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CHAPTER 12

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 sometime before Jacobi 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 the murder 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.