I SAT THERE, ratcheting the possible connections through my mind. Things were starting to piece together. He was one of the minority partners at Sparrow Ridge Vineyards, where the second couple had been dumped. He had known Kathy Kogut for years in San Francisco. Preyed on her. He was older. Married. Famous. By itself, the suspect's name proved nothing. He had merely known the last bride. He had a circumstantial connection to the crime scene of the second killings. But based on the descriptions of Merrill Shortley and Christine Kogut, he had the brutal temperament, and maybe the motive, to commit these vicious murders. The conviction built up inside me that this was Red Beard. I grabbed Raleigh. "What's going on?" he asked. "Where's the fire?" "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 his 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." Raleigh and I froze. "Whose, Warren?" I pressed. "I figure, I check it out, I can be a hero, bring home a signed copy. You ever read Lion's Share by Nicholas Jenks?"

JACOBI'S STATEMENT kit like an elbow to my solar plexus. At the same time it removed all doubt for me. Kathy Kogut, Sparrow Ridge, the Clos du Mesnil champagne. Jenks was now tied in to all three murders. He was Red Beard. I wanted to run and confront Jenks, but I knew I couldn't. I wanted to get up close, glare in his smug eyes, let him know I knew. At the same time, a suffocating tightness swept up into my chest. I didn't know if it was a flash of nausea, Negli's, or the release of my bottled-up rage. Whatever it was, I knew I had to get out. "I'm leaving," I said to Raleigh. I was scared. He looked stunned and confused as I rushed out. "Hey, I say something wrong?" I heard Jacobi say. I grabbed my jacket and purse and ran down the steps to the street. My blood was rioting inside me like an angry demon. A cold sweat had broken out all over me. I ran out into the cool day, started to walk fast down the street. I had no idea where I was going. I felt like a foreign tourist wandering in the city for the first time. Soon, there were crowds, stores, people rushing by who knew nothing about me. I wanted to lose myself for a few minutes. Starbucks, Kinko's, Empress Travel. Familiar names flashed by. I felt drawn by a single, irrepressible urge. I wanted to look in his eyes. On Post, I found myself standing in front of a Borders bookshop. I went inside. It was large and open, bright with merchandised stands and shelves of all the current books. I didn't ask. I just looked. On a table in front of me, I spotted what I was searching for. Lion's Share. Maybe fifty copies, thick, bright blue, some stacked, some propped up. Lion's Share. By Nicholas Jenks. My chest was exploding. I felt in the grip of unspeakable but undeniable right. A mission, a purpose. This was why I was an investigator. This very moment. I took a copy of Jenks's book and looked at the back cover. I was staring at the killer of the brides and grooms. I was sure of it. It was the cut of Nicholas Jenks's face, sharp as a stone's edge, that told me. The gray eyes, cold and sterile, controlling. And one more thing. The red beard, flecked with gray. Book Three