Thrill Kill (26 page)

Walt drove Sinclair home from the hospital Sunday evening in the big Mercedes sedan. Sinclair sat up front and watched the full moon light up the city through a clear sky. A few hours ago, a physician who specialized in traumatic brain injuries had explained that even though his physical injuries—mostly bumps and bruises from being thrown twenty feet by the blast—were minimal, the pressure wave passing through his brain probably disrupted its functioning to some degree. Even though the latest MRI showed no permanent damage, the doctor wouldn’t approve Sinclair’s release because he lived alone and there would be no one to notice if he experienced convulsions or seizures in his sleep. When Walt assured the doctor that either he or his wife would remain with Sinclair overnight, he reluctantly agreed to release him.

Sinclair had lost count of the number of visitors who stopped in to see him over the last two days. The police chief escorted the mayor to his bedside to tell him that he and Braddock would be awarded the Medal of Valor once he returned to duty. U.S. Attorney Campbell and District Attorney O’Brien visited together to praise him for his actions. O’Brien assured him that the DA office’s investigation into his officer-involved shooting was just a formality, and his office and the police department would together announce his shooting was justified as soon as
he was up to giving his formal statement. Campbell told him, with a wink, that he was glad Sinclair hadn’t followed his admonishment to tread softly. Countless police officers and federal agents, many of whom Sinclair didn’t know by name, passed through his room, most only to shake his hand and wish him a speedy recovery.

Alyssa came by when she got off shift. She stayed with him most of the evening and never lost her smile even after getting up for the twentieth time so other visitors could come in. Sinclair wanted to talk about whether their relationship had changed after what happened at the Caldecott Academy. But every time he tried to talk to her, another well-wisher showed up in the doorway. She had mentioned that Christmas was eight days away, but he was afraid to ask about her plans. He was afraid she might laugh and remind him that they were only friends, or worse yet, he was just her patient, and that spending Christmas together was something couples did. How could he rush toward multiple suspects armed with rifles and bombs, yet be afraid to risk rejection from a woman?

Walt parked the car next to the kitchen door of Sinclair’s guesthouse and walked him inside. “If you’re hungry, Betty stocked your refrigerator with all kind of goodies, and I can have her make whatever you want.”

“I ate just before they signed me out,” Sinclair said. “What I want first is a shower. Hospital sponge baths don’t cut it. Then I just want to sit in my chair, watch the Raiders finish losing their eleventh game of the season, and sleep in my own bed.”

“While you’re showering, I’ll park the car and grab a pillow and blanket so I can camp out on your couch tonight.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“Matthew, the doctors said you should not be left alone tonight, and we will obey the doctors.”

Sinclair knew it was useless to argue with Walt, so he headed toward the shower.

He had just hung up his towel when he heard a knock at the French doors that led from his living room to the pool area.

It wasn’t like Walt not to carry his keys. Sinclair pulled on his robe and went to the living room to let him in.

On the other side of the door stood Alyssa, wearing a fleece jacket over a sweater and skinny jeans. Sinclair opened the door. “This is a surprise,” he said.

She stepped inside. Sinclair looked past her to see if Walt was there. He wasn’t. Her long, sleek hair was down and the corners of her mouth turned upward. Her entire face was smiling.

“I was going to wait until Christmas morning to give this to you,” she said, holding up a shopping bag. “But I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t wait to see the expression on your face.” She reached in the bag and pulled out a Burberry trench coat, a brand-new version of the Westminster classic that was destroyed in the first explosion.

“Jeez, Alyssa, this is way too much.”

She draped the coat over the back of his sofa. “When I went to the Burberry store in San Francisco and told them who it was for and what happened to your last one, the owner came out and . . . well, he almost gave it to me for free.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing. You’re my hero.” She reached up and kissed him softly on the lips.

Was she also giving him the gift early because she had separate plans for Christmas? Sinclair swallowed hard. “Christmas . . . so what are you doing for Christmas?”

“It’s crazy with my family. Dinner Christmas Eve, the following morning at my parent’s house with my brothers and sisters and their kids. Food flowing all the time. Children laughing. Adults talking over each other while engaged in multiple, simultaneous conversations. Italian families are loud. I hope you can handle it.”

“So . . .”

“If you don’t have any other plans, that is. Everyone’s heard so much about you, and they’re dying to meet you. Oops, that was probably a poor choice of words to use around a homicide detective.”

Sinclair laughed. “I can’t think of any place I’d rather be.”

“But we can also fit in any plans you have with Walt and Fred, or Cathy and her family.”

Sinclair felt enormous relief. He didn’t need to ask her to define their relationship. It just was what it was.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

“A little sore, but otherwise fine.”

“Walt told me the doctors insisted you not be left alone, so I volunteered to take the night shift.” She took his hand, led him toward the leather recliner, and picked up the TV remote. “It’s the third quarter and the Raiders are down by three touchdowns. Make yourself comfortable, and I’ll fix you some hot tea and a snack.”

He settled into his recliner and smiled as he watched Alyssa walk into the kitchen. Remembering the view of her hiking up a trail years ago and her jogging ahead of him a few days ago, he thought she looked pretty damn good in jeans, too.

It’s been a hell of a ride this past year watching
Red Line
make its way to readers while writing
Thrill Kill
. The list of those who helped me along the way includes fellow writers, active and retired police officers, and others who provided support, advice, and expertise to make this story and its characters as authentic as fiction can be: Andy Alexander, Dana Bottenhagen, Robert Chan, Jane Cleland, Bob Crawford, Wendy Cross, Christian Cruz, Carol Healy, Pam Kelley, Jack Kelly, Mike Martin, Lou Norton, Steve Paich, Dan Pope, Don Snyder, Emerson Thrower, Rachael Van Sloten, Shirley Whiddon, and Lynn Wilcox. I apologize to those I missed.

I’m blessed to be represented by the world’s greatest agent, Paula Munier, who holds my hand when necessary, kicks me in the butt when I need it, and teaches me how to write better. I’m doubly blessed to have the greatest New York publisher, Crooked Lane Books, whose editorial director, Matt Martz, and his talented team of editors, Maddie Caldwell, Heather Boak, and Sarah Poppe, made this book and me as a writer many times better, while publicists Dana Kaye and Julia Borcherts helped spread the word about
Red Line
and the Detective Matt Sinclair Mystery Series.

I’m especially grateful for my lovely wife, Cathy. Without her support, understanding, and patience, none of this would be possible or worthwhile.