First to Die

Chapter 75

HIGH ON THE CLIFFS above the Golden Gate Bridge, 20 El Camino del Mar was a stucco, Spanish-style home with an iron gate guarding the terra-cotta driveway. Red Beard lived here- Nicholas Jenks. Jenks's home was low, stately, surrounded by decoratively trimmed hedges and bright, blossoming azaleas. In the driveway's circle, there was a large iron sculpture, Bolero's Madonna and Child. "Fiction must be good." Raleigh let out a whistle, as we stepped up to the front door. We had made an appointment through Jenks's personal assistant to meet him at noon. I had been warned by Sam Roth not to come on too hard. A pleasant housekeeper greeted us at the door and took us back to a spacious sunroom, informing us that Mr. Jenks would be down in a short while. The lavish room seemed straight out of some designer magazine- with rich jacquard wallpaper, Oriental chairs, a mahogany coffee table, shelves of mementos and photographs. It opened onto a field stone patio overlooking the Pacific. I had lived in San Francisco all my life but never knew you could come home every night to this kind of spectacular view. 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 sick est 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 VIE 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 interest you had in this case was just like anyone's… morbid curiosity?" He fixed his eyes on me. "That's right. Morbid curiosity's my business." I opened my manila folder and took out the top photo. He was playing us, just as he had been playing us by leaving dead-ending clues along the way. I slid the photo across the table. "This might sharpen your memory," I said. "That's Kathy Kogut, the bride who was murdered the other night. The man next to her, I believe, is you."