1st to Die

by James Patterson

  “What happens now?” I managed to say. My voice came out as a whisper.

  “I want to continue with the treatments,” Medved replied. “In fact, increase them. Sometimes these things take a while to kick in.”

  “Super hi-test,” I joked glumly.

  He nodded. “From this point on, I’d like you to come in three times a week. And I’m going to increase the dosage by thirty percent.” He shifted his weight off the counter. “In and of itself, there’s no immediate cause for alarm,” he declared in a marginally uplifting tone. “You can continue to work — that is, if you feel up to it.”

  “I have to work,” I told Medved.

  Chapter 66

  I DROVE HOME IN A DAZE. One moment I was battling to unravel this damned case, and the next I was fighting for my life.

  I wanted a name. I wanted it now more than ever. And I wanted my life back. I wanted a shot at the whole deal — happiness, success, someone to share it with, a child. And now that I had met Raleigh, I knew there was a chance that I could have these things. If I could hold out. If I could will good cells into my body.

  I went into my apartment. Sweet Martha was all over me, so I took her for a short walk. But then I moped around, alternating between resolve to fight through this mess and sadness that I couldn’t. I even contemplated making a meal. I thought it would calm me.

  I took out an onion and cut two desultory slices. Then I realized how crazy it all was.

  I needed to talk to someone. I wanted to shout, I don’tfucking deserve this, and this time I wanted someone to hear it.

  I thought of Chris, his comforting arms around me. His eyes, his smile. I wished I could tell him. He would come in an instant. I could rest my head on his shoulder.

  I called Claire. She could tell from my first tremulous sound. She realized something was terribly wrong.

  “I’m scared,” was all I said.

  We talked for an hour on the phone. I talked.

  I went back and forth with Claire in a numbed state — panicked by the impending nearness of Negli’s next stage. I told Claire that nailing this bastard gave me the will to fight on. It separated me from being just another person who was sick. I had a special purpose.

  “Has that changed for you, Lindsay?” she asked softly.

  “No, I want to get him more than ever.”

  “Then that’s what we’re going to do. You, me, little Cindy. We’re here to help you fight. We’re your support, Lindsay. Just this one time, don’t try to do it yourself.”

  In an hour, she had calmed me enough so we could say good-night.

  I curled up on the couch. Martha and I snuggled under a blanket and watched the movie Dave. One of my favorites. When Sigourney Weaver visits Kevin Kline in his new campaign office at the end, it always makes me cry.

  I fell asleep, hoping for a happy ending in my own life.

  Chapter 67

  THE NEXT MORNING I went at it stronger than ever. I still believed we were close, maybe just hours from a name for Red Beard.

  I checked in with Roth’s contact, Jim Heekin, on the Seattle police force. Heekin said they were sorting through the bride’s possessions as we spoke. If something came up he would let me know immediately.

  We got a reply back from Infortech, where Kathy Voskuhl had worked in Seattle. In the three years she had held her job, there was no record of any reimbursements for business trips to San Francisco. Her job was to work with developing clients in Seattle. A junior account manager. If she repeatedly went down there, she was on her own.

  Finally, I called McBride. The Koguts were still claiming that they knew nothing more. But yesterday he’d met with the father, who seemed ready to give in. It was wrenching that some desperate attempt to hold together their daughter’s virtue was clouding their judgment.

  Since I was a woman, McBride suggested, maybe one more try from me would push them over the edge. I placed a call to Christine Kogut, the bride’s mother.

  When she came on, her voice was different: remote but freer, as if she were in a less tormented state. Maybe, I just hoped, she was.

  “Your daughter’s killer is running free,” I said. I could no longer hold back. “Two other couples’ families are suffering. I think you know who was hurting Kathy. Please, help me put him away.”

  I heard her take in a long breath. When she spoke, grief and the release of shame trembled in her voice. “You raise a child, Inspector, you think she is always part of you. You love her so much and you think there is always that part that will never go away.”

  “I know,” I said. I could feel she was teetering. She knew his name, didn’t she?

  “She was this beautiful thing… she could make anyone love her. A free spirit. One day, we thought, another free spirit would shape her into the kind of person she was meant to be. We cultivated it with our children. My husband insists we always favored Kathy. Maybe we helped bring it all on.”

  I didn’t say a word. I knew what it was like to finally give up what you were holding inside you. I wanted to let her reach that point on her own.

  “Do you have children, Inspector?”

  “Not yet,” I told her.

  “It’s so hard to believe, your baby, the cause of so much pain. We begged her to break free. We even got her the new job. Moved her ourselves. We thought, If she could only get away from him.”

  I was silent, letting her go at her own pace.

  “She was sick, like an addict is sick, Inspector. She couldn’t stop herself. But what I don’t understand is why he would hurt her so badly. He took away all that was pure about her. Why did he need to hurt Kathy?”

  Give me the name. Who is he? “She was mesmerized by who he was. It was as if she had no self-control when it came to this man. She shamed us right up until the end. But even now” — her voice lowered —“I still wonder how someone who loved my daughter could possibly kill her. I’m afraid that I don’t believe it. That’s partly why I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Tell me now,” I said.

  “I think she met him at the opening of one of his films. He told her he had a face like hers in mind when he dreamed up one of his characters. His heroine.”

  It was then that Mrs. Kogut told me.

  My body went numb.

  I knew the name. Recognized it. He was famous, Red Beard.

  Chapter 68

  I SAT THERE, ratcheting the possible connections through my mind. Things were starting to piece together. He was one of the minority partners at Sparrow Ridge Vineyards, where the second couple had been dumped. He had known Kathy Kogut for years in San Francisco. Preyed on her. He was older. Married.

  Famous.

  By itself, the suspect’s name proved nothing. He had merely known the last bride. He had a circumstantial connection to the crime scene of the second killings.

  But based on the descriptions of Merrill Shortley and Christine Kogut, he had the brutal temperament, and maybe the motive, to commit these vicious murders. The conviction built up inside me that this was Red Beard.

  I grabbed Raleigh. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Where’s the fire?”

  “I’m going to start one in here. Watch.”

  I dragged him into Roth’s office.

  “I have a name,” I announced, as I threw my fist in the air.

  They looked at me in wide-eyed surprise.

  “Nicholas Jenks.”

  “The writer?” Raleigh gaped.

  I nodded. “He was Kathy Kogut’s lover here in San Francisco. Her mother finally gave it up.” I walked them through the not-so-random connections he had with at least three of the victims.

  “This guy’s… famous,” blurted Roth. “He made those movies, blockbusters.”

  “That’s exactly the point. Merrill Shortley said it was someone Kathy was trying to conceal. The guy’s got two connections, Sam.”

  “He’s got connections, all right,” Roth cried. “Jenks and his wife are invited to all the big affairs. I’ve seen h
is picture with the mayor. Wasn’t he part of the bid to keep the Giants here?”

  The air in Cheery’s office became heavy with the weight of dangerous possibilities and risk.

  “You should have heard how the Koguts described him, Sam,” I said. “Like some kind of animal. A predator. I think we’re going to find he had something going with all three girls.”

  “I think Lindsay’s right, Sam,” Chris said.

  We watched Roth slowly clicking the facts in his head. Nicholas Jenks was famous. A national figure. Untouchable. The lieutenant’s face twisted as if he had swallowed a bad clam.

  “You’ve got nothing right now,” he came back. “All of it. It’s beyond circumstantial.”

  “His name has popped up in connection with four dead people. We could get face to face, like I would with anyone else. We could talk to the district attorney.”

  Roth held up a hand. Nicholas Jenks was one of San Francisco’s most prominent citizens. Implicating him on a murder charge was dangerous. We’d better be right. I didn’t know what Cheery was thinking. Finally, there was the slightest relaxation in his neck, only a tight swallow, but in Roth-speak it was a go-ahead. “You could talk to the D.A.,” he agreed. “Call Jill Bernhardt.”

  He turned to Raleigh. “This can’t get out until we have something really firm.”

  Unfortunately, Assistant District Attorney Jill Bernhardt was stuck in court. Her secretary said she wouldn’t be out until the end of the day. Too bad. I knew Jill a little, liked her. She was tough, with dazzling smarts. She even had a conscience.

  Raleigh and I got a cup of coffee, going over what we should do next. Roth was right. As far as a warrant was concerned, we had nothing. A direct confrontation could be dangerous. A guy like this, you had to be sure. He would fight back.

  Warren Jacobi shuffled in, a self-satisfied smirk puffing up his face. “Must be raining champagne today,” he muttered.

  I took it as another sardonic zinger aimed at Raleigh and me.

  “For weeks, I can’t even get a bite on this shit.” He sat down and cocked his head toward Raleigh. “Bite… champagne… that works, Captain, doesn’t it?”

  “Works for me,” Raleigh said.

  Jacobi continued, “So yesterday Jennings comes back with three places that had sold a few cases of the bubbly in question. One of the buyers is this accountant in San Mateo. Funny thing is, his name’s on file. Ends up he did two years up in Lampoc for securities fraud. Kind of a reach, isn’t it? Serial killing, securities fraud…”

  “Maybe the guy’s got a thing against people who file joint returns,” I said, and smiled at Jacobi.

  He puckered up his face. “The second is some woman manager at 3Com who’s stocking up for a fortieth-birthday bash. This Clos du Mesnil is a real collectible. It’s French, I’m told.”

  I glanced up, waiting for him to get to the point.

  “Now the third one, that’s what I mean by raining … big auction house, Butterfield and Butterfield. Three years back sold two cases of the eighty-nine. Went for twenty-five hundred per case, plus commish. Private collector. At first they wouldn’t give out the name. But we squeezed. Turns out he’s a big shot. My wife, she happens to be a fan. Read every one of his books.”

  Raleigh and I froze. “Whose, Warren?” I pressed.

  “I figure, I check it out, I can be a hero, bring home a signed copy. You ever read Lion’s Share by Nicholas Jenks?”

  Chapter 69

  JACOBI’S STATEMENT felt like an elbow to my solar plexus. At the same time it removed all doubt for me.

  Kathy Kogut, Sparrow Ridge, the Clos du Mesnil champagne. Jenks was now tied in to all three murders.

  He was Red Beard.

  I wanted to run and confront Jenks, but I knew I couldn’t. I wanted to get up close, glare in his smug eyes, let him know I knew.

  At the same time, a suffocating tightness swept up into my chest. I didn’t know if it was a flash of nausea, Negli’s, or the release of my bottled-up rage.

  Whatever it was, I knew I had to get out. “I’m leaving,” I said to Raleigh. I was scared.

  He looked stunned and confused as I rushed out.

  “Hey, I say something wrong?” I heard Jacobi say.

  I grabbed my jacket and purse and ran down the steps to the street. My blood was rioting inside me like an angry demon. A cold sweat had broken out all over me.

  I ran out into the cool day, started to walk fast down the street.

  I had no idea where I was going. I felt like a foreign tourist wandering in the city for the first time. Soon, there were crowds, stores, people rushing by who knew nothing about me. I wanted to lose myself for a few minutes. Starbucks, Kinko’s, Empress Travel. Familiar names flashed by.

  I felt drawn by a single, irrepressible urge. I wanted to look in his eyes.

  On Post, I found myself standing in front of a Borders bookshop. I went inside.

  It was large and open, bright with merchandised stands and shelves of all the current books. I didn’t ask. I just looked. On a table in front of me, I spotted what I was searching for.

  Lion’s Share. Maybe fifty copies, thick, bright blue, some stacked, some propped up.

  Lion’s Share. By Nicholas Jenks.

  My chest was exploding. I felt in the grip of unspeakable but undeniable right. A mission, a purpose. This was why I was an investigator. This very moment.

  I took a copy of Jenks’s book and looked at the back cover.

  I was staring at the killer of the brides and grooms. I was sure of it.

  It was the cut of Nicholas Jenks’s face, sharp as a stone’s edge, that told me. The gray eyes, cold and sterile, controlling.

  And one more thing.

  The red beard, flecked with gray.

  Book Three

  RED BEARD

  Chapter 70

  JILL BERNHARDT, the tough, savvy assistant district attorney assigned to the bride and groom case, kicked off her Ferragamos and curled her leg up on the leather chair behind her desk. She fixed her sharp blue eyes directly on my face.

  “Let me get this straight. You think the bride and groom killer is Nick Jenks?” she asked.

  “I’m sure of it,” I said.

  Jill was dark, disarmingly attractive. Curly jet-black hair framed a narrow, oval face. She was an achiever, thirty-four, a rising star in Bennett Sinclair’s office.

  All you needed to know about Jill was that as a third-year prosecutor, it was she who had tried the La Frade case, when the mayor’s old law partner was indicted on a RICO charge for influence peddling. No one, including the D.A. himself, wanted to submarine his or her career by taking on the powerful fund-raiser. Jill nailed him, sent him away for twenty years. Got herself promoted to the office next to Big Ben himself.

  One by one, Raleigh and I laid out Nicholas Jenks’s connections to the three double murders: the champagne found at the first scene; his involvement in Sparrow Ridge Vineyards; his volatile relationship with the third bride, Kathy Voskuhl.

  Jill threw back her head and laughed. “You want to bust this guy for messing up someone’s life, be my guest. Go try the Examiner. Here, I’m afraid, they make us do it with facts.”

  I said, “We have him tied to three double murders, Jill.”

  Her lips parted into a skeptical smile that read, Sorry, some other time. “The champagne connection might fly, if you had him nailed down. Which you don’t. The realestate partnership’s a nonstarter. None of it pins him directly to any of the crimes. A guy like Nicholas Jenks — public, connected — you don’t go around making un-substantiated accusations.”

  With a sigh, she shifted a tower of briefs aside. “You want to take on the big fish, guys? Go back, get yourself a stronger rod.”

  My mouth dropped at her hard-edged reaction to our case. “This isn’t exactly my first homicide, Jill.”

  Her strong chin was set.

  “And this isn’t exactly my first page-one case.” Then she smiled, softened. “So
rry,” she said. “It’s one of Bennett’s favorite expressions. I must be spending too much time around the sharks.”

  “We’re talking about a multiple killer, “ Raleigh said, the frustration mounting in his eyes.

  Jill had that implacable, prove-it-to-me resistance. I had worked with her on murder cases twice before, knew how tireless and prepared she was when she got to court. Once, she had invited me to go “spinning” with her during a trial I was a witness at. I gave up in a sweat after thirty grueling minutes, but Jill, pumping without pause, went on at a mad pace for the full forty-five. Two years out of Stanford Law, she had married a rising young partner at one of the city’s top venture firms. Leapfrogged a squadron of career prosecutors to the D.A.’s right hand. In a city of high achievers, Jill was the kind of girl for whom everything clicked.

  I passed her the security photo from the Hall of Fame, then Nicholas Jenks’s photograph.

  She studied them, shrugged. “You know what an adversarial expert witness would do with these? It’s pup-shit. If the cops in Cleveland feel they can convict with this, be my guest.”

  “I don’t want to lose him to Cleveland,” I said.

  “So come back to me with something I can take to Big Ben.”

  “How about a search and seizure,” Raleigh suggested. “Maybe we can match up the champagne bottle from the first crime scene to the lot he purchased.”

  “I could run it by a judge,” Jill mused. “There must be someone out there on the bench who thinks Jenks has done enough to bring down the structure of literary form to the point where they’d go for it. But I think you’d be making a mistake.”

  “Why?”

  “Some two-time crack whore, her you can bring in on suspicion. You bring in Nicholas Jenks, you better arraign. You alert him that you’re onto him — you’ll spend more time fending off his lawyers and the press than making your case. If he’s it, you’re gonna have one shot and one shot only to dig up what you need to convict. Right now, you need more.”