Womans Murder Club 5 - The 5th Horseman

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?”

“What can you tell us about Sandy?”

“I only met her once. Talked to her on the phone after that. Great sense of humor, really nice body. I could’ve kept her busy every night, but she was strictly part-time. Look, you’re not thinking I had anything to do with this?” she said, directing her question to me.

“Was Sandy working on the night of September fifteenth?” I asked.

Selzer dropped into the swivel chair and worked the computer keys, resting her chin in her cupped hands as squiggles of data scrolled up.

“Her date that night was a Mr. Alex Logan. I remember now. He called from the Hotel Triton. Said he was in town for the evening and wanted a petite blonde to go with him to a show. Henry the Fifth. I don’t know why I remembered that.”

“Is Logan a regular?”

“Nuh-uh. A first-timer.”

“You sent this girl out on a date with someone you didn’t know?” Jacobi’s voice was hard, the way it should have been. Selzer instantly shrunk away from him.

“I ran his credit card. No problem. Checked his name and address on AnyWho.com. Called the hotel and he was registered. It was all kosher.”

“Have you heard from him since?” I asked.

“Nope. Nothing. But you don’t usually get feedback from out-of-towners.”

“How much did Mr. Logan pay for his date with Sandy?” I asked.

“Her usual. A thousand for the night. I took my cut, made a direct deposit into Sandy’s account. Any tips, she got to keep.”

“Was anyone hassling her? Stalking her? Did she mention having any trouble from anyone?” Jacobi asked. “Give us some help here.”

“No, and Sandy wasn’t shy. She would’ve told me. What?” she said defensively. “I called her the next day, and when I didn’t hear back, I figured she quit. Ticked me off, believe me. I had to cancel her bookings. Look, I’m not a den mother for Christ’s sake! She was a free agent.”

Jacobi gave Selzer a scathing look. Her indignant expression crumpled. “Selzer, you’re pissing me off,” he said.

“Oh, man, I feel bad. I really do. You think I screwed up? I don’t know what I could’ve done differently.”

The woman pulled the comb from her hair, shook her head so that her gleaming hair sprayed around her face, playing the sex card in an unconscious defense of her worried conscience.

The move didn’t distract Jacobi, not even a little bit.

“You didn’t just screw up,” he said. “You sent this girl on a date with a killer.”

Selzer clapped her hands to her face.

“Give me the john’s particulars,” said Jacobi.

Selzer wrote numbers on a Post-it note. Jacobi snatched it up and put his card in its place.

“If he calls you again, fix him up with a girl who doesn’t exist and call me immediately. You got that? Any time, day or night. My cell phone’s on the back of the card.”

Selzer called out as we reached her front door.

“Officers. I’m sorry about Sandy. You should know that. I hope you get whoever killed her.”

“Yeah,” Jacobi called back, “we want to ease your guilt if we possibly can.”