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“Jacobi? Our Jacobi? Warren Jacobi?”
“He says that Jacobi is still holding a grudge about those drugged-up kids shooting us on Larkin Street. That what he’s heard is that Jacobi has never been the same. Brady says, and I have to agree, that Jacobi could have gotten the weapons out of the property room without anyone noticing.
“And then Brady says that while Jacobi was on leave getting his hip replaced, he had the time and opportunity to take out about eight dealers — that we know about. Oh yeah, and Jacobi had a meltdown last year when some kids OD’d because of some bad horse.”
“He threw a chair, as I remember.”
“Right. Big deal. I’ve thrown chairs.”
“Have you thrown a chair at a person during an interrogation? Have you?”
I sighed. “No.”
“When was the last time you saw Jacobi?”
“About a half an hour ago. I just had dinner with him.”
Joe said, “If Brady is right — I said if — and Jacobi has gone off the rails, he could be dangerous if he thinks you’re onto him, Lindsay. Dangerous to you.”
Chapter 62
“HERE’S WHY I think you’re wrong,” I said. We were in bed now. I rested my cheek on Joe’s chest and kept talking. “Jacobi believes in the law, and going vigilante is not just unlawful but criminal. It carries the death penalty.
“Jacobi just wouldn’t put himself into that kind of hole, not ever. By the way, he seemed fine to me,” I said. “Relaxed. Looked good. Lost some weight. He’s doing PT. He had a good appetite.”
Joe got a couple of words in.
“You asked him what he thought about this Revenge shooter?”
“I did. He said that Revenge is smart and has access to real-time information about where his victims are. That he might have a police-band radio. Maybe he has informants.”
“Good points,” said Joe.
“Jacobi said he thinks the shooter is on a mission, maybe a suicide mission.”
“That also makes sense. But it doesn’t rule Jacobi out.”
“I took a chance, Joe. I said that there was talk that the shooter could be a cop. Jacobi said, ‘Could be a cop. Could be a hired gun. Could be a rival drug dealer who is taking out the competition.’”
“So you didn’t get the feeling he was trying to steer you away? That he was hiding something?”
“No. But if Jacobi wanted to keep something from me, I think he could do it. I stopped short of asking him to account for his time last night, Joe. I just couldn’t do that.”
“Good. I’m glad. Keep your head down, blondie.”
He kissed my forehead. I hugged him tighter. I was scared, frightened about Jacobi, the shooter, and when there’d be another killing. But I felt safe in my husband’s arms. There was nowhere I’d rather be.
“I talked to Jacobi about the house of heads.”
“What did he think?”
“That the typical victim in a situation like this one would be a young streetwalker. You remember that case in Albuquerque?”
“Those young working girls who were buried in the desert?”
“That’s the one. I think there were about eighteen of them, late teens to midtwenties, buried without clothes, so they were just skeletons when they were found.
“There was no identification, no clues to their killer.
