The Last Good Place

The Last Good Place

by Robin Burcell
The Last Good Place

The Last Good Place

by Robin Burcell

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Robin Burcell has worked as a cop, hostage negotiator, and as an FBI-trained, forensic artist . She's also the author of award-winning thrillers. Now she uses that unparalleled experience to continue Carolyn Weston's groundbreaking series of books, which were the basis for the hit TV show "The Streets of San Francisco."

Sgt. Al Krug and his younger, college-educated partner Casey Kellog are investigating a string of strangulation killings when another victim is found at the Presidio...but a surprising, violent incident at the crime scene makes them wonder if everything is what it seems. The two miss-matched cops, with sharply conflicting approaches to detective work, are under intense pressure to get results. It's a race-against-the-clock investigation that propels them into the deadly intersection of politics, real estate, media and vice... the fertile, fog-shrouded killing field of a ruthless murderer.

"Robin Burcell has expertly updated the Krug & Kellogg series for old and new readers alike. She knows her stuff and puts it to good use in this entertaining and authentic police procedural," Alafair Burke- New York Times Bestselling Author of ALL DAY AND A NIGHT.

"A whip-smart, fast-paced tale with more twists and turns than a San Francisco street, The Last Good Place is a terrific read. Robin Burcell is a true pro!" Alison Gaylin, USA Today Bestselling Author

"Burcell brilliantly revisits Weston's cop duo and delivers a modern, dark, twisting tale of murder and deception with a puzzle that will keep you guessing until the end," Jamie Freveletti, Author of Robert Ludlum's The Geneva Strategy

"THE LAST GOOD PLACE is a fabulous reboot of a beloved classic. With smart, clever writing and an elegant plot, Robin Burcell has nailed it. All hail the reincarnation of Krug and Kellog," -J.T. Ellison, New York Times bestselling author of WHAT LIES BEHIND

"Robin Burcell, both a writing and law enforcement veteran, takes hold of novelist Carolyn Weston's baton to create a twisty mystery worthy of the iconic team's homicide investigation. The streets of San Francisco come alive in this new installment, and I hope that there are more to come. A definite winner!" Naomi Hirahara, Edgar Award winner Naomi Hirahara, Edgar Award winning author of MURDER ON BAMBOO LANE

"Robin Burcell breathes new life into the Streets of San Francisco in a riveting, edge of your seat thriller," Michelle Gagnon, New York Times Bestselling author of the PERSEFONE trilogy

"With her three decades of law enforcement experience, Robin Burcell has breathed new life into the police procedural. Her clear love and understanding of Carolyn Weston's original characters and their dynamics make this return to 'the streets of San Francisco' a complex, compelling, and ultimately satisfying tale. Great work by a great writer," Paul Bishop, LAPD detective and author of LIE CATCHERS

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781941298855
Publisher: Cutting Edge Publishing
Publication date: 11/03/2015
Edition description: New Edition
Pages: 292
Sales rank: 609,569
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.66(d)

Read an Excerpt

The Last Good Place

By Robin Burcell

Brash Books, LLC

Copyright © 2015 Brash Books LLC
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-941298-85-5


Marcie Valentine tugged at the waist of her running pants, zipped up her purple jacket, then grabbed an elastic tie, sweeping her shoulder-length dishwater-blond hair into a ponytail as she hurried down the stairs. Once in the kitchen, she turned the blinds enough to peer out the window over the wooden fence that separated her yard from her neighbor's. Trudy Salvatori, also dressed for running in a navy zip-up hoodie and black capris, sat at her kitchen table drinking a breakfast shake and reading the newspaper.


Marcie backed away from the window, took her cell phone, then called Trudy's number. "Hey," she said when Trudy answered. "Ready for the morning run?"

"Oh ... I'm running a bit late this morning. I'll meet you near the bridge trail where we usually stop. Assuming I get out of here in time."

"See you there."

Marcie disconnected, stuffed the phone into her jacket pocket, then leaned against the counter. Even though she knew this was going to happen, even planned for it, she was second-guessing herself. She and Trudy had been friends, best friends, ever since Marcie and Devin moved into the house five years back. Just a few months ago, at a Cinco de Mayo party, Trudy announced that she and her husband, Tony, were putting their house on the market because they were divorcing. They'd fallen out of love.

Marcie had been shocked at the time. Not so any longer. No doubt in her mind as to why. Trudy was sleeping with Marcie's husband, Devin. Not that it mattered. At least it wouldn't after today, she thought as she heard Devin moving around upstairs, allegedly getting ready for work. And that was when she wondered if she really wanted this. Just let the Salvatoris move.

Pretend her own husband had never been unfaithful.

Or was she imagining Devin's affair with Trudy? So many little things had seemed odd.

Maybe she couldn't be sure about those things. But this? Devin suddenly guarding his cell phone, taking business calls after hours when he'd never done so before. The nights he worked overtime that also matched up to Trudy's extended hours at the campaign office ...

The proof was there, and so Marcie had decided today was going to be the day. Devin belonged to her, not Trudy.

But when she went for her keys on the dining-room table, she couldn't find them. Her purse was right there, hanging on the back of the dining-room chair. No keys inside.

A quick and frantic search of the kitchen, then the little table by the front door, made her rethink her plans.

How was it that something like this always happened?

She was losing it ...

Self-doubt crowded her thoughts, and she stood there in the middle of the kitchen, telling herself that maybe the keys were fate's way of waking her up, making her realize she was going down the wrong path.

No. She'd worked through everything in her mind, planned the entire day accordingly, and she wasn't going to let something that trivial get in the way.

Besides, there was a spare key beneath one of the flowerpots outside the back door.

She didn't need her keys for this to work.

That calmed her, and she walked over to the stairs. "I'm leaving!" she called up to Devin.

"Have a good run!"

Her eye on the stairwell, she opened then closed the front door firmly, not leaving at all — instead, tiptoeing over to listen as Devin moved about in the bedroom above. A moment later, the sound of him talking softly. "She just left ... Yeah. Come on up the back porch stairs."

Marcie bit her lip, tempted to race up and stop him now before Trudy got there. But suddenly she heard him in the hallway. And the sound of the gate latch in the side yard startled her. She slipped into the kitchen, shutting herself into the broom closet. Feeling like a fool, she peered through the slats, trying to contain her fury when she saw Trudy walk past the backdoor window, then heard her run up the patio stairs that led to the master bedroom balcony.

Going for a run my ass, she thought, resisting the urge to race up there, confront them both.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to scream.

But she needed to be smart about this. She'd gone to too much trouble to waste her efforts on raw emotion, and she pulled out her phone then sent the text she'd pretyped into the message: She's here.

Waiting was hell. She checked the time on her cell phone, saw it was five past seven. Hearing nothing coming from upstairs, she opened the broom closet, slipped out the back door and around the side of the house.

You want this ...

But did she? Was it worth the price?

It was, she decided, keeping close to the house, positioning herself at the garden gate just as her front door opened. She froze, her heart beating as she pressed herself against the side of the house. This was not going as planned. "Careful," she heard Devin say.

"Always am," came Trudy's reply.

And then Marcie heard the front door close and what sounded like Trudy running down the porch stairs and on down the street.

Panicking, she grabbed her phone from her pocket, opened the text function, and typed: She's leaving!

No sooner had she hit Send than she heard the engine of a vehicle from up the street. She opened the gate just wide enough to see a green pickup truck cruise past in the same direction Trudy had taken off, the driver glancing over as though looking at the For Sale sign posted by Trudy's driveway.

Unbelievable. He'd assured Marcie that she wouldn't recognize him. No one would ever know he was there.

And he was right. Because the person in that truck looked nothing like the same man.

That still didn't ease her fears.

What if she'd imagined this whole thing? Trudy and Devin's affair? What if Devin somehow found out what she had planned?

She'd been so careful to make sure he didn't notice the missing money.

Wasted money if she didn't go through with this.

She couldn't ...

Marcie stared at her phone, the screen still lit from the last text. It would be so easy to call it off. Pretend nothing happened, nothing was wrong.

That was exactly what she was going to do.

She shoved the phone into the pocket of her purple running suit, zipped it, then stepped out, and after waiting long enough to be sure that both Trudy and the truck were long out of sight, she jogged down the hill, telling herself that the best thing to do was get out, act normal. And so she took off at a slow jog just as the neighbor at the end of her street hobbled out his front door, then navigated down his porch stairs. She saw his paper near the sidewalk, jogged over, scooped it up, then brought it to him. Th at was normal.

"Morning," she said, keeping her pace steady, but slow.

He lifted the paper in greeting. "Nice day for a run."

And normally it would have been. A soft breeze carried the faint tang of salt from the bay, and the early autumn sun lit the dew on the grass as though someone had sprinkled diamond dust over it. The beauty was lost on her as she tried to put her husband and Trudy from her mind. Listen to the pace of her shoes on the sidewalk, the feel of the cool air on her face. Get into the rhythm. Run. Just run.

Soon her neighborhood was behind her, and she turned the corner to Lincoln Boulevard, jogging along the bike path, following it through the Presidio, the air thick with the scent of eucalyptus. Eventually she reached the Presidio Promenade trail by the bay, the sandy gravel crunching beneath her as she ran. To her left, the top of the Golden Gate Bridge was hidden in the marine layer, waiting for the sun to burn it off. A gull cried out as it flew past then dove down toward the water. The faint bark of sea lions drifted in from the bay. She turned away, not caring. Ever since she'd suspected Devin and Trudy were having an affair, the world had turned into a darker place. She'd imagined any number of ways to end this thing between them, none of them good. A week ago, she and Trudy had been running right here on this path, and she'd actually contemplated turning toward the bridge, having Trudy follow her, then pushing her right down to the rocks below. Had it not been for the witnesses, she wondered if she would have.

That was when she realized there were far better ways to end this thing between them. She'd come up with what she thought was a good option.

So why was she having second thoughts?

Because she couldn't bear it if she was wrong and Devin somehow found out.

Call it off. It's not worth it.

That was the thought going through her head as she continued down the path and noticed a couple kneeling in the gravel up ahead, their backs to her. They seemed to be tending someone on the ground, and she caught a glimpse of navy-and-black running clothes and then a familiar Nike shoe ...

She quickened her pace, raced up to the couple, then stopped beside them.

The man looked up at her. "We just found her like this."

Everything Marcie had so meticulously planned turned into one giant blur. Her heart stopped momentarily then started up again with a thud. It was several seconds before she could think clearly. Realizing this was supposed to be her friend, worried that this couple tending her could read this morning's every guilty thought flitting through her head, she shook herself and tried to think of something appropriate to say. "She's okay, right?"

"She's been strangled," the man said. "I think she's dead."


Sergeant Casey Kellog signaled then slowed his unmarked police car at the corner, waiting for traffic to clear, all the while ignoring his partner, Sergeant Al Krug, who was telling him to go straight. "There's a perfectly good parking spot in the fire lane," Al said, then slapped the placard sitting on the dash that read San Francisco Police Official Business. "That's what this is for."

Casey kept his eye on the traffic, thick with the morning commuters. "Just practicing a little community-oriented policing by not parking in a red zone. It's bad for our image."

"You're killing me with this new-age policing. It's taken us three days to pin this guy down to get his statement, so park out front. Last thing I wanna do is miss him because you're worried what the public thinks."

Compromising, Casey pulled into the loading zone instead. Getting a guy like Al to buy into modern-day policing was not an easy task. A widower in his early fifties, Al was as old school as one could get. Right down to the gray fedora he wore whenever he went out. Even so, Casey never stopped trying, and as he pulled the key from the ignition, he said, "It's all about improving public perception."

"Yeah?" Al said, picking up a file folder from between the seats. "My police perception tells me if there's an emergency, we're gonna want the car nearby. But if you're all fired up to put some of that newfangled police science to work, see if you can't improve this guy's faulty memory."

"Easy enough. Cognitive interview techniques." He reached into the backseat for his leather portfolio notebook. "I've got a checklist."

"When you're looking at that checklist, wondering why the Vulcan mind meld from your textbooks isn't working? Maybe think about deviating from the script." He handed Casey the file folder, adjusted his hat, then got out. They walked to the corner store, and Al pulled open the glass door. A small bell sounded as they entered.

The clerk, a man about the same age as Al, stood behind the counter, waiting on a white-haired woman who was purchasing milk, juice, and eggs.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Little," he said. "This card is also declined."

"I don't know why. Can't you try it again?"

"I've tried. Multiple times."

"There must be some mistake. I can bring the money in later when the bank opens."

"If I do that with you, everyone will be expecting it."

"Maybe I have enough here."

She reached into her purse, her hand shaking as she pulled out a few coins and carefully counted.

Casey eyed the groceries, then dug a twenty from his pocket, walking up to the counter and placing it next to her money. "That should cover it."

She looked up at Casey, her eyes glistening. "I can't take that from you."

"Consider it a loan. When you get the money, bring it in."

"Thank you, young man."

The clerk bagged up the items, and the woman left, thanking Casey with every step.

Al held the door for her. As it swung closed, he showed the man his star, saying, "Leo Rivers?"

The man nodded.

"Sergeant Krug. The Boy Scout here is my partner, Sergeant Kellog. He's got a few questions for you about the murder of Danny Watkins."

"I already told the officers everything I know. I didn't see anything."

Al nodded at Casey to take over.

Casey opened his notebook, eyeing his checklist. "What were you doing about an hour before the murder?"

"The same as every other day. Standing here."

"Do you remember anything different about that day?"

"Yes. Someone got murdered."

"I mean before the murder."

"How can anyone remember what happened? It's all a blur."

"Understandable." But no matter what question Casey posed from his cognitive interview checklist, the answer was the same. The man didn't remember. By all accounts, this method should have worked, but after several fruitless minutes, Casey asked, "Where exactly were you when the shots were fired?"

"Right here. At this counter. But like I said, I only heard them. I didn't see anything."

"So you heard the shots?" Casey asked, losing patience as Al's phone rang. "You've got a clear view of the door. How was it you didn't see who had the gun?"

Rivers shrugged. "It was dark out? I don't remember."

Behind him, Casey could hear Al speaking softly into the phone, saying, "Yeah. Got it ... Not much longer. Give me a minute to wrap it up here."

Clearly Al was about to step in. Desperate to get what he needed before that happened, Casey decided the only thing left was to appeal to the clerk's sense of duty. "Mr. Rivers. A man lost his life out there. Right in front of you. He had two young daughters."

"I wish I could help, but if there's nothing else, I have work to do."

"As do we," Al said. Surprisingly, he turned his back on them, looking out the plate-glass window. "Lot of drug deals going on in this neighborhood, Mr. Rivers? I expect there's a lot of violence."

"Too much," Rivers replied.

"Like those two punks there across the street right now." He pointed toward two men, early twenties, standing on the corner. "I'd hate to think they might mistake our visit for, say, a snitchfest."

"A what?" Rivers asked, his gaze flicking in the direction of the men.

"Snitchfest," Al said, then walked over to the door, taking hold of the sign that read Closed. He turned it and slapped it against the glass so it faced out to the street. He peered out the window once more, then sauntered to the counter, leaning forward so that his face was mere inches from Rivers's. "Where one party snitches on another, to report drug dealing out in front of their store."

"Why would they think that? I didn't report anything."

"They don't know that, do they? So pick which case you want to be involved in. A murder stemming from a robbery that happened eight days ago, or a drug sting that's gonna go down as soon as I get narcotics out here to set up shop on your doorstep."

Rivers's gaze fixed on the street corner, where one of the men seemed to be watching them. "Maybe I do remember seeing a man with a gun."

Casey poised his pen over the paper. "What was his name?" "Terrance Pritchett."

"And where do you know him from?"

"He shops in here sometimes. I've seen his name on the welfare debit card."

"What's he drive?"

"Silver Toyota pickup."

"Now, see?" Al smiled. "That's not so hard, is it?" He turned the sign so that it read Open again, then held the door for Casey. "Let's go, College Boy."

Casey waited until they were well up the street before saying anything. "What happened to letting me get the information my way?"

"Like I said, sometimes you gotta deviate from the script."

"Deviate is one thing. Veiled threats about retribution from drug dealers?"

"Didn't seem all that veiled to me. Achille's heel, kid. Besides, it got the information we needed a helluva lot faster than you were getting it."

"And we're in a hurry because ...?"

"The op center called. Homicide out by the Golden Gate Bridge. Possible Landmark Strangler." He held up his phone, taunting Casey with it. "Unless, of course, you want me to call them back and reassign it?"

"No." Casey definitely wanted that case, and he quickened his pace to the car, Al following. "How long have they been holding it?"


Excerpted from The Last Good Place by Robin Burcell. Copyright © 2015 Brash Books LLC. Excerpted by permission of Brash Books, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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