Tell Me Your Dreams Part 13

"He left me for her, didn't he? I knew it would happen. I don't blame him. I was a terrible wife to him. I-"

"Serena, Sam's dead."

"I was always yelling at him. I really didn't mean it. I remember-"

He took her by the arms. "Serena, Sam's dead."

"One time we were going out to the beach and-"

He was shaking her. "Listen to me. Sam is dead."

"-and we were going to have a picnic."

As he looked at her, he realized that she had heard him.

"So we're at the beach and this man comes up and says, 'Give me your money.' And Sam says, 'Let me see your gun.'"

Sheriff Dowling stood there and let her talk. She was in a state of shock, in complete denial.

"...that was Sam. Tell me about this woman he went away with. Is she pretty? Sam tells me I'm pretty all the time, but I know I'm not. He says it to make me feel good because he loves me. He'll never leave me. He'll be back. You'll see. He loves me." She went on talking.

Sheriff Dowling went to the phone and dialed a number. "Get a nurse over here." He went over and put his arms around his sister. "Everything's going to be all right."

"Did I tell you about the time that Sam and I-?"

Fifteen minutes later, a nurse arrived.

"Take good care of her," Sheriff Dowling said.

There was a conference in Sheriff Dowling's office. "There's a call for you on line one."

Sheriff Dowling picked up the phone. "Yeah?"

"Sheriff, this is Special Agent Ramirez at FBI headquarters in Washington. We have some information for you on the serial killer case. We didn't have any prints on file for Ashley Patterson because she had no criminal record, and before 1988, the DMV didn't require thumbprints in the state of California to get a driver's license."

"Go ahead."

"In the beginning, we thought it had to be a computer glitch, but we checked it out and..."

For the next five minutes, Sheriff Dowling sat there listening, an incredulous expression on his face. When he finally spoke, he said, "Are you sure there's no mistake? It doesn't seem...All of them...? I see... Thank you very much."

He replaced the receiver and sat there for a long moment. Then he looked up. "That was the FBI lab in Washington. They've finished cross-checking the fingerprints on the bodies of the victims. Jean Claude Parent in Quebec was seeing an English woman named Toni Prescott when he was murdered."

"Yes."

"Richard Melton in San Francisco was seeing an Italian lady named Alette Peters when he was killed."

They nodded.

"And last night Sam Blake was with Ashley Patterson."

"Right."

Sheriff Dowling took a deep breath. "Ashley Patterson..."

"Yes?"

"Toni Prescott..."

"Yes?"

"Alette Peters..."

"Yes?"

"They're all the same f.u.c.king person."

Book Two

Chapter Eleven.

ROBERT Crowther, the real estate broker from Bryant & Crowther, opened the door with a flourish and announced, "Here's the terrace. You can look down on Coit Tower from here." Crowther, the real estate broker from Bryant & Crowther, opened the door with a flourish and announced, "Here's the terrace. You can look down on Coit Tower from here."

He watched the young husband and wife step outside and walk over to the bal.u.s.trade. The view from there was magnificent, the city of San Francisco spread out far below them in a spectacular panorama. Robert Crowther saw the couple exchange a glance and a secret smile, and he was amused. They were trying to hide their excitement. The pattern was always the same: Prospective buyers believed that if they showed too much enthusiasm, the price would go up.

For this duplex penthouse, Crowther thought wryly, Crowther thought wryly, the price is high enough already. the price is high enough already. He was concerned about whether the couple could afford it. The man was a lawyer, and young lawyers did not make that much. He was concerned about whether the couple could afford it. The man was a lawyer, and young lawyers did not make that much.

They were an attractive couple, obviously very much in love. David Singer was in his early thirties, blond and intelligent-looking, with an engaging boyishness about him. His wife, Sandra, was lovely looking and warm.

Robert Crowther had noticed the bulge around her stomach and had said, "The second guest room would be perfect for a nursery. There's a playground a block away and two schools in the neighborhood." He had watched them exchange that secret smile again.

The duplex penthouse consisted of an upstairs master bedroom with a bath and a guest room. On the first floor was a s.p.a.cious living room, a dining room, a library, a kitchen, a second guest bedroom and two bathrooms. Almost every room had a view of the city.

Robert watched the two of them as they walked through the apartment again. They stood in a corner whispering.

"I love it," Sandra was saying to David. "And it would be great for the baby. But, darling, can we afford it? It's six hundred thousand dollars!"

"Plus maintenance," David added. "The bad news is that we can't afford it today. The good news is that we're going to be able to afford it on Thursday. The genie is coming out of the magic bottle, and our lives are going to change."

"I know," she said happily. "Isn't it wonderful!"

"Should we go ahead with it?"

Sandra took a deep breath. "Let's go for it."

David grinned, waved a hand and said, "Welcome home, Mrs. Singer."

Arm in arm, they walked over to where Robert Crowther was waiting. "We'll take it," David told him.

"Congratulations. It's one of the choicest residences in San Francisco. You're going to be very happy here."

"I'm sure we are."

"You're lucky. I have to tell you, we have a few other people who are very interested in it."

"How much of a down payment will you want?"

"A deposit of ten thousand dollars now will be fine. I'll have the papers drawn up. When you sign, we'll require another sixty thousand dollars. Your bank can work out a schedule of monthly payments on a twenty- or thirty-year mortgage."

David glanced at Sandra. "Okay."

"I'll have the papers prepared."

"Can we look around once more?" Sandra asked eagerly.

Crowther smiled benevolently. "Take all the time you want, Mrs. Singer. It's yours."

"It all seems like a wonderful dream, David. I can't believe it's really happening."

"It's happening." David took her in his arms. "I want to make all your dreams come true."

"You do, darling."

They had been living in a small, two-bedroom apartment in the Marina District, but with the baby coming, it was going to be crowded. Until now, they could never have afforded the duplex on n.o.b Hill, but Thursday was partnership day at the international law firm of Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley, where David worked. Out of a possible twenty-five candidates, six would be chosen to enter the rarefied air of the firm's partnership, and everyone agreed that David was one of those who would be selected. Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley, with offices in San Francisco, New York, London, Paris and Tokyo, was one of the most prestigious law firms in the world, and it was usually the number one target for graduates of all the top law schools.

The firm used the stick-and-carrot approach on their young a.s.sociates. The senior partners took merciless advantage of them, disregarding their hours and illnesses and handing the younger lawyers the donkey's work that they themselves did not want to be bothered with. It was a heavy pressure, twenty-four-hour-a-day job. That was the stick. Those who stayed on did so because of the carrot. The carrot was the promise of a partnership in the firm. Becoming a partner meant a larger salary, a piece of the huge corporate-profit pie, a s.p.a.cious office with a view, a private washroom, a.s.signments overseas and myriad other perks.

David had practiced corporate law with Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley for six years, and it had been a mixed blessing. The hours were horrific and the stress was enormous, but David, determined to hang in there for the partnership, had stayed and had done a brilliant job. Now the day was finally at hand.

When David and Sandra left the real estate agent, they went shopping. They bought a ba.s.sinet, high chair, stroller, playpen and clothes for the baby, whom they were already thinking of as Jeffrey.

"Let's get him some toys," David said.

"There's plenty of time for that." Sandra laughed.

After shopping, they wandered around the city, walking along the waterfront at Ghirardelli Square, past the Cannery to Fisherman's Wharf. They had lunch at the American Bistro.

It was Sat.u.r.day, a perfect San Francisco day for monogrammed leather briefcases and power ties, dark suits and discreetly monogrammed shirts, a day for power lunches and penthouses. A lawyer's day.

David and Sandra had met three years earlier at a small dinner party. David had gone to the party with the daughter of a client of the firm. Sandra was a paralegal, working for a rival firm. At dinner, Sandra and David had gotten into an argument about a decision that had been rendered in a political case in Washington. As the others at the dinner table watched, the argument between the two of them had become more and more heated. And in the middle of it, David and Sandra realized that neither of them cared about the court's decision. They were showing off for each other, engaged in a verbal mating dance.

David telephoned Sandra the next day. "I'd like to finish discussing that decision," David said. "I think it's important."

"So do I," Sandra agreed.

"Could we talk about it at dinner tonight?"

Sandra hesitated. She had already made a dinner date for that evening. "Yes," she said. "Tonight will be fine."

They were together from that night on. One year from the day they met, they were married.

Joseph Kincaid, the firm's senior partner, had given David the weekend off.

David's salary at Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley was $45,000 a year. Sandra kept her job as a paralegal. But now, with the baby coming, their expenses were about to go up.

"I'll have to give up my job in a few months," Sandra said. "I don't want a nanny bringing up our baby, darling. I want to be here for him." The sonogram had shown that the baby was a boy.

"We'll be able to handle it," David a.s.sured her. The partnership was going to transform their lives.

David had begun to put in even longer hours. He wanted to make sure that he was not overlooked on partnership day.

Thursday morning, as David got dressed, he was watching the news on television.

An anchorman was saying breathlessly, "We have a breaking story... Ashley Patterson, the daughter of the prominent San Francisco doctor Steven Patterson, has been arrested as the suspected serial killer the police and the FBI have been searching for..."

David stood in front of the television set, frozen.

"...last night Santa Clara County Sheriff Matt Dowling announced Ashley Patterson's arrest for a series of murders that included b.l.o.o.d.y castrations. Sheriff Dowling told reporters, 'There's no doubt that we have the right person. The evidence is conclusive.'"

Dr. Steven Patterson. David's mind went back, remembering the past... David's mind went back, remembering the past...

He was twenty-one years old and just starting law school. He came home from cla.s.s one day to find his mother on the bedroom floor, unconscious. He called 911, and an ambulance took his mother to San Francisco Memorial Hospital. David waited outside the emergency room until a doctor came to talk to him.

"Is she-Is she going to be all right?"

The doctor hesitated. "We had one of our cardiologists examine her. She has a ruptured cord in her mitral valve."

"What does that mean?" David demanded.

"I'm afraid there's nothing we can do for her. She's too weak to have a transplant, and mini heart surgery is new and too risky."

David felt suddenly faint. "How-how long can she-?"

"I'd say a few more days, maybe a week. I'm sorry, son."

David stood there, panicky. "Isn't there anyone anyone who can help her?" who can help her?"

"I'm afraid not. The only one who might have been able to help is Steven Patterson, but he's a very-"