Thrill Kill (13 page)

Friday morning, Sinclair was in Dr. Elliott’s office, listening to the tones in his earphones ricochet from one ear to the other. He had called her office at 4:00
AM
after he woke drenched in sweat from a nightmare that left his heart racing for the next hour. Although he wasn’t expecting her to call until normal business hours, she called a little after six and told him to come right in.

He was back in Baghdad, a special agent with the Army CID detachment assigned to a trial program that would handle deadly attacks on U.S. soldiers as criminal offenses rather than acts of war. Sinclair and his partner had identified the Shi‘ite bomb maker who provided the IED that took out part of a U.S. convoy the previous week, and someone a zillion levels above Sinclair decided they should arrest the insurgent and turn him over to the newly formed Iraqi justice system for prosecution. The operations officer for the MP battalion that was assigned the tactical side of the mission detailed a squad of ten MPs to accompany the two CID agents. Sinclair argued a reinforced platoon was necessary, but the captain said their mission analysis determined a squad was adequate. Sinclair was a soldier, and soldiers obeyed orders.

“You’re driving out of the U.S. compound in your Humvee,” Jeanne said. “What’s happening now?”

“It’s hot, over a hundred. We’re sweltering with all our gear on, but Iraqi citizens are out, going about their normal business. We’re headed into a Shi‘ite neighborhood, lots of narrow streets.
That’s why we’re in the Humvees.”
When Sinclair had been told by the MP captain that the MPs’ larger, more heavily armed M1117 Armored Security Vehicles couldn’t get into the neighborhood, his gut twisted again.

“What are you feeling?” Jeanne asked.

“Tightness in my stomach. This doesn’t feel right.”

“What doesn’t feel right?”

“Not enough soldiers. Four Humvees, only two with crew-served weapons. An M-two-forty, and a Mark-Nineteen,” Sinclair said, referring to the light machinegun and automatic grenade launcher mounted on two Humvees. “The MPs think it’ll be a cakewalk.”

“Do you continue?” she asked.

“I’m a soldier. It’s only two clicks out. Hell, I can run two kilometers. The streets are getting narrower. With peddler’s carts on one side, there’s just barely room for the Humvees to get through. The street opens up into an outdoor market. That’s where the bomb maker lives. It’s not yet noon. The shops should be open, but they’re deserted. No kids playing in the street.”

At that point, all the warning signs came together. They weren’t equipped and prepared for the mission they were undertaking. This wasn’t a lone bomb maker living among innocent Iraqis, but a terrorist living in a neighborhood controlled by insurgents. Sinclair got on the radio and told the MP squad leader to abort the mission, cover the courtyard with the vehicle-mounted machinegun, and withdraw the way they came in. Even though Sinclair was a warrant officer and outranked the sergeant, he wasn’t in the MP chain of command, so the squad leader argued with him as the convoy pressed on. By the time Sinclair convinced him of the danger signs, it was too late.

“What’s happening now?” Jeanne asked.

“Boom,” Sinclair said. “An RPG round hits the lead truck in the turret. It stops. Catches fire. All three dead. Two men, one woman MP. They’re screaming, trapped inside the burning truck. Another RPG round hits the rear Humvee. Glancing blow. It’s disabled, but the MPs dismount. Rifle fire from windows above us. One MP’s hit, then another. I bail out, empty my
M4 at the windows, grab a wounded soldier, drag him to cover. My partner’s hit. I blow through another mag. Just shooting at windows. Spray and pray. More explosions from RPGs. Only me and one MP haven’t been hit. Everyone else wounded or dead. I sprint to my truck—the Humvee—get on the radio, yell for help, for medivac. The CP already heard. A reaction force is on its way.”

“What are you feeling?” Jeanne asked.

“Nothing. No time to feel. Fight. Never give up. Shoot. Move. Shoot more. Save my men.” Sinclair began sobbing uncontrollably. “Save my men,” he said again between sobs.

“Matt, what are you feeling now, as you sit in my office?”

Sinclair choked on his words and couldn’t speak.

Jeanne talked him back from the Baghdad marketplace to the mountain lake, the beeps sounding in his ears. It took a while for the stench of the garbage and the smell of burning flesh to dissipate, but Sinclair eventually detected a faint smell of pine trees. She gently removed his earphones and handed him a box of Kleenex. She leaned forward on the edge of her chair and smiled. “How do you feel?”

“Exhausted.”

“That’s normal. You just relived one of the most traumatic experiences imaginable.”

“It felt real.”

“That’s good. We’ve done some great work this session, but we’ll have to revisit this incident.”

“I’m not sure I want to.”

“The next time will be easier. That’s how EMDR works. Your emotional discomfort level was a ten going into this, but you’re now lower, maybe a seven or eight. That’s still intense, but not as debilitating. I think I’m noticing a common theme that surfaces in your traumatic incidents. Do you know what that is?”

“That I failed to save people.”

She smiled. “Very perceptive. That feeling that we somehow should’ve done more is what often allows PTSD to take hold.
Rape victims experience it when they think they should’ve fought harder against their attackers. Combat medics experience it when soldiers die under their care. And of course, when you surround yourself with violence and death as you have—”

“I know intellectually I can’t expect to save everyone, but how do we change the wiring in my brain to understand that?”

She laughed. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Wanting to save people is noble. You don’t have to change that part of you. In our sessions, we deal with the past. That will free you up to better handle what you face in the present. And I’m not talking about just traumatic incidents, but everyday life and relationships.”

“What’s this have to do with relationships?”

“Until you’ve dealt with the trauma from your past, you’ll never be fully capable of the widest range of emotions, which are necessary for deep and meaningful relationships.”

*

Sinclair was on his second cup of coffee when Braddock rose from her desk at eight sharp and walked to the back of the office. She did a small curtsy and handed her car keys to Lou Sanchez, marking the formal transfer of the homicide standby duty to him and his partner, Dan Jankowski. Sinclair normally felt a huge sense of relief when standby was over, but the lack of progress on Dawn’s murder only produced frustration. Although they had only picked up two cases this standby, his inability to sleep left him as fatigued as the weeks when they were called out every night.

Braddock spent most of the day testifying on an old case, while Sinclair pulled old case files of murdered prostitutes and combed through them, searching for anything similar, with no luck. It was four o’clock when he picked up his phone and punched in the number to Attorney Fadell’s office for the fifth time. His previous attempts met with a polite receptionist taking his name and saying Ms. Fadell would return his call when she
returned from a meeting. This time, the receptionist put him through. “Ms. Fadell, this is Sergeant Sinclair. How are you?”

Braddock scooted her chair alongside Sinclair and leaned her head into his phone.

“I’ll be better if you call me Bianca.”

“Does your client have any information for me?”

“She just acquired access to the back-up data and is culling through it while putting out a million small fires in order to save her business.”

“Do I need to light a bigger fire under her ass to make her
culling
the priority?”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll stay on her,” Bianca said. “I was actually about to call you. There’s an event occurring tonight in Oakland—a fundraiser for a consortium of human trafficking nonprofits. There will be some people there whom you might find useful to your investigation.”

“In what way?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, but if I were to introduce you to certain people at the event, you might want to take note of them.”

“I’m not into whatever kind of game you’re playing. Just come out and tell me who I should be interested in and what they know.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be more direct. I’m navigating confidentiality issues, so you’ll have to do this my way for now. I’m certain that there will be several people at this event who can shed a great deal of light on Dawn’s life and may even have had motive to kill her.”

“When and where?”

“It’s at the Scottish Rite Temple. An invite-only cocktail party beginning at six thirty. I’ve been invited and can bring a guest. I’ll have a car and driver for the evening. Where should I pick you up?”

“I’ll meet you there,” Sinclair said. “Don’t take this personal. It’s one thing for me to be seen in public with a defense lawyer, but people would get the wrong idea if I were to drive up with one.”

“Ah, and I was concerned for my reputation being seen with a mere sergeant in the department.” She laughed. “I’ll meet you at the front entrance at six thirty sharp. And Matt, you’ll want to wear your best dark suit. I’d hate for you to feel underdressed.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Braddock said once he ended the call. “I don’t trust her at all.”

“Neither do I, but I think she’s trying to lead us in the right direction without putting herself in the middle.”

“I’d feel better if I were with you tonight.”

“Me, too. But I think I’m arm candy tonight, and you would detract from that.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s trying to show off a new cop she has in her pocket. If there really are some big shots from City Hall and the federal building at this shindig, they’re going to do a double-take when they see you with her.”

“Good,” Sinclair said. “They think they have the escort service’s client list controlled at high levels in the city and federal bureaucracy. I want people to worry about me getting my hands on it.”

“I sure hope you know what you’re doing.”

“So do I,” Sinclair said.

At 6:15
PM
, Sinclair drove from his guesthouse toward the front gate. He wore the same suit he had three nights earlier when it was his job to meet with a high-class hooker. He recognized the irony.

Fred Towers’s Mercedes S550 partially blocked the driveway. Sinclair pulled alongside and saw Walt, dressed in a black suit with white shirt and tie, sitting behind the wheel. Sinclair rolled down his window as Fred exited the house wearing one of his impeccably tailored business suits. “Where’re you two off to?” Sinclair yelled.

“Another fundraiser,” Fred said with a wry smile. “Part of a CEO’s job description.”

“Not at the Scottish Rite, by any chance?”

“How’d you know?” Fred said.

“A long story, but a lawyer for someone connected to my case invited me with a promise that it’ll be beneficial to my investigation.”

“Ride with us,” Fred said.

“I don’t want to stay any longer than absolutely necessary, so I—”

“I just need to be seen, shake some hands, and deliver a check,” Fred said. “We’ll leave whenever you’re ready. Besides, parking’s a beast and Walt can deposit us at the front door.”

Sinclair parked his car and jogged up to the Mercedes. Walt held the left rear door for him. “I’m playing chauffer tonight, so you should sit in the back with Mr. Towers,” Walt said. Before Sinclair could object, Walt continued, “I know . . . but this is the image we must convey.”

Sinclair settled into the soft leather seat as Walt closed the door. Sinclair ran his hand along the real wood trim and stretched out his legs in the long-wheelbase sedan. “You get used to it after a while,” Fred said as Walt drove off. “Who are you hoping to talk to at this little affair?”

Sinclair summarized his telephone conversation with Fadell while avoiding details of the case.

Fred whistled. “If one of the clients of Special Ladies Escorts had something to do with your murder, you’ll have plenty of suspects at this event.”

Even though Sinclair hadn’t mentioned the name of the escort service, he wasn’t surprised that Fred had heard about the sting operation. “What makes you say that?”

“Matt, I’ve heard plenty of whispers in the boardrooms around Oakland and San Francisco over the years about that service. Many highly placed men are quite concerned at this moment. It doesn’t surprise me that Ms. Fadell is representing the owner.”

“Do you know her?”

“Bianca makes it her business to know everyone. I see her frequently on the social circuit, and her firm was engaged in an action against an overseas supplier that PRM was doing business with.”

Sinclair could tell Fred was being evasive, but he wasn’t about to treat him as a suspect and press the issue. “Can I trust her?”

“Behind those pretty eyes is an incredibly sharp and calculating mind. There’s a purpose behind everything she says and does. Even the clients she represents. It’s all about advancing her personal interests and her standing in the legal community and on the society page.”

“So the answer is no.”

“If her agenda is in line with yours, you have a powerful ally. However, even if she’s working at cross-purposes, I don’t think she’ll overtly sabotage you. Preventing the police from bringing a killer to justice only gets points for lawyers who want to do criminal defense work for the rest of their career.”

Walt stopped behind a line of cars creeping toward the main entrance of the imposing granite-faced building. The Scottish Rite Masons were a branch of the Freemason organization. When they outgrew their older building on Washington Street, they built this 110-foot-tall building overlooking Lake Merritt in 1927. In addition to the auditorium, the building included a ballroom that could hold 1,500 people and numerous other banquet and meeting rooms, as well as private rooms for members only. Sinclair didn’t buy into the conspiracy theories that abounded concerning the Masons, and he was less concerned about their veil of secrecy than he was about the same that took place in the back rooms of City Hall and the Police Administration Building.

A stretch limo three cars ahead of them deposited two elderly couples who climbed the stone steps that stretched across the front of the building. “We can walk from here,” Sinclair suggested.

“We should wait our turn,” Fred said. “How we make our entrance is important.”

The driver of a black Cadillac XTS sedan opened the back door, and Bianca Fadell, wearing a long fur coat—surely faux mink to avoid the ire of animal activists—stepped out. She looked at her watch as the Cadillac drove off to make room for the black Lexus that followed. Once the Lexus dropped off a heavyset bald man, Walt pulled up to the curb, opened the door for Sinclair, and hustled around the car to open the door for Fred.

“I had no idea you two knew each other,” Bianca said as Sinclair and Fred mounted the steps.

Bianca turned her cheek toward Fred, who gave her a light peck. “Matt’s been staying in the guest house for a while.”

“Interesting,” she said, stepping toward Sinclair with both hands outstretched.

He extended his right hand to shake her hand and keep her at a distance. A dozen people watched from the top of the steps.

“Despite the rumors,” she whispered, “I really don’t bite.”

She lightly took Sinclair’s left arm and led him up the steps. Velvet ropes corralled people into a single line leading toward the huge metal door, which he heard weighed more than a ton. A tuxedoed man with a clipboard stood at the entrance. “Ms. Fadell and guest,” he said and made a check mark on his paper. Another man in a tuxedo swung the door open.

Bianca slipped out of her fur and handed it to a coat-check girl just inside the entrance. She was wearing another show-stopper—a form-fitting black dress with a plunging neckline—which she tugged down, showing even more of her cleavage. She snatched a glass of champagne from a silver tray as a waiter approached. “Something nonalcoholic for the gentleman,” she said. When the waiter trotted off, she said, “You are still not drinking, am I correct?”

“That’s right,” Sinclair said.

“Probably wise. You’re lucky to have gotten your sergeant rank and your position in homicide back after what happened. As for me, I’m not sure I could live without it.”

Sinclair had thought the same in his early sobriety. Even though he knew he could no longer live with it, he didn’t know if he could live without it. Old timers in AA said that at some point it would be more natural not to drink than to drink. He looked forward to that day. A hundred people milled around in the palatial foyer. Grand staircases on both sides of the lobby led to a wide balcony. High above that, hand-carved wood ceiling panels painted gold glistened in the light from a massive chandelier. Dozens of eyes swept over Bianca, some trying not to be obvious, others not so discreet.

“Let’s work the room,” she said, taking Sinclair’s arm and strutting toward a circle of gray-haired men. “Gentlemen,
I’d like you to meet Sergeant Sinclair of the city’s homicide division.”

Each man introduced himself by name, followed by a firm handshake. Before Sinclair could ask their occupation or how they were connected, Bianca said, “So nice to see you, we must chat later,” and swept him further into the room.

A waiter handed Sinclair a fluted glass. “Sparkling cider, sir,” he said, and he turned toward another cluster of people with his tray. Other waiters made their rounds with trays of hors d’oeuvres: bacon-wrapped scallops, crackers mounded with caviar, bite-size sandwiches, and tiny pastry shells filled with soft cheese. Although he was hungry, Sinclair had never mastered the art of juggling a plate of food, a drink, and a woman on his arm, while keeping his right hand available to shake dozens of hands.

Across the room, Sinclair saw the shaved head of Clarence Brown, the Oakland police chief, towering above the cluster of people around him. Brown’s eyebrows rose and then furrowed when he noticed Sinclair, an unmistakable look of surprise followed by disapproval. “I better go and see him.”

“Yes, we should,” Bianca said.

As they crossed the room, Bianca set her champagne flute on a waiter’s tray and grabbed a fresh one in one smooth movement.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Sinclair,” Chief Brown said.

“He’s here as my guest,” Bianca said before Sinclair could speak. “I thought he might meet some people useful in his investigation.”

Sinclair said, “Chief, I’d like you to meet—”

“Ms. Fadell and I have met,” Brown said.

“Nice to see you again, Chief,” Bianca said, extending her hand.

Brown took her hand lightly.

She turned to Sinclair. “I’m sure you know Mr. O’Brien, the District Attorney.”

“Nice to see you, Sergeant,” O’Brien said. “As you might know, our office has strong partnerships with many of the organizations represented here tonight. We’re working toward a common quest to eradicate human trafficking in the county. Not as dramatic as investigating and prosecuting murderers, but every bit as vital.”

Sinclair smiled but said nothing.

A tall, thin, white man, probably in his midfifties, but with boyish good looks, extended his hand to Sinclair, and said, “I’m Jack Campbell. We’ve never met, but your reputation precedes you. I’m a fan of your work.”

Sinclair recognized the name. Campbell was the US Attorney for Northern California, a presidential appointee and the likely heir to one of California’s Senate seats if Diane Feinstein were ever to retire. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Sinclair said.

“Perhaps we can talk later,” Campbell replied.

“Whenever you wish,” Sinclair said.

“You gentlemen have a nice evening now.” Bianca smiled and led Sinclair away as a chorus of
Bye, Bianca
s sounded from the men.

“Lots of power in that group,” Sinclair said. “Are any of them . . .”

“On the client list?” Bianca laughed. “I wish.”

She crowded in close and turned to face him. He could smell the champagne on her breath. Mixed with her perfume, it wasn’t unpleasant. He struggled to maintain eye contact and not look down into her deep cleavage, where from his angle, he could probably see her navel.

“The prying-open-of-the-checkbook speech is about to begin,” she said. “We should get a better position.” She took his hand and led him through the crowd to the top of one of the staircases.

“This is a good vantage point to see and be seen.” She leaned into him, her firm thigh pressed against his leg.

Sinclair inched away, and she looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. “As you wish. Public displays of affection are clearly not your thing.”

Bianca was beautiful in a sultry sort of way. She would no doubt be totally uninhibited in bed. “I’m a cop and you’re a high-priced lawyer defending a criminal I’m investigating. That would make a relationship extremely dangerous and overly complicated,” Sinclair said, as much to explain his actions as to convince himself. And despite himself, he couldn’t stop thinking about Alyssa.

“First, I’m not proposing a relationship. They’re so old-fashioned. Second, I like dangerous. And third, I thrive on complications.”

Sinclair slid a little farther from her as a man with a thick mane of silver hair stepped up to a podium at the front of the lobby. “Many of you know me from my role with Cal Asia, but tonight I’m here in a different capacity.”

“His name is William Whitt,” Bianca whispered. “He’s the COO of land operations for Cal Asia.”

“The shipping line?” asked Sinclair.

“One of the top three shipping companies between the United States and Asia.”

“Tonight, I’m here as the chair of the fundraising committee of Bay Area Businesses Against Sex Trafficking,” Whitt continued. “We’re a consortium of twelve East Bay corporations that have pledged to match, dollar for dollar, all donations tonight in order to provide much-needed services for victims of human sex trafficking. A number of nonprofits are in dire need of support to provide housing, legal, and counseling services for minors who have been sucked into the life of prostitution. In addition, we need alternatives to the traditional approach of arrest and prosecution for adult women in the sex trade. Everyone who was invited here, outside of the federal, state, and local government leaders with us tonight—because we know the limitations of government salaries”—Whitt paused to allow the laughter to
subside, then continued midsentence—“will be contacted by a member of the committee during the course of the evening. We’ll ask you to open your checkbooks wide, as the need is great. Thank you all for coming.”

Whitt stepped away from the microphone and into the crowd to shake hands and accept envelopes. “Come on,” said Bianca as she led him down the stairs. “You should meet him.”

Sinclair followed Bianca as she pushed through a line of people waiting to meet Whitt. She glided in front of the first acolyte, an elderly woman wearing a diamond-studded necklace that should have required the presence of a full-time security guard.

“Bianca!” Whitt said. “You look lovelier than ever.”

She kissed his cheek and held his hand as she said, “Great speech, William. I’d like you to meet Sergeant Sinclair. Matt’s a homicide detective.”

“What brings you out to such a do-gooder cause, Sergeant?”

“I have a murder victim who worked as an escort, and Ms. Fadell thought I might meet some people who could shed some light on how she died.”

“I’m not sure how we could help with such a sordid act, but feel free to call on me.” He handed Sinclair a business card. His eyes turned to Bianca’s chest. “Call me. We really should catch up.”

Bianca stepped aside and the woman with the diamond necklace stepped up to Whitt with an embossed envelope in her hand. Bianca led Sinclair around the room, trading hugs, air kisses, and handshakes with scores of people, none of whom seemed interested in knowing who Sinclair was. She then directed Sinclair to a man standing alone in the back of the room, scrolling through his phone. Sinclair recognized him as a city council member with whom he had attended police-community meetings on several occasions.

“Good evening, Bianca.” Preston Yates held out a limp hand, which Bianca grasped lightly.