James Patterson - WMC - First to Die

I WAS RUNNING AND I REALIZED that I no longer knew exactly what I was doing, where I was. Somehow my instincts brought me back to where Chris had been shot. He was still up against the pillar in the same position. He looked as if he'd been waiting for me to return. I rushed up to him, knelt down as close as I could get. I could see police and the EMS medical crew finally arriving. What took them so long? "What happened?" Chris whispered. I could barely hear him. "I got her, Chris. Chessy Jenks was the killer." He managed to nod his head. "That's my girl," he whispered. Then Chris smiled faintly and he died on me. I never would have imagined, or dreamed, that Chris would be the first to die. That was the most terrible and dreadful shock. I was the sick one, the one whom death had brushed against. I put my head down close to his chest. There was no movement, no breath, just a terrifying stillness. Everything seemed so unreal. Then the medics were working on Chris, doing heroic, useless things, and I just sat there holding his hand. I felt hollowed out and empty and incredibly sad. I was sobbing, but I had something to say to him; I had to tell Chris one last thing. "Medved told me, Chris. I'm going to be okay."

I COULDN'T GO NEAR MY OFFICE at the Hall. I was given a one-week leave. I figured I'd take another of my own time on top of that. I sat around, watched some videos of old movies, went for my treatments, took a jog or two down by the marina. I even cooked and sat out on the terrace overlooking the bay, just as I had with Chris that first night. On one of those nights, I got really drunk and started playing with my gun. It was Sweet Martha who talked me off the ledge. That, and the fact that if I killed myself, I would be betraying Chris's memory. I couldn't do that. Also, the girls would never have forgiven me, right? I felt a hole tear at my heart, larger and more painful than anything I had ever felt, even with Negli's. I felt a void of connection, of commitment. Claire called me three times a day, but I just couldn't speak for very long, not even to her. "It wasn't you, Lindsay. There was nothing you could've done," she consoled. "I kind of know that," I replied. But I just couldn't convince myself it was true. Mostly, I tried to persuade myself I still felt a sense of purpose. The bride and groom murders were solved. Nicholas Jenks was shamelessly milking his celebrity status on Dateline and 20/20. My Negli's seemed to be in remission. Chris was gone. I tried to think of what I would do next. Nothing very appealing came to mind. Then I remembered what I had told Claire when my fears of Negli's were the strongest. Nailing this guy was the one clear thing that gave me the strength to go on. It wasn't just about right or wrong. It wasn't about guilt or innocence. It was about what I was good at, and what I loved to do. Four days after the shooting, I went to Chris's funeral. It was in a Catholic church out in Hayward, where he was from. I took my place in the ranks with Roth and Jacobi. With Chief Mercer, who was dressed in blues. But my heart was aching so bad. I wanted to be up near Chris. I wanted to be next to him. I watched his ex-wife and his two boys struggling to keep it together. I was thinking about how very close I had come to their lives. And they didn't know it. Hero cop, they were eulogizing him. He was a marketing guy, I thought, smiling. And then I started to cry. Of all people, I felt Jacobi grasp my hand. And of all the improbable things, I found myself holding his back. Go ahead, he seemed to be saying. Go ahead and weep. Afterward, at the graveside, I went up to Chris's ex-wife, Marion. "I wanted to meet you," I said. "I was with him when he died." She looked at me with the fragile courage only another woman could understand. "I know who you are," she said with a compassionate smile. "You are pretty. Chris told me you were pretty. And smart." I smiled and took her hand. We both squeezed hard. "He also said you were very brave." I felt my eyes well up. Then she took my arm and said the one thing I wanted most to hear. "Why don't you stand with us, Lindsay." The department gave Chris a hero's burial. Sad, mournful bagpipers opened the ceremony. Row after row of cops in dress blues. A twenty-one-gun salute. When it was over, I found myself walking back to the car, wondering what in God's name I was going to do next. At the cemetery gates I spotted Cindy and Jill and Claire. They were waiting there for me. I didn't move. I stood there, my legs trembling badly. They could see that if they didn't make the first move, I could break down. "Why don't you ride back with us?" Claire said. My voice cracked. I could barely utter the words. "It was supposed to be me, not him," I said to them. Then one by one they all hugged me. I put my arms around all of them and melted into their embrace as deeply as I could. All four of us were crying. "Don't ever leave me, guys." "Leave?" Jill said with wide eyes. "None of us," promised Cindy. "We're a team, remember? We will always be together." Claire took hold of my arm. "We love you, sweetie," she whispered. The four of us walked arm in arm out of the cemetery. A cooling breeze was blowing in our faces, drying our tears. At six o'clock that night, I was back inside the halls of the Hall of Justice. There was something important I had to do. In the lobby, almost the first thing you see, there's a large marble plaque. On it are ninety-three names, the names and dates of ninety-one men and two women who wore the uniform of the SFPD and died in the line of duty. A mason is working on the plaque. It's an unwritten rule on the force, you never count them. But tonight, I did. Ninety-three, starting with James S. Coonts on October 5,1878, when the SFPD was first formed. Tomorrow there will be one more: Christopher John Raleigh. The mayor will be there; Mercer, too. The reporters who cover the city beat. Marion and the boys. They will memorialize him as a hero cop. I will be there, too. But tonight, I don't want speeches or ceremonies. Tonight, I want it to be just him and me. The mason finishes up the engraving of his name. I wait while he sands the marble, vacuums away the last particle of dust. Then I walk up and run my hand over the smooth marble. Over his name. Christopher John Raleigh. The mason looks at me. He can see the pain welling in my eyes. "You knew him, huh?" I nod, and from somewhere deep in my heart, a smile comes forth. I knew him. "Partner," I say.

I HAVE COME TO LEARN that murder investigations always have loose ends and questions that cry out to be answered. Always. But not this time. I was home one night about a month after we buried Chris. I had finished dinner for one, fed and walked Her Sweetness, when there was a knock on the door, a single, authoritative rap. I hadn't buzzed anyone up from downstairs, so I went and looked through the peephole before I opened up. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was Nicholas Jenks. He had on a blue blazer over a white shirt and dark gray slacks. He looked as arrogant and obnoxious as ever. "Aren't you going to let me in?" he asked, then smiled as if to say, Of course you are. You can't resist, can you? "No, actually I'm not," I told him. I walked away from the door. "Get lost, asshole." Jenks knocked again, and I stopped walking. "We have nothing to talk about," I called loudly enough for him to hear. "Oh, but we do," Jenks called back. "You blew it, Inspector. I'm here to tell you how." I froze. I could feel my eyes blazing, heat burning the back of my neck. I walked back to the door, paused, then opened it, my heart beating fast. You blew it. He was smiling, or maybe laughing at me. "I'm celebrating," he said. "I'm a happy fella! Guess how come?" "Don't tell me, because you're a bachelor again." "Well, there's that. But I also just sold North American rights to my latest book. Eight million dollars. Then the movies paid four. This one's nonfiction, Lindsay. Guess the subject. Go ahead, take a stab." I wanted desperately to punch Jenks out again. "And I'm the one you have to share your news with? How goddamn sad for you." Jenks continued to grin. "Actually, I came here to share something else. You are the only one I want to share this with. Do I have your attention yet, Lindsay? You blew it big time, babe." He was so creepy and inappropriate that he was scaring me. I didn't want him to see it. What did he mean, I blew it? "I'd offer you a drink, but I hate your guts." I smirked. He threw up his hands, imitated my smirk. "You know, I feel exactly the same thing toward you. That's why I wanted to tell you this, Lindsay, only you." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Chessy did what I told her to do, right up until the very end. The murders? We were playing a terrible, wonderful game. Tragic husband and wife kill happy, innocent husbands and wives. We were living out the plot of a novel. My novel. You blew it, Lindsay. I got away clean. I'm free. I'm so free. And now I'm richer than ever." He stared at me, then he started to laugh. It was probably the most sickening sound I'd heard in my life. "It's true. Chessy would do anything I wanted her to do. All of them would- that's why I picked them. I used to play a game where they barked like dogs. They loved it. Want to play, Lindsay? Ruff, ruff?" I glared at him. "Don't you feel kind of inadequate- playing your father's old games? Joanna told me." "I took things way past anything my father ever imagined. I've done it all, Inspector, and I got away with it. I planned every murder. Doesn't that make your fucking skin crawl? Doesn't it make you feel inadequate?" Suddenly, Jenks was putting on plastic gloves he took out of his jacket pockets. What the hell? "This is perfect, too," he said. "I'm not here, Lindsay. I'm with this sweet little liar of a bitch in Tahoe. I have an alibi bought and paid for. Perfect crimes, Lindsay. My specialty." As I turned to run, Jenks took out a knife. "I want to feel this going inside you, Lindsay. Deep. The coup de grace." "Help!" I screamed, but then he hit me hard. I was shocked at how fast he moved and how powerful he was. I slammed into a living room wall and almost went out. Martha instinctively went after him. I'd never seen her bare her teeth before. He lashed out and cut her shoulder. Martha fell over, whining horribly. "Stay away, Martha!" I screamed at her. Jenks picked me up and threw me into my bedroom. He shut the door. "There was supposed to be another bride and groom murder while I was in jail. New evidence was going to slowly re423 veal itself. It would become clear that I was innocent- framed. Then I'd write the book! But Chessy turned around and double-crossed me. I never respected her more, Lindsay. I almost loved her for it. She showed some goddamn guts for once!" I crawled away from Jenks, but he could see there was nowhere for me to go in the bedroom. I thought I might have a broken rib. "You'll have to kill me first," I told him in a hoarse whisper. "Okay." He grinned. "Glad to oblige. My pleasure." I crawled hand over hand toward my bed, the side facing a window on the bay. It was hard to breathe. Jenks came after me. "Stop, Jenks!" I yelled at the top of my voice. "Stop right there, Jenks!" He didn't stop. Why should he? He slashed back and forth with the knife. Christ, he was enjoying this. He was laughing. Another perfect murder. I reached under the bed to where I'd fastened a holster and revolver, my home security system. I didn't have time to aim, but I didn't have to. Nicholas Jenks was stunned, the knife poised over his left shoulder. I fired three times. Jenks screamed, his gray eyes bulged in disbelief, then he collapsed dead on top of me. "Burn in hell," I whispered. I called Claire first- the medical examiner; then Cindy- the best crime reporter in San Francisco; then Jill- my lawyer. The girls came running. The End