I opened the envelope that I’d taken from the drawing board in Louie’s living room, took out five thin pages, inscribed from margin to margin in a neat, rounded hand.

“I think she was still writing this when we entered your apartment,” I said. “See, the signature is smudged. The ink was still wet.”

Louie’s mouth was parted. His breathing shallow. His eyes were focused on me.

“Cherry says here, ‘Forgive me, my love, but I can’t live without you. You were the one dream I ever had that came true. . . .’

“Well, this is pretty private,” I said, neatening the pages, folding them back into the envelope. “It almost breaks my heart.”

Louie said, “Tell me what I have to do. I’ll do whatever.”

“Listen to me,” said Montana, putting a hand on Louie’s arm. “Don’t say a word. Let me do my job. Their only witness against you is dead.”

Things got a little crazy suddenly. Louie backhanded his lawyer with a loud crack, sending Montana and his chair crashing to the floor. Blood spouted from Montana’s nose.

I leaped from my seat as Louie stood, clenched his fists, and screamed down at him.

“Don’t you understand, you little turd? I don’t care if I live or die. My life is over. I’m never going to see her again.”

He turned his livid eyes on me. “What do I have to say to get that fucking LETTER?”

“Just tell us what you did.”

“Okay. I said I’ll do it.”

I thought my heart would explode from exhilaration.

I forced my expression to remain neutral even though I was doing jump splits and dancing under a shower of champagne inside my head.

I stepped outside the room to make damned sure that the camera was still rolling. I returned as Conklin was getting Montana back on his feet.

“I’ll call the DA,” I said to Louie. “You can have a copy of the letter. Right after we hear your confession.”

Chapter 92

Chapter 92

JACOBI WAS ON A HIGH just thinking about Louie folding into a big, wet heap—feeling fantastic that he’d been on the team that had brought that psycho down. Both psychos.

Now, at 8:00 p.m., he was still working, trying to nail another sicko to the wall.

Maybe a worse one. Possibly the most dangerous killer ever in San Francisco.

He steered the unmarked police car north along Leavenworth, keeping track of Dennis Garza’s black Mercedes sports coupe two cars ahead. The fog swirled up eerily from the pavement even as rain pelted down.

He braked for the red light at Clay, stared at the red-haloed taillights, thinking how Garza seemed to have a pretty damned good life for himself.

So why would he want to screw himself by playing God at the hospital?