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CHAPTER 18

JACKSON brADY ENTERED the war room, took his seat, and tapped the table with his pencil, calling us to order.

He said, “Ya’ll know what happened to our old friend Warren Jacobi, who led this department for years. It’s sickening to have to post his morgue photo, but here it is. Shots from the scene are on the way.”

Nobody spoke as Brady taped the picture to the grubby wall. The shot of Jacobi’s half-draped body, his gruesomely slashed neck and face, his blank eyes, left us all speechless.

It hurt to see Jacobi’s photo up there next to the photos of Frances Robinson. One of her crime scene photos showed her lying face up, legs bent, on the marble floor of her foyer, blood pooled around her head and torso. There was a look of surprise on her face. She was open-mouthed, with a bullet hole in her forehead. Another photo showed Robinson’s draped body on a stainless-steel table awaiting autopsy. She’d been cleaned up but looked pitifully, painfully dead.

Brady retook his seat and went on.

“Clapper called the New York City chief of police. He wanted to know the source of that letter to the editor about Jacobi’s death that ran in the New York Flash, but according to the Flash ’s editor-in-chief, it came via email from a temporary or ‘burner’ address.”

Brady stated that no one had any idea who had authored the mysterious letter to the New York Flash . But it had since been picked up by social media. Maybe we’d get a tip. Maybe.

Brady moved on to assignments. “Boxer is point on Jacobi and Robinson. But we all need to work together on both murders. As you know, they are connected by the two ‘I said. You dead’ notes left at the scenes. Or a version of that. And by their relative proximity in time and location.

“I’m available day or night,” Brady said. “Call me.”

Once the organizational part of the meeting was over, we discussed what we didn’t have. No prints, no DNA, no witnesses. We were at square one, but we had a damn good team and, between us, decades of homicide investigation experience with contacts across the greater San Francisco Bay Area and beyond.

Brady said, “Cappy. You have anything?”

Cappy stood, tucked in his shirt with his thumbs, and said, “Chi and I canvassed Robinson’s building for three hours. So far, we haven’t found any other connections to Jacobi beyond the proximity and the notes left at the scenes. So, what else did they have in common?”

I said, “They were both in their sixties. Neither one married. Robinson was divorced. Jacobi had a long-term live-in girlfriend. Muriel Roth. Muriel is retired from her acting job in daytime TV—”

Brady cut me off. “I’ll notify Muriel. And she needs twenty-four-hour protection. Who do you like for that?”

Cappy named three uniforms in our division and two each in Northern and Central. Brady took notes, then said, “I’ll call their COs. Cappy, as soon as I get names, you assign them as needed. Are we good?”

Cappy nodded. “Let me know when it’s a go.”

Brady said to Chi, “Your thoughts?”

“We’ve sent Robinson’s computer and phone to the lab. They may get lucky and find something on them,” Chi said. “But we had our best people on both crime scenes and it’s clear this killer isn’t sloppy. He picks up after himself. I’m hoping the perp will show up on surveillance footage from Robinson’s building. We’re still looking at the last twenty-four hours and working back hour by hour.”

Conklin said, “People who knew Robinson said that she was quiet. Friendly. That she didn’t socialize much or at all. Neighbors figured she was too busy writing. Nothing suspicious about or around her. We’re talking to her agent and lawyer today and going back to her friends to see if there’s any crossover with the lieutenant.”

Brady said, “Good,” pushed back his chair, stood up, and said to all of us, “Dig hard into their social lives. Conklin. See if Cindy can find out anything from her coworkers.”

To me, he said, “Boxer, I want a written report by end of day, every day. Email is fine. Thank you.”

The desk chair Brady had been sitting in spun as he got up abruptly and left the room.

I said, “Let’s go.”

We stood and slapped hands across the table. It was bravado, but still, we all meant it. I touched Jacobi’s morgue shot on my way out of the room.