Page 9 of 25 Alive

CHAPTER12

I STOOD SURVEYING Frances Robinson’s murder scene, the second one I’d attended this morning.

I was still shocked from seeing Jacobi’s dead body two hours ago and now this. According to the time-of-death estimates, Robinson’s murder had occurred sometimebeforeJacobi was killed.

Her top-floor condo had a glorious north-facing view of Golden Gate Park, and was only two blocks away from where Jacobi had been found at the Lily Pond. I didn’t have to be psychic to feel that these two murders were connected. But the how, who, and why were opaque.

There were three evidence markers near the foyer. Only three. Robinson’s killer was a pro. Maybe CSU would find trace evidence, but from where I stood, her killer had left nothing behind but a dead woman and a pool of blood.

I was here with Rich Conklin and Cappy McNeil. We all wore booties and gloves, and CSI had plugged in 360-degree high-intensity scene lights to better see every inch of themurder scene. Two other CSIs sketched and photographed the room. Conklin walked to the mantel over the fireplace and bagged a framed photo of the victim while Cappy and I checked out the other rooms, again.

I asked Cappy for his thoughts. Cappy is a first-rate homicide inspector of long standing. He likes to say he’s of the “beat” generation. Not of the 1960s, but because he walked a beat in the ’90s. Cappy knows every confidential informant and cop over the age of forty in San Francisco. He was once partnered up with Warren Jacobi.

Cappy took off his cap, slapped it against his thigh, and said, “This might be something. I called Fran Robinson’s sister, Natalie Cook. She told me that Fran used to be married to a jerk named Paul Robinson for around four years. You know who I mean? The fat-cat real estate developer?”

“I know his name.”

Cappy continued: “The sister told me that Paul Robinson was a serial womanizer. A real dog. Natalie said Frances reached the point of no return a couple of years ago and sued the bum for divorce.”

Conklin walked up as Cappy was talking. “I remember reading about that,” he said. “After the divorce he moved to Maine, I think.”

“Natalie also told me that Fran is a well-known author. I looked her up,” Cappy said. “She was an author of forty-three romance novels, bestsellers all.”

I typed that note into my phone and then searched the closets and cabinets in the bedroom, looking for an idea, a connection to Jacobi, a lead of any kind. Nothing popped.Back in the living room, Conklin and I frisked a few hundred books. We found no dog-ears, no bookmarks, no underlined text, and no notes to or from Mr. Robinson. Conklin took a call as I walked over to Fran Robinson’s office area. It was as tidy as an operating room.

CHAPTER13

FRANCES ROBINSON’S LAPTOP was open and angled so that it faced the desk chair. I lightly tapped her computer touch pad to wake the screen and turned the computer around, wondering what she’d last been working on.

There was only a single page open on the screen, and blank but for four words centered and typed in twenty-point boldface type.

I SAID. YOU DEAD.

Conklin came over and stood behind my right shoulder. “Jesus. This again.”

“Here’s our connection to Jacobi. Right?”

I called out to CSI Dale Culver. “Dale. I need you over here. Get a shot of the screen.”

I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo of the four enigmatic words myself.

That line had to be behind the killer’s motive, but how so and what did it mean?

Our crew of homicide cops came together in the center of the living room, exchanged comments and theories. We were all in agreement that the smartly furnished condo looked like a spread inArchitectural Digest. It hadn’t been rifled or tossed, and there were no signs that anything had been stolen from Frances Robinson—except for her life, of course.

Sometime in the last few hours, a killer had delivered one bullet to her brain and another to her chest.

I pictured how the murder might have gone down.

The shooter rings Fran Robinson’s doorbell. Does she know him? Was it her ex-husband? Maybe the killer was wearing a uniform. Did he present himself as a cop? Or a utility worker? Was the killer a woman? An avid romance fan gone wild?

Fran opens her door.Hello?

Bang-bang.

The killer steps over the body, careful not to bloody the soles of his shoes. He walks across the hardwood floor to Fran’s desk. Wearing gloves, he opens the laptop, calls up a blank page, and types, “I SAID. YOU DEAD.” Then the killer moves on.

The sky is still black and moonless when Robinson’s killer leaves by the building’s service door without drawing attention to himself. Then he beats it over to Golden Gate Park, where he assassinates Warren Jacobi.

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