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CHAPTER 31

AT HALF PAST six, I drove to Julio’s on the off chance that today’s bar staff would have useful information. The bartender’s name was Bressia Cruz. She looked to be just above legal age, dressed in a short skirt and a tight blouse, with hair falling in waves to her shoulders. The bar was starting to fill, but she agreed to answer questions as long as I made it fast. I gave her the day and date of the homicides and asked her if she had been working the night before those murders.

“Yes, ma’am. I started bartending at six p.m. and left at four in the morning.” She spoke with a slight accent.

Claire had estimated Jacobi’s time of death at just after six in the morning. I showed Bressia photos of Jacobi when he was alive, and she said, emphatically, “I never seen this man.”

She was absolutely sure.

I said, “He was killed in Golden Gate Park, and this matchbook was found near his body.” I showed her an image of the matchbook. “It came from here. See ‘Julio’s’ on the cover?”

She nodded and said, “Sure. We have millions of these. We give them away.”

I said, “Ever seen anything like this?” I showed her a photo of the writing inside the critical matchbook.

Bressia peered at the images as I scrutinized her expression. She read the message out loud. “‘I said. You dead.’ What does it mean?” she asked me.

“Two people are dead. Seems like this is the killer’s way of taking credit and saying, ‘I did it,’ without signing his name. Please call me if you hear or learn anything, okay?”

I gave her my card and a twenty-dollar bill, which she slipped into her skirt pocket.

She wished me a good weekend.

“You too,” I said. I put my hand up to my ear as if it were a phone and raised my eyebrows. The universal sign for Call me?

She was smiling at me when I walked out the door.