Chapter Sixteen

Everything goes blank after that. I call in sick the next day, stunned, and just stay in bed, silenced as the tears fall.

Why, is all I can think. Why did this happen? Why couldn’t I do anything to stop it? Why Elise?

It must be random, I deduct. The guy is targeting women at Lower Nob Hill bars.

As I lay in my Murphy bed, mind spinning into rage that I can barely contain, my phone rings and rings, but I ignore it. Looking up through my bay window, I watch the fog roll in, snuffing out the sunshine.

Somehow this makes me even angrier.

I throw off the covers and walk to the closet. Getting dressed, I glance into the mirror. I still look like shit, and feel it, too.

Walking down Jackson towards Hyde, I round the corner past my favorite cafe, where I like to sit outside, north on to Hyde. When I get to Polk, I’m distracted by the bustle of Russian Hill on a busy Monday afternoon. As I wait on a crowded corner to cross the street, I see the headline on the cover of one of the free daily newspapers, and Elise’s picture along with it.

As I walk towards the newsstand, I feel like I’ve been hit over the head with a hammer. In slow motion, I reach inside the metal receptacle, and retrieve a copy.

I stand there on the corner, staring at the cover of the paper for the longest time. I recognize the picture of Elise from social media, but also from memory. We were at a dinner to celebrate Elise signing the lease on her first apartment in the city. In actuality, I’m in the picture with her, but have been cropped out for the paper.

Just a few days ago, she and I were together. And now she’s gone.

I fold the paper brusquely and tuck it under my crossed arms, in front of me, like armor. I’m going into battle. From this moment forward, finding the guy and bringing him down is my main mission.

As the light changes, I continue north on Polk. This strip of the street is lined with specialty shops and eateries, and I walk until I find a cafe. After placing my order at the counter, I plant myself at a table and open the paper.

Reading the article, tears form in the corners of my eyes. I wipe them away, and when the server delivers my breakfast croissant and coffee, he looks at me strangely.

“Are you okay?” he wants to know.

“I knew her,” I say, shaking the cover of the paper at him.

He reads the headline and says, “God, I’m sorry. Let me know if you need anything else.” He hurries off, which leaves my emotions lingering heavily, but the cafe is busy.

I return to the article. It gives details I already know, mostly biographical information about Elise, where she worked, her age, her hometown, and so on.

The location where the body was found is no surprise, either. Kat’s app pinpointed the caves at Sutro Baths, and the tech was dead on.

I finish the article, and stare at Elise’s cover photo again, mesmerized. Moment by moment, I’m more enraged. I haven’t even touched my sando, and as the caffeine in the coffee hits my bloodstream, the anger explodes.

Taking out my phone, I go to the website of the paper. I want to see if there are any comments.
I’m shocked as I read them. They are nasty, saying things like how Elise was a whore, just a dumb blonde who deserved to die, and worse. I scroll down and start typing in a retort.

Then I pause. I can’t do this as myself. I need a cover. A new persona. An extension of Librarian Detective. A superheroine to save this from happening to any more victims.

I’m on a mission of truth and justice. I will find Elise’s killer and he will be sorry. We will find him.
Kat answers when I call.

“Hey,” she says. “It’s been a few days since I heard from you. And I saw the news….”

“Kat, your app was correct! Even though we were too late to save Elise, your tracking tool works!”

“I’m so sorry about your friend.”

“I know,” I say, my voice cracking. “But now more than ever, the guy must be stopped.”

“What can I do?”

“Let’s use your app to set a trap for him!”

And just like that, my energy is back. Kat and I agree to meet the next day to begin executing our new plan.

After we hang up, I devour my breakfast sandwich. Momentum restored, I begin rolling out our revenge.
I carefully wipe my hands clean on a napkin before touching the screen of my smartphone. On the newspaper website, I create an account with the email attached to the Librarian Detective blog. The username I choose is LibrarianAvenger. I type:

“We demand justice for this heinous crime. Killer beware. We know who you are, where you are and are coding for you.”

I specifically say coding in place of coming. He either will be diverted by the typo, think it’s an actual mistake, and not take it seriously or completely not get it.

But he’s been warned.

And later that night, while preparing for work the next day, I make a vow. I will find Elise and Hannah’s killer and avenge their deaths.

The library is buzzing the next morning. As I plant myself behind the reference desk, I overhear part of a conversation between Julia and Mira. The word “missing” becomes audible. At first, I think they’re talking about Elise.

Mira spots me and comes over. “Hey, how are you doing?”

“As well as can be expected, I suppose.”

She lends a supportive hand on my shoulder and says, “If you need more time, Julia says you can take it.”

“Thank you. I haven’t heard about when the service is, but I may need to.”

Mira walks around to her side of the reference desk and sits down. “There’s some news here as well. Chris Smith, the missing librarian, was found.”

“Really? Is she okay?”

“Yes, but she’s not coming back to San Francisco. She got in touch with Julia and that’s all she said.”

“Hmmm, another mystery.”

“Yes,” Mira says, with a strange expression, one that I read as concern. At least Chris is okay, though, while Elise is gone for good.

“Bury me in work, please,” I tell her.

“Well, there’s some reference questions in the queue, and some book reviews to write, and there’s also your self-defense seminar tonight.”

“Oh, wow, I completely forgot!”

“Can you be here to do the introduction for the class?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

I get to work, and am soon absorbed in research and writing. The morning is consumed with activity. After lunch, I plan what I’m going to say at the self-defense class. I make notes, and can’t help tearing up because I’m reminded of Elise.

Luckily, Kat walks in and lightens the mood considerably.

“Let’s go to the cafe on the fourth floor where we can talk,” I suggest, and motion for her to walk out with me. Even walking up the stairs and being in a new environment does me some good. The cafe is quiet this afternoon, so no one overhears us plotting positive change.

Kat explains to me how the app works. “When the guy, or the person who I think is the guy, goes onto one of the apps he uses, the car app and dating site, we use his login information to pinpoint his location. His digital activity leaves a real-life footprint that we can map with the GoogleMaps API.”

“Amazing.”

“I have alerts set, so when he logs on, his location data is recorded. Then I put those locations on a map, and we can see where he is,” Kat continues to explain her invention.

“Can you see where he is right now?”

Kat shakes her head no. “He’s been off the grid. The guy’s not always online, and he uses a lot of apps and different devices.”

“How can we bait him?” I ponder. We already tried his dating profile.

“I don’t think you’ll have to. He’s been doing some stalking of someone we know. Of a couple people actually.”

“Who?”

“Tory. And Reid.”

“What? How do you know?” I wasn’t even sure I had spoken to Kat much about Tory or Reid.

“Tory and Reid are close to you, they were close to Elise, and so I’ve been working out by degrees through everyone in your circle, looking for patterns. Want to see the mind map?”

“Definitely!” I glance at the time. “Will you email it to me? I have to go prepare for our event tonight.”

“Okay. I’m coming to the self-defense class, by the way.”

“Oh, that’s awesome! See you there.”

When I return the third floor, I confirm the instructor’s arrival time, and check the list of attendees for the class. There are about ten people, and sure enough, Kat’s name is there.

I text Tory, telling her about the class and invite her even though it’s last minute. After checking the queue for any more research questions — there aren’t any — I print out some info sheets for the class attendees, which the instructor, Cara, emailed me. Then I return to the third floor to prep the room.

“Have a great class!” Mira calls out as I leave.

“Thanks!” I’m not sure what I expect from the experience, but sometimes having no expectations makes for a surprise.

After I move all the chairs and tables to the perimeter, the third floor meeting room is prepped for class activity. I make a quick trip to the ladies’ room before it begins, and as I wash my hands, I peer into the mirror. My eyes are tired, but hopeful. Elise may be gone, but I’m dedicating the first event I’ve ever planned to her memory.

When I get back to the room, guest have started trickling in. Some I recognize from the library, others are new faces. Cara arrives, and we chat a little before I introduce her.

“Hello, everyone. Why don’t we begin by forming a circle. Then we each can introduce ourselves and share why we’re here,” Cara says.

“I’ll start,” I say, once we’re in formation. “I grew up in San Francisco, and have always felt safe here. Now that I’m older and living on my own, I want to have the tools to defend myself if I have to. Some women that I know have been attacked at night, at bars and other social places, and we need to be aware of our surroundings and how to prevent from finding ourselves in any dangerous situation.”

People nod, and as we go around there are some similar sentiments. When, the woman next to Kat speaks, I realize it’s her mother.

“Women, young and old need to be able to defend themselves,” says simply.

“What she said,” Kat replies, and a few people laugh.

Then we get started. Cara takes us through a few basic defense tactics — stepping down hard on the attacker’s foot, kneeing them in the crotch, aiming for a sharp jab to their eyes or nose. Then we pair up and practice going through the motions, stopping short of making actual contact, of course.

I’m partners with Cara, who definitely isn’t holding back in her fierceness, which totally brings out mine. Suddenly, all the events of the past few weeks come rushing out, through me into my defensive motions. My defense is turning into an attack, and I smack back hard.

“Whoa,” she says. “Where’s this coming from?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s okay to let it out, you know.”

“I need to learn how to really defend myself.”

“So you say. If you’re really serious, I’ll work with you one on one.”

I pause to consider her offer. “Okay, yes.”

“Great, let’s be in touch after class.” She pauses, then announces to the room, “Let’s all switch partners with the people on your right.”

The class continues to practice the defensive moves, and when the hour is complete, there’s a feeling of real progress made. Kat and her mom come over and I’m introduced.

“Your daughter is so impressive,” I tell her. “Kat is a real prodigy.”

“Isn’t she? We’re so proud of her.”

“Great class, Skylar. See you tomorrow!” Kat says as they depart.

“Bye everyone! Thanks for coming,” I call out to the group. Cara and I exchange personal information and make plans to meet up for a private session.

“Thank you,” I tell her.

“My pleasure. You really need this, you know.”

“I know.”

When it’s over, I check my phone. There’s a text from Tory. She wants to know if we can meet for drinks.

Sure, I text back, let’s meet at Red Room. I’ll be there in a half hour.

See you there, she replies.

I hadn’t planned on going out, and I’m dressed down too much for Red Room, and for seeing Reid. I don’t feel like going home and changing first, though.

Walking uptown towards the bar, I’m empowered by the experience of the self-defense class. In a way, it’s given me a whole new perspective on recent events. Elise is gone, but I feel more determined than ever to keep this from happening to anyone else.

The bar is busy for a Tuesday. I don’t see Tory yet, so I go to the bar, where both Reid and Jane are busy filling orders.

When Reid finally spots me, he scowls. “Why haven’t you answered my texts,” he asks me angrily.

“I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“You’re not still working on this case, are you?”

“Why?”

“People are getting killed! It’s dangerous.”

“You’re right, it is dangerous. There’s a serial killer at large in San Francisco. Can I have a martini, please?”

“Skylar, I’m warning you,” he grabs my hand that’s resting on the bar. “Don’t get involved.”

“I’m already involved,” I tell him, snatching my hand back, anger flushing my cheeks. “The only one I’m not involved with any longer is you!”

I turn and walk away from the bar. As I head for the door, Reid follows. I continue outside, but finally turn when Reid says my name.

“Skylar. Skylar, don’t do this.”

“The police are incompetent, Reid.”

“Elise’s death is big news! The police will have to do more now.”

“My private investigation is the only way I see to keep this from happening to anyone else. I’ve seen how much the police care about Hannah, and about Tory. No one cares about women, or what happens to us.”

“Don’t do this, Skylar.”

His repetition of the sentiment didn’t matter.

“You can’t tell me what to do. Goodbye, Reid.”

And with that retort, I’m out of there. I walk down Sutter, stomping actually, mad at his inability to understand.

I didn’t really like Reid’s drinks, anyway.

Librarian Detective Blog #16

I know I never told you where they found Elise’s body. It was exactly where the app said it would be, in the caves at the Sutro Bath ruins, out in Land’s End.

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Chapter Seventeen

Luckily, as I tear out of Reid’s bar, after telling him off, I see Tory getting out of a shared ride car. No need to text her to regroup.

“Hey,” I say, when we catch up to each other. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

“Great, I know a place. It’s in the basement of the new Polynesian restaurant down the block.”

“I’m already so there.”

“Are you okay?”

“I just completely broke it off with Reid.”

“Good for you.”

“Lesson learned — never date the bartender,” I add.

We swing around and head towards the new lounge. As we descend into the den, down a stairway decorated with palms and banana leaf wallpaper, I can already feel that I made the right decision. No more hanging out in Reid’s crappy Red Room. My surroundings have already improved.

“So nice,” Tory coos, as she slides onto a padded chair at the bar.

“Yes,” I agree. We need this change of scene.

After ordering a couple of modern mai tais, all the while encouraging her to attend the next self-defense class, I ask her eagerly, “So, what did you want to tell me?”

She takes a sip of the cocktail, as if to brace herself. “He’s watching me. I can feel it.”

“You may be right,” I admit.

“How do you know?”

I tell her about Kat’s latest updates with the location tracking app. “The app hacks into people’s profiles to get their location data, and she’s found a way to identify specific users.”

“Is that legal?”

“Somewhat. There are third party providers who are starting to sell it as a service.”

“God, that’s creepy.”

“Kat was able to track the location of Elise’s body with the app. He left her in one of the caves near Land’s End.”

“I saw that in the news,” Tory says in a chilly voice.

I pause and take a sip of my mai tai. I remind myself to tread carefully, and be aware of setting off any potential triggers. Tory is a survivor, remember.

“Kat discovered her general location, by tracking the guy, and then she was able to track other people who the guy is also in contact with. Then his trail went cold.”

“And the app says he’s in contact with me?” Tory asks incredulously.

“Yes,” I tell her. “He’s tracking you — and Reid.”

“Reid? Why him?”

“Who knows.” And now we may never know because I just dumped him. “So, please until we find out more, be aware of your surroundings.”

“I will,” she promises. “So are you building this app?”

“Kat’s doing most of it, but yes, I’m doing the data collection, which means I’m learning some backend coding languages.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Well, there are front end computer coding languages, which are for creating the graphic interface that you see and touch, and then there are backend languages, which connect the visible pages with the databases of information that populate the app.”

“Okay, that makes sense.”

“I’m looking for batches of data, such as residential listings and club membership logs, that we can use feeds from to generate useful data results.

“Librarians learn all about databases in grad school. It’s basically the future of libraries — digital libraries, right?”

My phone vibrates and I see that it’s my parents. Ever since Elise, I’ve been extra attentive with them, as they have been with me. They only met Elise once or twice, but are understandably alarmed. “Hang on,” I tell Tory as I text back a quick update.

“My parents,” I explain. There’s no new news to tell, but I realize that what they really want to know is if I’m okay. “Now, what are we going to do, to make sure you’re safe?”

As we finish our drinks, we formulate a plan. I tell her about a new feature Kat just added to our app, one that tracks to make sure you arrive safely at home. I show Tory how to sign into our beta version via TestFlight and download it. We set up the app so if users feel threatened, you can send word to your safe contact person and local police.

Before we leave the bar, Tory sets me as one of her safe contacts. I have my parents set as my safety, and we both select Detective Chen as our local law enforcement. Hopefully we’ll never have to send a distress signal and put the app in motion, but it’s nice to have it in case.

“I really like this bar,” I comment again casually, as we weave our way through the lounge, back up to the first floor.

“It’s very luxe,” Tory agrees. We walk past a group of cute guys, who are eyeing us, and smile.

“Let’s come back on Thursday.” I’m determined to move on from Reid and never go back to Red Room. That place is a dump.

“See you here,” Tory says, as she requests a ride from the car service app on her phone.

I hang out with her outside the bar until the car comes, then wait for the one I reserved for myself as well. In the meantime, my parents respond to my text.

“When is Elise’s memorial?” Mom wants to know.

“It’s on Sunday,” I text back. Elise’s body was returned to her parents, who are holding a funeral in the town where she was born. The funeral’s tomorrow, I suddenly remember. I make a mental note to call with condolences, and check in on the SF memorial.

My car arrives, and I slide in the front passenger seat. It’s a shared ride, and I say a polite hello to the driver and the couple in the backseat. I text Mom to sign off, telling her that I’ll call tomorrow.

I don’t deny that managing my parents through all of this has been especially challenging. Staying focused on finding the man, and making an adequate show at work is where my head is right now. My parents will need to have faith in me in the meantime, and know that I’m being true to myself and sensible enough to stay safe.

Organizing Elise’s memorial did not fall on me, thankfully, which is a relief. I look out the window of the car, watching the bay-inspired apartment houses blur past, as the driver speeds uphill. Why was Elise the target of this man? And why is Tory? It seems so random to me, utterly nonsensical.

The car stops a few blocks before we reach my studio on Jackson St. to let the couple out. I emerge from my thoughts briefly, and wish them a good night.

“How’s your evening?” the driver asks me.

“Good,” I reply, noncommittally. Understandably, I’m wary of car service drivers since Elise’s murder. Of course I checked the driver’s profile picture to make sure it wasn’t the man, but still.

I scroll through the photos on my camera roll until I land on the picture of the man. Then I hold my hand out towards the driver and ask, “Have you ever seen this guy? I think he might drive for this company?”

My driver glances at the pic and then returns his eyes to the road. “I don’t know, maybe.”

I put my arm down in defeat. I know when I’m up against bro code, the unspoken rule among guys not to rat on each other.

“Why, are you looking for him, for some reason?”

“Yes, I had him as a driver once, and I really need to speak with him.”

As he turns onto Jackson St., we drive in silence until we’re in front of my building. A text message vibrates on my phone, but I’m interrupted from looking at it, because the driver’s speaking.

“Yeah, I know him.”

“Will you send me his number? Please?” I give the driver a card with my information on it.

“I’ll ask him for it. I don’t even have it, but I can contact him through our company employee site.”

“Great, thanks so much!” I reply impatiently as I open the passenger door.

“Goodnight,” the driver says.

I slam the door shut, then look at my phone. The text is an alert from our app.

“Help! He’s here!” it reads.

Tory’s in trouble.

Not even thinking twice, I loop my satchel purse over my head, messenger bag-style. Instead of using my keys to unlock the apartment door, I run to my baby, and switch the scooter on.

I’ve never been to Tory’s apartment in North Beach, but from the address the app lists, it’s not far. Maybe a ten minute drive. As I ride off, I’m anxious whether I’ll get there in time.

Going over Nob Hill and down through Chinatown is dangerous, downhill and slippery all the way. I have my GPS on and directions are coming in through my headset.

The man knows who Tory is, and that she’s alive, this we know. Why is he still after her? To finish what he started?

I take Pacific Avenue straight down to Columbus. Tory lives right behind Tosca Café, on Kearny St. Driving fast, I make it there in a matter of minutes.

Turning onto Kearny, the GPS advises Tory’s building is on the right, and that I have arrived. I park my baby illegally on the curb in front, hop off and scan for the house number.

Running up the front steps of the dilapidated Victorian, I wonder how I’m going to be buzzed into the building, but the door is open. She’s on the second floor and as I ascend, I hear yelling.

It’s Tory who’s screaming.

I start screaming, too. “Hang on, I’m coming!”

The sound of shattering glass spurs me on. Racing, I take the steps two at a time. I’m not even thinking as I tear around the corner of the hallway, still yelling that I’m here to save her. What I see when I get to Tory shocks me.

Tory’s pinned to the wall. She’s suspended at the shoulder by something, the rest of her body hanging limply.

I’m prepared for a fight, but the window at the end of the hallway is broken. The man is gone.

The app’s triggered a 911 call, so when sirens begin blaring in the background, I know they’re coming to help. Thank God.

I tend to Tory, who’s passed out. A hand on her wrist finds her pulse very low.

And I would be, too, if my shoulder were pinned to the wall with a foot long blade. Surprisingly, for such a severe act, there’s not a lot of blood.

“Tory,” I say, loudly, “Tory, can you hear me?”

She’s breathing, thank God. But still completely comatose.

My hand passes over the end of the weapon, and I debate pulling the blade out, but decide I’d better not. I’m filled with dread because Tory’s still not responding.

An EMT team comes whizzing in, taking over where my faculties have failed. I watch as they unpin Tory and gently guide her onto the stretcher. She’s starting to wake up but is gone before I find out more. A couple of police officers are on the scene, too, and they corner me.

“What happened? Why are you here?” one of them asks me.

“I just found her like this!” I tell them. “I’m one of her safe contacts on this new app, and it buzzed me with her distress signal. Is she going to be okay?”

“She’ll be okay,” one of the EMTs who hangs back tells me. “The wound is cut clean through. She’s in shock, though.”

“Where are you taking her?”

He names the hospital where I recently stayed for my concussion. I walk downstairs with them as they carry Tory out, listening in as the police and EMT talk. I watch while they load her into the ambulance, steadily and safely.

Lingering, I stand next to my baby, because I need to take a breather before scooting away. I scan the street on either side, wondering where the man could have gone. Suddenly, he no longer scares me.

Then I hear my name.

“Ms. Saffron.” It’s Detective Chen, dressed in his signature dark blazer and blue jeans, and wielding a smart phone. “Why am I not surprised to see you here?”

I pause. “Is that a question?” I ask, even though I know he’s only trying to assert authority. “Tory and I are friends,” I fill him in.

“Of course you are.”

“It was the app we created that sent the signal for help tonight.”

“It was really dumb of you to come to a crime scene,” one of the cops, who I don’t recognize, tells me.

“Lucky for me the man already escaped, or unluckily, really, since we lost him once again.”

“It’s so unsafe to put yourself in these kinds of situations,” Detective Chen agrees with the cop.

“I’ve taken self-defense classes.”

He sighs. “Really, Ms. Saffron, you should leave investigating to the professionals.”

“Okay,” I say, really just to humor him. There’s no way I’m giving up this case. “Have you any new leads in Elise’s murder?”

“Nothing we can share publicly,” Detective Chen says smugly.

“Okay, well then, I’ll just see myself home.” I put on the helmet and walk my baby down the sidewalk.

“Drive safely!” Chen calls out.

I scoot home, my mind spinning. Halfway up the hill, I change course and head for the hospital.

When I get there, the male nurse on night duty is aware of Tory’s condition and assures me that she’s okay, and in surgery. I leave a message for Tory, telling her that I’ll be back to visit tomorrow.

Returning home, I try to settle down, but frustration sets in. I check email and then write a group message to everyone who’s involved in the case so far, telling them about what happened to Tory tonight.

I never learned to meditate, and now, as I lay in bed, restless, mind racing, I wonder if I should learn. Instead, I check the email on my phone.

What I see surprises me. Chris Smith, the former librarian at MI, got in touch. I read the email again and again. Chris has some information for me, and wants to meet in person.

She must be back in the Bay Area, I realize. I type back that I can meet tomorrow, anytime. Does she know that I’ve taken her old job, I wonder?

Chris replies immediately. 6 am at the Warming Hut at Crissy Field, she suggests.

See you there, I tell her.

If I were sensible, I’d try to get some sleep. Three hours is more than enough, right?

Instead, I open the code to the app. It worked for us tonight, and I can’t help feeling some pride for Kat’s accomplishment.

Not surprisingly, Kat’s the kind of girl who checks her email in the middle of the night, too. She saw that the app worked, and is encouraged, she writes.

“We’ll find him. Tell Tory that we’ll find him.”

Giving up on getting any rest, I take a shower and change my clothes. Hannah, Tory, Lucie, and Elise. There must be a pattern here, that’s the way all minds work.

Outside, there’s a balmy chill to the pre-dawn air. As I scoot over to Crissy, I’m excited about what Chris Smith has to say. And I don’t have to wait long. When I pull into the parking lot, she’s already there.

Librarian Detective Blog #17

The site got hacked again, and is down, but the app we’re building is already working. It leads us right to him.

Reader Tease: Readers: What do you think is going on?! What will happen next? Leave a comment below and receive a tip to the next clue.

Also check for clues on PlacingLiterature.com and follow us on Twitter @LibrarianDetect

Chapter Eighteen

“Skylar,” she greets me as I approach.

The water is choppy this morning. The Warming Hut’s nestled near the Golden Gate Bridge, but that does little to shield it from the elements. Although there’s a crack of sunrise in the East, it’s still mostly chilly and dark where we are.

“Hi,” I say, shaking hands with Chris as we meet. I’m surprised because she isn’t what I expected. Chris is tiny and blonde, and while older than me, has that eternal youthful glow. She’s definitely a sexy librarian.

“Thanks for coming out to meet me so early,” she says. “I’m staying North of the city right now, until this blows over and he’s caught.”

“What do you mean?” Then it hits me. Chris Smith is blonde.

She can tell by the shocked look on my face, that now I know, when I didn’t before. “Yes, he was after me, too. After I got away.”

“That’s why you left San Francisco?”

“I thought he was going to kill me on the night of the attack. He tried to, but I managed to escape when he went out.”

I’m shocked and have so many questions. “Tell me everything. Do you have any idea who he is? Or where he lives?”

“Somewhere near Red Room, I think. I’ve been following the case in the news and on your blog, and something that you’ve figured out that no one else has, is the links and patterns. Red Room is a link. That’s where we met. Finding us on dating apps is a pattern. He uses the same drugs with everyone, but they work differently on each of us.”

“Do you know any anything about him being a car service driver?”

“Yes, I may have more for you there. But there’s something else.”

All this time, Chris has been staring at the bridge and not making eye contact with me, but now she looks me directly in the eyes.

“After the attack, I found something he left behind, something that can be tested for evidence.”

“What is it?”

She looks sick and the words stick in her throat as she tells me, “There was a used condom. I don’t know why, but I took it and put it in the pocket of my dress. He thought I was still passed out.”

We talk for almost an hour. The story was a familiar one. Like Tory, Chris Smith woke up after the attack, and her wounds weren’t severe enough to kill.

“How did he find out you survived?”

“I was on my way to work and he spotted me. He’s a local, or staying locally, at least.”

“What name did he give you?”

“Noah. Never heard a last name, but that’s what he went by on the dating app.”

“Do you still have the condom?”

“Yes! I brought it with me. I want to send it for DNA testing, but don’t know how.”

“I have someone, a lawyer friend who’s working on the case with me, who can get that handled.”

Chris reaches into her bag and pulls out an envelope. “Here,” she says, handing it to me.

I nod. “How can I get in touch with you?”

“I’ll be in touch with you, by email. I’m afraid of being traced by my cell phone.”

“That’s smart.” I fill her in on the man attacking Tory last night. “He’s getting bolder. You’re better off staying away until we catch him.”

“Do you think you’ll catch him?”

“Oh, yes,” I assure her. “I know we will.”

We hug goodbye. As I scoot downtown, into work, I’m stunned by the turn of events.

We have DNA that could match evidence found at Hannah’s crime scene, and Lucie’s, Elise’s and Tory’s.
His victims are stacking up. But there are some survivors and he’s getting sloppy, going after Tory the way he did last night.

When I get to the reference desk, after saying hi to Mira, I email Larissa and ask her about DNA testing. She’s on it immediately, and arranges a messenger to transport the package to the testing location. If our murderous offender is already in the DNA database, we’ll know how to trap him.

“How was the class last night?” Mira asks.

The self-defense workshop seems like forever ago. “It went really well. I already know learning these techniques will be useful.” I hesitate.

“What is it?”

Everything about meeting Chris Smith comes tumbling out. During the big reveal, the messenger arrives to pick up the DNA package. I buzz him in through the third floor doors, safely put the package in his hands, and sign.

“Hopefully this evidence will help us catch him,” I tell Mira after the messenger leaves.

“Don’t you think you should give it to the police?”

“Yes, but I want to see if we can use it first. The police haven’t made finding the killer their biggest priority.”

“Maybe they are,” Mira suggests. “And they’re just not telling us.”

“You may be right.”

“How did Chris look?”

“She looked good. No visible damage.“ I hesitate before bringing up my latest suspicion, but decide to be brave. “Why is he targeting blondes? All four women are blonde.”

“That’s weird.” Mira, like myself, is brunette, so we can discuss this in solidarity. “Blonde women stand out. And more are dyeing their hair now, with the rise of political white supremacy.”

“Yes — but not in San Francisco. Being blonde doesn’t have as much power here as it does in more conservative white-washed places.”

“He’s not from here, I suspect. And he’s been routinely rejected by women,” Mira says. “The biggest fear women have is being raped and killed, but a man’s big fear is being rejected.”

I’m chilled by this positing, which rings true in its ferocious imbalance. As the day passes, I come back to thinking about it time and again. It’s a typically quiet day at the library, so I have plenty of time to update the blog, and review the details of the case. And the frailties of human nature.

I call the hospital to check on Tory, who’s out of surgery and resting comfortably, thankfully. I’ll go see her later. I email Elise’s parents, letting them know I’m thinking of them on the day of the funeral, and ask if there’s anything I can do ahead of the memorial here.

When Kat arrives, we immediately get to work on the app. We’re all set up, working on development in the cloud, using a virtual task manager, scraping data into docs. We can work on it individually, from our own computers, using chat apps to communicate, without drawing attention to ourselves.

The two of us keep at it for hours, and when it’s time to go home, neither of us wants to quit. It seems like we’re at a crucial turning point.

There’s so much evidence here, and the mutual feeling is that a breakthrough is imminent. We agree to keep working from home and check in online in later tonight.

It’s been an incredible twenty-four hours, and I’m exhausted. But after work I ride to the hospital, anyway, parking near Trader Joe’s so I can go shopping afterwards.

Walking into the hospital, I feel some lingering aches and pains in my body, and am reminded of the recent wounds from my scooter wipeout. I’m putting my body and soul on the line for my friends, but the risk is worth the pursuit of justice.

The front desk locates Tory’s room number, and when I get there, two police people are posted outside. I flash my visitor’s pass, and they let me through.

Tory’s famous, apparently. It’s not every day people are stabbed with swords in San Francisco and live to tell the tale.

“Hi,” I whisper, as I approach Tory’s bed. She’s lying down, resting. I’m glad to see she’s awake. “I had to check that you’re okay.”

Tory closes her eyes when she sees me, as if to hold back tears. Her shoulder is bandaged, and she’s very pale, but otherwise looks okay.

“I’ll never be the same, Skylar. This is terrifying. I can’t live like this.”

“I know,” I quickly tell her of my meeting with Chris Smith that morning. “She’s staying away until the man is caught.”

“He got away! Again.”

“Yes.” Tory’s noticeably changed since the attack, and who can blame her. “That doesn’t mean we’re giving up.”

“I can’t do this any more. I know you have the best intentions, but I won’t be involved.”

“You are involved. You’re a survivor. But you’re right, I see now that your life is at stake.” Another thing I see is that Tory’s fire has definitely dimmed. And if I have anything to do with it, that fire will never be snuffed out. “Do you have anywhere to stay until this blows over?”

“What about my job?! I can’t just not work. I need to be paid.”

“I know.” I pause. “Have you asked for police protection? What did they say during the interview?”

“The detective stopped by, but I was in surgery.”

“Call him and ask for a police guard. You’ve been attacked twice now and are a valuable witness. There needs to be someone constantly posted outside your door.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, I’ll call them.”

“Okay, well get some rest, then.” I lean in and give her a hug. “We’re coding all night tonight on the app. I’m serious, Tory, we will catch this man.”

After the hospital, I’m at Trader Joe’s, in the second longest grocery story line ever, when I decide to call Detective Chen myself. He’s not there, but I leave a message requesting police protection for Tory.

I finally make it back to my studio, unload my food shopping and make a quick fettuccini alfredo. While I eat in front of the computer, I look at where we are with the app.

Kat is quick. I review where she is and I see something interesting. I open up the chat dialogue box and see if she’s online. Of course she is.

For the next three hours, we’re working on the app, going back and forth, trying to plot how we can use the tracker to trap him. Then the chat box is idle for a while.

“Kat, what is it?

“So weird,” she types back. “There’s still a signal coming from Land’s End.”

“What kind of signal?” I’m confused.

“I don’t know — could it be from a cell phone?”

“It’s unlikely Elise’s phone was left behind.”

“What if its not hers?”

“I don’t know.” I sigh. “Look, it’s midnight. Let’s sleep on it.”

“Come on, let’s meet there tomorrow at sunrise and check it out.”

“Really, Kat, who knows if it’s even something related to the case.”

“What if it is?”

“I have to go to bed,” I tell her. “Last night was too exciting. I was out late.”

“Okay…,” Kat chats. “Reluctantly signing off.”

When I wake up it’s still dark outside. Dawn is coming soon, I see, by the sight of the yellow sky looking East, out of my Bay window.

I grab my phone and search online through some relaxation videos. If I can’t sleep, at least I can try and rest. The next thing I know, I’m in the zone, meditating.

It doesn’t last long. A chat notification from Kat comes through, and I’m highly awake.

I can’t believe she’s up this early. It’s barely 6 am.

“That signal is still there,” her chat reads.

What? It’s too early for this, and I didn’t get enough sleep.

“We have to go out and get it,” Kat’s chat pings me out of my reverie.

Okay, I think reluctantly. “I can scoot out — but how about you?!” I type, rapido.

“Oh, Michelle will never know.”

I assume Michelle is Kat’s mother.

“I’ll leave a note that I’ve left for school early, for a study session, and take a car over.”

“Okay. See you there in an hour.”

“Be there or be square.”

What a strange kid, I muse, as I pull on some clothes. I usually wear dresses, because they’re easy and give me freedom to move. I layer one now over a heavy pair of skin-tight Lycra riding pants and boots. With my trench, it’s the perfect outfit for a pre-dawn hike then scoot into work, after our adventure.

This morning the weather is still balmy, a rarity, but spring is our summer here in San Francisco. The scoot out to Land’s End is pleasant but long for such a compact city. From my apartment in Nob Hill, I’m basically traveling the entire width of the peninsula.

So I have lots of time to think. This investigation is getting close to catching him, I can feel it. What’s the link I’m missing?

Is there more to this blonde fetish that the man seems to have? There’s a paradox in being blonde, because people are blonde to standout for attention, which contrasts with the dumb blonde stereotype. It’s a classic tall poppy syndrome reaction.

It’s possible that blonde women are more coveted in our society, especially by minority men. They’re perceived to be more valuable because their looks, even though often affected, are rare. I can see this playing out in my own family, with my blonde mom and sister.

Maybe the man was rejected by too many blonde women and is now on a rampage. Maybe he simply hates women, and wants to hurt the most precious specimens, and is targeting us in revenge.

As I cross into the avenues of the Outer Richmond district, a shadow passes. It’s not without reservation that I realize I’m headed to the scene where my friend’s body was discovered.

Land’s End is one of the most beautiful hiking trails in the city, with scenic overlooks cascading down into the Pacific Ocean. At the head of the trail, near the Cliff House, are the old Sutro Bath ruins. Between the ruins and the beach are caves.

And in one of those caves is where Elise’s body was found. I never asked Detective Chen for more details about what happened there.

I’m not sure if I really want to know.

When I pull into the parking lot, I see Kat immediately. We’re lucky its light out. There are a few other early arrivals, but really, someone her age should definitely not be out by herself in a city like San Francisco.

“Have you been here long?”

“Just got here.”

“Good,” I say with some relief.

“I’ve pinpointed the signal on the map, and the app will lead us to the scene. Ready?”

“Let’s do this,” I tell her. I’m acting far too enthusiastic for the task at hand and how early it is, but I’m faking it.

We walk down the steep hill leading to the cement foundation of all that’s left of Sutro Baths. The ruin is flooded with murky ocean water and some of the cement is covered in graffiti, much like Ocean Beach, just south down the coast.

When we get to the base of the ruins, a path juts out to the right, and leads to the caves. Kat and I head that way.

I always loved coming to the caves. Besides leading out onto the beach, they’re so photogenic. A picture taken from inside looking out, with the outline of the cave visible and framing the ocean, is the ultimate in selfies.

Kat has the app out, on her phone, and is using the GPS to lead us deeper into the cave. We’re about 200 feet inside, both using our mobile flashlights, when Kat says, “It’s right here.”

I shine my light around and get chills. As I look up onto the dampened walls of the cave, I catch a glimpse of paint on the base of the wall on the west side.

BLONDE VICTIM #10 the painted words read.

“Yes, I think it was here,” I say, completely frozen to the bone.

Librarian Detective Blog #18

I knew it. The man has a blonde fetish. Well, we all knew he was flawed. It’s just not everyday that it’s motivation for murder.

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Chapter Nineteen

“Christ,” Kat exclaims.

“Ten victims,” I repeat with dread. “Elise was his tenth murder.” Standing in the spot where my friend’s body was found, I’m fighting an overwhelming feeling of nausea.

“This means he came back here,” Kat says quickly. “He’s typical. He’s not smart. Coming back to the scene of the crime is a pattern of psychopath behavior.”

Even if I didn’t already know Kat is watching too many tv crime shows, I’m aware the stereotype is true based on my own research. I take a picture of the writing on the wall, as does Kat.

“I’m sending this to Detective Chen.”

“Did he do this at any of the other crime scenes?”

“I don’t know. Not that I saw in the basement on Leavenworth, where Hannah Taylor was found. Maybe the police wiped it. I was several days late checking out the crime scene, remember.”

“It still doesn’t explain where the signal is coming from,” Kat muses. In the darkened dawn, her phone glows eerily. “The app is pinpointing it right here.”

I use my flashlight to scan the area. It’s sandy on the ground, and wet near the walls.

“It’s a Bluetooth signal,” Kat reveals. “Here,” she moves closer to the writing on the wall and crouches down. “Coming from right here.”

I’m not paying attention. I wonder if Elise was already dead when he left her here. It’s impossible to ascertain.

“What are you doing?” I notice Kat digging in the sand.

“Look!” she exclaims, and pulls something tiny out of the ground. As she brushes off the object, I recognize it immediately.

“That’s Elise’s wearable!” It’s one of those pieces of jewelry that tracks your heart rate and stress level.

“How did the police miss this?”

“They are totally incompetent,” Kat says.

“I can’t believe that,” I ponder. “The man must have buried it here when he returned to mark the spot.”

“You mean the police may not even know about the tracker, or the graffiti?”

“I doubt it,” I give the area another quick scan with my phone light. I don’t see any other clue that could potentially help us out. “Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

“Understood,” Kat agrees.

We wind our way back through the cave. The space feels suffocating, especially given who’s been here and what’s happened.

The light at the end of the tunnel beckons and we emerge to a full sunrise. I breathe in the fresh air with relief, counting myself lucky I didn’t hurl.

It was a week ago today that Elise went missing, kidnapped by the man. What happened in those interim hours I can only imagine. The police didn’t divulge any details and I wasn’t asked to identify the body like I was with Hannah. That would have been awful, to see Elise like that — dead — but at least I’d feel more closure than I do now.

“I think Detective Chen is keeping details from me because of how close I am to the case,” I tell Kat.

“Are you going to tell them about finding this?” Kat shakes Elise’s wearable, swaying dangerously in her hand. “Or about the graffiti?”

“Let’s keep the wearable.” I decide. “As for the graffiti, what do you think? An anonymous tip?”

“Yup,” Kat agrees. “I’ll do it.”

“That way they can check the rest of the area,” I say. “I can’t go back in there.”

Kat nods. “Do you want me to analyze the chip in this? I know of a device I can install it in for scanning.”

“Yes, definitely. After you remove the chip, can you save the rest of it? I’ll have Larissa’s team pick it up and see if any fingerprints are still on it.” I’m being optimistic, but in reality, I doubt between being buried in the sand and having Kat’s prints all over it, much evidence will be found. But you never know.

We’re finally back at my scooter. “Where’s your school?” I ask Kat. “I’ll drop you off.”

We drive away from Land’s End, breaking the law once again. I don’t have a spare helmet for Kat. But we get away with it for the few miles between the Outer Richmond and Kat’s school in Nob Hill.

“See you at the library later?” I ask Kat.

“See you there.”

I continue my ride downtown and park near the library. It’s too early to show up for work, so I go to a café that I know has wifi and set up my computer. I order a breakfast sandwich and coffee, and while I devour my meal, I update the blog with all the incredible new developments.

As I write, I try and work out how this will all play out. Does Detective Chen or anyone at SFPD still read my blog? I doubt they ever watch it that closely, otherwise, they would take me more seriously, right?

I send all the updated info to Larissa as well.

I’m in the middle of instant messaging Kat to see if she called in the anonymous tip and has a plan for hacking into the chip on the wearable device, when Larissa calls.

“Please tell me you didn’t really go to the place where Elise’s body was found.”

“I did.”

“That’s so creepy! And sad. Are you okay? How are you handling all of this?”

Larissa and I were both friends with Elise from undergrad, but it was always me who was keeping the connection with Elise going. Larissa and Elise didn’t really hang out unless I was there, too. I was the link.

“I’m numb,” I admit.

“That there were six other victims, even before we became aware of the killer, is shocking.”

“It’s even more motivation to find him, I think. Can you send someone to Kat’s school, to pick up the device?”

“Sure.”

I give her the address. “Kat and I will work on this more when she shows up here later.”

“Keep me updated,” Larissa commands.

“Will do.”

Speaking of staying updated, I send my cousin Emma a text. I want to know if she’s heard anything more about Lucie.

“How are you holding up, Skylar?” Julia, the library director, asks me.

“I’m okay.” It’s rare that the director is on our floor. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

Julia heads for the holds section behind the reference desk and scans for an item. “I found it.” She pauses halfway before leaving through the third floor doors. “Let me know if you hear any new developments on Chris Smith.”

She’s gone and so is the blood from my face. Mira must have told her I connected with Chris.

My phone buzzes. It’s Emma, who says there are no real updates on Lucie. “There’s a party here tomorrow night, though, with some friends who knew her better than I do,” Emma texts. “You should come.”

Another college party? Maybe.

The rest of the workday speeds by, a blur of digital reference and updating the Librarian Detective blog. Neither Kat or Larissa have any updates, and I’m feeling restless.

I ride my baby back up Nob Hill, past Red Room. My heart sinks a little at the thought of Reid.

Never mind. When I reach Leavenworth, I park right at the corner. On foot, I turn left. As I descend down one block, then two, I stop in front of the basement apartment. I’d been avoiding this place. I approach the window leading to the basement apartment and immediately see that the latch is fixed. I rattle the pane a bit, but it’s not budging.

Sitting down on the sidewalk, I press my face against the glass and peer inside. The late day sun is still strong enough for me to see, that, yes, there’s writing on the wall.

He’s been back here, too. I take out my phone and dial Detective Chen.

The answering service puts me on hold, but I don’t have to wait long. “Hello, Ms. Saffron,” the detective greets me. “What is it now?”

I ignore his tone, which after all we’ve been through, still has notes of superiority. “I’m on Leavenworth Street, outside the basement apartment where Hannah Taylor was found.” I pause, thinking that telling him may be the stupidest thing I’ve done.

“Okay,” the detective says, expectantly.

“I was just passing by,” I add, before, rushing on. “And naturally, I was curious to check inside, so I look in, and you’ll never guess what I see.”

“Try me.”

“There’s some sort of writing on the wall. The apartment is still totally empty, but someone’s been here, and they painted something on one of the walls.”

“Thank you, Ms. Saffron, we’ll send someone to check it out.”

“Let me know if you find anything!” I manage to rush the words out before the detective hangs up.

I linger on the sidewalk, thinking that the police may come right over. Larissa calls and I fill her in on the new development. “I’m going to wait here and see what they find,” I say.

“Let me know what happens. Jim and I are having dinner, but text, okay?”

“Yes. And are you cool with driving to the party in Berkeley tomorrow? Do you think you’ll get out of work early enough.”

“I’ll try. Talk to you soon.”

I hear car doors slam. The police officers are at the scene.

They walk right by me, paying no attention, and head directly for the building entrance. I listen as the cops call the manager and request entry. One of them is Officer Smith, who was here on the night of the crime.

The manager lets them in and soon they are in the basement apartment, and I’m watching it all from the street level windows. On impulse, I open the camera on my phone and start recording video.

I zoom in and hover over the writing on the wall. It seems to be crafted in the same color of paint as we saw at Land’s End. Blonde Victim #8 reads.

If Elise was Blonde Victim #10, then this means there was another murder in between.

The cops take pictures of the scene and canvass the area, searching for more clues. When Detective Smith leans over to fish something out of the crack space between the wall and the floor, I know he’s found something of Hannah’s. He pulls out a piece of jewelry, and places the chain into the evidence envelope that the other police person holds out.

They survey the rest of the room, but don’t find anything, and so leave. I decide to take off, too. I hastily return to my scooter, start the engine and ride uphill to my apartment.

My little studio is a bit of a disaster. As I straighten up the mess of clothes, dishes, and books, I try to make sense of what’s going on with the case.

Why would the man return to the crime scenes and make these tributes? And further, how can we use what seems like a gross misstep on his part to catch him?

After I update everyone on this latest development, I heat up a can of soup. While I’m pondering, Emma calls.

“Hi Skylar. So will we see you tomorrow?”

“Where’s the party again? And who’s hosting it?”

“It’s a house party here in Berkeley that I’m deejaying at. A few of the people who live in the house were pretty good friends with Lucie.”

“Why do you think they know anything?” Lucie’s murder seems to me like a case of her being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Then it hits me. Lucie is Blonde Victim #9. I have to go to Baker Beach immediately and see if there’s any evidence.

“Her good friend says Lucie was texting with some guy she met on a dating app. They could have met up at the party at Baker Beach.”

“Okay, I’ll be there. Larissa will drive. Text me the details.”

I end my call with my cousin and dial Larissa.

“Am I interrupting your dinner?” I ask apologetically when she answers.

“We just finished.”

“Good. Well I hope you still want to go to Berkeley tomorrow because I think we should go.” I fill her in on the party details.

“I’ll pick you up at the library at 5.”

“Thanks.” Then I tell her about my realization that there might be evidence at Baker Beach.

“There’s nowhere to make any kind of mark there. Unless he painted the beach.”

“You may be right,” I concede. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

I lay in bed that night with all the breakthroughs spinning in my mind. All the evidence seems shattered and unrelated. As I drifted off, I’m still searching for the elusive common thread, a way for all of it to centrifuge.

Instead of going out to Baker Beach, I opt for trying to discuss the case with Detective Chen one last time. When I get into work, later on that morning when it’s quiet, I call his office again.

“Is the killer marking the locations of his victims?” I ask, when I have him on the phone.

“Ms. Saffron, you know I can’t discuss the case with you.”

“I’m just worried about my friends, that’s all. I know two of the victims, and was there when another two of the women were killed.”

“You do seem to have some personal links to the case,” the detective admits.

“I wonder why.”

“Take care of yourself Ms. Saffron.” I take Detective Chen’s words to heart.

“Oh, I don’t think the killer would ever come after me. He seems to be targeting blonde women.”

“Goodbye, Ms. Saffron.”

I get back to work but the day drags. As I look around at all the old men rattling newspapers, I’m discouraged. Sometimes I wonder why I decided to become a librarian.

There must be a reason I’ve been called to this work, and as I get into the afternoon’s tasks, I manage to rally. I’m tallying all the rsvp’s for the upcoming female self-defense class, and the event is overbooked.
So I have that feeling of accomplishment as I leave at 5. I’m standing in front of the library, waiting for Larissa. She’s brave to pick me up here, in the dead center of downtown, during rush hour.

She pulls up within minutes, and we speed towards the Bay Bridge, and to Berkeley.

“What’s our plan?” she asks.

“Let’s interview the housemates who knew Lucie.” I’m distracted by a text, and with good reason.

“Reid just texted me.”

“Oh God. What does it say?”

“He’s inviting me to meet him later, at his apartment!” My phone buzzed again and I’m even more shocked. “Oh my God. The tech exec I solved that case for a couple weeks ago just invited me to a party tonight, too!”

“Two in one night! I love how in demand you are right now!”

I giggle, delighted with the flow, of the possibility of hitting three parties in a row tonight, and connecting with cute guys there.

“Let’s see how things in Berkeley go,” I tell her. “Did you hear back from forensics about testing the wearable? Or get the results from the condom?”

“Not yet.” Larissa gets off the highway at the Cal exit, and I give her directions based on Emma’s text. When we pull up to the house, the party is in full swing, even though it’s only just barely six.

Larissa notices the same. “Sometimes I miss being in undergrad,” she sighs.

“Seriously.” We park and get out of the car. As we walk up the drive to the open garage where the music’s coming from, I’m taken back by who I see.

Kyra is there, beer in hand, hanging out like she belongs. My younger sister and I at the same party? I’m not at all sure how I feel about this.

Librarian Detective Blog #19

Okay, it’s not every day you run into your younger sister, Kyra, who’s supposed to be at college five hours away, at a party. I guess school is out.

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Chapter Twenty

“Kyra!,” I call out.

“Skylar!,” she says hello. “What are you doing here?”

“Um, what are you doing here? I’m here because Emma invited me.”

“Emma invited me, too!”

“Yes, but why aren’t you at college?” UC Santa Barbara can’t be out already.

“I’m done for the semester.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Kyra tosses her blonde hair in the direction of a guy that passes by. The place is packed with supercool students. You would think Cal undergrads would be more crunchy because of Berkeley’s reputation, but this crowd, more hip than hippie, is a cut above.

“You remember Larissa, right?” I gesture towards my friend.

Larissa nods. “I’ll go find us drinks.”

I’m not sure how much Mom has told Kyra about recent events, but I bring her up to date. “So, that’s also why we’re here. Looking for clues.”

“I can help!” Kyra offers. “I remember meeting Elise. She was so nice! What happened to her really chaps my ass.”

“Yeah, it’s really unfucking believable.” Elise has been dead more than a week and we’re still not close to catching the killer. “How did you get here, by the way?”

“I took BART.”

“How are you getting back?”

“Same way. I came with some friends.”

I go into the party with Kyra and chat with her friends, who I vaguely remember from high school. Larissa finds me there and hands me a vodka cocktail.

“I need this,” I say as I sip. It’s one of my cousin Emma’s signature cocktails, a Zipper.

“Do we have a plan?” Larissa asks, checking her watch.

“Somewhere to be?” Kyra wonders.

“Your sister was asked out by two guys tonight. We have to get back to the city so she can begin her double booked evening.”

Kyra and her friends giggle, but I ignore them, my mind purely on our sleuthing plan. “Let’s split up. I’ll ask around down here. Kyra, you go upstairs, and Larissa you take the backyard. Find anyone who knew Lucie and ask what happened.”

“Got it.” Larissa says, and she’s off.

“So who are these guys?!” Kyra wants to know.

“Later,” I tell her. “You have to earn your gossip.”

I scan the garage, where the bar is set up, and try to decide who to start questioning. At the bar, there’s quite a crowd, and my drink will soon need refilling, I think, so I edge closer in anticipation.

One of the boys looks familiar. As I get closer, I see that yes, he was also at the Baker Beach bash.

“Hi,” I say to him.

“Hey,” he looks at me with a puzzled expression. “You’re Emma’s cousin, right? The librarian.”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“I’ve been reading your blog. It’s fascinating the way you’re tracking the man. Lucie’s killer, I mean.”

“You knew her, then?”

“Yes, I’m Josh. Lucie and I were good friends.”

“I’m so sorry about what happened, Josh.”

“She told me she met someone online,” Josh says, taking a slug of his beer. “She was really discreet about it, but I think she arranged to see him that night at the beach.”

“So it wasn’t random, then.”

“No, and we told the police all this, but they don’t seem to be doing anything.”

“Is there anything else I should know? Anyone else I can talk to?”

“Yes, Caroline, Lucie’s roommate is here. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Josh leads the way into the backyard. It’s a huge space, with lots of trees inside a fence. At the back, there’s an old VW school bus.

“Nice bus,” I comment.

“You like it? That’s where I sleep.”

“Oh, so you live here?” I gesture at the house.

“Yes, but my rent’s so much cheaper living in the bus in the backyard, than renting a room in the house proper.”

I’m momentarily speechless. I know the housing market in the Bay Area is hard to penetrate for some people, especially students, but living in an abandoned bus seems extreme to me.

Moving on, Josh brings me to meet Caroline, who as it happens, is talking to Larissa. When she sees me, Larissa waves me over.

“Skylar, Caroline is just telling me that Lucie planned to meet some guy from a dating app at the Baker Beach party.”

“Yeah, Josh says the same thing.” The four of us stand in a huddle. “Does anyone have Lucie’s dating profile name and login? We can check her history.”

“I’ll find it,” Caroline says.

“Great. Here’s a card with my contact information. Let me know what you discover.” I look at Larissa, who seems impatient to leave, and since she’s my ride, I feel her. “Let me just find my cousin and say hello, then we can go.” I point up towards the sky where I see Emma spinning.

The deejay table is set up to one side of the raised porch off of the kitchen. As I make my way upstairs, I notice more and more people flowing into the backyard. Emma’s mixing always has way of bringing people together.

I hover near the edge of the table, and wave to catch my cousin’s eye. Emma got her headphones up to one ear, listening as the music mashes together, waiting for the perfect time to transition over to the next tune.

Her eyes light up when she sees me. Emma’s dressed in one of her signature cute dresses, her brunette hair lobbed off in a long bob. Emma and I look more alike than my own sister Kyra and I do, so I’ve always held a particular fondness for my cousin.

“You came!” Emma exclaims.

“Yes, we wanted to follow up on any leads regarding Lucie,” I say. “I talked to a few people but there’s really nothing. You’ll let me know if you hear of anything?”

“Definitely,” she promises, with just a little glimmer of grimness. “Did you talk to Caroline? I thought for sure she would have some insight.”

“Yeah, she’s sending me some leads, and we’re going to stay in touch.” Larissa arrives at the booth and smiles at us. “Larissa and I are headed back to the city now.” I laugh. “We have some men to meet.”

“Awesome,” Emma smiles.

“Will you keep an eye on Kyra?” I ask. “I can’t believe she’s here. I didn’t even know she was back in SF.”

“Yeah, it’s good to see her.” Emma says. “I’ll make sure she’s all right.”

“Cool, thanks.” I blow her a kiss as we depart, and she gets back to spinning. Larissa and I walk through the party, until we spot Kyra, back at the bar in the garage.

“We’re taking off,” I tell her. “Be good, okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” she smiles mischievously.

“I’ll come by Mom and Dad’s tomorrow.”

Kyra nods yes and waves as she and her friends rejoin the party. I watch as they melt into the throng in the backyard, dancing, laughing, and loving it.

“Come on,” I say to Larissa. We head to her car. “I feel like that was a waste of time.”

“No harm done,” Larissa drives us back across the Bay Bridge. With all the Friday night traffic, it takes us an hour or more. We sit on the bridge, waiting, listening to music on the car stereo and watching the sun set.

“So, we’re going to Mike’s party next, right? You said it was in SOMA?”

“Yes, let me check the address.” I love that Mike invited me. I find his message and repeat the location to Larissa.

“That’s a nice building,” she comments. Traffic is moving again and we’re soon back in San Francisco. Luckily, there’s a parking garage next to Mike’s apartment building, and Larissa pulls in.

We walk into the luxe lobby and take the elevator up to Mike’s place, which I soon realize is the penthouse. The doors open directly into the apartment entryway. When we step out, I’m impressed. Not only by the view, which is 180 degrees through floor to ceiling windows, but with the panoply of people laid out before us.

“This is more like it,” Larissa says. She seems pleased by the assorted urban types milling about, as am I, as we should be. We’re both city kids who really never left.

Navigating parties is always easy — when you start at the bar. In this case, there’s a table with a professional bartender set up off to the side of the great room. The crowd is a little older than we are, but we’re all the same here, hipster techie intelligentsia, trying to save the world through our work.

“Great mix of people,” I comment, as I order a couple of glasses of champagne from the bar and pass one to Larissa.

“I wouldn’t bother leaving to go see Reid,” she says. “Just stay here.”

“Leave? Who’s leaving?”

It’s Mike, who looks even better than I remember. He’s still wearing black from head to toe, and I wonder why.

“Hi,” say nervously. “Thanks for the invite.” My heart surges, and I blurt out, “You really love wearing black. What’s up with that?”

Mike laughs. “I can ask you the same.” He gestures towards me, and lingers over my arm, not quite touching me, but it feels like we both want to.

“Yes,” I laugh, and realize that, actually, I’m wearing black tonight as well. I take a sip of the champers. “I like wearing black because it’s easy, makes me look thin, and is a great base for standout accessories.”

“Those are my reasons, too,” Mike says, his smile magnetic.

“This is Larissa,” I introduce them, and they chat a minute about Larissa being a lawyer and what exactly Mike’s company does. I’m standing there, inhaling deeply, trying to figure out what’s going on with me. I feel faint, like I’m going to pass out.

My phone buzzes, and it’s a text from Kat, rambling on about some new discovery she made. “I hired our kid the coder, by the way.” I tell Mike.

“Yes, I saw.”

“What do you mean? Are you still reading my blog?”

“Definitely. Although, I can’t tell if you’re single now. Are you?”

“Um, probably.” My phone buzzes again, ominously. This time it’s Reid, asking if I’m coming by.

“She’s single,” Larissa replies for me. “Although her ex-boyfriend keeps trying to win her back.”

Someone calls Mike’s name from the other side of the room. “Don’t go anywhere,” he tells me, grinning.
After he leaves, I exchange looks with Larissa. “He’s nice!” she proclaims.

“I know,” Inside I’m swooning. Outside, I’m all business. “Look at the text Kat just sent me.”

Kat says she has new location information on the man. What’s more, she says she’s pinpointed the man and Reid in the same location.

“At Red Room?” Larissa wonders.

“It doesn’t say,” I relay. I don’t know if I should be shocked. I’m wary to take the tip seriously. If it’s true, it means the man is back at the bar.

I text Kat back, requesting more information. I ignore Reid’s text for now. Larissa’s talking to another party guest, and I linger at the outskirts of their conversation.

I’m not really listening, though, because I’m trying to work out why Reid is asking me over if he’s in the same location as the man. I’ve never been to Reid’s apartment before but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t live above Red Room. Kat’s calculations must be wrong.

Kat texts back right away. “Their signals aren’t aligned any longer.”

“Are they at Red Room?” I want to know.

“No. Reid’s still in Lower Nob Hill, and the man is off the chart again. I’ll keep watching for him to resurface.”

Changing gears, I text Reid. “What’s your address?”

The directions buzz back almost instantly.

“Okay, I’ll be there.” I tell him.

I text Kat again. “What’s the address you have for Reid?” I want to know.

“Hang on.”

I look around the party, where guests are relaxing with drinks to chill tunes. Larissa is still deep in conversation, and Mike hasn’t returned. I sip my bubbly, wondering what to do. I really want to stay here, but I’m curious why our app had Reid and the man linked in the same location.

My phone buzzes with the address, and it matches the one Reid just sent. The address seems so familiar. I have to go investigate this.

I say as much to Larissa, and am fine when she says she wants to stay. “I might be back,” I tell her.

“Where are you going?” Mike appears and wants to know.

“I have a really strong lead in the case. The serial killer has just been spotted.”

“What?! Can I come with?”

I seriously consider it for a minute, then remember where I’m going — to meet Reid. “Uh, next time.”

He groans. “I’m going to have to hire you again, Skylar.”

“Okay,” I laugh. “See you. And thanks for the party.”

As I head for the elevator I feel his gaze on me, and am melting. I’m struck by a strong desire to be touched by more than just his eyes, and soon.

In the lobby, I center myself and request a car using the app service. In only minutes, my ride arrives and whisks me through SOMA, and up through the Tenderloin to Lower Nob Hill. We loop around the one way streets and then go up Leavenworth.

The car pulls up in front of the building where Hannah Taylor was murdered. “Why did you stop here?” I ask the driver.

“This is the address you gave me.”

I double check the text from Kat and repeat it back to the driver. It’s the same.

Reid lives in the same building where Hannah Taylor was murdered.

Did he know this all long? He must have.

With heavy trepidation, I get out of the car. Reid’s apartment is #303, and at the door, I use the intercom to announce my arrival. Within seconds, he buzzes me in.

Going up to the third floor via the stairs, the hallway is noticeably shabby. I knock when I get to Reid’s apartment, and he answers right away. I step inside, feeling not at all glad to see him. I’m actually filled with dread.

“Hi,” I say weakly. Reid looks like he hasn’t been sleeping very well, but since Elise’s murder, neither have I.

“I’m glad you came,” he says.

“What’s going on?” I want to know.

“I just have to explain everything.” He motions for me to sit down in the living room, on the sofa.

“Everything?” I prompt, settling down. In my experience, there’s a lot of nuance loaded in everything.

“Listen, I care about what happened to your friend Elise. It’s just too much. I’m afraid for you, too, and didn’t know what to say, earlier this week, at the bar.”

“Thanks, Reid.” I’m listening closely, to hear what he might reveal, all while practicing stringing together the sentences I have to say to him.

“This situation is really scary.”

He goes on, and on, and I’m listening, and making small sighs that feel like dying inside. Something on the table beside the sofa catches my eye, and I tune out Reid’s blowhard droning, as I focus in on the familiar object, partially peeking out from the base of a lamp.

I pluck it out. It’s a nameplate necklace that spells out “Tory.”

“Where did you get this?,” I ask, interrupting him.

He looks confused. “I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you live in the same building where Hannah Taylor was murdered?”

“What?” Reid plays dumb.

“In the basement. Here. Is where I saw her murdered.” I spell it out for him.

He looks shocked. “I — I didn’t know that was here.”

“Well, why do you have Tory’s necklace?”

“I’ve never seen that before. Are you sure you didn’t have it with you?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, why would it be here? Did you plant it? Are you trying to frame me?”

I’ve never seen Reid this angry and I’m scared.

“What are you accusing me of?” He goes on, practically yelling.

“Are you the killer?” I ask him point blank, stunned that it could even remotely, possibly be true.

Librarian Detective Blog #20

Is Reid accusing me of framing him? We’re definitely broken up now.

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That’s it for now. Part 5 is complete and will be released in companion with the mystery-solving app currently in development. Stay tuned!