Thrill Kill (14 page)

“Preston, have you met Sergeant Sinclair?”

“Never formally.”

Sinclair took him in as he would any suspect: male, white, forty to forty-five, five-nine, 150–160, slim build, sandy-brown hair, hazel eyes. His handshake was weak. Sinclair was careful to squeeze lightly. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Yates.”

“Please, everyone calls me Preston.”

Sinclair smiled to be polite. Politicians liked to pretend they were ordinary Joes to their constituents, but he refused to be drawn into their pretense. Yates was no friend of the department. He sided with every social issue and voted against every budget item or wage hike for police. Following a violent street protest last summer, Yates was the first politician to publicly condemn OPD’s use of tear gas to break up the crowd. The following night, when the police chief held the police line back to avoid criticism of police brutality as protesters smashed and burned downtown businesses, Yates criticized the police for not taking action. “Councilman Yates, departmental regulations specify I address you by your title.”

Yates maintained the phony smile that was fixed to his face. “I saw your name attached to several recent homicides. Is this indicative of a trend?”

“I leave those predictions to the media and sociologists. I just investigate them when they happen.”

“So then, if the primary objective of the police department is crime prevention, how do we justify spending money on a unit such as yours that only investigates crime after it’s already occurred?”

“That’s beyond my pay grade, Councilman, but if we don’t take a killer off the streets, he’ll kill again, so I guess that’s how I do my part to prevent future crimes.”

“Dawn Gustafson, the woman hung in the park, I understand she was a prostitute.” Yates pushed his hair from his forehead. “Don’t be shocked. It’s my job to know about these things.”

“She was, at some point in her life. We’re still trying to determine whether it had anything to do with her death. Have
any of your constituents mentioned anything about the murder or the victim?”

“It didn’t occur in my council district, so it’s doubtful; however, if I can be of any further assistance, please feel free to contact my staff at any time.” The politician smile remained as he handed a card to Sinclair.

“Charming man,” Sinclair said to Bianca when they retreated to a corner of the room.

“That he is. His name’s being bandied about as the frontrunner in the next mayoral race.”

“Am I right to conclude that Yates and Whitt are two people you thought I should meet?”

She smiled and said nothing. A man dressed in a white shirt, bowtie, and black vest approached them and bowed his head slightly. “Mr. Sinclair, Mr. Campbell would like you to join him in the members lounge.”

“Where is that?”

“I’ll escort you, sir.”

Sinclair and Bianca stepped off behind him. The man stopped and turned. “Sorry, madam, but the invitation is for the gentleman only.”

“You’ve met those I thought you should, Matt,” Bianca said. “Can I wait around and give you a lift home?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “And thanks for your help.”

They took an elevator to the third floor and followed a long corridor lined with paintings and old photographs to a heavy wooden door, which the man unlocked with a large brass key. Two ornate billiard tables occupied the left side of the room. Across the dark-wood floors polished to a high sheen were several groupings of furniture, a few consisting of leather club chairs, while other larger ones included leather sofas. Five men sat in a group next to the pool tables, while Campbell sat with two men who looked like attorneys in a cluster of club chairs at the far end of the room.

Campbell waved him over. “Can you excuse us for a few minutes?” he said to his companions, who quietly rose and
headed toward the billiard tables. Campbell motioned to the chair next to him. “Please have a seat, Sergeant.” Campbell held up a heavy crystal tumbler. “Would you care for a scotch? We have some of the finest single malts in the world.”

“No, thank you.”

The waiter who had escorted Sinclair to the room bowed his head slightly and took his leave.

“Sinclair—that is Scottish isn’t it?” Campbell said.

“My father was English and Scottish. The exact lines became blurred generations ago.”

“Of course.” Campbell swirled the amber liquid in his glass and took a sip.

Sinclair could smell the aroma from where he sat.

“And your mother is Latino?” Campbell said.

It was obvious Campbell had been well briefed. “Her mother was Mexican and her father was American. And you, sir, Scottish?”

“Ah yes, both of my parents trace their lines back to the old clans of feudal times. They weren’t too pleased when I married a beautiful woman of Austrian-Hungarian descent, but I don’t concern myself with such pedigrees as did my parents.”

Sinclair wondered if Campbell was truly impressed with his record and wanted to get to know him better or if this was this just preliminary ice breaking, but he wasn’t left wondering for long.

“The victim in the murder that prompted your investigation into Special Ladies Escorts was a prostitute, is that correct?”

“That’s right,” Sinclair said.

“I’m curious as to why you went to such great lengths—mounting an undercover operation into the service and gathering a mountain of information—when wading through it would take an army of analysts and likely get you no closer to solving the murder?”

“Are you asking why I took on so much work, or why I did so for this victim?”

“I’ve been told about your work ethic, so on that I’m clear, but this victim is not exactly a prominent citizen.”

Sinclair fought to control his composure. “She had friends and family that loved her. I don’t pick which murders to work based on someone’s determination of the victim’s worth. I investigate them all, because in my world, people shouldn’t be allowed to commit a murder and get away with it.”

“So you work as much for society as for the victim. Very noble. I admire that. However, is it practical? In my office, I make decisions about whom to investigate and prosecute daily. Often my decisions have national implications. For example, you’re well aware that under the current administration, police brutality is a major issue. My stance doesn’t please my law enforcement brethren, but the President and Attorney General are trying to reshape the way law enforcement agencies in our great nation do business. One of the ways in which we are doing so is by using the FBI’s civil rights division to investigate excessive force when it falls under federal jurisdiction and by using the US Attorneys to prosecute individual officers when the evidence is sufficient.”

Sinclair was well aware of the witch-hunts by the Attorney General. He announced federal investigations into incidents even before the local jurisdiction had a chance to investigate. “Are you saying I’m doing too much because Dawn Gustafson—that’s the victim’s name, by the way—was just a hooker?”

Campbell took a long pull of his scotch. “What I’m saying is that we all have only so much time, resources, and goodwill. We need to use it wisely. The path you’re taking may consume every bit of goodwill you’ve earned. You must ask yourself if it’s worth it, or if it’s wiser to save up some goodwill for the future. You’re a man of great honor—a noble knight, if you will—but this may not be the battle you want to ride into with sword and shield in hand.”

“May I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Do you have access to the client list?” Sinclair said.

Campbell looked down at his drink for a few counts. He then locked eyes with Sinclair. “What information I have access to is, quite frankly, none of your business. Your question might be more properly posed to your police chief.” Campbell raised his hand and snapped his fingers. The waiter who had brought Sinclair to the meeting reappeared. “Thomas here will escort you back to the party. Tread carefully, Sergeant, you’re too good a man to have this be your downfall.”

Sinclair met Braddock at the office at nine the following morning. It was Saturday, so he conceded an hour so she could spend some morning time with her kids. When Sinclair had left the Scottish Rite Temple with Fred last night, they’d seen Whitt climbing into the back of a Jaguar sedan, giving Sinclair a perfect opportunity to quiz Fred about him. They both were top-level corporate executives in Oakland, and Fred had served on various boards and socialized with Whitt at various events for more than twenty years. Sixteen years ago, Whitt’s wife filed for divorce when she discovered he was having an affair. After a high-profile court battle, which Fred said was in all the papers, they’d reconciled. A year later, she died in a single-car accident. Since then, Whitt had become more active in philanthropy. Fred told him that Whitt and Bianca had dated for a short while a few years ago.

Once he was home, as Sinclair was smoking a Patron Family Reserve cigar next to the pool, he tried to figure out why Bianca would introduce him to Whitt, knowing that he would find out that she’d dated a man who was hiring escorts. She must have had strong suspicions about Whitt to risk bringing her name into the investigation as an associate of his. The presence of a city council member on the client list was another interesting twist, and he wondered if he was one of the people around
whom Campbell was warning him to tread softly. By the time he finished his cigar, he hadn’t reached any conclusions.

Braddock listened intently as Sinclair briefed her on everything he had learned last night. “Was Bianca trying to tell you Whitt and Yates are on the client list?”

“She might’ve been inferring they were Dawn’s clients,” he said. “But we need something more before we drag two men like that into an interview room and accuse them of having a relationship with a murdered escort.”

“That’s for damn sure,” she said. “I’ll start working up background info on them. Maybe something will jump out.”

Sinclair went back to his chronological log, hoping to find something they could link to either man. He stopped at the entry detailing their search of Dawn’s apartment, read the technician report, and scrolled through the photographs of the crime scene. The tech had taken photos of every book in her bookshelf. In one photo, he saw a price tag marked
SF State Bookstore
stuck on the back of a textbook.

Sinclair knew an officer who had retired from OPD a few years ago and took a job with the San Francisco State University police. Sinclair tracked him down with a few phone calls and told him what he needed. Ten minutes later, Sinclair received an e-mail with Dawn’s transcripts and class schedule attached. One professor’s name kept showing up. Dawn had a class taught by Ruben Bailey nearly every semester, including an internship with him last year. A Google search showed he was an adjunct professor at SF State and a CPA in Oakland.

Sinclair called his office on the off chance there was a night and weekend emergency phone number. A male voice answered. “This is Sergeant Sinclair with the Oakland police. I’m trying to reach Ruben Bailey.”

“This is him.”

Sinclair paused. “Sorry, but I thought I’d get a recording or a receptionist at best.”

“Heck, it’s Saturday,” Bailey said. “In this office, only the crazy boss works on weekends.”

“I’m calling about one of your students at SF State, Dawn Gustafson.”

The line was quiet for a few seconds. “I’ve been expecting this call for years. I was hoping she could finish her degree and get a good position so she wouldn’t have to go back to her old life. Where is she, the city jail?”

“When did you last see her, Mr. Bailey?”

“Week before last, but I knew something was wrong when she missed class this week and didn’t show up for work. She works for me part-time, if you didn’t know.”

“Can we talk in person?” Sinclair said.

Fifteen minutes later, Sinclair and Braddock were sitting in a comfortable office in an older commercial building in downtown Oakland. Bailey was a white man in his late fifties and wore a pair of dark-brown chinos and an open-collar shirt. He had an infectious smile and sparkling eyes under thick eyebrows. When Sinclair told him about Dawn’s death, his eyes welled with tears.

“What a terrible waste,” Bailey said. “She was a remarkable young lady with great potential.”

“It sounds like she was more than just a student to you,” Sinclair said.

“To be clear, I knew Dawn was a call girl. I would never engage a sex worker, and I would never cross that line with a student. Detective, do you know how much an adjunct professor makes?”

Sinclair shook his head.

“Thirty-six-hundred a semester. That is for forty-five hours of classroom instruction. A good teacher spends twice that much time reading papers and preparing for class. Add in the time it takes me to travel to the university, after taxes, I make slightly more than minimum wage. Do you know what a CPA bills out at?”

Sinclair shook his head again.

“I make that much in two days. I don’t do this for the money. I love my students. I get more enjoyment from teaching and interacting with their young minds than any other endeavor. And by the way, my wife of thirty-five years has met Dawn, and we’ve had her to the house for dinner on numerous occasions. She thinks of Dawn as a daughter. She’ll be devastated.”

“I’m sorry if I implied anything inappropriate,” Sinclair said. “I knew her before, too, and I agree completely with your assessment. Can we start at the beginning, when you first met her?”

For the next hour, Bailey talked about Dawn. Several years ago, she had signed up for an advanced accounting course he was teaching. He immediately recognized her maturity and poise. She also had a hunger that he seldom saw in students. She wanted to learn, but more than that, she wanted to become a successful CPA. Every semester he selected one of his students for a paid internship with his accounting firm. He selected Dawn to intern with him that following semester. He started her with basic bookkeeping but soon gave her responsibilities normally reserved for certified accountants. She had a gift for dealing with clients, people skills that were rare in CPAs.

Although she was vague about what she did, it was clear to Bailey. She spoke of clients and income that was largely undocumented, similar to tips. He also heard whispers from other students. She wanted to get out of her present line of work, but couldn’t do so until she was able to make enough to live and pay for school. She shared with him an idea to start her own business handling the personal finances of people who were too busy to do so themselves—simple things such as paying bills, depositing checks, tracking personal investments, and maintaining a household budget. Under Bailey’s guidance, she approached a few of her clients. Within a short while, she had twenty personal-finance clients and quit her other job. Each client only required a few hours of work a month, but when combined with one day a week in Bailey’s office, it was sufficient.

Over dinner one evening with Bailey and his wife, she revealed she needed a well-paying career so she could buy a house, regain custody of her daughter, and raise her in the Bay Area. They were shocked to learn Dawn had a child, but it explained her focus and drive. Bailey introduced her to a family-law attorney who was one of his clients, who agreed to help her pro bono.

“I’d like to talk to the attorney,” Sinclair said.

Bailey wrote the attorney’s name on a notepad and passed it to Sinclair.

“Was Dawn’s goal achievable?” Braddock asked.

“She finished her undergrad work last May and was due to take her final exams for her first grad semester next week. She was taking a full load and would’ve graduated in May. I know a dozen companies that would have hired her at close to six figures right out of school. They’d make sure she got the requisite experience and had time to study for the different stages of the CPA exam. Once she was certified, she could name her salary.”

“Was she that good?” Braddock asked.

“Let’s be honest,” Bailey said. “She was runway-model beautiful. I don’t know if she was born with it or it was a skill she mastered working in her previous occupation, but she was utterly charming and knew human nature better than most psychologists. People loved her. She had a three-nine GPA as an undergrad, and I’d be surprised if she ever got less than an A in graduate school. She was the whole package. She was exactly what the big accounting firms and Fortune 500 companies are looking for.”

“You think she went back to her old profession?” Sinclair asked.

“When you called, that’s the only reason I figured the police were asking about her. But actually, I can’t imagine her doing so. She had everything going for her. Her future was right on the horizon, and then there was her daughter.”

Sinclair told him about not finding a computer or files at her apartment. “I need to talk to her clients, especially since it appears she recruited them from her escort business.”

“Dawn used my firm’s software for her work. It saved her a lot of money. Her clients’ files should be on our server. My wife handles the computer stuff here, and I’ll have her look for it. I should call her clients and tell them Dawn is gone. My firm will take care of them until they find someone new.”

“Can you give me a few days to contact them first?”

“Sure,” Bailey said. “Do you think I could talk to her parents? I’d like to offer my condolences and tell them how very special she was.”

Sinclair replied, “I think they would love to hear that.”

*

Once they were inside their car, Braddock said, “We need to find who did this and string him up in a tree.”

It wasn’t like Braddock to talk so strongly of retribution. “And light him on fire?” Sinclair grinned.

“She was a woman fighting to change her life and win back her daughter. I can identify with her.”

“We’ll get him,” Sinclair said. “Or them. I promise you.”

Sinclair put his phone on speaker and called the cell number Bailey had given them for the attorney. When he answered, Sinclair told him about Dawn’s murder and their visit with Bailey. “What did she come see you about?” Sinclair asked.

“Normally, this is confidential, but under the circumstances . . . Let me bring up the file.”

“You’re in the office on a Saturday, too?”

“Hell no. I’m at my cabin in Tahoe. The wife and kids are skiing. All the rain we’ve had in the Bay Area means several feet of fresh snow up here. But I’m stuck inside prepping for trial. Here we go. Dawn was a sweet kid. Such a tragedy. She told me she had a daughter by a man outside of marriage. She signed away custody to her parents and they legally adopted
her in Minnesota. Dawn wanted to regain custody. I advised her to first stabilize her life financially to prove she can support a child and positively put her old life behind her. After that, we’d need to find a family-law attorney who practices in Minnesota to petition the court for custody.”

“She told you what she did?” Sinclair asked.

“She alluded to it. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out she was a high-class call girl and had been the mistress to her child’s father. She said she was currently receiving two thousand a month child support and free rent for a nice condo, which was probably valued at another two grand, plus five hundred into a college fund. She made about twenty thousand a year and the father made $76,100.”

“She gave you that exact figure?” Sinclair asked.

“Yeah. She wouldn’t tell me anything about him or what he did, but I assumed he was a teacher or had a similar government job where the salaries are public information. I plugged the numbers into the California Guideline Child Support Calculator, which showed the father was providing more than required based on the formula. He obviously had another source of income if he was giving Dawn as much as he was. She was disappointed. She asked if the wife of the father counted, and I advised that spousal income is not considered in the formula; however, under some circumstances, a court might determine it is relevant. My advice to her was not to rock the boat. She was receiving more than a court would award.”

“I need to identify the father. Did she say anything else about him?”

“Why don’t you check her bank records? The money had to come to her from somewhere.”

“I will, but that’ll take some time. I think the check’s going to Dawn’s parents and the man may be trying to conceal his identity.”

“I wish you luck. Dawn called me again two weeks ago. She asked if it would make a difference if the man’s wife made more than a million dollars a year. Hell yeah, I told her.”

“I thought spousal income didn’t count,” Braddock said.

“The court can consider it under extenuating circumstances. Say a child’s father was making eight thousand a month and when he remarried, he became the stay-at-home dad in his new family. I’d submit to the court that his new spouse’s income is actually family income and at least half of it should be the basis for child support. Here you have a man making a bit over six thousand a month—not exactly a huge salary in the Bay Area—But his standard of living is based on the much larger salary of his wife. I’d propose, once I had more information about their careers and the stream of income, that his job is little more than a hobby and his wife provides the family income, which he shares.”

“Would that entitle Dawn to more child support?” Sinclair asked.

“I think a court would agree that ten thousand dollars a month would not be out of line, as well as direct payments for everything from private-school tuition, to piano lessons, soccer summer camp, and things of that sort. Dawn could also get enough money going into a college fund to pay for an Ivy League education for her daughter. I offered to take her case with no money upfront, but she was sure the father would do everything possible to keep the case out of court.”

“Did she say what she intended to do?”

“Not directly, but it seemed like she was going to make direct contact with the man and ask for more money. I warned against it and offered to negotiate for her, taking into consideration everyone’s desire to avoid court. If I handle the contact and negotiation, it avoids the appearance of blackmail.”