James Patterson - WMC - First to Die

THIS WAS WHY I had become a homicide detective. I rushed back to the office, my head whirling with how to get my hands on this lost book, when the next bombshell hit. It was McBride. "Are you sitting?" he asked, as if he were about to deliver the coup de grace. "Nicholas Jenks was here in Cleveland. The night of the Hall of Fame murders. The son of a bitch was here." Jenks had lied right to my face. He hadn't even blinked. It was now clear; the unidentifiable man at the Hall of Fame had been him after all. He had no alibi. McBride explained how his men had scoured the local hotels. Finally, they uncovered that Jenks had been at the Westin, and amazingly, he had registered under his own name. A desk clerk working there that night remembered him. She knew it the minute she saw Jenks -she was a fan. My mind raced with the ramifications. This was all McBride needed. They had a prior relationship with the victim, a possible sighting at the scene. Now Jenks was placed in his town. He had even lied under questioning. "Tomorrow, I'm going to the district attorney for an indictment," McBride announced. "As soon as we have it, I want you to pick Nicholas Jenks up." The truth hit me like a sledgehammer. We could lose him to Cleveland. All the evidence, all those right hunches, wouldn't help us. Now we might only be able to tag on a concurrent life sentence at a second trial. The Brandts and the Weils, the De Georges and the Passeneaus would be crushed. Mercer would go ballistic. I was left with an absolutely demoralizing choice: Either pick Jenks up and hold him for McBride, or make our move now with less than an airtight case. I should run this up the ladder, the voice sounded in my head. But the voice in my heart said run it by the girls.

I GOT THEM TOGETHER on an hour's notice. "Cleveland's ready to indict," I told them. Then I dropped the bombshell about the book Always a Bridesmaid. "You've got to find it," Jill declared. "It's the one link we can tie in to all three crimes. Given that it was unpublished, it's as good as exclusive knowledge of the killings. It might even parallel the actual crimes. You find that book, Lindsay, we put Jenks behind bars. Forever!" "How? Joanna Wade mentioned a prior agent, and I went to see him. Noda. He said check out the office of copyrights. Where is that?" Cindy shook her head. "Washington, I think." "That'll take days, or more. We don't have days." I turned to Jill. "Maybe it's time for a search warrant. Blow in on Jenks. We need the gun and the book. And we need them now." "We do that," Jill said nervously, "we might bungle this whole investigation." "Anyone know about this yet?" she asked. I shook my head. "Just the first team- you guys. But when Mercer finds out, he'll want to jump in with everything he has. Cameras, microphones, the FBI waiting in the wings." "If we're wrong, Jenks'll sue our ass," Jill said. "I don't even want to think about it." "And Cleveland'll be waiting," said Claire. "Make us look like a bunch of fools." Finally, Jill sighed. "All right… I'm with you, Lindsay. If you can't think of another way." I looked at all three of them to make certain we were unanimous. Suddenly, Cindy burst in. "Can you give me another twenty-four hours?" I looked at her. "I don't know. Why?" "Just until tomorrow. And I need Jenks's Social Security number." I shook my head. "You heard what I said about McBride. Anyway, for what?" She had that same look as the other night, when she burst into my apartment- holding the photo of Jenks and Kathy Kogut, the third bride. "Just give me until tomorrow morning." Then she got up and left.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Cindy sheepishly pushed open the glass doors leading to the office of the San Francisco Writers Guild. This felt a lot like the day at the Grand Hyatt. At the reception desk, a middle-aged woman with the punctilious look of a librarian looked up at her. "May I help you?" Cindy took in a deep breath. "I need to find a manuscript. It was written quite a while ago." The word copyright had set her off. She had written short stories in college. They were barely good enough to get into the school's literary journal, but her mother had insisted, Get them copyrighted. When she investigated, it turned out it took months and was way too costly. But a friend who had published told her about another way she could register documents locally. He told her, All the writers do. If Nicholas Jenks had wanted to protect himself in his salad days, he might've gone the same route. "It's sort of a family thing," Cindy told the woman. "My brother wrote this history. Going back three generations. We don't have a copy." The woman shook her head. "This isn't the library, hon. I'm afraid that whatever we have here is restricted. If you want to find it, you'll have to have your brother come in." "I can't," Cindy said solemnly. "Nick is dead." The woman softened, looked at her slightly less officiously. "I'm sorry." "His wife said she can't locate a copy. I'd like to give it to our dad, a sixtieth-birthday present." She felt guilty, foolish, lying through her teeth like this, but everything was riding on getting this book. "There's a process for all of this," the woman replied sanctimoniously. "Death certificate. Proof of next of kin. The family lawyer should be able to help you. I just can't go letting you in here." Cindy's mind raced. This wasn't exactly Microsoft here. If she had found her way to the crime scene at the Grand Hyatt, tracked Lindsay to the second crime, she ought to be able to handle this. Everyone was counting on her. "There must be a way you can let me take a look. Please?" "I'm afraid not, dear. Not without some documentation. What makes you even think it's registered with us?" "My sister-in-law is sure it is." "Well, I can't just go giving out registered documents on someone's hunch," she said with finality. "Maybe you can at least look it up," Cindy proposed. "To see if it's even here." The dachshund-nosed defender of the free press finally relaxed. "I guess I can do that. You say it was several years ago?" Cindy felt an adrenaline surge. "Yes." "And the name?" "I think it was called Always a Bridesmaid." She felt a chill just saying the words. "I meant the name of the author, please." "Jenks," Cindy said, holding her breath. "Nicholas Jenks." The woman peered at her. "The mystery writer?" Cindy shook her head, faked a smile. "The insurance salesman," she said as calmly as she could. The woman gave her a strange look but continued to punch in the name. "You have proof of relationship?" Cindy handed her a piece of paper with Jenks's Social Security number on it. "This should be on his registration." "That won't do," the woman said. Cindy fumbled through a zipper in her knapsack. She felt the moment slipping away. "At least tell me if it's here. I'll come back later with whatever you want." "Jenks," the woman muttered skeptically. "Looks like your brother was a bit more prolific than you thought. He's got three manuscripts registered here." Cindy wanted to let out a shout. "The only one I'm looking for is called Always a Bridesmaid." It took what seemed like several minutes, but the stony resistance on the woman's face finally weakened. "I don't know why I'm doing this, but if you can verify your story, there seems to be a record of that manuscript's being here." Cindy felt a surge of validation. The manuscript was the final piece they needed to crack a murder case and put away Jenks. Now she just had to get it out.

"I FOUND IT!" exclaimed Cindy, her voice breathless on the phone. "Always a Bridesmaid!" I pounded my desk in elation. This meant we could definitely make our move. "So what does it say, Cindy?" "I found it," Cindy clarified. "I just don't actually have it." She told me about the Writers Guild. The book was there, but it would take a little coaxing to actually get it into our hands. It took barely two hours- starting with a frantic call to Jill. She had a judge pulled out of chambers, and we had our court order mandating the release of Jenks's manuscript Always a Bridesmaid. Then Jill and I ran down to meet Cindy. On the way, I made one more call. To Claire. It seemed fitting that all of us should be there. Twenty minutes later, Jill and I met Cindy and Claire in front of a drab building on Geary where the Writers Guild maintained its offices. Together, we rode to the eighth floor. "I'm back," announced Cindy to a surprised woman behind the reception desk. "And I brought my documentation." She eyed us suspiciously. "Who are these, cousins?" I flashed the clerk my badge and also presented the officially stamped search warrant. "What's going on with this book?" the woman gasped. Clearly out of her authority, she went inside and came back with a supervisor, who read over the court order. "We usually only hold them for up to eight years," he said with some uncertainty. Then he disappeared for what seemed a lifetime. We all sat there in the stark reception area like pacing relatives waiting for a baby to be born. What if it had been thrown out? Finally, the supervisor came out with a dusty bundle wrapped in brown paper. "In the back of the bins," he announced with a self-satisfied smile. There was a coffee shop right down the street. We took a table in back and crowded around with anticipation. I plopped the manuscript down on the table, peeled off the brown-paper wrapping. I read the cover. A/ways a Bridesmaid. A novel by Nicholas Jenks. Nervously, I opened it and read the first page. The narrator was reflecting on his crimes from jail. His name was Phillip Campbell. "What is the worst thing," the novel began, "anyone has ever done?"