by Brian Thiem
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, Biancas 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.
“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 corn
er 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.”
Chapter 22
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 mark
ed 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.