Page 23 of 25 Alive

“It’s off the record,” she said. “I forgot your name.” It was hilarious. Half her working life was “off the record.”

“You want to frisk me for a wire, Detective Wilson?” she asked, cocking her head, smiling, showing him she was joking.

“Gladly,” he said. “Stand up and put your hands on the wall.”

She laughed and so did he. “I’m reaching for my handbag,” she said. “But I’m not armed.” She pulled out her book on serial killer Evan Burke and put it on the desk. “How do you want me to sign it?”

“You have to ask? ‘Dearest Steve, Love and kisses. Thanks for the good time. Always, Cindy.’”

She signed it, “To Steve, With thanks and best wishes, Cindy Thomas,” and slid it over to him. He read it, grinned at her, and said, “Okay. Thank you. Now. You understand, I’m willing to kick this around with you because you asked nice and your husband is a cop. But everything I tell you is in the public record. Which you will find out shortly.”

“Fine,” she said. Even if he was telling her stuff she already knew, as long as he kept talking, Wilson might slip in a detail no one else had. “So, Detective Wilson, tell me about Herman and Sadie Witt.”

Wilson pushed his chair back and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Okay. Here’s what I know. Sadie’s father, Herman, was a bookkeeper at an H&R Block in Reno. Sadie’s mother, Anabelle, died when Sadie was twelve. Car crash, or so it says on her death certificate. More bad news for Sadie—Herman was abusive. Her dad was arrested, fined, and released twice while she was in high school. The third time, he punched his daughter in the face, and she nearly lost an eye because he was wearing a big gold ring with a stone. Tiger’s eye, if you like that kind of detail. More importantly, the ER doc said Sadie coulda died from loss of blood.”

Cindy was taking notes, wishing she could use her voice recorder, but you don’t always get what you want. Wilson slugged down his coffee and tossed the empty cup toward his trash can. Then he went on.

He said, “After that last attack, Herman was remanded to the court and sent to lockup pending trial. Sadie threatened a lawsuit of about a hundred grand against Herman, but her father—looking at minimum six years in prison, more if she got a sympathetic jury—went ahead and transferred ownership of the family home to Sadie as compensation.”

Cindy said, “But.” It was a prompt for Wilson to keep talking.

Wilson said, “So Sadie is missing. Herman is in jail when a neighbor goes looking for Sadie and finds her murdered in her bed. Our ME says she was stabbed with an eight-inch blade a dozen times in the chest. Sadie was small. She had no chance against her killer, who might as well be a ghost. We have nothing on him.”

Cindy asked how far they’d gotten in the Sadie Witt investigation.

“We’re at square effing one,” said Wilson. “No evidence. No witnesses. No nothing.”

Cindy said, “So. You’ve left no stone unturned?”

“Right. We’ve broken our picks on stones. But we’re not giving up.” Wilson smiled. “You doubt me?”

“Of course not,” she said, while thinking,Of course I do. People lie to me all the time.She said, “I have a question, though. Could Herman Witt have hired a hitter?”

“Maybe, but nothing points to a hired gun. No suspicious withdrawals from his bank account. We checked outhis phone and internet history. I tracked down his calls and mail both incoming and outgoing from before he was locked up. Herman had no friends of the confidential sort. Well, his anger disorder discouraged friendship. And we got no tips worth a damn.”

Cindy said. “What about that note in Sadie’s pocket?”

Wilson said, “Right. I wasn’t thinking about that. ‘I said. You dead.’ It made no sense then or now.”

“Those same words were left near the bodies of two recent homicides in San Francisco.”

“No kidding,” said Wilson. “Sounds like you’ve got a copycat. Maybe your killer read about Sadie Witt.”

“That’s possible,” Cindy said. “Anything else you want to tell me off the record?”

He laughed. “Off the record, if your husband nails this killer, call me first.”

Cindy said, “Of course.” She held up crossed fingers, gave him her card, and caught the afternoon flight back to SFO.

CHAPTER36

CHIEF OF POLICE Charles Clapper was the respected top police official in San Francisco. This morning, three days after Jacobi’s death, Clapper called a task force meeting in the war room. As always, he was smartly dressed and closely shaven, with comb marks in his salt-and-pepper hair. To my mind, he shined like a freshly minted silver coin. At the same time, he looked as though he hadn’t slept all week.

I had a crazy hope he was going to tell us that Jacobi’s killer had confessed or had been caught, but that wasn’t it.

Clapper said, “First, I want to let you know that Warren Jacobi’s funeral will be held on Friday—tomorrow. I spoke with Jacobi’s partner, Muriel Roth, yesterday. She’s lived with him for most of the last ten years or so. Some of you may have met her.”

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