“Claire has a hair in her lab from the second killing, the DeGeorges,” I said. “We can make Jenks give us a sample of his beard.”
She shook her head. “With what you have, his compliance would be totally voluntary. Not to mention, if you’re wrong, what you might lose.”
“You mean by narrowing the search?”
“I was talking politically. You know the game rules, Lindsay.”
She riveted those intense blue eyes directly at me. I could envision the headlines, turning the case back against us. Like the screwups with O. J. Simpson and Jon Benet Ramsey. In both cases it seemed the cops were as much on trial as any possible defendants.
Jill got up, smoothed her navy skirt, then leaned on her desk. “Look, if the guy’s guilty, I’d like to tear him apart as much as you. But all you’re bringing me is an unlucky preference in champagne and an eyewitness on her third vodka and tonic. Cleveland’s at least got a prior relationship with one of the victims, bringing up a possible motive, but right now none of the jurisdictions have enough to go on.
“I’ve got two of the biggest headline grabbers in the city looking over my every move,” Jill finally admitted. “You think the district attorney and the mayor want to pass this thing on?” Then she fixed unflappably on me. “What’s the litmus test here? You’re sure it’s him, Lindsay?”
He was linked to all three cases. The desperate voice of Christine Kogut was clear in my mind. I gave Jill my most convincing nod. “He’s the killer.”
She got up and made her way around the desk. With a half-smile, she said, “I’m gonna make you pay if this blows any chance of getting my memoirs in print by forty.”
Through the sarcasm, I saw a look flare up in Jill Bernhardt’s eyes, the same resolute look I had seen when she was spinning. It hit me like a spray of Mace.
“Okay, Lindsay, let’s make this case.”
I didn’t know what made Jill tick. Power? An urge to do right? Some manic drive to outperform? Whatever it was, I didn’t think it was far from what had always burned through me.
But listening to her cogently mapping out what we needed to indict, a tantalizing thought took hold of me.
I thought about getting her together with Claire and Cindy.
Chapter 71
AT AN OLD-FASHIONED STEEL DESK in the dingy halls of the Chronicle’s basement library, Cindy Thomas scrolled through four-year-old articles on microfiche. It was late. After eight. Working alone in the underbelly of the building, she felt as if she were some isolated Egyptologist scraping the dust off of long-buried hieroglyphic tablets. She now knew why it was referred to as “the Tombs.”
But she felt she was onto something. The dust was coming off secrets, and something worthwhile would soon be clear to her.
February… March, 1996. The film shot by with indistinguishable speed.
Someone famous, the Cleveland bride’s friend had said. Cindy pushed the film onward. This was how stories were earned. Late nights and elbow grease.
Earlier, she had called the public relations firm Kathy Kogut had worked for in San Francisco, Bright Star Media. News of their former staffer’s death had reached them only that day. Cindy inquired about any feature films Bright Star might have had an association with. She was disappointed when she was told the firm didn’t handle films. The Capitol, she was told. The concert palace. That was Kathy’s account.
Undeterred, Cindy plugged Bright Star’s name into the Chronicle’s data bank. Any subjects of articles, names, companies, reviews written in the past ten years were recorded there. To her mild delight, the search came back with several live responses.
It was assiduous work, and discouraging. The articles covered a period of more than five years. That would tie in with the time Kathy was in San Francisco. Each article was on a different microfiche cassette.
It required going back into the files. Requisitioning. Three items at a time. After four sets, the night librarian handed her the clipboard, saying, “Here, Thomas. It’s all yours. Knock yourself out.”
It was quarter past ten — she hadn’t heard a peep from anyone in over two hours — when she finally came upon something interesting.
It was dated February 10, 1995. Arts Today section. “For Local Band Sierra, New Film Taps into a Hit.”
Cindy’s eyes shot down the text, fast-forwarding to anything that stuck out: plans for their album, an eight-city tour. Quotes from the lead singer.
“Sierra will perform the song at tomorrow night’s bash at the Capitol to kick off release of the film Crossed Wire.”
Her heart stood still. She zoomed ahead to the following day’s Arts section.
She consumed the article almost in a single suspended breath: “… took over the Capitol. Chris Wilcox, the star, was there.” A photo, with a dishy actress. “Bright Star… other recording stars in attendance.”
Her eyes traveled over the three accompanying news photos. In tiny print, underneath each shot, she noticed the photographer’s name: “Photography by Sal Esposito. Property of the Chronicle.”
Photography… Cindy jumped out of her seat at the microfiche desk and hurried back through the musty, ten-foot-high stacks of bundled, yellowing editions. On the other side of the Tombs was the Chronicle’s photography morgue. Rows and rows of unused shots.
She had never even been in here… didn’t know how it was laid out.
Creepy, creepy place, especially this late at night.
In a flash, she recognized that the aisles were chronological. She followed the signs at the end of each aisle until she found February 1995. She ran her eyes along the outside of the stacked plastic bins dated the tenth.
When she spotted it, it was on the highest shelf. Where else? She stepped up on the lower shelf, on her tiptoes, and wiggled the bin down.
On the dusty floor, Cindy frantically leafed through folders bunched up in elastic. As if in a dream, she came upon a folder marked in large black letters: “Crossed Wire Opening — Esposito.” This was it….
Inside were four contact sheets, several black-and-white glossies. Someone, probably the reporter, had written the names of each person, in pen, at the bottom of each shot.
Her eyes froze as she came upon the photo she was hoping for. Four people toasting the camera, with arms locked.
She recognized Kathy Kogut’s face from the photos Lindsay had come back with. Red hair, curly. Trendy inlaid glasses.
And next to her, smiling into the camera, was another face Cindy knew. It took her breath away. Her fingers trembled with the realization that she had deciphered the hieroglyphics at last.
It was the trimmed, reddish-colored beard. The narrow, complicit smile — as if he knew where all this might one day lead.
Next to Kathy Kogut was the novelist Nicholas Jenks.
Chapter 72
I WAS TOTALLY SURPRISED when Cindy appeared at my door at half past eleven. With a look of wide-eyed elation and pride, she blurted, “I know who Kathy Kogut’s lover was.”
“Nicholas Jenks,” I replied. “C’mon in, Cindy. Down, Martha.” She was tugging at my Giants night-shirt.
“Oh, God,” she groaned, loudly. “I was so pumped up. I thought I had found it.”
She had found it. She had beaten McBride and Seattle. Two squads of trained investigators as well as the FBI. I looked at her with genuine admiration. “How?”
Too restless to sit, Cindy stalked around my living room as she took me through the steps of her amazing discovery. She unfolded a copy of the news photo showing Jenks and Kathy Kogut at the movie opening. I watched her circle the couch, trying to keep up with herself: Bright Star… Sierra…Crossed Wire… She was hyper. “I’m a good reporter, Lindsay,” she said.
“I know you are.” I smiled at her. “You just can’t write about it.”
Cindy stopped — the sudden realization of what she had overlooked hitting her like a pie in the face.
“Oh, God,” she moaned. “That’s like being in a shower with Brad Pitt, but
you can’t touch.” She looked at me, half smiling, half like nails were being driven into her heart.
“Cindy”— I reached out and held her — “you wouldn’t have even known to look for him if I hadn’t clued you in on Cleveland.”
I went to the kitchen. “You want some tea?” I called out.
She collapsed on the couch and let out another wail. “I want a beer. No, not beer. Bourbon.”
I pointed to my small bar near the terrace. In a few moments, we sat down. Me with my Nocturnal Seasonings, Cindy with a stiff glass of Wild Turkey, Martha comfortable at our feet.
“I’m proud of you, Cindy,” I told her. “You did crack the name. You scooped two police forces. When this is over, I’m gonna make sure you get a special mention in the press.”
“I am the press,” Cindy exclaimed, forcing herself to smile. “And what do you mean, ‘When this is over’? You have him.”
“Not quite.” I shook my head. I explained that everything we had, even stuff she didn’t know — the vineyard, the champagne — was circumstantial. We couldn’t even force him to submit a hair.
“So what do we need to do?”
“Tie Nicholas Jenks solidly in to the first crime.”
Suddenly, she began pleading, “I have to run with it, Lindsay.”
“No,” I insisted. “No one knows. Only Roth and Raleigh. And one more….”
“Who?” Cindy blinked.
“Jill Bernhardt.”
“The assistant district attorney? That office is like a colander trying to sail across the Pacific. It’s nothing but leaks.”
“Not Jill,” I promised. “She won’t leak this.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because Jill Bernhardt wants to nail this guy as much as we do,” I said with conviction.
“That’s all?” groaned Cindy.
I sipped a soothing mouthful of tea, met her eyes. “And because I invited her into our group.”
Chapter 73
THE FOLLOWING DAY we met after work for a drink at Susie’s; it was Jill’s introduction to our group.
All day, I couldn’t fix on anything other than the thought of confronting Jenks with what we knew and bringing him in. I wanted to accelerate everything — a face-to-face confrontation. I wanted to let him know we had him. Goddamn Red Beard.
As we waited for drinks, I threw out a couple of new developments. A search of Kathy Kogut’s home in Seattle had uncovered Jenks’s name and phone number in the dead bride’s phone book. A trace by Northwest Bell had turned up three calls to him in the past month — including one three days before the Cleveland wedding. It confirmed what Merrill Shortley had told us.
“Right up to the very end,” said Claire. “Creepy. Both of them, actually.”
We had run Jenks’s photo by Maryanne Perkins of Saks as part of a photo spread with five others. We desperately needed something that pinned him to the first crime. She paused over his likeness for a few seconds. “It’s him,” she declared. Then she paused. “But then, it’s hard to tell. It was so quick. And far away.”
The thought of a defense attorney cross-examining her didn’t sit well with me. It didn’t surprise me that Jill agreed.
It took no longer than a single margarita for her to make a seamless entry into our group.
Claire had met her a few times when she testified at trials. They had developed a mutual respect for each other’s rise through their male-dominated departments.
We asked Jill about herself, and she told us she was Stanford Law and her father was a corporate attorney back in Dallas. No interest in the corporate thing. That was for her husband, Steve, who was running a venture fund for Bank America.
They lived in Burlingame — affluent, exclusive — took rock-climbing treks in the desert at Moab. No kids. “It just doesn’t fit right now,” she said.
Jill seemed to live the epitome of the fast, successful life. At the same time, there seemed to be something missing. Maybe she was tired from the grind, the pace of her accomplishments.
When our drinks arrived, Claire and I toasted Cindy’s ingenuity in coming up with Jenks’s name in such short time. And beating two police departments to the punch.
Claire raised a glass to her. “You’re pretty good for a rookie, of course. But you’re still not the king.” She smiled at me.
“So I’m thinking,” Jill said, looking around the table. “I know I can hold my own at dinner parties and all… but that’s not why you asked me in, is it? Seems like we have all the angles covered here: the press, the force, medical examiner. Just what kind of a group is this?”
I answered, since it was I who had invited her in. “Women. Climbing the ladder in their careers. Law enforcement.”
“Yeah, with soft, pushover types for bosses,” put in Cindy.
“Well, I qualify there,” said Jill. “And it doesn’t hurt that each of you seems to have some connection with the bride and groom case.”
I held my breath. Jill could blow this whole thing if she wanted to, but she was here. “We have been sort of working together,” I admitted. “Outside the investigation.”
Over margaritas, I explained how we had originally gotten together. How we had come upon this case, trying to solve it, sharing what we knew, freelance. How it had become a sort of bond. How things had just gotten a bit deeper.
Jill arched her eyebrows. “I assume you’re sharing all this with the investigation?”
“Of course,” I insisted. “Well, sort of.” I told her how we were giving Cindy only what the department was about to release to the press at large. How there was a thrill in cutting through the departments, advancing the case.
“I know it’s a different game when everything starts to get legal,” I said. “If any of this makes you uncomfortable…”
We were all sort of hanging there, awaiting her response. Loretta came, and we ordered another round. We were still hanging — waiting on Jill.
“How about I let you know when things start to get uncomfortable,” Jill said. She widened her blue eyes. “In the meantime, you’re gonna need a lot stronger corroboration if we want to take this thing to court.”
The three of us breathed a sigh of relief. We tilted our near-empty glasses toward our new member.
“So, this outfit have a name?” Jill inquired.
We looked around, shrugged, shook our heads. “We’re sort of a murder club,” I said.
“Lindsay’s deputized us.” Claire grinned.
“The Margarita Posse,” Jill threw out. “That has possibilities.”
“Bad-ass Bitches.” Claire giggled.
“One day, we’re all gonna be running things,” Cindy said. “Homicide Chicks,” she came back with a satisfied grin. “That’s who we are. That’s what we do.”
“Just shut me up if I start to roar,” said Jill.
We looked around the table. We were bright, attractive, take-no-shit women. We were going to run things — some day.
The waitress brought our drinks. We raised four glasses toward one another. “To us.”
Chapter 74
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.” Mahoney’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 Brannan. 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, partners 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.”
1st to Die Page 17