Page 5 of 25 Alive

I asked, “Is Brady in?”

“And good morning to you, Sarge.”

“Too late for that, Bob. But thanks.”

He pointed down the center aisle to the glass-walled office at the far end of the squad room. Jackson Brady was visible, leaning back in his chair with his phone to his ear. I waved to Richie Conklin and Sonia Alvarez as I rounded the turn, then started down the aisle. I nodded to Wang and Michaels, narrowly missed bumping into Samuels, and kept going.

The glass door to Brady’s office was closed, but I could also see Assistant District Attorney Yuki Castellano, Brady’s wife and my dear friend, sitting inside on a side chair, wearing a smart, gray, grown-up pin-striped suit and three-inch heels.

“Hey,” I said to Brenda Fregosi, Brady’s assistant. “I like your hair.”

Two long blond braids hung down her back.

“Thanks, Lindsay. Can I do something for you?”

“I have to see the lieutenant. How long before he’s free?”

She shrugged. “I never know.”

That’s when Brady hung up his phone. Yuki got to her feet, spoke to him briefly, then leaned down and kissed him good-bye. Our paths met in the doorway, and she gripped my hand.

“Oh God, oh God,” said Yuki. “Brady just told me about Jacobi. I cannot believe it. Why would anyone kill him?”

“Not a clue,” I said. “Really. I never expected anything like this. He should have had another twenty-five years.”

“At least. Call me when you can,” Yuki said.

Brady keyed his intercom and asked Brenda to hold his calls.

Then he waved me into his office.

CHAPTER7

CINDY THOMAS WAS at her desk at 8 a.m.

The petite, curly-haired blonde wearing a rhinestone-studded hair band and loose-fitting clothes looked nothing like what she was—a tenacious investigative reporter, twice-published bestselling true-crime author, and leading writer on theSan Francisco Chronicle’s crime beat.

Cindy’s coffee mug was beside her right hand, her police scanner crackled on the windowsill, and her laptop was open. She was completely absorbed in her reading: the editorial page of a New York tabloid called theCity News Flash. The top letter to the editor took up most of the screen—and it was making her sick.

The headline above the letter read,NEWS FLASH.“I SAID. YOU DEAD.”

The text read, “NOT a joke. I just stumbled upon the blood-soaked body of corrupt former San Francisco Homicide cop Warren Jacobi inside Golden Gate Park.”

That sentence raised the hairs on the back of Cindy’s neck.What kind of crap is this? Warren Jacobi wasnotcorrupt and he wasnotdead.She reread the letter, which claimed to be a first-person account of a passerby who had just come across Jacobi’s dead body, wrote it up, and sent it to theFlash.The second graf described the clothing Jacobi had been wearing as “a bird-watching outfit” and said that he’d been “knifed to death.” It went on to say that a matchbook with the message “I said. You dead” had been left nearby.

The author was “Anonymous,” and nowhere did the writer say that the crime or the victim’s name had been verified by law enforcement. But the last time Cindy spoke to Jacobi, hehadtold her that he was photographing birds, recording their signature songs. Bird-watching was his new hobby.

Oh, my God. Cindy clapped her hands over her eyes. This could not be true. No newspaper, not even a rag like theFlash,would print anything about a murder without a statement from the police. But there was no such confirmation. Nothing from Chief Clapper or Lieutenant Brady. She’d tried reaching her cop husband, but her call had gone straight to Richie’s voicemail. Had she missed a mention of it on the scanner? No. This crime hadn’t happened. No freaking way.

Cindy dropped her hands from her eyes and printed out the nightmare from theCity News Flashletters to the editor.

Beyond her desk was a large window in her wall that looked out onto the newsroom. Her coworkers were all on deadline, working hard and fast on their columns and assignments. There were shouts across the floor to “Look at this,” the voices penetrating the glass.

She took the printout from the printer tray and read it again. The bombshell was time-stamped 9:15 a.m., East Coasttime, today, so 6:15 a.m. local. A little less than two hours ago. If true, the writer had emailed his or her findings to that infamous New York City tabloid in the time it took a second hand to sweep around a clock’s dial.

Why had Anonymous sent this letter to theFlash? To take credit? To win a bet? To get revenge? To get published? One thing was sure: Whoever wrote and sent that smut to theFlashknew something that she did not.

CHAPTER8

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