Tell Me Your Dreams by Sidney Sheldon

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 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.”

Chapter Eleven
    R OBERT 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 thesame: 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