“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 fucking 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.”
He watched the young husband and wife step outside and walk over to the balustrade. 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, 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.
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 spacious 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.”
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