Thrill Kill

by Brian Thiem

  “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 t
rying 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.”

  “You mean like, if you don’t pay me this much money every month, I’ll take you to court and make sure everyone knows you fathered a child with your call girl?” Braddock said.

  “Exactly,” the lawyer said. “You don’t think that’s why she was killed, do you?”

  “Certainly a possibility,” Sinclair said.

  Chapter 23

  When they got back to the office, Sinclair called Dawn’s parents. Gene answered, and Sinclair told him about his conversation with Bailey.

  “I knew she was telling the truth when she said she’d have a masters in accounting by next summer,” Gene said. “Please give Mr. Bailey our number. Maybe Cynthia will be open to hearing some positive things about Dawn.”

  “Tell me about the monthly checks you get for Maddie,” Sinclair said.

  “Dawn arranged it a few months after Maddie was born. The local bank set up two accounts for us. One’s a checking account that Cynthia, Dawn, or I could write checks on. Two thousand is deposited there every month. The other is a college fund that none of us can touch before Maddie’s eighteen. Five hundred’s deposited into that every month. Even though Dawn said we should take money out for Maddie’s room and board, it never seemed right. She’s in Dawn’s old bedroom, which otherwise would be empty. We got her on my medical insurance, so there’s not much in doctor costs. And with Christmas, birthdays, and such, we hardly have to buy her any clothes or toys. I have detailed records of everything we spent from the bank account if you want to look at it.”

  “I’m sure everything’s on the up-and-up,” Sinclair said. “Who do the checks come from?”

  “I have no idea. It’s an ACH deposit the first of the month, sort of like a payroll direct deposit.”

  “It must have a name,” Sinclair said. “The direct deposit into my checking account says it comes from the city of Oakland.”

  “All it says on the statements is Charles Schwab and an account number.”

  Gene agreed to send him copies of the bank statements, and Sinclair thanked him and hung up. He would try to identify the source of the money, but he was sure the Charles Schwab investment firm wouldn’t give him anything without a search warrant, and they would be the first of many layers he’d have to penetrate to discover the identity of Maddie’s father.

  An e-mail from Bailey popped up on his computer screen. Attached was a spreadsheet with twenty-four names and contact information for each. The last name on the alphabetized list was William Whitt. The only other name he recognized was Marcus Wright, a fourth-year running back with the Oakland Raiders.

  He called Bianca’s cell phone. “I want to thank you for the introductions last night,” he said.

  “How’d it work out with Jack Campbell?”

  “I’m not sure whether he threatened to destroy me if I didn’t drop my inquiries into the escort service or if he was merely giving me a friendly warning that someone else might destroy me if I continued.”

  She laughed. “That doesn’t surprise me. Jack’s a political animal. He doesn’t want the Democratic machine’s apple cart upset. There are probably some major donors on the list who wouldn’t be pleased to find their names made public.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about you and William Whitt?”

  The line was quiet and Sinclair pictured Bianca composing herself. “What’s there to tell?” she finally said.

  “That you were in a relationship with him, to start.”

  “I’m not sure I’d call it that. You’ll discover—if you get to know me—that I seldom date one man exclusively. The society reporter at the Chronicle might photograph me with one man at the ballet and with another at a fundraiser the following evening. Because I’m seen with someone in public doesn’t mean we’re in a relationship.”

  “Were you intimate?”

  “Gentlemen don’t make such inquiries of women,” she said. “But considering your occupation, I’ll try not to be offended. You probably assume that sexual intimacy implies a particular degree of seriousness in a relationship. I can be intimate with someone without falling in love or even feeling love. It doesn’t mean I’m going steady with him, or whatever the modern term for that is. William is significantly older than I. He’s a charming man, a sharp business executive, and a great philanthropist. He has a level of stature in the community that is attractive. I was fond of him, so I slept with him on several occasions. It was nice, but he didn’t rock my world by any means.”

  “But then you found out he was frequenting escorts.”

  “I’m not judgmental about such things. However, William’s past indiscretions were well known. Years ago, he had an affair with his son’s teacher, which nearly led to his divorce. After his wife’s death, he swore he had turned over a new leaf. When it became known that he was using an escort while attached to me in the public eye, I was embarrassed. I feigned anger and much greater embarrassment for the benefit of my own image and severed my relationship with him.”

  “How did you find out about him and the escort service?”

  “How do you find out about anything like that? Whispers around the country club. Innuendo at a cocktail party. Gossip. Then I asked him directly.”

  “He was one of Dawn’s clients?”

  “It wasn’t my intent to identify anyone by name to you, but since we’ve come this far—yes.”

  “And Preston Yates?”

  “When Helena and I first conferred, one of my first questions was about the names of Dawn’s clients. I needed names to work a deal for Helena. There were too many girls and too many clients for her to know who saw whom, but those two she remembered without going into her records.”

  “Why them?”

  “I didn’t inquire. Maybe because of their status. Maybe because they were regulars. I really don’t know.”

  “When can I expect the client list?”

  “Helena’s doing this alone to shield her employees, and there’s no computerized way to sort the escorts by their clients. She’s doing it manually, looking at each transaction, and writing down the escort with the respective client’s name.”

  “In Dawn’s personal effects was a list of men. Some or all were her clients. Whitt is on t
he list. I need Helena to check each name in her database and tell me if they were Dawn’s clients.”

  “E-mail it to me.”

  “I need it soon. If Helena can’t do this, I have no reason to keep her out of jail.”

  “I’ll have it for you tomorrow morning.”

  Sinclair hung up. He wanted to grab the list Bailey had sent him and drive to the first man’s address.

  Braddock convinced him to slow down. “We don’t know all of these men were her escort clients, so if we interview someone and he denies knowing Dawn as an escort, we have nothing to confront him with. We can try the famous Sinclair bluff, but accusing a group of prominent citizens with prostitution without proof will land us in IAD in a heartbeat.”

  “You know I’m not afraid of IA,” he said.

  “If we think one of the men on Bailey’s list is the killer, we’ll only have one chance to interview him before he flees or lawyers up, so don’t we want to go into this fully prepared?”

  Sinclair knew all this. You always strive to interview the suspect last, because you first want to gather every bit of information possible to use against him in the interview room. Of course, it didn’t always work out that way. Once the element of surprise was gone—when the suspect knew the police were on to him—the methodical investigative steps went out the window and it turned into a manhunt.

  “I hate it when you’re right,” he said. “Let’s split up the list and start doing background on these guys.”

  Only two of the men had an arrest record—a DUI ten years ago and a drunk-and-disturbing-the-peace when one man was in his twenties. When they ran out their addresses in a real estate search engine and vehicles registered to them in DMV, they found one common denominator. Each man was wealthy. Not one lived in a house worth less than a million dollars. Mercedes, Porches, and BMWs topped the list of cars they owned. Marcus Wright had both a Ferrari and a Bentley, which Sinclair figured he could afford after signing a seven-million-dollar contract last year.