by Brian Thiem
Sinclair turned to a series of diagrams that indicated an absence of skid marks on the road but a set of tire tracks in the dirt leading from the roadway to the edge of the cliff. The traffic investigator concluded the vehicle was airborne for more than a hundred feet and then rolled and slid an additional 130 feet down the hillside until it came to rest. A statement from a firefighter stated the driver was still in the driver seat area, but the vehicle was crumpled in around her when his team reached the car. Her seat belt was unfastened.
A report by a vehicle inspector found no evidence of brake failure or steering malfunction, but due to the condition of the vehicle, he could not be 100 percent certain it hadn’t been tampered with.
Sinclair poked his head into the admin sergeant’s office and asked about the investigator who handled the scene. He had retired thirteen years ago, a year after Sinclair came on the department, and was working for an insurance company as an accident reconstruction investigator. Sinclair called the phone number the admin sergeant gave him and the retired officer answered on the first ring.
“Yeah, I remember that one like it was yesterday. Not every day we get that kind of crash.”
“Any suspicions about the husband?” Sinclair asked.
“I remember they were going through a divorce and just had a spat earlier that day, but the husband had an alibi. Besides, cutting brake lines or tampering with steering only works in the movies. Ya know what I think?”
“That’s why I called.”
“I put down the speed as sixty, but that’s the minimum. I think she was doing closer to eighty. She couldn’t have taken the previous curve at much above thirty, so I think she punched the pedal to the metal when she came out of that turn, pointed the car at the cliff, and rocketed off into space.”
“You think it was suicide?”
“I’d seen it before. People with terminal diseases who smash into a tree at seventy. I would never put that in a report unless I could prove it, because it messes up people’s insurance settlements and stuff. Some strict priests won’t even bury suicide victims in a Catholic cemetery. But the woman had lived there for years. She knew those roads like the back of her hand. The visibility was perfect, the road was dry, there were no indications of mechanical issues, and no skid marks or debris to indicate someone ran her off the road.”
“Did you look for a suicide note?”
“Nothing in the car. I asked the husband and he denied it. It’s not like a homicide. We don’t get a warrant to search a house and stuff like you guys do. Single vehicle accident, no one at fault other than the driver who’s dead. Case closed.”
Sinclair went back to the office, and Braddock returned a few minutes later with an inch-thick stack of paper.
“This is a copy of the entire court file,” she said. “I skimmed through it, and it looks like Whitt was being up-front with us. His wife’s lawyer put him through the ringer. They deposed Lisa Harper, who was only twenty-six back then, and asked her about every lurid detail of the affair, which amounts to about twenty pages of questions about their sex life.”
“Sounds unnecessarily cruel to me,” Sinclair said.
“Yeah, but pissed-off wives love to use their divorce lawyers to beat up cheating husbands. What better way to punish him than to ridicule the girlfriend?”
“Anything else interesting?”
“Susan wasn’t employed outside the home. The financial assets report put his net worth around five million, not too shabby for back then. She was asking for the house, half of all investments, forty thousand a month spousal support for the rest of her life, full custody of their son, and another twenty grand a month child support.”
“Hell, if she were our murder victim, I know who would’ve had plenty of motive to kill her.”
Sinclair called Harper’s school, found out her class had the early lunch period, and decided to make another run at NorCal in the meantime. They drove the six blocks to the city center complex, parked their car in a loading zone, hung the radio mic off the mirror to prevent a ticket or tow, and took the elevator to the top floor of the twenty-four-story building. They were bounced from person to person for an hour, finally landing in an office with a window. A fiftyish woman wearing a high-necked white blouse sat behind a desk with a nameplate reading Alice Chan. Sinclair told their story for the fifth time.
“NorCal developed that property and sold all of the condominiums in the building about ten years ago,” Chan said.
“Unit four-nineteen is still owned by NorCal,” Sinclair said.
“Who told you that?”
Sinclair told her again about the two maintenance workers employed by NorCal entering the unit to clean it out.
She picked up her phone, spoke softly, listened, and hung up. “You’re right, maintenance was dispatched there.”
“NorCal still owns the building, right?” Sinclair asked.
“Yes, but each unit is individually owned.”
“Every condo owner must pay a homeowner’s association fee to you to maintain the building and common areas, right?”
“Of course.”
“Who here has the list of those condo owners?”
“That would be the property management office.”
“And who can I speak to there?”
“I’m the assistant department head for property management,” Chan said.
Sinclair would’ve laughed if his business weren’t so serious. “Where do you keep the list of condo owners, Ms. Chan?”
“The information is on our computer server.”
Sinclair felt as if he were speaking to a child. “Do you have access to that data?”
“I do.”
“May I see it?”
“That’s confidential information. You need a court order.”
Sinclair took a deep breath and exhaled loudly to show his frustration. “There’s nothing confidential about a business owning property. These aren’t medical records or something of the sort. If you are refusing to cooperate with the police, it’s because you’re hiding something. Is NorCal listed as the owner of four-nineteen?”
“Yes.”
Chan’s performance reminded him of his first few times being cross-examined in court, when the DA instructed him to only answer what was asked and offer absolutely nothing more.
“Ms. Chan, I’m pleased that we’re making such progress,” Sinclair said. “Since we’re in agreement that NorCal owns it, my next question is who in NorCal is in charge of the unit? Now remember, I told you a woman was murdered there, so I need to find out who it is that gave my murder victim permission to live there.”
“I don’t know.”
Sinclair believed her. “Who at NorCal would know the answer to that?”
She sat there passively.
“Let me phrase this another way. Is there anyone besides Sergio Kozlov that would know the answer to my question?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’d like to see Mr. Kozlov.”
“You’ll have to call his personal assistant to arrange that.”
Sinclair had Chan dial the number. A pleasant woman answered the phone and said Mr. Kozlov was unavailable, but she would take Sinclair’s name and number, confer with Mr. Kozlov, and call back to arrange an appointment. Sinclair doubted he’d ever get a call.
When they got on the elevator, Sinclair pressed eighteen.
Braddock said, “That was bizarre.”
“I’ve known CIA officers who were more forthcoming.”
When the elevator opened on the eighteenth floor, Braddock looked around the lobby and fixed her eyes on the long marble reception desk where two people were seated. “Why are we here?”
“You remember Fred Towers, the man who owns the estate where I live?”
“Fred? Sure.”
“This is his company.”
A receptionist led them down a corridor lined with offices to a corner office with an open door. Fred was sitting at a round table in the corner of
the spacious room, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up two turns. When Sinclair and Braddock entered, the three men who were seated with him rose.
“Let’s meet again at four, and you can show me what you came up with,” Fred said to the men as they filed out of the office. “Coffee?” he asked Sinclair and Braddock.
They both accepted, and the receptionist turned and left. Lake Merritt and the Oakland Hills were visible through the window beyond the massive mahogany desk and credenza centered toward the back of the wood-paneled room. Fred led them to the opposite corner, where a leather sofa and three chairs surrounded a low mahogany table.
“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Fred asked.
Sinclair recited his experience at NorCal.
Fred chuckled. “NorCal owns this building and a number of other ones throughout the Bay Area. They’re also in the development phase for a half dozen other properties, the most significant being the Global Logistics Center on the site of the old army base. Every other property management company I know selects one of the lower floors for their offices. The top floor always commands the highest rent, so it makes financial sense to lease that to a paying client and one with significant name recognition. Sergio Kozlov took the entire top floor for himself.”
“It sounds like Mr. Kozlov is more concerned with prestige than the bottom line,” Braddock said.
“Prestige, ego, power: those are all words that other business leaders in Oakland bandy about when they discuss Sergio,” Fred said.
“How do I get in to see him?” Sinclair asked.
“He emigrated from Russia in the nineties, so nothing American police can do scares him, and he has plenty of lawyers at his disposal. His reputation, however, is important to him, so if someone in a high place, such as your police chief, were to ask him nicely, he’d probably respond.”
“If he was giving a politician a perk, such as a free apartment, would he admit it?” Sinclair asked.
Fred laughed. “Not to you, but he might hint around to the old boys club that he was doing so. Who do you think he has in his pocket?”
“I shouldn’t say,” Sinclair said. “Is he the kind of businessman who would buy off politicians?”
“Matt, you’re talking such shades of gray. If you’re asking whether Kozlov and his company support the city and probably get more access to elected officials as a result, well sure. So does my company. Is he a little more direct in his dealings with local government? I’m sure he is. Would he come right out and tell elected officials he’ll give them X in exchange for Y? I don’t think he’s that dumb.”
“Is there anyone in Oakland City Hall who comes to mind that Kozlov has especially close ties with?”
Fred leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “You know I respect your oath and love you like a son, but I have to do business in this city.”
“I didn’t mean to put you in a tight spot,” Sinclair said. “I’d never mention your name or directly use anything you told me. This is only background so I can navigate through terrain that’s totally foreign to me.”
Fred leaned back in his chair. “You spoke to him at the fundraiser. I’m sure that’s why Bianca introduced you.”
“Preston Yates?”
Fred nodded.
“How about William Whitt?” Sinclair asked. “Is he close to Yates?”
“William’s an old-school businessman. He glad-hands all the elected officials, but he’d never buy a politician.”
“Would he and Kozlov know each other?”
“Sure. Their companies have been negotiating for years over the Global Logistics Center. Kozlov is developing it, and Cal Asia hopes to be their primary tenant.”
Chapter 29
Sinclair wasn’t surprised to encounter locked doors at the entrance to Caldecott Academy. Although private schools were not as frequent targets of school violence as public ones, they were not immune, and even though the school was nestled in the redwoods not far from Montclair Village, the crime and violence that plagued the Oakland flatlands were only a ten-minute car ride away. He and Braddock stood in a covered alcove facing two reinforced glass doors. To their left was a thick glass window similar to what many inner-city banks place between their tellers and the customers. A tall, thin woman wearing large, black-framed glasses smiled at them. “May I help you?”
Sinclair pulled his badge from his belt, held it up to the window, and said, “Sergeants Sinclair and Braddock. I called about seeing Lisa Harper.”
Sinclair pulled open the door when it buzzed and made an immediate left into the office. A waist-high counter separated a waiting area with six chairs from an open office area with three desks, behind which were two closed doors, labeled Headmaster and School Counselor. “Mrs. Harper’s expecting you. Make a left out the door, take your first right, and follow the hallway to room fourteen.”
The hallway was empty but filled with a steady din of laughing and screaming kids coming from the direction they headed. “Tell me again why we’re talking to Harper?” Braddock asked.
“To verify Whitt’s story.”
“Tell me again why we’re focusing on Whitt?”
Her questions caused him pause. They had originally interviewed Whitt not because they thought he was the killer, although Sinclair couldn’t rule him out, but because they thought he knew Dawn better than her other clients and could provide useful background. Although they hadn’t talked about it, Sinclair figured Braddock shared his suspicions. After they were stonewalled at NorCal, Sinclair grew more suspicious of Kozlov, and once Fred explained how Whitt, Yates, and Kozlov were intertwined, his suspicions grew. Now he wondered if he had gone off on a tangent when the real trail to the killer was elsewhere.
“Can you just bear with me while we talk to her?” Sinclair asked. “When we’re done, we’ll head back to the office and figure out what direction we want to head in.”
“It’s your case, but if you shared with me what you were thinking occasionally, maybe I could help.”
She was pissed off. He’d worry about it later. Sinclair pushed open the door to room fourteen. Four rows of desks took up the center of the room. Windows on one wall. A wall of whiteboards filled another. Bulletin boards covered with bright artwork, posters, letters, and other stuff covered the other two walls. A trim woman with long, blonde hair, deep-blue eyes, and a wide smile sat behind a desk in the front of the room.
“Hi, I’m Lisa Harper. Pull up a desk. They’re a bit small, but it’s all I have.” Harper described her affair with Whitt much as Whitt and the court documents had. When she finished, she said, “There’s no excuse for what I did. Getting involved with a parent is bad enough, but what was worse was the impact it had on Travis and my other students. In my profession, it’s all about the children, and I had forgotten that. Once the shock of what I had done wore off, I entered therapy. It turned my life around. I married a solid man twelve years ago and have two wonderful children.” She paused and smiled. “In addition to twenty-three wonderful fourth graders.”
“I understand Mr. Whitt subsidized your salary after the incident,” Sinclair said.
Harper brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “He gave me two thousand dollars a month to make up for the lower pay. It was a nice gesture and much needed for a while, but I was responsible for my choices. A few years ago, I mailed a check back to him and told him to stop sending them. My husband does very well, and quite honestly, I don’t teach for the money.”
“Have you had much contact with him?”
“After the divorce hearings were finished, I never saw him or spoke to him again. At the suggestion of my therapist, I wrote him a letter as a sort of closure and apologized for my part in the affair. He wrote something back. Except for a short note when I returned his check, that’s the last contact I had with him.”
Sinclair pulled a photo of Dawn from his folio. “Do you know her? Her name’s Dawn Gustafson.”
Harper shook her head.
Si
nclair pried himself out of the student desk and walked toward the door with Braddock. Harper followed and said, “The girl you showed me—is that who was killed?”
“Yeah,” Sinclair said.
“Do you think William was involved?”
“Do you think he’s capable of it?”
“I don’t know. I try not to psychoanalyze others, but William was never violent and never even exhibited a temper.”
On a bulletin board by the door were a series of black-and-white photos of a young woman in various ballet moves. In one, the ballerina’s right leg was stretched high and her head was turned to the side and looking upward. The similarity to how Dawn’s body was posed in the park was uncanny. Below were color photos of Harper, wearing leotards and surrounded by grade-school-age girls in dance clothing. “Is that you in the black-and-white photos?” Sinclair asked.
“Yes.” Harper smiled. “In my teens, I dreamed of being a professional ballerina, but I wasn’t good enough. Instead, today I share that dream with young girls by teaching them the joy of dance.”
Harper continued as Sinclair grabbed the doorknob: “My biggest regret is the damage we caused to Travis. His father’s affair and his mother’s suicide were hard on him. Like many kids, he blamed himself.”
“Who told you it was a suicide?” Sinclair asked.
“Travis thought for the longest time it was an accident, but he recently found out she intentionally killed herself.”
“You’re in contact with Travis?” Sinclair asked.
“My therapist suggested I write a letter to Travis as well. When he turned eighteen, I did. He wrote back, and we corresponded for a year or so, and about a year ago, he called me—just to let me know he was doing well. I keep in touch with many of my students. Travis and I have since talked on the phone several times. He’s a computer engineer and doing well professionally. He’s had therapy himself, and he told me he’s in a nice, healthy relationship with a girl his age and has reconciled with his father.”