by Brian Thiem
“All relationships are,” she said.
“Including you and Ryan?”
“We work to keep it simple.”
Sinclair returned his attention to the reports on his desk.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but are we working through the night or cutting out in a few hours?” Braddock asked.
“Unless a hot lead materializes in this pile of paper, we should get a good night’s sleep and come in fresh tomorrow. Why?”
“Friday night’s movie night at my place. Tonight it’s Toy Story.”
Although Sinclair and his ex-wife had talked about having kids when they first married, their careers and then Sinclair’s drinking eventually consumed their lives. The closest he remembered to a movie night from his childhood was watching TV with his two younger brothers while his father, passed out from two or more six-packs of beer, snored in the Barcalounger. The image he pictured at Braddock’s house was different, the way he and his ex had once envisioned their future. But that was the past. His childhood was over, and he had screwed up his marriage.
They went back to their paperwork, and at six o’clock, Braddock, Jankowski, and Sanchez left, agreeing to meet in the office at seven the following morning. An hour later, Sinclair realized he had reviewed a two-page supplemental report and couldn’t recall a word he’d read. He called Liz and told her he was on his way, turned off the lights, and walked out the door.
He rolled down the car window and let in the cool night air as he drove down Broadway. Friday night in Jack London Square, all the restaurants were buzzing and cars were stacked up waiting for valets. Couples walking arm-in-arm, not a care in the world. He called Walt, got his voicemail, and left a message that he was sober another day and would try to get to a meeting tomorrow.
Liz was scooping Chinese food from cardboard containers into bowls when he got there. She wore loose-fitting fleece pants and a tank top without a bra. She pressed herself against him, pulled him tight, and kissed him.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Thinking about the case.”
“Let’s eat, and then I’ll do my magic to take your mind off it.”
She carried the food to the coffee table and then returned to the kitchen for plates and silverware.
“What would you like to drink?”
“Water’s fine.”
Sinclair spooned rice and Mongolian beef onto his plate. Liz set a glass of water in front of him and a half-full bottle of Pinot Grigio and a wine glass on her side of the glass table. When Sinclair had quit drinking, he knew he had no right to expect the rest of the world to do the same. He had two choices: to socialize only with the small percentage of people who didn’t drink or accept alcohol and drinkers even though he couldn’t imbibe. Although he stopped hanging out at bars and frequenting events that centered on drinking, drinking in moderation by others didn’t normally bother him. Right now, he could smell the aroma and almost taste the crispness as she took her first sip.
“I’m still wired from the five o’clock broadcast,” she said. “The news director asked me to sit at the anchor desk and narrate the cuts of you from the press conference. The questions and my responses were all prepared beforehand, but when I invited the bus bench killer to tell us his motivation so the viewing public could understand, it was surreal—like I was talking directly to him.”
“You did what?”
“You said all those negative things about him and how no one could possibly understand his reasons for doing what he did. I offered to listen and tell his side.”
Sinclair put his fork down. “You were addressing him, as if he were listening? What could he or anyone say to justify killing innocent people?”
“It’s for ratings, silly. Besides, every story has more than one side.”
“In this case, one side is deranged and sick.”
“People have the right to hear divergent views.”
“Are you telling me you’d really put some narcissistic killer’s rationalization on TV?”
“Not that I could ever pull it off, but if I could get an interview with him, sure. It’s news. In college, we watched Stone Phillips’s interview with Jeffrey Dahmer. It was one of the most highly rated specials that year, a major coup for NBC.”
“That was after they caught him.”
“It wouldn’t be sensationalizing it—just reporting the facts.”
“This guy is probably out there right now planning his next killing, and I don’t know enough to stop him. Meanwhile, you’re—”
“I thought—”
“You thought we were withholding this guy’s identity. That we’re hiding how close we are to catching him. This isn’t some kind of game about whether your station or CBS or ABC gets the highest ratings or the best scoop on the bus bench murders. This is about four people dead so far and probably more to come.”
Sinclair got up, walked to the sliding glass door, and peered into the darkness.
Liz came up from behind and wrapped her arms around him. He felt her breasts pressing into his back, her warm breath and soft lips on his neck. Her hands rubbed his chest.
“I’m sorry, Matt. I thought you’d be excited for me. I didn’t realize how much this case has affected you.”
Her fingertips danced along his abdomen and slid under his belt.
“Come in the bedroom and I’ll take your mind off this and everything else troubling you.”
Sinclair’s phone vibrated. He removed it from the case on his belt and looked at the screen. “I’ve got to take this.” He stepped onto the patio and closed the door behind him.
Chapter 42
Sinclair took the freeway exit at Grand Avenue and lowered both front windows. The air blowing through the car dried the slick coating of sweat on his face. He didn’t know what overcame him at Liz’s apartment and worried he was having some kind of panic attack. He remembered the counselors at rehab warning them about becoming hungry, angry, lonely, and tired—the acronym HALT—and how that could set them up for relapse. All but hungry applied to him at that moment.
Walt’s phone call had snapped him back to reality. Standing on Liz’s balcony, Sinclair unleashed his jumbled thoughts over the phone. When he finished, Walt said, “You need to get out of there . . . now.” Sinclair left Liz standing there with a bewildered look on her face as he hurried out the door.
Sinclair turned onto Sea View Avenue, looking for Walt’s house number. A tiny city of less than two square miles, Piedmont was surrounded by Oakland yet was an independent city with its own police and fire departments and other services. When incorporated in 1923, it was known as the City of Millionaires, with the most millionaires per square mile of any city in the country. Compared to Oakland, Piedmont had no real crime, and Sinclair rarely had a reason to drive into the residential community nestled in the Oakland Hills.
It was obvious to Sinclair that many of those millionaires must have built their mansions on Sea View Avenue as he passed one massive old house after another. He spotted the number on a brass plate attached to one of the stone pillars guarding the driveway and pulled his car up to the ornate metal gate. Before he could figure out the keypad and speaker box alongside his window, he noticed a security camera pointed at him, and the gate clicked and rolled open on a motorized track. An immense Beaux Arts–style mansion was set well back across a lawn the width of a football field. It reminded Sinclair more of a nineteenth-century library or courthouse than a residence. He parked his car in the circular driveway and went up the granite steps to the two-story portico supported by four columns. Walt smiled and held the door open for Sinclair.
“I had no idea you lived—”
“My wife and I are just the caretakers. The house belongs to Frederick Towers.” Walt led Sinclair across the marble floor of the foyer and past a sweeping stairway.
Sinclair recognized the name. Towers was the CEO of one of the largest corporations headquartered in Oakland and one of the city’s most influential bu
sinessmen.
“Frederick Towers of PRM?” asked Sinclair, as he followed Walt through a dining room and around a long table surrounded by sixteen chairs.
“The older gentleman who often rides with me to meetings at the rec center.”
“That Fred is Mr. Towers?”
“He’s in Japan on business but asked me to give you his regards.”
Walt pushed through a swinging door and stepped into a kitchen that looked like it belonged in an upscale restaurant: giant Wolf gas range, a Sub-Zero refrigerator/freezer bank the size of four normal refrigerators, two dual ovens, and what looked like acres of stainless steel countertops.
“Last week I was at a meeting,” said Walt. “On my right sat Fred, who lives in this ten-thousand-square-foot home. Jerry, who sleeps under a freeway overpass, sat on my left. At the meeting, Fred spoke about his struggles dealing with his wife’s death on what would have been his fortieth wedding anniversary. Jerry came up to him after the meeting and shared a similar experience and how he got through it. It was exactly what Fred needed to hear.”
Walt pulled two mugs from the cabinet. “Decaf or regular?”
Over three cups of coffee, Sinclair told Walt about his relationship with Liz, his divorce, his work stress, and finally about his statement to the press.
“Back when I was practicing, I did a number of court-appointed examinations of criminal defendants.”
“I thought you specialized in PTSD,” said Sinclair.
“I was one of several psychologists on the court list.”
“How many did you get off?”
Walt grinned. “None. I diagnosed some with PTSD based on their symptoms and case histories, but in no instance did the disorder negate their ability to exercise free choice. They all decided to commit their crimes.”
“My killer makes deliberate and calculating choices too.”
“You don’t need a degree in psychology to understand the criminal mind. I suspect you’ve spent many more hours talking with criminals than most forensic psychologists. You understand this killer better than anyone. You know what makes him tick. Trust your intuition.”
“It’s just a hunch.”
“It’s telling you something that the rational part of your brain can’t substantiate.”
“I’m pretty sure the motive for the three murders this week has something to do with what happened to the girl a year ago.”
“What are the most common motives for murder?”
“Love, lust, greed, revenge,” said Sinclair. “Quite often the reasons overlap.”
“What did the murder victims do or fail to do to make someone want to kill them?”
“The victims didn’t do anything. The victims are the loved ones—a son and two wives—of men who failed Samantha in some way. Two doctors who didn’t save her life and an attorney who didn’t win a huge settlement.”
“It sounds as if you’ve zeroed in on revenge as the motive.”
“There’s a lot of money involved in the family estate,” said Sinclair. “But from what I know right now, I don’t see money as the motive.”
“Revenge is a powerful motivator.”
“I know that understanding people’s motivation is really important to psychologists, but it’s only real value to me is if it points me to the identity of the killer.”
“Understood,” said Walt. “So, who would want to hurt doctors who didn’t save Samantha and a lawyer who settled a lawsuit over her death?”
“Someone who cared about Samantha. Obviously her family, but her mother’s dead and I don’t know of any other family members other than a very wealthy grandfather who appears to be the patriarch of the family. Then there’s Jenny’s family. She was the other girl raped and left on the bus bench that night. Her mother’s pretty unhappy about how this affected Jenny and was a good friend of Samantha’s mother, who committed suicide, presumably over the death of Samantha.”
“Could a woman have committed these murders?”
“The killer, assuming he acted alone, had to be someone strong enough to carry bodies from where he killed them to the bus bench. Jenny’s mother couldn’t do that. Besides, she doesn’t strike me as a killer. Both families are really well off, so I can’t rule out the possibility they hired someone to do this.”
As he said that, he didn’t believe it. The killings didn’t feel like murders for hire. They felt personal.
“I’ll bet if you were to sit down with those close to the girl and her mother, you’d recognize the killer among them.”
“I think the key to this lies with the Arquette family, and they’re all in New York and well connected.”
“More coffee?”
A clock chimed in another room. Sinclair looked at his watch—ten o’clock. “I better get home.”
Walt carried their mugs to the sink. “I saw the five o’clock news. When you poke a hornet’s nest, you must remember they can be unpredictable little buggers.”
*
At home, Sinclair grabbed a diet Sprite and sunk into his recliner. He needed to shut off his brain before sleep was possible. The day had stirred up feelings, but Walt helped him redirect his thoughts to the case. He kicked off his shoes and grabbed a pen and pad off the end table. When hundreds of pieces of information and random thoughts swirled around his head during an investigation, he found putting them on paper brought focus to the clutter. He listed the people he needed to conduct a full background on and interview: Donna Fitzgerald and her husband; Bernard Arquette, his wife, and any other family he could dig up; and the attorney, Harold Horowitz. Maybe he’d watched too many mafia movies, but something about Horowitz didn’t feel right. Satisfied, Sinclair started writing a list of steps he could take tomorrow to learn more about Jenny and Samantha’s family.
Chapter 43
The man switched on the TV and DVR, scrolled through the recorded programs to the five o’clock news, and hit play.
The news anchor introduced the bus bench murders as the top story. Standing in front of Dr. Brooks’s house, Liz reported the latest murder. After a few sound bites from the chief and public affairs officer, Sinclair approached the microphone.
“Asshole,” he whispered to the television when Sinclair left the podium. He hit rewind and watched it again.
Once the detective left the screen for a second time, the anchor returned, “It sounds as if the police have a good idea who is responsible for these heinous crimes, is that right, Liz?”
Elizabeth Schueller sat in the chair normally reserved for the coanchor. “They won’t say they have a suspect in mind, so it may be they’ve only identified the motive thus far.”
“Sergeant Sinclair says the reasons behind these gruesome acts, once revealed, will be incomprehensible. What do you think, Liz?”
“Possibly so. However, I’d love to talk with the killer and hear what happened to make him want to do these terrible things.” She stared directly into the camera, a look of determination and sincerity in her eyes.
He hit the rewind button and heard her say it again. She seemed genuine. He shuffled through the file folders on the dining table to the one titled Melissa. His original plan had scheduled her for last night, but bypassing Carol in Montclair pushed his schedule back a day. He studied his notes in the folder and verified Melissa would be working tonight and nothing else in the plan would change by pushing it back a day.
The next folder was for Liz. It contained the extensive notes he took when he tailed her and printouts from the Internet. He spent thirty minutes drafting a new plan. To make it work, he’d need to prepare a few things, which would push his schedule back another day. Nevertheless, by Sunday, it would all be over.
He took a blank folder and wrote a new name on it. A few hours ago, he had gotten off work and drove by the police parking lot. He saw Braddock’s Toyota minivan parked just inside the chain-link fence and waited. An hour passed before the minivan drove out the gate with Braddock behind the wheel. He followed her onto the freeway
and settled in a few car lengths behind her. After getting off the freeway, she drove into a quiet neighborhood of suburban homes with decent-sized yards and swung into a driveway. He stopped a half block back and watched her walk into an open two-car garage crammed full of bicycles, toys, tools, and gardening equipment. At least Braddock would be easy.
But first, he needed to slow Sinclair down. He brewed a pot of coffee, and over a large cup, he worked out a plan to do just that.
*
Later that night, he walked along the sidewalk of the quiet residential neighborhood. Interspaced among small bungalows and cottages were a few duplexes and fourplex apartment buildings. Cars were parked on both sides of the street, leaving barely enough room for two cars to pass each other. Sinclair’s police car sat against the curb in front of a teal single-story apartment building. Four cars filled a small parking lot behind the building. He crept toward a metallic blue Mustang. Its chrome GT trunk decal shined under an overhead light.
He clicked his lock-blade knife open and stabbed the convertible top, then cut a slit down the center. He removed one of the plastic bottles from his cargo pants pocket, unscrewed the top, and dropped it through the slit.
He slipped around the side of the building to the bedroom window of Sinclair’s apartment. The room was dark, the apartment quiet. He removed the three remaining bottles from his pocket, set them on the ground under the window, and unscrewed the tops. The vapors burned his eyes as he crouched over them.
He drew his Berretta and fired a shot through the bedroom window.
Then he pulled the trigger twice more in rapid succession and threw the three bottles through the shattered window. He took a road flare from his pocket, removed the cap, and struck it against the igniter. Fire erupted from the top with a hiss. The smell of sulfur filled the air. He lobbed the flare through the window and heard a loud whoosh as it ignited the gasoline vapors. He hurried to the Mustang, lit another flare, and dropped it through the slit in the top. A fireball filled the interior as he jogged down the road to his van.