by Brian Thiem
Braddock sighed loudly. “Okay, Matt, so what’s this hot lead all about that justified your escape from office jail?”
Sinclair shot through the Chinatown streets, blowing through red lights after slowing and looking both ways while recapping his conversation with Russell Hammond for Braddock. Exiting the Eleventh Street Tunnel, he turned right and followed the edge of Lake Merritt. He jerked the car to a stop in front of the apartment building and strode to the front door with Braddock and Jankowski hurrying to catch up.
“Que pasa?” a short Hispanic doorman said when he saw Sinclair display his badge.
Sinclair glared at him. “Does my badge say Federales?”
“Sorry, sir.”
“How long has Darryl Tyson lived in the building?” Sinclair asked.
“I’ve been here two years. At least that long.”
“When did you last see him?”
He shrugged. “Weeks, maybe a month. He travels a lot.”
“Does he live alone?”
“Why you asking all this? Tenants expect privacy.”
Sinclair stepped closer and glared down at the twenty-five-year-old man. “I’m working a homicide and if you impede me, I’ll arrest your ass.”
“He lives alone, but a friend’s been staying with him,” the doorman said. “Been visiting for a month or more.”
“Does the friend have a name?” Sinclair asked.
“The manager would know. He’ll be here tomorrow at eight.”
Sinclair’s phone vibrated. He saw it was Liz and pressed the button to send her to voicemail. “What’s the friend look like?”
“Anglo. Bigger than you,” he said to Sinclair. “But not as large as you,” the doorman said with a sly smile to Jankowski.
Sinclair caught Braddock’s and Jankowski’s expressions, as they noted the description fit that of Olsen.
“Is he home?”
“Tenants usually take the elevator straight from the garage, so I don’t see them in the lobby.”
“You got cameras, right?”
“I don’t watch them all the time. But the nightshift saw him.”
“When?”
“He said Mr. Tyson’s guest came in through the lobby around four yesterday morning and took the elevator up.”
“Was that unusual?”
“Four in the morning and he wasn’t out clubbing.”
“How’s that?”
“Had on cargo pants, a vest, and small backpack. Strange time to be hiking.”
“What’s his apartment number?”
“I’ll show you.”
A few minutes later, they got off the elevator on the seventeenth floor and followed the doorman down the hall.
“Knock and tell him you got a delivery or something,” said Sinclair.
The three detectives stood to the side of the door as the doorman pressed the buzzer. After a moment, he buzzed again and yelled, “Mr. Tyson, this is Manny the doorman.”
“You have a key?” Sinclair asked.
“I have a passkey, but I must call—”
“We don’t have time for that. Gimme the key or we kick the door.”
“Don’t you think we should get a warrant and have patrol make entry?” asked Braddock.
“I’m thinking that Tyson hasn’t been seen in a while and he might be held hostage inside, which would justify entry under exigent circumstances,” said Sinclair.
“You’re really stretching it,” she said.
“Or maybe under the hot pursuit doctrine,” said Sinclair.
“Too much time has elapsed,” she said.
It would take two or three hours to type up an affidavit and warrant and another hour to track down the duty judge for a signature. If Olsen wasn’t inside, something there might lead them to him. The safest course of action was to get the warrant to avoid having a judge later throw out any evidence they found inside. But Sinclair seldom took the safe route. He needed to stop the next murder. “Series of crimes that is still ongoing. We’ve been working them nonstop. He’s likely preparing for another murder right now, which we won’t prevent if we’re delayed getting a warrant.”
“Sounds like exigent circumstances to me,” said Jankowski.
“What the hell,” said Braddock.
Using the doorman’s master key, Sinclair unlocked the door and pushed it open.
“Police—anybody home?” he yelled inside.
After announcing twice more and getting no response, Sinclair drew his pistol and crossed the threshold into the apartment. Braddock and Jankowski followed. Sinclair swept through the living room and dining room with Braddock at his side. He peeked over a counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area. No one hiding there. He and Braddock squeezed past Jankowski, who had been covering the hallway while they cleared the main room. Sinclair poked his head into a bathroom on the left and pulled back the shower curtain.
“Clear,” he shouted.
He entered the first bedroom on the right. A queen-size bed, dresser, and two bed tables filled the room. Sinclair pointed his gun at the closet as Braddock slid the glass doors one way and then the other. Nothing other than clothes. Although the bed seemed too low to the ground for someone to fit underneath, he still dropped to the floor and peered under it to make sure. He led the way down the hall into the master suite, where he and Braddock searched two closets in the dressing area, then the bathroom, and finally the bedroom. All clear.
When searching a house under exigent circumstances, they couldn’t justify opening drawers or looking in any place where a person could not conceivably be hiding; however, any evidence they saw in plain sight was fair game, so Sinclair stopped for a moment to take in the master bedroom and glance in the closet again on his way out of the room. He saw nothing noteworthy.
When they returned to the main room, Jankowski was standing over a dining table covered with DVDs, papers, stacks of files, and a laptop computer.
“Look at this,” said Jankowski, motioning toward the stack of file folders with the names of the four murder victims printed on the tabs. Alongside that pile were two more folders, one with Braddock’s name and another with Liz’s.
Braddock gasped and pulled out her phone. “I need to call Ryan. Get the kids, get them safe.”
Sinclair clasped his hands over Braddock’s phone and held her hand until she calmed. “He’s not after Ryan and the kids, Cathy. He’s after you.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because of me.”
It was apparent to Sinclair the moment he saw Braddock’s and Liz’s names. Olsen killed family members of the people he blamed for what happened to Samantha and Jane. Braddock and Liz were the closest thing Sinclair had to a family.
“You’re safe with us,” said Sinclair. “But we need to locate Liz. She’s his next target.”
“Matt,” interrupted Jankowski, who was standing by a bookshelf in the living room. “Is this Samantha, your first victim?”
Sinclair and Braddock crossed the room to where Jankowski was looking at a framed photograph of Samantha, a man, and a woman.
“Oh, shit,” said Sinclair.
“You recognize him?” asked Jankowski.
“That’s Liz’s cameraman.”
Chapter 62
Kristoffer Eric Olsen told Liz that there wasn’t any reason for them to be standing outside looking at the bus bench. “Why don’t we get back in the van where it’s cool?”
Olsen put his camera in the back of the van and climbed into the driver’s seat. Everything was working according to his plan. Once he had sent Liz the last e-mail, he walked down the hall to the newsroom and strolled past Liz’s desk just as she looked up from her computer. She asked if he was available for what she said was the story of the year. Of course he was, he replied. Liz never suspected he was anyone other than Eric, a photojournalist burned out from working in New York City too long, an easygoing guy who eagerly worked with her on assignments even when the other cameramen tried to avoid her, and
the great listener during the countless hours they spent together when she talked endlessly about herself, her relationship, and her insecurities.
“We got video of the bus bench from every angle possible,” said Liz. “As well as plenty of me talking that will work as teasers and a good introduction for our meeting with the man responsible. What now?”
“I guess we just wait for his next e-mail. Did you tell the producer or assignment editor where we were going?”
The van’s air conditioning blasted its icy air on Olsen and Liz. Wearing a tan photographer’s vest over a polo top, Olsen was still sweating from his recent activity outside, but Liz was wearing a sheer blouse and chose to turn the vent away from her.
“Just that we’re doing an interview that might require more than the five minutes they allotted to my special report.”
“Would they have permitted this if you told them?”
“No way,” she said. “They’d have called the news director at home, who would’ve insisted on talking to legal, and the thirty-minute deadline would have come and gone.”
“Sounds like we might be in trouble?”
“You’re just following my orders, and if we bag this interview, we’ll be heroes.”
“What about your friend, Sergeant Sinclair?”
“He’ll be pissed. Matt doesn’t see the work we journalists do as important. But I’ll call him as soon as we finish and tell him where the killer is.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
“I’m thinking that once he tells us where to meet, I can call Matt and . . . I won’t tell him where we’re going, but I can send him some place close and tell him to wait.”
“What if he has every cop in the department search that area for our van? That would blow the interview and might put you in danger if the man thinks you betrayed him.”
“Good point.”
“Maybe once he tells us where to meet, you can tell Sinclair to wait at the bus bench.” Afraid he just revealed more than he should, he added, “assuming the interview location is in that vicinity, but not too close.”
He could see Liz smiling out of the corner of his eye. “You’re good at this.”
“Before I came to Channel Six, I spent years overseas. I was part of a film crew that did these kinds of meets with members of Hezbollah in Beirut, and later with a BBC team that did the same with Hamas in the West Bank.”
“I didn’t know that. I just thought you were a local news station photojournalist in New York.”
“The overseas stuff was back in my younger years.”
Liz smiled. “What’s the secret to working with dangerous subjects?”
“Don’t cross either side. If you cross the terrorists, they kill you. If you cross the authorities, they lock you up.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t say anything to Matt until we finish the interview and are safely back in the newsroom?”
Olsen thought for a moment. He was afraid Sinclair might talk her out of the interview if they spoke, yet he wanted Sinclair to know what she was doing so he’d go crazy worrying, just as Jane did when she raced to the hospital after the phone call about Samantha.
“I don’t want to get on the wrong side of the police,” said Olsen. “But if you never actually talk to him, he can’t tell you not to do it. Can’t you just leave him a message or shoot him a text?”
“That might work.”
“I’m going to change batteries and put the one in the camera into the charger,” said Olsen as he opened the door. “Happiness is two fully charged batteries.”
He walked around the van and opened the back doors, slid his personal phone from his back pocket, and sent the next e-mail. He was climbing into the driver’s seat when Liz’s Blackberry chimed.
“Is it from him?” Olsen asked.
“Yeah.”
“What’s it say?”
“You must follow these instructions or else you’ll never see me. Turn off your phones, both yours and your cameraman’s. All the way off. Place them on the dash. Drive to the Golden State Motel at Fifty-Fourth and San Pablo. Park in the rear of the lot. Send your cameraman, alone, into the lobby. The manager will give him an envelope with further instructions.”
Olsen pulled his work phone from his belt and held down the power button until it shut down. “You best make your phone call,” he said as he tossed his phone onto the dash.
Liz brought up a contact list on her phone and pressed Sinclair.
“I thought you were going to leave a message at his office,” said Olsen.
“I owe him this much,” she said.
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Matt, damn you—answer your phone,” she said into the air. After a pause, she spoke. “When you get this message, you won’t be able to call me back, but I’m on my way to interview the Bus Bench Killer. Wait at the bus bench and I’ll call you with his location when I’m done.” She let out a deep sigh, switched her phone off, and placed it on the dash.
“You still want to do this?” Olsen asked.
“Damn straight. Let’s go win our Peabody Award.”
Olsen pulled the shift lever into drive and pulled away from the curb. He reached behind him and swung a six-pack cooler to the front. “I have some cold waters in there. Help yourself.”
“Thanks,” she said, unzipping the flap. “One for you?”
“No, I’m good for now.”
Olsen made a left turn on Fifty-Fifth Street as Liz unscrewed the top off a bottle of water and took several swallows.
Chapter 63
Braddock was still staring at the photograph when Sinclair turned to her. “Just to be safe, you should call Ryan.”
“I better call Liz.” Sinclair pulled out his cell and listened to her voicemail.
“How fucking stupid can she be,” he said.
He called Liz’s cell. It immediately went to voicemail.
“She’s got her phone turned off,” Sinclair said to Braddock. He next called the assignment desk at Channel 6. They said Liz was with the cameraman, Eric, doing an interview related to her special but didn’t know where or any other details. Sinclair was afraid to tell the station what was happening or ask for their assistance because if Olsen found out the police were on to him, he’d likely kill Liz immediately.
“Let’s call dispatch and have them broadcast a comm order for all units to be on the lookout for the van,” said Braddock.
“All the news vans have scanners,” said Sinclair. “Olsen will kill her as soon as he hears the broadcast.”
He turned to Jankowski. “Call Sanchez and have him get a search warrant for this place, but don’t wait for it. Tear the place apart and find something that’ll tell me where they’re at.”
“Let’s go,” Sinclair said to Braddock and ran to the elevator.
Some cars swung to the right, some stopped in front of him, and others just continued to drive down the middle of the street as Sinclair screamed down the street with his lights flashing and siren blaring. As he approached MacArthur Boulevard, he shut down his emergency equipment.
“I have no idea why I’m racing to the bus bench,” said Sinclair. “No one’s there.”
“You’re worried about her,” said Braddock. “You need to do something, but we can’t find her without help.”
Sinclair called the patrol sergeant for the North Oakland District on her cell phone and gave her the run down. She had every patrol officer that wasn’t busy on a priority assignment switch to a tactical channel that scanners couldn’t monitor and, with the help of a dispatcher, assigned the six available officers a grid to search for the news van.
2L72 asked over the radio, “Can you see if any other agencies have a helicopter up today?”
“East Bay Regional Parks had Eagle One up earlier for the high-fire danger, Two-L-Seventy-Two,” said the male dispatcher. “I’ll make a call.”
“If you reach them, make sure they understand they cannot broadcast on a main freq,” s
aid Sinclair.
“Copy that, Thirteen-Adam-Five,” said the dispatcher.
“It’s times like this that I really miss ARGUS,” said Braddock.
ARGUS, which stood for Arial Reconnaissance Ground Unit Support, was OPD’s helicopter and had been grounded for most of the year because of budget cutbacks. “Crime keeps going up, yet they take away resources every year and wonder why the bad guys are winning,” said Sinclair.
“If it were easy, anyone could do it,” she said.
The radio cracked with the voice of the patrol sergeant. “Can Thirteen-Adam-Five give us a hint on where we should be looking?”
“Some place where they could conduct an interview undisturbed—a house, an office,” said Sinclair for the benefit of all officers on the radio channel as he pulled into the bus loading zone on MLK Jr. Way. “I know that’s not much help.”
“Two-L-Seventy-Two and Thirteen-Adam-Five,” said the dispatcher. “Eagle One is going down for fuel right now. If there’re no smoke calls after they refuel, they’ll head our way. ETA about thirty minutes.”
Sinclair thanked the dispatcher and listened as units reported areas they searched. He knew they’d be lucky to find the van in time. There were just too many miles of street to cover, and the van could be tucked away off the street or even outside their search grid.
*
“This guy might be watching, so make sure you don’t touch your phone,” said Olsen as he stepped out of the van and marched across the parking lot.
Patel was looking out the window at the Channel 6 van. The smell of curry was even stronger in the heat.
“Hello, sir, is there something I may assist you with?”
“Nothing at all.” Olsen removed a hundred-dollar bill and slid it through the window. “I just wanted to thank you for respecting my privacy.”
Patel smiled and bowed his head slightly. “You are welcome, sir.”
Olsen pulled an envelope from his vest pocket and returned to the van. Once inside, he tore open the envelope and removed a room key and a note, which he handed to Liz.
Liz’s lips quivered as she read the note. “Get all the equipment you’ll need, go into the room, and set up. I’ll be there when I’m certain you weren’t followed.”