1st to Die (Women's Murder Club 1)

Leff hung in midmotion, stunned.

“Your client was in Cleveland, Counselor,” I sprang on him. Then I said to Jenks, “You were registered at the Westin. You stayed two nights, coinciding with the Voskuhl murders. You said you were at home, Mr. Jenks. But you were there. And you were at the Hall of Fame.”

Jenks’s smile disappeared and his eyes flicked around the room. He swallowed, and I could see the knot sliding down his throat. He was retracing his alibis and lies. He looked at Leff, somewhat apologetically.

“I was there,” he admitted. “I did conceal it. As it happens, I was in town to address a local readers group. You can check. The Argosy Bookstore. I didn’t know how to explain it. Coupled with knowing Kathy, it seemed so incriminating. But let me make this clear. You’re wrong about the wedding. I was nowhere near it.”

My blood rose. I couldn’t believe this guy. “You had a reading? When, Mr. Jenks?”

“Saturday afternoon. At four. A small group of very loyal fans. The Argosy was very kind to me when I first started out.”

“And after that?”

“After that I did what I always do. I stayed at the hotel and wrote. I took a swim, had an early dinner. You can ask my wife. I always spend the evenings alone when I’m on the road. It’s been written up in People magazine.”

I leaned across the table. “So this was all some bizarre coincidence, right? A woman with whom you’ve denied having a sexual relationship is brutally murdered. You just happen to be in town. You just happen to lie about the relationship and about being there. Your likeness just happens to be caught by a security camera at the scene. Is that how it goes, Mr. Jenks?”

Leff placed a cautionary hand on Jenks’s arm.

“No!” His client snapped, his self-control clearly chipping away.

Then he became calmer and wiped the sweat off his brow. “I lied…for Chessy…to preserve my marriage.” He straightened himself up in the wooden chair. His alibi was collapsing. “I’m not a perfect man, Inspector. I slip. I deceived you about Kathy. It was wrong. The answer is yes. What you assume to be true is true. We were lovers on and off for five years. It continued… well into her relationship with James. It was folly. It was the desperate thrill of a fool. But it was not murder. I did not kill Kathy. And I did not kill the others!”

Jenks stood up. For the first time, he looked scared. The reality of what was happening was clearly sinking in.

I leaned forward and said, “A bottle of champagne was left in the suite at the Hyatt where the Brandts were killed. It matched the same lot you purchased at an auction at Butterfield and Butterfield in November nineteen ninety-six.”

Leff objected, “We know that. Surely the unfortunate coincidence of my client’s taste in champagne doesn’t implicate him in this act. He didn’t even know the Brandts. That wine could have been purchased anywhere.”

“It could’ve, yes; however, the registration number on the bottle from the Hyatt matched those from the rest of the lot we uncovered at your home last night.”

“This is getting absurd,” Jenks said angrily. “This sort of bullshit wouldn’t even make one of my books.”

“Hopefully this will be better, then.” From under the table, I pulled out the Nordstrom’s shopping bag holding the balled-up tuxedo pants. I tossed them onto the table in front of everybody. “You recognize these?”

“Pants…What kinds of games are we playing now?”

“These were found last night. In this bag. In the back of your bedroom closet.”

“So? What’re you saying, they’re mine? Joseph Abboud. They could be. I don’t understand where you’re going.”

“Where I’m going is that these pants match the tuxedo jacket that was found in the Brandts’ suite. They’re a suit, Mr. Jenks.”

“A suit?”

“It’s the pants to the jacket you left in their hotel room. Same brand. Same style number. Same size.”

A deepening panic began to sweep over his face.

“And if all this still falls short of your usual material,” I said, fixing on his eyes, “then how’s this. The hair matched. The hair you left inside Becky DeGeorge. With hairs taken from your house. It belonged to you, you animal. You convicted yourself.”

Jill leaned forward. “You’re going away, Jenks. You’re going away until the appeals finally run out and they come to stick a loaded needle in your arm.”

“This is insane,” he cried. He was leaning over me, veins in his neck swelling, shouting in my face, “You bitch. You’re setting me up. You fucking ice bitch. I didn’t kill anyone.”

Suddenly, I found that I couldn’t move. Seeing Jenks unwind was one thing. But there was something else going on. I felt pinned to my chair.

I knew, but I couldn’t fight it — Negli’s.