“I’m going to start one in here. Watch.”
I dragged him into Roth’s office.
“I have a name,” I announced, as I threw my fist in the air.
They looked at me in wide-eyed surprise.
“Nicholas Jenks.”
“The writer?” Raleigh gaped.
I nodded. “He was Kathy Kogut’s lover here in San Francisco. Her mother finally gave it up.” I walked them through the not-so-random connections he had with at least three of the victims.
“This guy’s… famous,” blurted Roth. “He made those movies, blockbusters.”
“That’s exactly the point. Merrill Shortley said it was someone Kathy was trying to conceal. The guy’s got two connections, Sam.”
“He’s got connections, all right,” Roth cried. “Jenks and his wife are invited to all the big affairs. I’ve seen h
is picture with the mayor. Wasn’t he part of the bid to keep the Giants here?”
The air in Cheery’s office became heavy with the weight of dangerous possibilities and risk.
“You should have heard how the Koguts described him, Sam,” I said. “Like some kind of animal. A predator. I think we’re going to find he had something going with all three girls.”
“I think Lindsay’s right, Sam,” Chris said.
We watched Roth slowly clicking the facts in his head. Nicholas Jenks was famous. A national figure. Untouchable. The lieutenant’s face twisted as if he had swallowed a bad clam.
“You’ve got nothing right now,” he came back. “All of it. It’s beyond circumstantial.”
“His name has popped up in connection with four dead people. We could get face to face, like I would with anyone else. We could talk to the district attorney.”
Roth held up a hand. Nicholas Jenks was one of San Francisco’s most prominent citizens. Implicating him on a murder charge was dangerous. We’d better be right. I didn’t know what Cheery was thinking. Finally, there was the slightest relaxation in his neck, only a tight swallow, but in Roth-speak it was a go-ahead. “You could talk to the D.A.,” he agreed. “Call Jill Bernhardt.”
He turned to Raleigh. “This can’t get out until we have something really firm.”
Unfortunately, Assistant District Attorney Jill Bernhardt was stuck in court. Her secretary said she wouldn’t be out until the end of the day. Too bad. I knew Jill a little, liked her. She was tough, with dazzling smarts. She even had a conscience.
Raleigh and I got a cup of coffee, going over what we should do next. Roth was right. As far as a warrant was concerned, we had nothing. A direct confrontation could be dangerous. A guy like this, you had to be sure. He would fight back.
Warren Jacobi shuffled in, a self-satisfied smirk puffing up his face. “Must be raining champagne today,” he muttered.
I took it as another sardonic zinger aimed at Raleigh and me.
“For weeks, I can’t even get a bite on this shit.” He sat down and cocked his head toward Raleigh. “Bite… champagne… that works, Captain, doesn’t it?”
“Works for me,” Raleigh said.
Jacobi continued, “So yesterday Jennings comes back with three places that had sold a few cases of the bubbly in question. One of the buyers is this accountant in San Mateo. Funny thing is, his name’s on file. Ends up he did two years up in Lampoc for securities fraud. Kind of a reach, isn’t it? Serial killing, securities fraud…”
“Maybe the guy’s got a thing against people who file joint returns,” I said, and smiled at Jacobi.
He puckered up his face. “The second is some woman manager at 3Com who’s stocking up for a fortieth-birthday bash. This Clos du Mesnil is a real collectible. It’s French, I’m told.”
I glanced up, waiting for him to get to the point.
“Now the third one, that’s what I mean by raining … big auction house, Butterfield and Butterfield. Three years back sold two cases of the eighty-nine. Went for twenty-five hundred per case, plus commish. Private collector. At first they wouldn’t give out the name. But we squeezed. Turns out he’s a big shot. My wife, she happens to be a fan. Read every one of his books.”