James Patterson: WMC - First to Die

"Warren, don't leave," I shouted into the receiver. I still believed Joanna was the murderer. I couldn't leave her unmonitored- especially with Jenks on the loose. "Stay at your post." "This takes precedence," Jacobi argued. "Besides, nothing's happening here. I'll call a radio car to relieve." "Jacobi," I shouted, but he had already signed off and was on his way to the Heights. I turned to Chris. "Warren's left Joanna's." Suddenly, Karen, our civilian clerical, shouted for me. "Lindsay, call for you on one." "We're headed out," I hollered back to her. I had strapped on my gun, grabbed the keys to my car. "Who is it?" "Says you'd want to talk to him about the Jenks case," Karen said. "Says his name is Phillip Campbell."

I FROZE, FIXED ON RALEIGH, and lunged back toward my desk. I signaled Karen to put it through. At the same time, I hissed under my breath to Raleigh, "Start a trace." I waited in a trance; seconds could mean the difference. The breath was tightening in my chest. Then I picked up. "You know who this is," Nicholas Jenks's arrogant voice declared. "I know who it is. Where are you?" "Not a chance, Inspector. I only called to let you know, whatever happens, I didn't kill any of them. I'm not a murderer." "I know that," I told him. He seemed surprised. "You know…?" I couldn't let Jenks know who it was. Not with him on the loose. "I promise, we can prove it wasn't you. Tell me where you are." "Hey, guess what? I don't believe you," Jenks declared. "Besides, it's too late. I told you I'd take this into my own hands. I'm going to solve these murders for you." Jenks could hang up any moment and we'd lose him. This was my only chance. "Jenks, I'll meet you. Anywhere you want." "Why would I want to meet you? I've seen enough of you to last a lifetime." "Because I know who did it," I told him. What he said next jolted me. "So do I." And then he hung up.

SIXTH… MARKET… TAYLOR… the streets shot by, the top hat on the roof of Chris Raleigh's car flashing wildly. EHis. Hyde. We shot up Larkin, climbing through the lights, then rocked over the bumps as we careened over Nob Hill. In a matter of minutes, we arrived in Russian Hill. Joanna lived on the top floor of a town house on the corner of Filbert and Hyde. We were no longer waiting to flush her out. Jenks was loose; he had probably homed in on her. Now it was a matter of preventing more killing. We slowed, cut the lights as we wove through the quiet, hilly streets. The house had been unguarded for maybe fifteen minutes. I didn't know if Joanna was up there. Or where the hell Jenks was. Chris pulled to the curb. We checked our guns and decided how to proceed. Then I saw a sight that tore the breath from my lungs. Chris saw it, too. "Christ, he's here." From a narrow alley two houses away, a man in a beard and baggy sport coat emerged. He looked both ways as he hit the street, then he made his way down the block. It was Jenks. Raleigh pulled out his gun and reached for the door. I looked closer in disbelief, grabbed onto him. "Wait. Look again, Chris." We both gaped in amazement. He had the same look: the short reddish-gray hair, the same unmistakable beard. But it wasn't Jenks. The figure was thinner, fairer; the hair was slicked back, hiding a longer length, not cut short. I could see that much. It was a woman. "That's Joanna," I said. "Where's Jenks?" Chris grunted. "This just keeps getting creepier." We watched the figure slink down the block as a frenzy of possibilities ran through my mind. This was creepy. "I'll follow her," said Chris. "You go upstairs. Make sure it's her, Lindsay. I'll radio for support. Go on, Lindsay. Go." The next moment, I was out of the car, crossing the street toward Joanna's apartment. Chris eased the Taurus down the block. I pushed random buttons until a woman's angry voice replied. I identified myself, and a gray-haired woman emerged from the apartment next to the front door. She announced that she was the landlady. I badged her, got her to locate a key pronto. Then I told her to get back in her apartment. I had my gun out, took off the safety. A film of hot sweat was building up on my face and neck. I reached Joanna's apartment on the third floor. My heart was pounding. Careful, Lindsay, a voice inside me said, then came a cautioning chill. Could Nicholas Jenks be here? I had certainly entered enough hostile environments during my police career. None worse than this. I inserted the key, turned, and when the lock caught, pushed the door with my foot. It swung open… revealing the bright, stylishly decorated apartment of Joanna Wade. "Anyone here?" I shouted. No one answered. There was no one in the living room. Same for the dining room, kitchen. A coffee mug in the sink. The Chronicle out and folded to the Datebook section. No sign that I was in the home of a psycho. That bothered me. I moved on. Magazines- Food and Wine, San Francisco- on the coffee table. A few yoga posture books. In the bedroom, the bed, unmade. The entire place had a relaxed, unforbidding feel. Joanna Wade lived like any ordinary woman. She read, had coffee in her kitchen, taught exercise, paid her bills. Killers were preoccupied with their victims. This didn't make sense. I turned into the master bath. "Oh, damn it!" The case had made a last, irrevocable turn. On the floor, in her workout tights, was Joanna Wade. She was leaned against the tub looking at me, but not really -actually, she was still looking at her killer. Her eyes were wide and terrified. He had used a knife. Jenfes? If not him, then who? "Oh, Christ," I gasped. My head was spinning and it hurt. I hurried over to her, but there was nothing I could do. Everything had twisted again. I knelt over the dead woman as a final, shuddering thought filled my mind: If it wasn't Joanna, who was Chris following?

WITHIN MINUTES, two blue-and-whites screeched to a stop outside. I directed the patrol officers upstairs to the grisly body of Joanna, but my thoughts had turned to Chris. And whoever he wos/oHowing. I had been up in the apartment for ten, maybe twelve minutes, without a word from him. I was worried. He was following a murderer, and a murderer who had just killed Joanna Wade. I ran downstairs to an open patrol car. `:21' I called in what had happened to Command Central. A riot of doubts was crashing in my mind. Could it somehow have beenjenks after all? Could Jill have been right? Was he manipulating us, right from the start? Had he set everything up, even the sighting in Pacific Heights? But if it was him, why? Why, after I had told him I believed him? Why would he kill her now? Was Joanna's death some404 thing I could have prevented? What in hell was going on? Where was Chris, damn it? My cell phone finally beeped. To my relief it was Chris. "Where are you? You had me scared to death. Don't do that to me." "Down by the marina. The suspect's in a blue Saab." "Chris, be careful. It's not Joanna. Joanna's dead. She was stabbed a bunch of times in her apartment." "Dead?" he repeated. I could feel the frantic question slowly sinking into his mind. "Then who the hell is driving the Saab up ahead of me?" "Tell me where you are exactly." "Chestnut and Scott. The suspect just pulled up to the curb. The suspect is getting out of the car." Somehow, this sounded familiar. Chestnut and Scott? What was down there? In the tumult of blue-and-whites screeching up in front of Joanna's building and reporting in, I raked my mind for a connection. "He's heading away from the car, Lindsay. He's starting to run." Then it hit me. The photo I had picked up at Jenks's house. The beautiful and unmistakable moonlit dome. The Palace of Fine Arts. It was where he had been married. "I think I know where he's going!" I shouted. "The Palace of Fine Arts."