Sheriff Dowling groaned. "Hold it!" He had been putting off the moment when he would have to give his sister the news. It had to be done now. He sighed and said, "I'll be back."

Twenty minutes later, he was at Sam's house.

"Well, this is an unexpected pleasure," Serena said. "Is Sam with you?"

"No, Serena. I have to ask you a question." This was going to be difficult.

She was looking at him curiously. "Yes?"

"Did—did you and Sam have sex within the last twenty-four hours?"

The expression on her face changed. "What? We... No. Why do you want to—? Sam's not coming back, is he?"

"I hate to tell you this, but he—"

"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 thumb-prints 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 Bryan & 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 bide 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. Miss. 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 Nob 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 associates. 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 spacious office with a view, a private washroom, assignments overseas and myriad other perks.