1st to Die - James Patterson [65]
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 nightshirt.
“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