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“No way. I teach. Special ed, right here in the city.”
Jacobi loaded up the Mr. Coffee as Barbara Jane Ross told us how she and Sandy had been roommates at the University of California, Santa Barbara.
“When we were in school, Sandy needed some extra cash, so she went on a few ‘dates’ for an escort service. A lot of girls do it,” Barbara said. “You never, ever have enough money in school.
“She didn’t do it often, but when she did, she thought it was exciting and fun,” Barbara continued. “Sandy loved having a secret life. She wasn’t the only coed doing it, either.”
“Did she ever mention that one of her dates was giving her a hard time?” I asked. “Maybe someone got possessive? Or violent?”
“Nothing like that,” Barbara said. “She would have told me. We talked about everything, even her work.”
“Did Sandy have a boyfriend? Maybe someone who could have found out that she was doing this kind of thing on the side?”
“There was no one special in her life or she would have quit her night job,” Barbara told us. “She wasn’t a slut. I know how that sounds, but honest to God, she wasn’t—oh, God! Her parents don’t know. They live in Portland.”
“Do you know their names? Maybe you have their phone number?”
Barbara Jane dug into her Coach bag; she pulled out her PDA.
“Listen,” she said, “I just remembered who she worked for. The escort service. I think it was called Top Hat.”
“Thanks. You’ve been a big help. Hang around, won’t you, Barbara Jane? Inspector Conklin has some more questions for you.”
As I walked out of the door, Conklin took my chair. I saw Barbara Jane Ross look into his face and smile.
Chapter 58
THE THREE-STORY beige-stucco apartment building was on California Street at the edge of the Financial District.
I badged the doorman, and he called up on the intercom.
“SFPD is here to see you, Ms. Selzer.”
A female voice crackled over the speaker. “I’m not home. I didn’t see anything, don’t know anyone. I’m a shut-in. And I mind my own business.”
“A comedienne,” Jacobi said to the doorman. “We’re going up.”
A tiny, small-boned woman was standing at her apartment door when we got there. She was definitely under five feet, glossy hair pinned up with a tortoiseshell comb, pale lipstick, wearing a black silk V-neck sweater and satin pants.
I put her at thirty-five, but the crow’s-feet told me she was either older than she appeared or she’d had a rough-and-tumble life. Probably both.
“Officers, I run an introduction service. My license is totally in order,” she said by way of a greeting.
“You mind inviting us in?” Jacobi said, flashing his shield. “There’s a nasty draft out here in the hallway.”
The small woman sighed her exasperation, but she stepped back and let us in. A mirrored foyer led to a living room painted and upholstered in every shade of gray. Helmut Newton’s black-and-white photos lined the walls.
We followed her to a red swivel chair and a black enameled worktable up against the front window.
“I’m Lieutenant Boxer. This is Inspector Jacobi. Homicide.”
I snapped the pictures of Sandy Wegner and Caddy Girl down on the table. Two pallid faces. Sheets drawn up to the ligature marks around their necks.
“Do you recognize these women?”
Selzer sucked in her breath, then put her finger on Wegner’s image.
“This is Sandra Wegner. Calls herself Tanya. I don’t know the other girl. You’re saying she’s dead?”
