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Richie was training the flashlight beam into the rear compartment, which was some kind of dump filled with plastic shopping bags.
“Look here, Linds.”
The only empty space on the back seat was behind thedriver seat. We couldn’t rummage until CSU processed this mess, but Rich was insistent.
“Right there,” he said. “See the Cheesecake Factory bag?”
I followed his beam until I saw a white paper bag reading “Cheesecake Factory.” Then, under it, I saw the corner of a book.
Cindy’s book.
My partner verbalized his theory.
“He antagonizes people. Someone follows him from the bookstore, here. Waits for him to come out of the Cheesecake Factory with his food and then, when the dude is inside his car, the shooter gets into the back seat and pops him. Uses a suppressor. Then, he disappears into the crowd.”
“Pretty good working theory,” I said.
We backed out of the Camry, saw clumps of disgruntled shoppers and storekeepers camped out on the sidewalk. A squad car zigzagged through the lot. It was a mobile plate reader, a squad with built-in cameras at knee-level, feeding plate numbers into the car’s computer. If an outstanding warrant was triggered, a beep-alarm would sound. At any rate, there would be a record of cars in the lot around the time of the murder.
Rich said, “The killer could be long gone. Or could still be here, you know?”
I had a belated but still valid idea.
“There had to be cameras in the bookstore, right?”
“I’m on it,” he said.
Rich punched a number into his phone and moments later had a brief conversation with Elaine. He signed off and said, “Mancuso can have someone pick up Elaine’s surveillance tapes. She’ll keep the lights on.”
“Good. Even with the victim’s extensive injuries, facial rec is our friend.”
We climbed up into the Bronco, a good spot to watch the moving scene. Going by the book, uniforms canvassed the onlookers, taking statements and photos of driver’s licenses. This was the last best chance to find a witness to the crime.
I dialed Brady, filled him in on what we knew, and told him, “Yes, yes, we’ll hang in.”
I called home. My husband, Joe Molinari, picked up the phone.
I said, “Rich and I got pulled into a case, Joe. We’re at a crime scene in Sausalito and I have no idea when I’ll be home.”
CHAPTER 8
I DRAGGED MYSELF through the doorway to our loftlike flat. Last time I looked, it was after midnight. I hung my weapon in the antique gun safe in the entranceway and locked it.
Joe turned off the TV, stood up and hugged me, rocked me, said, “Give me your phone.”
I asked, “How’s the Bug?”
“I might as well tell you. She tried on your sunglasses and lipstick. And shoes.”
“You took pictures?”
He showed me on his phone.
I had a half a laugh left in me and I gave it to Joe along with my phone. Then, I peeked in on Julie. She was sleeping with an arm thrown over Martha, my sweet old doggy. Neither of them moved or opened an eye, so I closed the door, crossed the living room and sat heavily in the long leather sofa Joe had bought before we were married. That sofa was both a luxury and a pleasure.
Joe said, “Hungry? We have half a chicken and green beans almandine.”
“Sounds delish, but, no thanks, Joe. Be right back.”
