Thrill Kill (10 page)

Sinclair’s cab pulled up to the Waterfront Hotel in Oakland’s Jack London Square at 6:30. Escort services were not strangers to the hotels in Oakland, so it was reasonable to expect Special Ladies Escorts might have a contact even at the Waterfront, the most expensive hotel in Oakland. He was glad the Feds had the money to run the operation the right way. He had worked too many undercover operations during his time in vice where shortcuts were taken to save time or money. They’d use cheaper hotels and sometimes work through hotel security to get the room free, but often it blew the UC’s cover because the hotel management told someone on the staff who tipped off their target.

Sinclair paid the driver, collected his carry-on, and rolled it into the lobby. As he passed the hotel bar, Sinclair recognized two of the FBI agents from the briefing among the well-dressed after-work business crowd.

“Checking in, sir?” a thirtyish woman dressed in a hotel uniform asked from behind the front desk.

“Yes, my name’s Gutierrez.”

She clicked a few keys on her computer. It printed out a single sheet, which she handed to him. “Welcome to the Waterfront, Mr. Gutierrez. I show you staying one night in a bay-view suite. Please review the information to confirm everything is
correct. May I see a photo ID and the credit card you wish to use for incidentals?”

From his pocket, Sinclair pulled a new black calfskin wallet. As was standard procedure, he had emptied his pockets of anything that could be linked to Matt Sinclair and dropped them into a large envelope in Roberts’s office. Braddock took the envelope along with his gun and badge. In addition to the wallet filled with ID in the name of Gutierrez, the Feds gave him a new phone and a set of keys that supposedly fit his make-believe home in Bel Air, his make-believe office, and his make-believe BMW.

Sinclair handed the clerk his license and Visa card. He reviewed the registration form. Just shy of five hundred dollars for one night. Good thing the Feds were footing the bill.

“One or two keys?”

“Two, please,” he said.

She returned his credit card and license and handed him two key cards in a pocket-sized packet marked with his room number. “Would you like help with your luggage?” she asked.

“I think I can handle it,” Sinclair said.

The door opened to the bedroom area of the suite, with a king-size bed, dresser, and two nightstands. Sinclair threw his suitcase on the bed and walked into the living room, which was separated from the bedroom by a partial wall. A sofa faced the window. A table with four chairs took up a corner, while a desk and chair were on the other side of the sofa. The window overlooked Jack London Square, with its assortment of shops and restaurants, and the Oakland estuary, a mile-wide body of water that separated Oakland and Alameda and flowed into the San Francisco Bay. When Sinclair examined the website earlier in the afternoon to make his reservations, he saw there were other rooms with large private balconies that overlooked the waterfront. He imagined staying in one of those rooms during the summer time and watching the sunset from his balcony while feeling the cool breeze off the water.

He unpacked his suitcase. He placed his shaving kit in the bathroom, hung a dress shirt, polo shirt, and jeans in the closet, and placed two sets of underwear, socks, and a workout outfit in a drawer—the clothes a businessman would bring for a two-day trip. Props in case the escort checked. He looked at himself in the mirror. His tailored charcoal-gray suit was a donation arranged by the Oakland Business Association after he had lost his entire wardrobe last year in the fire. He’d only worn this suit to work a few times, knowing that with his luck it would be the day he got into a wrestling match with a suspect. A fitted ivory-colored shirt, dark-blue silk tie, and a stainless-steel Rolex—a gift from Fred last Christmas—completed his look.

Sinclair heard a double knock at the door. He opened it and Roberts, Braddock, and Cummings came in.

Cummings’s eyes scanned Sinclair from head to toe. “Clothes are obviously too expensive for a cop to afford.”

“I always thought a suit’s just a suit,” Braddock said. “But you do look fine.”

Looks and demeanor were everything when working undercover. If anything made the girl uncomfortable—if she thought he was dangerous or too weird—she’d walk away. The stakes weren’t as high when Sinclair did prostitution undercover work years ago. If the escort didn’t come through, they called another agency, and if that escort didn’t come through, they didn’t make a case. No big deal. Tonight, they not only had to get the solicitation from the escort; they needed to turn her, too. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Let’s make the call,” Roberts said.

Sinclair opened his laptop on the table in the living room and brought up the Special Ladies Escorts website. He scrolled through the pages of photos and settled on a blonde showing off long, slender legs in a body stocking similar to what he’d seen in Frederick’s of Hollywood catalogues. He dialed the phone number on the website.

“Good evening, Special Ladies Escorts,” said a woman in a singsong voice.

“Hi, I’d like to arrange for an escort,” Sinclair said.

“Have you used our service before?”

“No.”

“How did you learn about our service?”

“I just found you on the Internet.”

“Have you looked at our rates and decided on how much time you’d like to spend with one of our ladies?”

“I see you start at four hundred for the first hour. I’d like an hour.”

“Do you have a preference for your escort, such as ethnicity or body shape—thin, full-figured?”

“Danielle caught my eye. Is she available?”

“Let me check.” Sinclair heard the clicking of computer keys. “It appears she is. When would you like to see her?”

Sinclair looked at his watch. “Around eight would be perfect.”

“Would we be sending her to your home?”

“I’m in Oakland on business and staying at the Waterfront Hotel.”

“I believe we can arrange that. Let me get some information from you.”

The woman collected the same information from him that any normal business would for a credit card purchase. “To avoid any problem with hotel management, please advise the hotel desk that a work colleague named Danielle Jones will be visiting your room.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Thank you. Enjoy your evening, Mr. Gutierrez.”

Technology and the ease with which anyone could check someone out had changed a lot since Sinclair last worked undercover. Cummings had warned him the agency would do a cursory background on him. They’d run his cell phone number to see what service it was provided through. If it were a burner, they’d get suspicious, so Cummings had arranged for a phone
with a Sprint account. They may have a contact in DMV to verify his license. They’d run his credit card, so Cummings set it up with a thirty-thousand-dollar credit limit and some fake purchases, such as airline tickets and meals. The agency would run him in the state sexual offender database and try to find him in social media and Google, but Roberts assured him Gutierrez was too common a name to single him out.

“Why don’t you order something from room service,” Roberts said. “It’s all paid for by the Feds, and it’ll look normal. You should be finished eating and busy working in your room when she arrives.”

Sinclair called the front desk, ordering a gourmet pizza and advising them that Danielle would be visiting.

Cummings adjusted Sinclair’s briefcase on the dresser, removed the clock radio from the nightstand, and replaced it with another one. “We have cameras that cover the bedroom from two angles.”

Sinclair followed them into the living room, where Cummings fiddled with his laptop. “This has built-in cameras on all four sides, so we can cover the entire room even if you close the lid and power it down. The mic on your phone is also activated, so if everything else fails, we can hear what’s going on.”

Sinclair handed Roberts his extra room card. “You’ll need this.”

Roberts said, “Let’s review the arrest and duress codes.”

“Duress is me raising my hands in a surrender pose or saying gun, knife, Phil, or Roberts. If I want you to make the arrest, I say ‘room service.’ I stay out of the way when you come in unless she rushes for her handbag. Then I grab her or it.”

“That’s it,” said Roberts. “Don’t forget, some escorts carry weapons or pepper spray, so if she goes into her purse quick, watch out.”

“I’ve done this before, remember?” Sinclair said.

“It never hurts to review officer safety. If we see and hear enough for the case, we’ll come in on our own even if you don’t signal. And don’t forget that you’re on video, too, so play along
as is necessary for the operation, but don’t do anything you don’t want everyone in open court to see. We’ll be in the room right across the hall.”

When they left, Sinclair put a three-ring binder filled with financial reports and a legal pad next to the laptop and surfed the Internet until a waiter from Lungomare, an upscale Italian restaurant inside the Waterfront Hotel, brought his pizza. Sinclair read about car road tests as he ate the lamb meatball pizza. It had great flavors, but he would’ve been as happy with a sausage pizza from his regular joint for a third of the price.

He had finished half the pizza when his phone rang. “Our team in the lobby spotted her,” said Roberts. “She’s on the elevator now.”

A moment later, there was a knock at the door, and Sinclair opened it. Danielle had long, blonde hair, probably dyed, green eyes, and a thin face decorated with heavy eye makeup. She was about five-foot-six once Sinclair subtracted her high heels, and she wore a tan raincoat that extended below her knees.

“I’m Danielle.” Her teeth looked extra white next to her scarlet-red lips. “Are you Mr. Gutierrez?”

“Carlos,” he said. “Please come in.”

She closed the door behind her.

“Do you mind if we get the business out of the way first?” she asked.

“No problem.”

“Can I see the credit card you used to make the appointment and your ID?”

Sinclair handed her his credit card and license. She studied his license and looked up at him, obviously matching the photo to his face. She reached into an outside pocket of the oversized handbag she carried over her shoulder, removed an iPhone, and compared his credit card number to something on the screen.

She typed a quick text with her thumbs, put her phone away, and smiled. “We’re good. Do you mind if I hang up my coat?”

Before he could answer, she opened the closet, removed her coat, and placed it on a hanger alongside his raincoat. He knew she was studying his clothing in the closet. She wore a black halter dress that left most of her back bare. She turned to face him, and Sinclair couldn’t keep his eyes from following the plunging neckline.

She smiled, knowing few men would be able to maintain eye contact with her in that dress. “Do you always wear your suit jacket in your hotel room?”

“I just put it on to answer the door.” He laughed. “Now it seems a bit silly.”

She giggled and stepped behind him. Fingertips with long red nails grasped his lapels and slid his suitcoat off his shoulders. “Just relax. We’re here to have fun.”

Sinclair flashed back to Dawn’s autopsy. Her short nails and clear polish were a further indication she was no longer in the same line of work as Danielle. He turned to face Danielle and saw her eying the jacket’s lining.

“Beautiful material,” she said. “No label?”

“My tailor in Beverly Hills thinks it’s tacky to put his name in another man’s clothes.”

She hung it in the closet and walked through the bedroom, looking over her shoulder to ensure he was following. “When I was given your name I was expecting someone different.”

“Someone more Mexican?”

She chuckled. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“My grandfather was born in Mexico, but that’s the extent of my Hispanic blood.” Although Sinclair was, in fact, a quarter Mexican, it was his maternal grandmother who had been born in Mexico. As a teenager, she crossed the border with her migrant farm-worker parents for seasonal work in California’s Central Valley.

Danielle continued into the living room and looked out the window. “Nice room. Are you in town for business?”

“I have a few meetings tomorrow. Then I’m off to Seattle for another meeting the day after that.”

“That’s a busy schedule. What kind of work do you do?”

“I work for an employee benefits firm. We provide—”

“I think you’re more than just a worker,” she said, looking at the table containing the computer, assorted papers, and half-eaten pizza.

“I’m a VP for the company.”

“That must be very stressful. How can I help you relax?” She took his hand and led him back into the bedroom. “Don’t be shy. Tell me what you have in mind.”

“Just regular sex,” he said. “Maybe you on top.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

A successful case required her accepting money and agreeing to an act of sex. That was now covered. But to avoid a defense of entrapment, an overt act, such as her undressing or asking him to, was an added bonus.

She untied the halter around her neck and let her dress drop to the floor. Then she stepped out of her pumps, wearing nothing but lace panties. “Your turn,” she said.

The door flew open and Cummings and Roberts burst into the room, followed by Braddock two steps behind.

Danielle screamed and grabbed her dress in an attempt to cover herself.

Roberts held his badge in his hand and said, “Police. Just relax.” He took her dress, searched it quickly, and handed it back. “Get dressed.”

“You,” Cummings said to Sinclair, “come with me.” Cummings grabbed Sinclair’s arm with one hand, scooped up Danielle’s purse with the other, and escorted him out of the room.

The show for Danielle was over once they were in the hallway. Cummings released his grip on Sinclair’s arm and opened the door to a room across the hall. The makeshift command post was smaller than the suite across the hall. Seated at a desk in front of two laptop computers, each with split screens showing different camera views of Sinclair’s room, was Linda Archard, an FBI agent in her midforties with severely short brown hair and wearing a plain black suit and sensible shoes.

“Forty-six minutes,” she said.

She toggled one computer to full screen, showing Danielle sitting at the table in the living room of the hotel suite with tears running down her face. Archard turned up the volume. Sinclair heard Braddock’s and Roberts’s voices. Although they weren’t visible on the screen, he knew they were sitting at the table across from Danielle.

Sinclair followed the interview by Roberts and Braddock on the computer. They told Danielle they were with OPD and that she was under arrest for prostitution. Their questions collected her personal information: Danielle Rhodes, twenty-four years old, lived in San Francisco in a two-bedroom flat with a girlfriend, worked as an interior designer with an established firm in the city.

Meanwhile, back in the command post, Cummings found Danielle’s ID in her purse, brought up a federal website on the other computer, and entered her personal information.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” asked Sinclair, watching over their shoulders.

They both ignored him. With a cell phone balanced between her neck and shoulder, Archard wrote on a legal pad:
No warrants, no arrest record CA or NCIC.
She slid the pad to Cummings, who was studying a screen filled with hundreds of numbers. He wrote a social security number on the pad followed by
Occupation Interior Decorator Associate. Last year gross $53,382. Deductions: interest on college loan, total outstanding $84,000. No other claimed income. Previous year gross $46,108.

Sinclair turned his attention back to the interview on the other laptop where Roberts was still questioning Danielle.

Roberts asked, “How long have you been doing this?”

“This is my first time,” Danielle said. “Really.”

Fifteen minutes later, she finally admitted she had worked for the escort agency for six months, normally about two nights a week. Sometimes she did up to three calls a night, but most of the time, only one. She made 60 percent of the agency fee, which came out to $240 per call.

Danielle laid out the rest of the financials to Roberts. “If the customer wants a second hour, it’s three hundred and I keep seventy percent. I also keep tips. Most clients tip fifty or so.”

“How’d you get started?” Roberts asked.

“A friend I knew from a club in San Francisco introduced me to a recruiter for the escort service. I can’t remember her name, but she interviewed me and got me set up.”

“Who else have you met at the agency?” Roberts asked.

“No one other than some other escorts when we did parties or a client wanted a threesome.”

“Twenty-three minutes,” Archard said, snapping Sinclair’s attention from the interview back to their room.

“I’m going in,” Cummings said. “Roberts will never get her to roll in time.”

“I should come with you.” Archard looked at Cummings and started to rise from her chair.

“We’ll stick with Braddock,” Cummings said. “You remain here on the computers.”

Archard bit her lip and turned her focus back to the monitor.

Sinclair felt useless. His job was already done. Cummings walked out of the command post with his laptop in his hand and a moment later appeared on the computer screen behind Danielle. After some whispering between Cummings and Roberts, Roberts got up from his chair and Cummings sat down.

“You apparently don’t know how serious this is,” Cummings said to Danielle. “With the video we have, you could be a porn star.”

Cummings slid his laptop in front of Danielle and played back the recorded video showing the back-and-forth conversation that Sinclair and Danielle had just prior to her undressing.

Sinclair heard the door open behind him as Roberts entered the command post.

“You did a great job in there, Matt,” Roberts said.

“Wasn’t much to it,” Sinclair said. “She wasted no time getting down to business.”

Roberts pulled a chair alongside Sinclair and Archard and watched Cummings interview Danielle on the computer monitor. She was crying and near hysterics as Cummings told her she was going to jail for prostitution and that he doubted her employer, a respected interior design firm, would keep her on the payroll. He said the newspapers might print her name, which would surely ruin her professionally.

“What will your family think?” Cummings said. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “Do you have a boyfriend? If so, you won’t after this gets out.”

She continued to cry. Sinclair saw Braddock’s hand appear on the screen with several tissues. Danielle wiped her nose and
eyes, leaving black smudges on her face. “What happened to Carlos?” Danielle asked. “Is he under arrest, too?”

“You need to worry about yourself, young lady,” Cummings said.

“He’s a nice guy with a good job,” Danielle said. “Don’t ruin him, too.”

“Danielle, he’s one of us,” Braddock said. “He was just doing his job.”

“No. He can’t be a cop. He was too sweet.”

“Fourteen minutes,” Archard said.

“What’s with the countdown?” Sinclair asked.

“When she got to your room and confirmed your ID, she sent a text to the agency,” Roberts said. “She then has an hour to tell them she’s out and okay. If she doesn’t, the agency will try to contact her. If they can’t, they send someone—normally a huge, bouncer kind of guy—to investigate.”

“In other words, we have fourteen minutes to turn her,” Sinclair said.

“Thirteen,” Archard said.

“Any report from San Jose PD?” Roberts asked.

“They struck out,” Archard said. “Their escort was an old pro and walked out. They don’t know if she made their undercover or if something just didn’t feel right to her.”

“So it’s up to us,” Sinclair said. “Let me level with her.”

“Absolutely not,” Archard said. “Undercovers don’t interview suspects. And we can’t level with her. If she doesn’t flip, she’ll go back to the agency and spill everything.”

“Cummings isn’t going to get her to roll by acting like a hard-ass. Braddock and I can get her to cooperate.”

“We’ll do it our way,” Archard said. “This is our case.”

“The hell it is.” Sinclair scooped up Danielle’s purse and barged out the door. Roberts followed but didn’t try to stop him. He entered the other room and made his way through the bedroom to the table in the living room.

“What are you doing here?” Cummings said. “Get out!”

“I’m taking over,” Sinclair said.

“We have jurisdiction on this case.”

“It’s a local arrest,” Sinclair said. “Danielle’s our detainee. You don’t even have a federal crime you can arrest her on.”

Cummings’s face turned red in anger. “You’re making a huge mistake, Sinclair.”

Sinclair looked at his watch. “Nine minutes,” he said.

“Let him try,” Roberts said to Cummings. “We have nothing to lose.”

Cummings slammed his chair against the wall as he got up. He stormed around the table and stopped when his face was inches from Sinclair’s. “If you so much as hint to her about an IRS investigation, I’ll have your job,” he whispered.

Sinclair met his stare but said nothing. He took a deep breath, moved the chair back to the table, and sat down. He smiled at Danielle. “I’m sorry I had to deceive you. My real name is Matt Sinclair, and I’m a detective with Oakland PD.”

She sniffled and wiped her nose with a tissue. “I trusted you.”

“I know. I’m sorry. You seem like a really nice girl. Someone I’d like to get to know if we met under different circumstances. I can only imagine how hard it is trying to live in the city on your salary—paying rent, paying off your school loans. I don’t blame you for what you do.”

“It was easy money. I could make more in one night than I made in a week at my regular job. No one gets hurt. I never did anything dangerous or degrading.”

“I understand,” Sinclair said. “Did you know Dawn Gustafson?”

“The girl killed in Oakland? I heard about it.”

“She worked for the same escort agency as you do.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Sinclair pulled Cummings’s laptop in front of him, brought up Special Ladies Escorts website, and scrolled down until he came to Dawn’s photo. He turned it around to face Danielle. “She was known as Blondie here, but her real name was Dawn.”

“Oh my god!”

“I tried to get someone from your agency to talk to me about her, but no one would. I suspect it might’ve been one of her clients who killed her.”

“Oh my god,” Danielle said again.

“We know the owner is Helena Decker. The only way she’ll open up her client files is if I force her to. I’m sorry for putting you in the middle, but we need to catch this killer. Not only for Dawn, but also to protect other women like you.”

Danielle sat there mulling over her situation. A timer tone sounded from inside her handbag. Sinclair looked at his watch. The hour was up.

“But how can I help?”

“First you need to buy us some time to talk some more. What happens if you don’t check in?”

“I need to text within a minute that I’m out or that the client wants another hour.”

“Can you say I want another hour?”

“Cash or credit card?” she asked.

Sinclair removed his wallet and pulled out three hundred-dollar bills.

“One more,” she said.

He handed her another hundred, fished her phone out of her purse, and handed it to her. He leaned over her shoulder and watched as she texted:
I’m fine. Carlos wants another hour. Just gave me 100 tip and 300 cash for 2nd hour.

A moment later, the reply came:
OK. Check in again when you’re out.

Sinclair sat back in the chair, clasped his hands behind his neck, and stretched.

Danielle set her phone on the table. “If I help you, you won’t arrest me?”

“No,” Sinclair said. “All I’m after is the man who killed Dawn.”

“And you’re not going to let me keep this?” she said, fingering the money in front of her.

Sinclair laughed. “I’m afraid not.”

Over the next half hour, Danielle told them how the escort service worked while she ate the remainder of Sinclair’s pizza. She identified a photo of Helena Decker and said she was the woman who hired her. Since most clients paid by credit card, Helena would direct deposit her cut into her checking account every other week. If some paid cash, Helena would take her cut and let Danielle keep the rest. If Danielle got several cash-paying clients in a row, Helena would set up a meet, often for lunch, to collect the money. When they met in person, they’d talk about the work, and Helena would give her advice on how to keep her clients happy and how to keep herself safe.

“Does Helena mention specifically that she knows you’re having sex in exchange for the money?” Braddock asked.

Danielle looked at her, puzzled. “Of course she knows.”

“Yes, but does she say it, or do you say it and she acknowledges?” Braddock said.

Braddock was searching for the necessary legal elements for a pimping-and-pandering case against Helena, which required that Helena must receive money from someone knowing it came from an act of prostitution. Before the DA would charge a case, they needed to get the money transaction and acknowledgment on tape, which wasn’t easy, since some pimps—or a madam in this case—were so careful, never discussing sex with their workers.

“Sure,” Danielle said. “Helena is more of a mother figure, but she used to be a call girl herself, so she loves talking about what the men like and what I do with them.” She looked at Sinclair and pouted. “Sorry, I don’t mean to embarrass you.”

“He can handle it,” Braddock said. “What would it take for you to set up a meeting with Helena?”

“She’d meet if I had a real problem with a client.”

“That could make her suspicious,” Braddock said. “I mean if you were to tell her that Carlos got rough with you or something.”

“She’d want to meet if I collected a lot of cash.”

“What’s a lot?” Braddock asked.

“A few months back, a client paid for an overnight in cash. The next day, Helena said she wanted to meet for lunch. Guess she thought I’d spend the money.”

“How much did you have?”

“The way it works is it’s three hundred for extra hours, but we can agree to two thousand total for eight hours if we’re just sleeping with the client for most of that. So I had two grand, not including a tip he gave me.”

“Did you have to give all of it to Helena?”

“Yeah, but she just wanted to see it. Then she gave me my cut, twelve hundred.”

“If you tell her Carlos wants to do an overnight with you, will she want to meet tomorrow?”

“Maybe the next day.”

“Could you insist on tomorrow?” Braddock asked.

“It might sound weird.”

“Does a client ever ask a girl to go away for a weekend?” Sinclair asked.

“Other girls have done weekends.”

“Would that get Helena to meet with you sooner?” Sinclair asked.

“Bet it would. She’d probably want the client to pay something up front, and if he paid in cash, she probably wouldn’t want me walking around with it.”

Braddock stayed with Danielle while Sinclair, Roberts, and Cummings returned to the command post across the hall. Archard began downloading Danielle’s phone data into her computer.

She spoke to Cummings as if Roberts and Sinclair weren’t even present. “We can have Danielle send a text that says Carlos
wants an overnight and already gave her two thousand in cash. In the morning, we can have her text that Carlos wants her to spend the weekend with him in Las Vegas.”

Cummings said, “That should get a response from them.”

“Are we going to let her go tonight?” Sinclair asked.

Archard ignored him and said, “As I suspected, the Find Your Phone app is installed on the girl’s phone. I’m sure the agency set it up so they can track her.”