Red Line (9 page)

Sinclair hated Bay Area traffic. With no freeway north of the Bay Bridge, the only way to get through San Francisco was on city streets clogged with cars, trucks, and buses. Whenever he swung into the right lane to avoid a car turning left, he ended up behind a bus that stopped in the middle of the lane to load and unload passengers. Sinclair and Braddock crept from red light to red light on Geary Boulevard, inching their way toward Presidio Heights.

“How’d you and Jankowski do with Susan’s husband?” Sinclair asked.

“Jankowski acts all gruff, but he’s just a big teddy bear,” she said. “Mr. Hammond was more than cooperative with everything we asked for.”

“Anything enlightening?”

“We downloaded her address book from her laptop, and Hammond even gave us a Quicken file with their check and credit card information. Jankowski got him to sign releases so we can get updates from his bank, the phone company, and any other businesses we think of later.”

“He’s awful trusting for a lawyer.”

“He’s not like the defense attorneys we deal with. He wants us to find who killed his wife. He acts like he’s got nothing to hide, so either he truly doesn’t or he’s a great actor.”

“I’d still keep an eye on him. He’s a lawyer and they teach lawyers how to lie in law school,” said Sinclair.

Sinclair hoped all the background work on the victims would pan out. Although he wasn’t optimistic, there was no other avenue to pursue; nothing pointed to a motive or a suspect. Phil had told him on one of their first cases, “When you don’t have a suspect or any idea why your victim was killed, investigate the victim. The reason for the murder often lies with him.”

“What do you think the chances are of Mrs. Fitzgerald letting us talk to Jenny?” Braddock asked.

“We’ve got to give it a shot. I should’ve taken a close look at the two girls when I first got the case.”

Sinclair hoped that if he got to the bottom of what happened to the two girls and how they ended up on the bus bench that night, he might find the key to the last two murders. Earlier, he had called two phone numbers he had for Jane Arquette, but both were disconnected. He called the NYPD detective who was assigned the case when Samantha died in the Manhattan hospital, hoping he had contact info for Jane, but only reached his voicemail. He doubted Mrs. Fitzgerald had softened since the last time they spoke, but his best chance was meeting her face-to-face. Sinclair had tried to call her husband, who was one of the top executives in the commercial real estate division of Wells Fargo Bank, but his executive assistant took a message and called Sinclair back later to say it was a family matter, and he’d have to go through Mrs. Fitzgerald to talk to Jenny.

Sinclair turned onto Arguello Boulevard and looked for a parking space. He pulled onto the sidewalk in front of the single-car garage. “Unbelievable,” said Sinclair. “You pay millions of dollars to live here and you can’t even find a place to park.”

“It’s worth three million. Thirty-five-hundred-square-foot house on a twenty-five-hundred-square-foot lot.”

Sinclair craned his neck to view the top of the three-story house. “Can’t be much room for a backyard.”

“Probably the size of a couple of jail cells.”

They took the stairs to the front door and rang the bell. A slender woman with a brunette ponytail, wearing yoga pants and two layered tank tops, opened the door.

“Mrs. Fitzgerald,” said Sinclair, “My name is—”

“You’re Sergeant Sinclair,” she interrupted. “My husband’s office said you called.”

“May we come in and talk?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.

“We’d like to speak to Jenny.”

“She doesn’t remember anything.”

“It’s important. There’re new developments.”

“My only concern is protecting my daughter.”

“Just asking her a few questions shouldn’t harm her.”

“You’re not my daughter’s psychiatrist.”

Sinclair felt a hand on his arm as Braddock gently pushed him to the side. “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” said Braddock. “We would never do anything to harm Jenny.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald smiled. “I remember you from the hospital. Cathy, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and you’re Donna, right?”

Mrs. Fitzgerald smiled again.

“I’m in homicide now,” Braddock said, “and Jenny’s case is special to me. Maybe if just I talk—”

“Do you have children of your own?”

Braddock smiled. “Two.”

“You’re lucky. That’s one of the many things Jane and I had in common. Back when we were freshmen together at Brown, we talked about getting married and having two or three children. Along with the perfect career, of course. But we both only had one. I tried, but Jenny’s all I have and I’ll do anything to protect her.”

“I’m sorry, and I do understand. I want to be with my son and daughter every second of the day to make sure . . .” She trailed off and then said, “But I also need to protect the thousands of other Jennys and Samanthas out there. That’s why I’m here. And your daughter could help.”

Tears welled in Mrs. Fitzgerald’s eyes, and Sinclair thought she was ready to give in.

“I just can’t,” she said.

“Can you at least put me in touch with Jane Arquette?” said Sinclair. “She deserves to know what’s happening, and the numbers I have for her no longer work.”

“I’m sorry. Jane’s dead,” she said. “She took her own life shortly after Samantha died.”

“No cigar today?” Braddock asked as they sat in the traffic crawling toward the Bay Bridge. They’d moved a half mile in the last twenty minutes yet still had another mile until the on-ramp.

“The chief showing up at our crime scene upset my routine,” said Sinclair. “And it’s not like I can light up a cigar just any place.”

“I don’t mind,” she said. “I like the smell. Reminds me of my dad.”

Sinclair leaned across Braddock, fished around in the glove box, and came out with a Rocky Patel, a five-inch cigar with a medium brown wrapper. He clipped the end and lit it with his Zippo. “I sometimes wish I was on OPD back in his day. Cops could kick ass and lock up bad guys without anyone second-guessing them. Your dad’s one of the legends from that era.”

“Police work was in his blood, just like you.” She rolled down her window and the smoke wafted out.

“You, too. Your grandfather, your father, and now you.”

Braddock laughed. “He tried to talk me out of it. Said that good cops give everything to the job and that leaves nothing left. He didn’t want me to become like him.”

“They never talked about how the job affected their personal lives back then.”

“Families kept better secrets in those days. I try to remember the good stuff. He worked traffic most of his career, and all motor officers took their bikes home back then. He would walk out the door in the morning dressed in his leather jacket and boots and fire up his Harley. As a kid, I learned why motor cops were called leather gods. But I was deathly afraid of him—a weird mix of love and fear. After my mother remarried—”

“I didn’t know your parents split up.”

“I was thirteen when they divorced. Ryan and I have promised ourselves our kids won’t grow up like I did.”

Sinclair had never looked up to his father, but he remembered fearing him, not knowing what mood he’d be in when he got drunk. His father had been a heavy drinker as long as he could remember, but it got increasingly worse after Sinclair’s little brother died. Unlike Braddock, Sinclair never wanted to be anything like his father—his father was mean, self-centered, bigoted. He worried that if he ever did have a family of his own, he might become just like him. But he wasn’t his father, he continually reminded himself. He may have picked up the genetic disposition to alcoholism from his father, but unlike his father, he was doing something about it.

The traffic began moving. Sinclair took several puffs off his cigar and hung his arm out the window. “I’m still thinking about Jane Arquette’s suicide, assuming that’s what it actually was.”

“I can’t imagine the devastation I would feel if my daughter died,” she said.

“Enough to take your own life?”

Braddock was quiet for a moment, and Sinclair knew she was thinking about how she would handle it. “I’d feel like it, but wouldn’t do it. I can see some mothers doing it, though.”

“Then she makes the fourth death linked to the bus bench,” he said.

*

Everyone else had gone home except for Sinclair, Braddock, Jankowski, and Sanchez. Sinclair looked up from his desk to see Lieutenant Maloney drag himself into the office.

“Thought you already went home,” bellowed Jankowski.

“I wish.” Maloney’s eyes were bloodshot and his sparse hair was plastered to his oily scalp. “The chief had me at the mayor’s office with him watching the news and brainstorming about how to keep the media from creating panic.”

“Did Sinclair get them all riled up like he usually does?” asked Jankowski.

“Actually—and this was a big shocker—the chief and mayor were pleased with the PIO and Matt. We watched the coverage on every channel and they thought Matt handled the questions very professionally.”

“Sinclair? Professional? I never thought the chief would use those two words together,” said Jankowski.

“I guess I haven’t been canned yet,” said Sinclair.

“Oh, they discussed it.” Maloney paused, and Sinclair could tell the lieutenant was contemplating how much of the chief’s conversation to divulge. “Nothing to worry about for now.”

The
for now
part didn’t leave Sinclair feeling all warm and fuzzy. Nevertheless, he ignored it and told Maloney
about their strikeout with Mrs. Fitzgerald, Jane Arquette’s suicide, and their action plan for the rest of the evening.

“I got more sleep than you two,” Maloney said. “And I’m only running on two cylinders. There’s nothing that can’t wait until morning when you’re fresh. Go home and get some sleep. If a break comes, I need you sharp.”

Sinclair was too tired to argue. They cleared their desks and walked out the door together. The sun had dropped below the buildings along the waterfront and the sky was clear. The temperature still hovered in the high seventies, a warm evening for Oakland. Braddock pulled her gear from her Crown Vic. Sanchez would take over the car since he was now on standby. As the senior partner, Sinclair was authorized to take the team’s car home even when not on standby, and although this allowed him to save on gas and wear and tear on his five-year-old Mustang, it carried with it the obligation to respond on fresh murders if another team needed help. He popped the trunk and Braddock threw her duffle bag inside.

Sinclair stood there. In all the years he worked with Phil, they ended every standby with a round of beers at the Warehouse, debriefing their cases and discussing their lives. No longer an option. He needed sleep, but he was too wound up.

Braddock’s phone rang. “I’m leaving right now . . . Can’t think of a better way to spend an evening. Love you too.”

Sinclair grinned. “So how
are
you going to spend your evening?”

She laughed. “We’re going to give the kids their bath.”

Sinclair laughed.

“When you have kids, you’ll understand. What about you—off to Liz’s?”

“Not tonight. A few nights a week together is enough for both of us.”

She started walking to the back of the lot where her personal car was parked. Over her shoulder, she said, “We did good today.”

Sinclair began to pull out of the parking space but then put the shift lever back into park and sat there. He was mentally and physically spent, but his brain was spinning. He could see two of the victims lying on the stainless steel tables in the morgue, the girl lying on the hospital bed in a coma, the faces of Susan’s husband and Zachary’s parents.

No one cared about many of Sinclair’s murder victims. Drug dealers and prostitutes, whose friends and families had given up on them years before. One of the first cases he and Phil had worked together was the murder of a young, black crack fiend who they suspected had been killed for stealing the corner stash. After two days, they hadn’t found a single person willing to talk about the murder. Over drinks at the Warehouse that night, Phil said, “Sitting at this bar are the only two people in the world who care about finding out who killed this young man. In homicide, we speak for the dead. It’s a lonely and thankless job and an awesome responsibility.” But Sinclair knew it was about more than just the victim. A murderer could not be allowed to kill and walk the streets freely. When people can kill with impunity, society crumbles. He wanted to tell Phil how it often felt like they were the only ones standing between civilization and anarchy and how that lonely and thankless responsibility was even more awesome than merely speaking for the dead but was afraid that his partner wouldn’t understand.

These three victims—maybe a fourth—had people who cared. Their families and friends, the police brass, and Oakland residents were counting on him. He wondered if he could live up to their expectations.

Sinclair did not just want a drink—he needed one. He put the car in drive and pulled off.

Nestled into the business district of the upscale community high in the Oakland Hills, A Great Good Place for Books in Montclair Village was as much a neighborhood meeting place as a bookstore. Dr. Brooks’s wife, Carol, had been inside for an hour, a long time to buy a book, the man thought. The last time he strolled by the window, he noticed a flyer announcing a book reading and signing tonight for some woman’s debut novel. Pretending to read the flyer, he looked through the window and saw Carol rise from a folding chair where she had been sitting with a predominantly female audience listening to the author. She was dressed impeccably, as always, in a salmon-colored blouse, beige crop pants, and ivory linen blazer. She stepped into a line, waiting her turn for the author’s signature.

He crossed La Salle Avenue and walked up the street, stopping near Montclair Pharmacy, where he had a clear view of the bookstore. When working, he often passed through a dozen Bay Area cities a day, but the diversity in Oakland’s neighborhoods always amazed him. In the flatlands of West and East Oakland, poverty, gangs, and drugs flourished. Rap music thumped from cars, interrupted by
gunshots or firecrackers in the distance. Steel bars covered windows and doors, and cars sat on cement blocks in front yards. Montclair, five miles away, was a different world. Small houses sold for millions of dollars, and Mercedes and BMWs lined the streets. Faces were mostly white, and of the few blacks, Asians, or Hispanics he saw, none wore baggy jeans halfway down their asses or catcalled the women who strolled along the sidewalk. It was no wonder that people who lived here referred to their residence as Montclair, as if it were a separate city and not merely a district of Oakland.

He dressed to blend in—khakis, a white polo shirt, and a navy blue sweater. No one gave him a second look, other than an occasional woman who gave him a quick up and down glance followed by a smile.

His target exited the bookstore, followed by a woman about her same age and as stylishly dressed. They turned right and walked side-by-side up the hill. He paralleled them on the opposite side of the street, ready to rush ahead and get in position before they reached the parking garage. Instead, they turned right on the next street and disappeared into Jamba Juice a few doors down from the corner. A light wind carried the aroma of grilled meat from the gourmet burger place down the street.

A few minutes later, the women exited the shop carrying plastic cups with straws poking from the top. They strolled back to La Salle and up the hill, sucking on their drinks. He waited thirty seconds after they entered the parking garage and followed. He expected the women would part ways once inside, but instead, they walked together to Carol’s Mercedes. He stopped ten cars away and watched the women hug. His target opened her car door, and the friend turned and walked in his direction.
An SUV with a mother and a bunch of kids drove past him searching for a parking space.

Too risky to make his move here. Too many witnesses.

He spun around and hurried to his van. Halfway down the row, the Mercedes started and rolled toward the exit.

He twisted the key, pulled the shifter into drive, and followed. He trailed her onto Moraga Avenue and made the light with her onto Snake Road and up into the hills toward her house. Five minutes later, she pulled into the driveway of the sprawling house tucked among the pines and redwoods on Woodrow Drive. Could he do it? Rush into the driveway and grab her before she closed her garage door?

His heart raced.

The man stopped his van just before her driveway, prepared to jump out.

Her car pulled into the two-car garage. Now or never.