by Brian Thiem
“Convincing a woman to have sex with you,” Braddock remarked. “This is right up your alley.”
Sinclair gave Braddock a wry smile and turned his attention back to Roberts. “My old ID is expired.”
“The law enforcement section at DMV has agreed to a rush for a new driver’s license. You have an appointment at the DMV on Claremont at two to pick it up. Our contact in security at Wells Fargo Bank is issuing you a new Visa card right now. I’ll pick it up this afternoon. The Feds are working on a clean cell and the backstop of your identity. Everything will be in place by close of business.”
The last time he carried the ID of Carlos Gutierrez had been when he was part of a deep-cover operation into a Mexican cartel that was establishing a foothold in Oakland. He was making his third controlled buy, handing over a briefcase with forty thousand dollars in exchange for a duffle bag with two kilos of powder. After the exchange, everyone was supposed to walk away, and surveillance teams from OPD and DEA were to follow the money. But it didn’t work out that way. The two cartel henchmen decided to kill Sinclair, take the money, and keep the drugs. They pulled guns and ordered him to his knees. Sinclair knew the surveillance teams couldn’t get there in time, so he drew a compact Kimber .45 from under his shirt. When the firefight was over, one cartel member was dead, the other was wounded, and Sinclair had suffered a bullet wound in his left shoulder that would require three surgeries and continued to nag him to this day.
Sinclair thought his undercover days were long over. But this wasn’t like infiltrating a drug gang or buying illegal guns from Chinese Triads. All it involved was pretending he was someone else, something he’d been doing most of his life. He was sure Dawn’s murder was connected to her work as an escort, and the key to solving the murder was getting into the organization. “When do we do this?”
“We’ll meet right here at five to brief and then head to the hotel. Wear your best suit—you’re going to be a high roller.”
Chapter 14
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.�
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“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.