Red Line

by Brian Thiem

  Sinclair stepped to his dresser and wove the plainclothes leather gear onto his black dress belt: ammo pouch that held an extra magazine with eight hollow-point .45 rounds, handcuff case with stainless steel handcuffs, and matching custom holster. He clipped his badge on the belt in front of his ammo pouch and his phone on the other side in front of his holster. He worked the push-button combination to the small safe on the closet shelf, removed his Sig Sauer, and slid it into the holster.

  Sinclair had finished checking his voicemail and e-mail by the time Braddock pushed open the office door juggling two boxes, a briefcase, and a large handbag. Jankowski rushed across the room to help.

  “You sure move fast for a big man,” said Greg Larsen, a ten-year veteran of the unit.

  “Like a cat,” said Jankowski.

  “Like a lion moving in for the kill,” said Jerry O’Connor, Larsen’s partner.

  Jankowski ripped open a box and plucked out a donut. A gob of red jelly squirted out as he bit into it. He caught it in his hand and licked it off.

  “Looks like you killed it,” said Larsen.

  Sinclair grabbed an apricot Danish with a paper towel and returned to his desk.

  “I’ll never understand you youngsters with your fancy pastries,” said Jankowski. “When I came on, Friday morning donuts consisted of donuts—period.”

  Braddock filled her coffee cup and sat down.

  “You’re not having one?” said Sinclair.

  “Of course not. Pure saturated fat,” she said. “You got an early start.”

  Sinclair briefed her on his morning phone calls.

  “Timesheets are due,” shouted Connie.

  Investigators returned to their desks and the office quieted. Sinclair filled out last night’s overtime slip—eleven hours from when his normal shift ended at 4:00 p.m. until he left at 3:00 a.m. Larsen stood over his shoulder as he filled in the boxes on the form.

  “Only thirty hours,” said Larsen. “Embarrassing standby performance.”

  “Give him a break,” said O’Connor. “He only got back on the rotation Monday.”

  “And we didn’t get our first case until Tuesday,” said Sinclair.

  “Thirty hours of OT in three days ain’t bad,” said O’Connor.

  “Three numbers on the board—high profile ones at that—you should be able to milk them for big bucks,” said Larsen.

  “As long as he doesn’t solve them too quick.” O’Connor grabbed Larsen’s wrist, sporting a gold Rolex, and shoved it in front of Sinclair. “See this?”

  “Nice,” said Sinclair.

  “I got it when you were gone,” said Larsen. “I paid for it with the overtime from three homicides.”

  “It was awful nice,” said Sinclair, “for those three men to give up their lives so you could wear that watch.”

  It was never about the money to Sinclair. Phil used to say money was just another way of keeping score. Most homicide investigators made more in a year than captains and deputy chiefs, who were on straight salary, but the brass didn’t need to climb out of bed whenever one gangbanger decided to shoot another.

  Sinclair and Braddock took the elevator to the eighth floor and walked into the police chief’s outer office. Russell Hammond was talking with a fiftyish woman dressed in a professional gray skirt suit and white blouse. Hammond wore a black suit. Sinclair wondered if it was to show he was mourning. The woman introduced herself to Sinclair and Braddock as Phyllis Mathis and handed them business cards that said she was vice president and general counsel at Children’s Hospital.

  Sinclair hated talking with people in the chief’s conference room. Successful interviews often relied on power. A conference room with views of the Oakland skyline was more Mathis’s environment than Sinclair’s. He got better results when people were on his turf and at least slightly uncomfortable.

  They sat at the far end of the twenty-person table. Sinclair said, “As I’m sure the chief told you—”

  “No opening statement is necessary,” said Mathis. “We’re all family at Children’s Hospital, and we’re mourning the loss of two family members. I’ll answer any questions except for details of the settlement.”

  “Why is that off limits?”

  “In today’s litigious society, hospitals are sued frequently. If our settlement pattern were to become common knowledge, it would hamper negotiations in future cases. A nondisclosure clause is standard.”

  “Was the amount a nuisance fee?” Sinclair had learned that whenever someone tried to withhold something from him, it was the information he most needed.

  “I had a strong case,” said Hammond.

  Mathis smiled. “Our exposure was minimal. Nevertheless, one cannot predict what a jury might do. We made an early offer and the plaintiff accepted it.”

  “What prompted the lawsuit?” asked Sinclair.

  Hammond said, “Dr. Brooks was the first physician to see Samantha. He made an initial assessment that her head injury was secondary.”

  “Which was reasonable with the extent of blood loss and visible trauma in the patient’s chest and pelvic region,” said Mathis.

  “However, he should have had neurology present in the OR to evaluate the traumatic brain injury and initiate surgery immediately.”

  “Dr. Brooks conferred with Dr. Caldwell, who was standing by—”

  “At home,” Hammond interjected. “He didn’t come into the hospital and personally examine Samantha until four hours later.”

  “There was no need to. Standard protocol for that type of injury is watchful waiting for the first twenty-four hours.”

  “However—”

  “Enough,” Sinclair said. “I get it.”

  “As sad as it is,” said Mathis, “there was nothing anyone could have done with the extent of her injury.”

  “There’s always something,” said Hammond.

  Sinclair held up his hands as if he were a parent trying to silence two bickering children. “Why’d Mrs. Arquette settle?”

  Hammond said, “When I initially spoke to her and described the process, I thought she was prepared. As it turned out, other people were more interested in pursuing this than she was. When I presented her with the hospital’s offer, she was ready for it to be done.”

  “What other people?” asked Sinclair.

  Hammond glanced at Mathis before looking at Sinclair. “I think it was Jane’s father and other family members.”

  “What led you to believe that?”

  Hammond shifted in his chair. “I only spoke to Jane once and that was my impression. Most of my dealings were through the family attorney in New York.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “I normally work directly with a client—the plaintiff. But she was out of state and her family attorney handled her personal legal affairs. At that level, a family attorney is accustomed to coordinating a number of legal specialists who handle issues outside his expertise. I’m sure he was not well versed in medical malpractice or licensed to practice in California.”

  “Who is this family of hers you’re referring to?”

  “Her father, Bernard Arquette, is a commercial real estate developer in Manhattan,” said Hammond. “He comes from old New York money. Jane ran the family foundation, an assortment of charities they supported and a few they directed.”

  “Was she married?”

  “I don’t think so. There was no mention of a husband or of Samantha’s father.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “Sure,” said Hammond. “I had to make sure another aggrieved party, such as another parent, wasn’t filing another claim that would muddy the waters. When I spoke with Mr. Horowitz, he assured me there was no father figure in the picture, none listed on Samantha’s birth certificate, and no other person who might have standing in a claim or lawsuit over Samantha’s death.”

  “He’s the family attorney?”

  “Yes, Harold Horowitz.”

  “I’ll need his contact information.”
r />   Hammond copied information from his file and handed it to Sinclair. “I don’t know if he’ll speak to you. These kinds of families are very private. It’s the family attorney’s job to protect that privacy.”

  “Any other family members that you know of?”

  “That’s it. Like I said, most of my dealings were with Mr. Horowitz.”

  Sinclair turned to Mathis. “Have you paid the settlement?”

  “We sent a check the day Jane Arquette signed the agreement,” said Mathis.

  “I FedExed a check to my client for the full amount, minus my commission, a few days later,” said Hammond. “That was more than six months ago.”

  “Just prior to Jane Arquette committing suicide,” said Sinclair.

  “Are you suggesting the money from the settlement is the motive?” said Hammond. “The Arquette family fortune is massive. Jane’s trust is well into the millions.”

  “What trust?”

  “It’s common for people with significant assets to hold them in a family trust. There can be tax advantages and it makes transfer easier upon death.”

  Hammond slid some papers from his briefcase. “We made the check out to the J. Arquette Family Trust. It was endorsed by . . . the signature looks like Harold Horowitz.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “A large family trust is more involved than balancing a checkbook and managing a few mutual funds,” said Hammond. “Attorneys, accountants, and financial advisors are all involved.”

  Sinclair stared out the window. Penetrating the Arquette family and getting answers wouldn’t be easy.

  Mathis asked, “Should I be worried about other hospital employees?”

  “Who else was listed in the lawsuit?” asked Sinclair.

  “The president and CEO, the VP for medical affairs, and two other surgeons.”

  “Two people named in this lawsuit are already dead.” Sinclair thought for a moment. “I don’t think this guy is finished killing.”

  Chapter 38

  Sinclair walked through the door and saw Maloney sitting in the front of the homicide office surrounded by Sergeants Braddock, Jankowski, Sanchez, and Larsen. “What did the autopsy reveal?” Maloney asked.

  “Cause of death due to shock and hemorrhage as a result of multiple gunshot wounds,” said Sinclair. “It didn’t take a medical degree to figure that out. The doc dug out four slugs. All look intact.”

  Maloney said, “I talked to Mary in the lab. She’ll do a rush on your casings and slugs and enter them in the system today if you get them there by two.”

  “I’ll do the lab request and walk it up,” said Braddock.

  “You and Matt will be busy.”

  Jankowski said, “I’ll handle it.”

  Maloney turned to Larsen. “How’s it going with Children’s?”

  “I want to thank you, boss, for this shit detail.” Larsen sat on a desk belonging to one of the homicide suppression team officers. “We met with the security guy, the hospital CEO, and a bunch of other bigwigs. They’re going to send the surgeons and their families out of town. The hospital’s springing for the hotel. They’re arranging bodyguards through a private security company for the CEO and medical affairs chief and their families. O’Connor’s still there coordinating the details.”

  “How long will they protect them?” asked Sinclair.

  “Through the weekend at least,” said Larsen. “They’ll reassess Monday morning.”

  “I want you and O’Connor to stay on this,” said Maloney. “We can’t afford to have one of these people killed.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re forcing us to work overtime.”

  Maloney grinned. “Split it up, twelve on and twelve off through Monday morning.”

  “Ka-ching. I take back what I said about this being a shit assignment.”

  Sanchez said, “I just got phone records and some financials on Brooks, so I’ll get that into the database.”

  “NYPD’s Nineteenth Precinct called when you were out,” Connie said, handing Sinclair a message. “The detective who handled the case was on vacation, but his partner said there was nothing suspicious about Arquette’s suicide. She ODed on prescribed Valium. Everyone said she was distraught over her daughter’s death. She left a note.”

  “Did you think to request a copy of their report?” asked Sinclair.

  “I’m sorry—”

  Maloney glared at Sinclair. Then he said to Connie, “It’s okay. You didn’t know.”

  She smiled, and Sinclair felt like an asshole for jumping on her.

  “From now on, I want someone available to field calls like this,” said Maloney. “Sanchez and Jankowski, you two work it out.”

  “I’ll call NYPD back and try to get that report as soon as we’re done here,” said Sinclair.

  “I know you think you can do everything yourself, but Jankowski can do that. The DC had vice narcotics look into Keller’s hospital drug incident,” said Maloney, referring to the deputy chief of the bureau of investigations. “It was Doctor Brooks—the husband of your latest victim—who caught him. When interviewing folks at the hospital, narcotics learned that Keller worked extra shifts in surgical ICU. He could have had contact with Doctor Caldwell there.”

  Sinclair felt the case slipping away from him. He hadn’t gotten around to reading the paperwork the hospital gave him yesterday. If he had, he would have seen Dr. Brooks’s name on the incident report and would have looked into Keller last night. He hated having other people tell him details about his case that he should know. But there was too much happening and not enough time. He’d been reacting—racing from one homicide to the next. No time to think or plan. Things were falling through the cracks.

  Maloney continued, “Narcotics took the case to the DA and got a warrant for Keller’s arrest. Theft of pharmaceuticals.”

  “Isn’t it unusual to go criminal on something like this?” asked Braddock.

  “The DC wants him off the street in case he’s the one,” said Maloney.

  “If he is, we just shot our wad,” said Sinclair. “There’s nothing to prove he killed anyone, and he’ll either bail on that bullshit charge or the judge will OR him come Monday.”

  “Narcotics got a search warrant for his place to look for any further evidence,” said Maloney.

  “Of what, pharmaceutical drugs?” asked Sinclair.

  “You should be there,” said Maloney “Coordinate with narcotics. Have a look-see for anything else.”

  “And if there’s nothing that links him to the murders?”

  “Then you interview him.”

  “And say what: even though we ain’t got shit to prove you did it, we’d really appreciate you confessing to three murders?”

  “This isn’t my doing, Matt.”

  “Whose fucking case is this anyway, mine or the deputy chief’s?”

  Maloney stared at him for a few counts. Braddock looked at the notebook in her lap. Jankowski looked at the floor. Larsen and Sanchez stared into space.

  “We all have bosses,” Maloney said. “You’re the lead investigator. Don’t give one of your bosses a reason to change that.” Maloney scanned the faces in the room, walked to his office, and shut the door.

  “Takes a lot to piss off the LT,” said Jankowski.

  “I’m sure the eighth floor is putting a lot of pressure on him. Stuff we don’t see,” said Braddock.

  “All I did was ask a question,” said Sinclair.

  “Don’t you think he questioned the deputy chief when he involved himself in our homicides?” she said. “The lieutenant isn’t the bad guy.”

  Jankowski and the others slinked back to their desks. Sinclair felt embarrassed, first getting slammed by the boss and then getting a verbal spanking from his rookie partner.

  “I guess we go see the narcs” Sinclair headed for the door. “Since obviously they’ve solved our murders for us.”

  Chapter 39

  Sinclair and Braddock pulled into the Casper’s Hotdogs lot on
MacArthur Boulevard in East Oakland. He could smell raw onions and hotdogs from the far corner of the parking lot. A burly man with a messy beard and unkempt, shoulder-length hair stepped out of a gray Camaro. Sergeant Ian Powell looked more like a Hells Angel than a cop.

  “I got two of my guys spotting the subject’s apartment. He’s been loading stuff into his car for the last half hour. Looks like he’s getting ready to rabbit.”

  “Does he know you’re watching him?” asked Sinclair.

  “Who knows. We narcs live in a constant state of paranoia about being made. Since two guys are all I could spare, we’re set up closer than I’d prefer.”

  “I’d like to follow him, see where he goes.”

  “A mobile surveillance would take my whole squad. I broke these guys off a multikilo coke deal.”

  Powell held up his finger, pulled a radio from his belt, and yanked out the earbud jack so the external speaker took over. “Target’s starting the engine,” said the voice on the radio.

  Powell said to Sinclair, “Let him go or call in patrol to grab him?”

  “Arrest him.”

  Powell spoke into the radio, “Stay with him if he rolls, direct patrol in for the arrest. Don’t forget, you’re under, so stay out of it. Switch to main freq.”

  Trying to keep cops from involving themselves in an arrest, even when they’re undercover, was like stopping dogs from chasing cats, but Sinclair understood the reason Powell was a hard-ass about this. Sinclair and Powell had worked together as narcotics officers in the same squad nine years ago. One night, a new narc assigned to the unit broke from his undercover drug-buying role to arrest a car thief. Two uniformed officers arrived on the scene to see a gangster-looking man pointing a gun at a teenager. Both shot. The narc died, and the two patrol officers who shot eventually decided to change careers.

  Powell advised the dispatcher of the location and description of the suspect and car and requested marked units for the arrest. She dispatched two units, and two others announced they’d also respond when the dispatcher mentioned murder suspect.

  “He’s starting to roll,” one of the narcs said over the radio. “Southbound toward MacArthur. Black Chrysler Three Hundred.”