could've been left there to set us off." His tone seemed suddenly different. "You're backing off?" I asked him. "I'm not backing off," he said. "Until we have something firm, every old boyfriend of the bride or casualty of some corporate downsizing Gerald Brandt had a hand in could be rolled out as a possible suspect. I'd rather the spotlight wasn't aimed back at them unless we have something firm to go on." Here it was. The spiel. Packaging, containment. Brandt and Chancellor Weil, the bride's father, were VIPs. Find us the bad guys, Lindsay. Just don't put the department at any risk along the way. I chuffed back, "I thought the possibility that the killer could've been at that wedding was what we had to go on." "All I'm suggesting, Lindsay, is let's get some confirmation before we begin ripping into the sex life of the best man." I nodded, all the while fixing in on his eyes. "In the meantime, Chris, we'll just follow up on our other really strong leads." We stood there in edgy silence. "All right, why do you think the killer changed jackets with the groom?" I asked him. He leaned back against the edge of a cement retaining wall. "My guess is that he was wearing it when he killed them. It was covered with blood. He had to get out undetected. The groom's jacket was lying around. So he just switched." "So you figure he went to all that trouble making the slash mark and all, thinking no one would notice. Different size, different maker. That it would just slip by. Raleigh, why did he leave it behind? Why wouldn't he stuff the bloody jacket into a bag? Or roll it under his new jacket?" "Okay," Raleigh conceded, "I don't know. Your guess is?" I didn't know why he had left it behind, but a chilling possibility was beginning to form in my mind. "Possibility one," I answered, "he panicked. Maybe the phone rang or someone knocked at the door." "On their wedding night?" "You're starting to sound like my ex-partner." I started toward the Hall, and he caught up. He held the glass doors open for me. As I walked through, he took my arm. "And number two?" I stood there, looking squarely into his eyes, trying to assess just how far I could go with him. "What's your real expertise here, anyway?" I asked. He smiled, his look confident and secure. "I used to be married." I didn't reply. Possibility two: A fear was building inside me. The killer was signing his murders? He was toying with us? Purposely leaving clues? One-time crime-of-passion killers didn't leave clues like the jacket. Professionals didn't, either. Serials left clues.