1st to Die - James Patterson [69]
While we waited, I examined photos arranged on a side table. Jenks with a series of well-known faces: Michael Douglas, the top guy from Disney, Bill Walsh from the 49ers. Others were with an attractive woman I took to be his new wife—sunny, smiling, strawberry-blond hair—in various exotic locations: beaches, skiing, a Mediterranean isle.
In a silver frame, there was a four-by-six of the two of them in the center of an enormous lit-up rotunda. The dome of the Palace of Fine Arts. It was a wedding photo.
It was then that Nicholas Jenks walked in. I recognized him immediately from his photographs.
He was slighter than I had imagined. Trim, well-built, no more than five-ten, wearing an open white dress shirt over well-worn jeans. My eyes were drawn immediately to the reddish, gray-flecked beard.
Red Beard, it’s good to meet you, finally.
“Sorry to put you off, inspectors,” he said with an easy smile, “but I’m afraid I get cranky if I can’t get my morning pages in.” He held out his hand, noticing the photograph I was still holding. “A bit like the set of Marriage of Figaro, wasn’t it? Myself, I would’ve gone for a small civil ceremony, but Chessy said if she could snare me in a tux, she’d never, ever doubt my commitment to her.”
I wasn’t interested in being charmed by this man, but he was handsome and immediately in control. I could see what some women found attractive about him. He motioned us to the couch.
“We were hoping,” I said, “to ask you a few questions.”
“About the bride and groom killings… My assistant advised me. Crazy… terrible. But these acts, so incredibly desperate, cry out for at least a small measure of sympathy.”
“For the victims,” I said, placing his wedding photograph back on the table.
“Everyone always goes to the plight of the victims,” Jenks said. “But it’s what’s inside the killer’s head that puts cash in the account. Most people figure these acts are simply about revenge. The sickest kind of revenge… Or even subjugation, like most rapes. But I’m not so sure.”
“What’s your theory, Mr. Jenks?” Chris asked. He made it sound as if he were a fan.
Jenks held out a pitcher of iced tea. “Something to drink? I know it’s a hot one, though I’ve been holed up in the study since eight.”
We shook our heads. I took a manila folder out of my bag and placed it on my lap. I remembered Cheery’s admonition: “Keep it light. Jenks is a VIP. You’re not.”
Nicholas Jenks poured himself a tall glass of tea and went on. “From what I’ve read, these killings appear to be a form of rape, rape of innocence. The killer is acting in a way that no one can forgive. In the most sacred setting of our society. To me, these killings are the ultimate act of purification.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Jenks,” I said, ignoring his bullshit, “we didn’t come up here seeking your professional advice. I have some questions related to these killings we’d like to run by you.”
Jenks sat back in his chair. He looked surprised. “You make that sound awfully official.”
“That’s entirely up to you,” I said. I took out a portable cassette tape player from my bag. “You mind if I turn this on?”
He stared at me, his eyes shifting suspiciously, then he waved his hand as if it were of no concern.
“So where I’d like to start, Mr. Jenks, is, these killings… Do you have any specific knowledge of any of the crimes other than what you’ve read in the papers?”
“Knowledge?” Jenks took a breath, nominally reflecting. Then he shook his head. “No. None at all.”
“You read there was a third killing? Last week. In Cleveland.”
“I did see that. I read five or six papers every day.”
“And did you also read who the victims were?”
“From Seattle, weren’t they? One of them, I remember, was some kind of concert promoter.”
“The groom.” I nodded. “James Voskuhl. The bride actually lived for a while in town, here. Her maiden name was Kathy Kogut. Do either of those names mean anything to you?”
“No. Should they?”
“So you never met either of them? Any