James Patterson - WMC - First to Die

I WAS DRIVING HOME, really pleased at having brought Jill into the group, but it didn't take long for the thought to worm its way in that I was still withholding from my friends. My beeper sounded. "What're you doin'?" Raleigh asked when I buzzed him back. "I was headed home. Beat." "You up for talking just a little? I'm at Mahoney's." Ma honey's was a dark, crowded bar near the Hall that was usually thick with off-duty cops. "Already ate," I told him. "Meet me anyway," Raleigh said. "It's about the case." I was only a few minutes away. Mahoney's was on Bran nan. To get to Potrero, I had to go right by it. I found myself a little nervous again. I was scared we were no longer playing things by the book. The book was, part255 ners didn't get involved. Nor people with their lives ebbing away. I knew that if I let things go, anything could happen. This wasn't some casual fling we could go at for a night and try to rationalize away the next day. As much as I wanted him, I was holding back. Scared to let it all come out. Of letting myself go. Of dragging him in. I was relieved when I saw Raleigh waiting for me outside the bar. He came up to my car. I couldn't help noticing that he looked good, as usual. "Thanks for not making me go in," I said. He leaned on the edge of my open window. "I looked into Nicholas Jenks," he said. "And?" "The guy's forty-eight. Went to law school but never finished. Started writing novels his first year. Wrote two books that didn't go anywhere. Then this twisted thriller, Crossed Wire, hit. "There's something you should know. Maybe seven years ago, give or take a few, cops were called out to his home in a domestic dispute." "Who made the call?" "His wife. His first wife." Raleigh leaned in closer. "I pulled up the report. First-on-the-scene described her as pretty beat-up. Bruises up and down her arms. Large bruise on her face." A thought flashed in my head- Merrill Shortley, on Kathy's boyfriend: He was into intense sex games. "Did the wife file?" I asked. Chris shook his head. "That's as far as it went. Never pressed charges. Since then, he's cashed in big-time. Six huge bestsellers. Movies, screenplays. New wife, too." "That means there's an old one out there who might be willing to talk." He had a satisfied expression on his face. "So, can I buy you a meal, Lindsay?" A hot bead of sweat burned a slow path down my neck. I didn't know whether to get out or stay in. I thought, If I got out… "Chris, I already ate. Had a commitment." "Jacobi." He grinned. He could always get me with that smile of his. "Sort of a women's thing, a group of us. We meet once a month. Go over our lives. You know, nanny problems, personal trainers, country homes. Affairs, things like that." "Anyone I know?" Raleigh raised his eyebrows. "Maybe one day I'll introduce you." We sort of hung there, my blood slowly throbbing in my chest. The hair on Raleigh's forearm gently grazed against mine. This was driving me insane. I had to say something. "Why'd you call me out here, Chris?" "Jenks," he replied. "I didn't tell you everything. We ran a firearms check on him with Sacramento." He looked at me with a glint in his eye. "He's got several registered. A Browning twenty-two-caliber hunting rifle, a Renfield thirty-thirty. A Remington forty-point-five." He was leading me on. I knew he had struck pay dirt. "There's also a Glock Special, Lindsay. Nineteen-ninety issue. Nine millimeter." A rush of validation shot through my veins. Chris frowned. "He has the weapon of choice, Lindsay. We we got to find that gun." I made a fist and brought it down against Raleigh's in triumph. My mind was racing. Sparrow Ridge, the phone calls,

now a Clock Special. It was all still circumstantial, but it was falling into place. "What're you doing tomorrow, Raleigh?" I asked with a smile. "Wide open. Why?" "I think it's time we talked to this guy face-to-face."

HIGH ON THE CLIFFS above the Golden Gate Bridge, 20 El Camino del Mar was a stucco, Spanish-style home with an iron gate guarding the terra-cotta driveway. Red Beard lived here- Nicholas Jenks. Jenks's home was low, stately, surrounded by decoratively trimmed hedges and bright, blossoming azaleas. In the driveway's circle, there was a large iron sculpture, Bolero's Madonna and Child. "Fiction must be good." Raleigh let out a whistle, as we stepped up to the front door. We had made an appointment through Jenks's personal assistant to meet him at noon. I had been warned by Sam Roth not to come on too hard. A pleasant housekeeper greeted us at the door and took us back to a spacious sunroom, informing us that Mr. Jenks would be down in a short while. The lavish room seemed straight out of some designer magazine- with rich jacquard wallpaper, Oriental chairs, a mahogany coffee table, shelves of mementos and photographs. It opened onto a field stone patio overlooking the Pacific. I had lived in San Francisco all my life but never knew you could come home every night to this kind of spectacular view. While we waited, I examined photos arranged on a side table. Jenks with a series of well-known faces: Michael Douglas, the top guy from Disney, Bill Walsh from the 49ers. Others were with an attractive woman I took to be his new wife- sunny, smiling, strawberry-blond hair- in various exotic locations: beaches, skiing, a Mediterranean isle. In a silver frame, there was a four-by-six of the two of them in the center of an enormous lit-up rotunda. The dome of the Palace of Fine Arts. It was a wedding photo. It was then that Nicholas Jenks walked in. I recognized him immediately from his photographs. He was slighter than I had imagined. Trim, well-built, no more than five-ten, wearing an open white dress shirt over well-worn jeans. My eyes were drawn immediately to the reddish, gray-flecked beard. Red Beard, it's good to meet you, finally. "Sorry to put you off, inspectors," he said with an easy smile, "but I'm afraid I get cranky if I can't get my morning pages in." He held out his hand, noticing the photograph I was still holding. "A bit like the set of Marriage of Figaro, wasn't it? Myself, I would've gone for a small civil ceremony, but Chessy said if she could snare me in a tux, she'd never, ever doubt my commitment to her." I wasn't interested in being charmed by this man, but he was handsome and immediately in control. I could see what some women found attractive about him. He motioned us to the couch. "We were hoping," I said, "to ask you a few questions." "About the bride and groom killings… My assistant advised me. Crazy… terrible. But these acts, so incredibly desperate, cry out for at least a small measure of sympathy." "For the victims," I said, placing his wedding photograph back on the table. "Everyone always goes to the plight of the victims," Jenks said. "But it's what's inside the killer's head that puts cash in the account. Most people figure these acts are simply about revenge. The sick est kind of revenge… Or even subjugation, like most rapes. But I'm not so sure." "What's your theory, Mr. Jenks?" Chris asked. He made it sound as if he were a fan. Jenks held out a pitcher of iced tea. "Something to drink? I know it's a hot one, though I've been holed up in the study since eight." We shook our heads. I took a manila folder out of my bag and placed it on my lap. I remembered Cheery's admonition: "Keep it light. Jenks is a VIE You're not." Nicholas Jenks poured himself a tall glass of tea and went on. "From what I've read, these killings appear to be a form of rape, rape of innocence. The killer is acting in a way that no one can forgive. In the most sacred setting of our society. To me, these killings are the ultimate act of purification." "Unfortunately, Mr. Jenks," I said, ignoring his bullshit, "we didn't come up here seeking your professional advice. I have some questions related to these killings we'd like to run by you." Jenks sat back in his chair. He looked surprised. "You make that sound awfully official." "That's entirely up to you," I said. I took out a portable cassette tape player from my bag. "You mind if I turn this on?" He stared at me, his eyes shifting suspiciously, then he waved his hand as if it were of no concern. "So where I'd like to start, Mr. Jenks, is, these killings… Do you have any specific knowledge of any of the crimes other than what you've read in the papers?" "Knowledge?" Jenks took a breath, nominally reflecting. Then he shook his head. "No. None at all." "You read there was a third killing? Last week. In Cleveland." "I did see that. I read five or six papers every day." "And did you also read who the victims were?" "From Seattle, weren't they? One of them, I remember, was some kind of concert promoter." "The groom." I nodded. "James Voskuhl. The bride actually lived for a while in town, here. Her maiden name was Kathy Kogut. Do either of those names mean anything to you?" "No. Should they?" "So you never met either of them? Any interest you had in this case was just like anyone's… morbid curiosity?" He fixed his eyes on me. "That's right. Morbid curiosity's my business." I opened my manila folder and took out the top photo. He was playing us, just as he had been playing us by leaving dead-ending clues along the way. I slid the photo across the table. "This might sharpen your memory," I said. "That's Kathy Kogut, the bride who was murdered the other night. The man next to her, I believe, is you."