Dot Dead [Paperback]

"Raffel, founder of a software company, knows his way around the high tech industry. He has written a well-plotted mystery with enough action and plot twists to keep most readers going."

When Ian Michaels, a Silicon Valley hotshot, discovers a young, beautiful woman stabbed to death in his house, it takes him a moment to realize that the still-warm corpse is his maid. Far from the gray-haired, cookie-baking grandmother he imagined her to be, Gwendolyn was a stranger to Ian, but her family, old boyfriend, and the Palo Alto police seem to think they were a couple. And despite his best efforts to prove otherwise, the evidence against Ian is growing. It looks like someone is framing Ian for murder, but who?

An executive at a tech firm, Ian is anxious to prove his innocence to his boss and mentor Paul Berk, a Silicon Valley legend. As the investigation heats up so does Ian's interest in Gwendolyn's sister, but can she be trusted?

Palo Alto native Keith Raffel founded his own software company, UpShot Corporation, which won numerous awards and accolades before being sold to Siebel Systems. Raffel currently works there as a group vice president. He has been interviewed by the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, Business Week, PBS, ABC, and other media.

one I didn't see who knocked me out. Two steps into the foyer and a blow to the head brought me to my knees. A kick in the face finished me off. He must have been waiting behind the front door. Now, groggy and queasy, I grabbed the closet doorknob to hoist myself up. After the throbbing subsided, I teetered over to the bathroom and looked into the medicine cabinet mirror. My lips and chin were covered in the thickening blood that still seeped from my right nostril. I held a wad of Kleenex up against my nose and winced as the fingers of my other hand explored the bump on top of my head.

After a few minutes, I had stanched the blood and washed it off my face. Then I rechecked my reflection in the mirror to determine if the two blows had done lasting damage. My nose was now veering to the left a little. I shrugged. Women hadn't been lining up to date the owner of the old face anyway.

Moving over to my bed, I sat down and dialed 911. Though born and raised in Palo Alto, I had never called the local police before.

"911 operator."

"Hello, someone just hit me over the head and knocked me out." Not bad, I thought-my voice sounded pretty steady. "Oh, my. Are you at 807 Lincoln?" Her tone of concern reminded me of Miss Winston, my old elementary-school nurse.

The 911 system had pinpointed my location. "Yes. I'm Ian Michaels, and it's my house."

"Do you need an ambulance?"

"Not necessary. I'm okay."

"Is the person who hit you still there?"

"No. He's gone," I said, and then wondered how I knew. Maybe I hadn't been completely unconscious when he'd left.

"You hold on, dear. I'll get someone right over."

The dispatcher's sympathetic voice rose in alarm at such goings on in our fair city. It was just bad luck that had me home early on a Wednesday afternoon. During lunch, I had looked down at my feet and noticed my left foot clad in a navy sock while my right wore brown. Each looked fine with my glen plaid suit, but together the effect was not pleasing. Since I had a meeting at four to close a big sale-that's why I had on the dressy clothes instead of my usual khakis-I raced home during lunch to rectify my fashion faux pas.

I checked my watch-1:20-and figured I'd been out of it for just two or three minutes. A shudder of fear coursed through me. Despite my confident answer to the dispatcher, could I have been wrong? Could the guy who conked me still be here?

I began a quick but cautious tour, peeking around corners. The DVD player, TV, and stereo stared at me from the wall unit in the second bedroom, which I used as a den. The Macintosh still sat on my desk, and the screen saver's aboriginal figures still pranced across the screen, shaking their spears. My brief inspection showed the house the same as I had left it. The uninvited guest hadn't left much evidence of his stay, except on my head.

Fear abated; anger and indignation began to build. Attacked in my own house. In Palo Alto?

What the hell?

What had my unknown assailant wanted, anyway?

The sounds of sirens, faint at first and soon earsplitting, interrupted my thoughts. I hustled out to the front porch. No sense having Palo Alto's finest burst in with guns drawn. Two squad cars careened up. One of them aimed for my driveway but squealed to a halt with two tires resting on the front lawn. The other parked more politely across the street. After a lifetime in the city, I saw a Palo Alto police officer with a gun drawn for the first time.

His weapon pointing only at earthworms and moles, the policeman came toward me, asked to see my driver's license, and introduced himself. Officer John Mikulski, who looked like an overage surfer boy, took charge of what little investigation there was to be. The second officer, a sturdily built woman in her twenties, remained mum after introducing herself as Fletcher.

Notebook in hand, Mikulski apologized for the inconvenience. I liked that. He was taking personal responsibility for what had happened to me.We stood in the front yard under the shade of the pepper tree. No, I hadn't seen who had hit me. No, I hadn't noticed anything missing. Yes, I was happy to have them look around. I showed them where and how I had been bushwhacked.

"Did you leave the door unlocked?" asked Mikulski.

"No, I unlocked it and opened it just before I was hit."

"Now, we could dust the place for fingerprints, but . . . ," started Mikulski.

"Yes, please."

"I was going to say that we would leave a mess. There probably aren't any of his, and even if there are, it's probably just a teenage kid."

"I don't mind the mess. I have a maid. If there are fingerprints, we should get them. Otherwise, we'll never know, if you catch the guy breaking in somewhere else, that he was the one who did this to me." I pointed to my head.

"Okay, sir." Mikulski nodded his longish blond hair. In Palo...(Continues)