Chapter 84
"I FOUND IT!" exclaimed Cindy, her voice breathless on the phone. "Always a Bridesmaid!" I pounded my desk in elation. This meant we could definitely make our move. "So what does it say, Cindy?" "I found it," Cindy clarified. "I just don't actually have it." She told me about the Writers Guild. The book was there, but it would take a little coaxing to actually get it into our hands. It took barely two hours- starting with a frantic call to Jill. She had a judge pulled out of chambers, and we had our court order mandating the release of Jenks's manuscript Always a Bridesmaid. Then Jill and I ran down to meet Cindy. On the way, I made one more call. To Claire. It seemed fitting that all of us should be there. Twenty minutes later, Jill and I met Cindy and Claire in front of a drab building on Geary where the Writers Guild maintained its offices. Together, we rode to the eighth floor. "I'm back," announced Cindy to a surprised woman behind the reception desk. "And I brought my documentation." She eyed us suspiciously. "Who are these, cousins?" I flashed the clerk my badge and also presented the officially stamped search warrant. "What's going on with this book?" the woman gasped. Clearly out of her authority, she went inside and came back with a supervisor, who read over the court order. "We usually only hold them for up to eight years," he said with some uncertainty. Then he disappeared for what seemed a lifetime. We all sat there in the stark reception area like pacing relatives waiting for a baby to be born. What if it had been thrown out? Finally, the supervisor came out with a dusty bundle wrapped in brown paper. "In the back of the bins," he announced with a self-satisfied smile. There was a coffee shop right down the street. We took a table in back and crowded around with anticipation. I plopped the manuscript down on the table, peeled off the brown-paper wrapping. I read the cover. A/ways a Bridesmaid. A novel by Nicholas Jenks. Nervously, I opened it and read the first page. The narrator was reflecting on his crimes from jail. His name was Phillip Campbell. "What is the worst thing," the novel began, "anyone has ever done?"
ChapterSS
WE SPLIT UP THE BOOK into four sections. We each paged silently, searching for some scene or detail that would parallel the real-life crimes. Mine was about this guy's life, Phillip Campbell. His picture-perfect wife, catching her with another man. He killed them both- and his life changed forever. "Bingo!" Jill spoke up suddenly. She read out loud, bending back the sheaf of paper like a deck of cards. She described a scene with Phillip Campbell--"breath pounding inside, voices ringing in his head"--stealing through the halls of a hotel. The Grand Hyatt. A bride and groom in a suite. Campbell breaks in on them- he kills them without a second thought. '"In a single act," Jill read from the manuscript, "he had washed away the stench of betrayal and replaced it with a fresh, heretofore unimagined desire. He liked to kill."" Our eyes locked. This was beyond creepy. Jenks was crazy- but was he also crafty? Claire was next. It was another wedding. This time outside a church. The bride and groom coming down the steps, rice being thrown, shouts of congratulations, applause. The same man, Phillip Campbell, at the wheel of the limo that will take them away. We looked at one another, stunned. It was how the second murders were committed. Jill murmured, "Holy shit." Claire just shook her head. She looked sad and shocked. I guess we all were. A long-suppressed cry of satisfaction built up in my chest. We had done it. We had solved the bride and groom murders. "I wonder how it ends?" Cindy mused, fanning to the end of the book. "How else?" said Jill. "With an arrest."
Chapter 86
I RODE UP TO JENKS'S HOUSE with Chris Raleigh. We barely spoke, both of us brimming with anticipation. Outside, we were met by Charlie Clapper and his CSU team. They would grid-search the house and grounds as soon as we tookjenksin. We rang the bell. Each second I waited, my heart pounded harder. Every reason I became a cop was grinding in my chest. This was it. The door opened, and the same housekeeper answered. This time, her eyes went wide as she took in the convergence of blue-and-whites outside. I flashed my badge. "We need to see Mr. Jenks." We made our way back toward the sitting room where we had met Jenks only the day before. A startled Chessy Jenks met us in the hall "Inspector," she gasped, recognizing me. "What's going on? What are all those police cars doing out front?" "I'm sorry," I said, meeting her eyes. I was sorry for her. "Is your husband at home?" "Nick!" she cried, realizing in a panic why we had come. Then she ran along with us, trying to block me, shouting, "You can't just come in here like this. This is our home." "Please, Mrs. Jenks," Raleigh implored. I was too wound up to stop. I wanted Nicholas Jenks so bad it hurt. A second later he appeared, coming in from the back lawn overlooking the Pacific. He was holding a golf club. "I thought I told you," he said, looking perfectly unruffled in his white shirt and linen shorts, "the next time you need something from me you should contact my lawyer." "You can tell him yourself," I said. My heart was racing. "Nicholas Jenks, you are under arrest for the murders of David and Melanie Brandt, Michael and Rebecca De George James and Kathleen Voskuhl." I wanted him to hear every name, to bring to mind every one of them he'd killed. I wanted to see the callous indifference crack in his eyes. "This is insane." Jenks glared at me. His gray eyes burned with intensity. "Nick?" cried his wife. "What are they talking about? Why are they here in our house?" "Do you know what you're doing?" he asked, the veins bulging on his neck. "I asked you, do you have any idea what you're doing?" I didn't answer, just recited the Miranda warning. "What you're doing," he raged, "is engaging in the biggest mistake of your little life." "What are they saying?" His wife was pale. "Nick, please tell me. What is going on?" "Shut up," Jenks spat out at her. Suddenly, he spun back toward me with a vicious fire in his eyes. He lunged forward with his fist. He swung at me. I cut his feet out from under him. Jenks fell across an end table to the floor, photos falling everywhere, glass shattering. The writer moaned loudly in pain. Chessy Jenks screamed, stood there in a paralyzed state. Chris Raleigh cuffed her husband and dragged him to his feet. "Call Sherman," Jenks shouted at his wife. "Tell him where I am, what's happened." Raleigh and I pushed Jenks out to our car. He continued to struggle, and I saw no reason to be gentle. ' "What's your theory on the murders now?" I asked him.