Shallow Grave

by Brian Thiem

  Sinclair put out his hand, but Abby ignored it and embraced him and Braddock.

  “Me too. I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, unable to think of anything else to say.

  “Come in,” she said with a hint of a British accent. “I have coffee waiting.”

  They followed her through a formal living room to a great room with large windows overlooking a patio and a large backyard with pool. Beyond it was a small stand of trees and the golf course’s expanse of green grass. She poured coffee into three cups resting on saucers, added cream and sugar to two, and set them on a round glass table in the kitchen. She slid one toward Sinclair and one to Braddock. “Black and cream and sugar, right?”

  Some Oakland officers fully integrated their spouses into their police lives, brought them to off-duty functions, and socialized primarily with other police couples and families. Others kept the two separate. Sometimes it was the officer’s spouse who wanted to shelter the family from the horrors and dangers their husband or wife experienced daily. Sometimes it was the officer who kept his work at work to protect his family from worrying about him. And sometimes, it was a psychological defense mechanism, where officers flipped a mental switch as they drove out of Oakland after their shifts. Sinclair didn’t know much about Phil’s personal life. He seldom talked about his wife and kids, and Sinclair hardly ever asked during the years they worked together. He had always thought Phil wanted to keep his private life private, but Sinclair hoped that Phil didn’t think he didn’t inquire because he didn’t care. Now he felt bad that he never asked.

  He knew that Phil had met Abby in high school when his father was stationed in England with the Air Force, but after his father’s tour, they returned to the States. When Phil returned a few years later to attend Oxford, he and Abby began dating. She earned a degree in civil engineering and got a job with a San Francisco construction company when Phil joined OPD. A few years after their second daughter was born, she took a job with Caltrans, the huge state agency that constructed and maintained all the state’s highways and bridges, so they’d bought the house in Fairfield, halfway between Oakland and her Sacramento office.

  “Have your girls made it back yet?” Braddock asked.

  “My oldest came home from Boston yesterday. We were up late last night, so she’s still sleeping. My youngest, who’s going to school in London, arrives tonight.”

  Braddock took a sip of her coffee. “Has the department talked with you about the memorial service?”

  “Yes, we’re meeting again this afternoon. I’d prefer a private family affair, but I understand this huge production is necessary. Your chaplain explained how other officers, even those who had never met Phil, need to know that if they die in the line of duty, their lives will be honored and their death won’t be in vain.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “I never wanted Phil to be a policeman. Did you know that at one time he wanted to be a writer?”

  “I knew he majored in English at Oxford,” Sinclair said.

  “English literature,” she said. “But he loved police work, and because he loved it, I supported him. He told me many times that there was no other career where a man could make such a difference, where he could touch so many people in such a positive way.”

  “That’s one of the many things that he passed down to me and Matt,” Braddock said.

  “When I was pregnant with our first child, Phil and I decided to keep that world separate from our family’s. We didn’t want our children to be exposed to the violence that existed in his world. I didn’t want them to worry every time he left for work that he wouldn’t come home. He rarely discussed his work, and I never asked about it. But he talked about the people he worked with. He adored you both and thought of you like a younger brother and sister. He was in awe of your courage—how you both rushed toward danger to save lives of people you didn’t even know.” She looked at Braddock. “I know you drink your coffee with cream and sugar and that Hannah, who was only four at the time, felt left out when you read a Harry Potter book to Ethan at night, so for six months, you let her lie in bed next to Ethan when you read his bedtime story.”

  “I always thought I drove Phil crazy talking about my kids when we had murders to solve,” Braddock said.

  Abby smiled at Sinclair. “Although we never met, I knew you through Phil. You were the homicide detective he always wanted to be—one who would stop at nothing to achieve justice. I don’t know what happened, but Phil mentioned that he felt like he let you down recently. What Phil liked most about police work was the people he worked with. From his days at Oxford, he always had a way with words. He described his coworkers as ordinary people thrust into extraordinary situations and, as a result, transformed into heroes.”

  “You’re not at all what I expected,” Sinclair said.

  Abby laughed. “I first went out with Phil to shock my parents. My mum was a stereotypical British aristocrat, except she was born a generation too late. When I brought Phil, an American black man, to dinner the first time, I thought for sure she was going to choke on her beef Wellington. He pretended he didn’t notice how incredibly stuffy they acted, and by the end of the evening, he had them both laughing more than I’d seen in years. They had wanted me to marry someone whose ancestors owned a castle and had a title, but when Phil asked my father for my hand in marriage, he was thrilled.”

  “When did you last see him?” Sinclair asked, trying to steer the conversation back to the present.

  “Monday morning. He leaves for work at six and always brings me coffee in bed before he goes. He called later that day, probably around five or so, and reminded me he was working late.”

  “Did he call you here?”

  “He called my cell. I think I was on my way home.”

  “Did he call from his office?”

  “From his cell. We always talk cell to cell these days.”

  Sinclair knew of no way to ease into the question, so he asked it outright. “Do you have any idea who would want to kill him?”

  She looked lost. “I assume it had something to do with his work.”

  “We have to look into everything, so please excuse me if what I’m asking you is uncomfortable.”

  “Ask away, but no, there’s no one from his family life who would want to hurt him. He still works long hours, although not as much as in homicide. We both have long commutes, so we only have a few hours together most nights. But he’s mostly home on weekends now. We try to golf together once a week with other couples from the club. I’ve never seen him even have cross words with someone.”

  Out the window, Sinclair could see a golf cart stop in the middle of the fairway, and a man wearing a turquoise shirt and madras shorts got out, hit a ball, and sped off in the golf cart. “What about social activities on Friday and Saturday nights?” Sinclair asked.

  “He’s had a regular work engagement for months on Friday evenings, but we often have dinner with friends at the club or someone’s home on Saturdays.”

  “Any idea what work thing he does on Friday nights?”

  “Like I mentioned before, he never shared what he does at work.”

  Sinclair nodded. If Phil’s murder wasn’t work related, Sinclair had to rule out the other most common reasons for murder. “Have you ever suspected Phil of being involved with someone else?”

  “Gosh, no. Matt, I know you’re no prude, so I’ll be direct with you—we had a very good relationship, emotionally and physically. Other women my age complain about their love lives—how one or the other lost interest in sex. Phil and I never had that issue.”

  Sinclair looked away awkwardly.

  “I’m so sorry your marriage didn’t work out,” she said. “When Phil told me about your divorce, he was heartbroken. He was old-fashioned in that way. He would’ve never been unfaithful.”

  “Are you having any financial problems?” Sinclair asked, glad to get off the topic of sex and marriage.

  “To the contrary, Phil planned to work for six more years for
his maximum pension, and I would work a few more years after that, until I turned fifty-five. My state pension would be almost as much as his. We paid off our mortgage two years ago. My parents are paying for our youngest’s college tuition. Of course, all our plans have changed now.” She wiped her eyes with a tissue.

  “Any recent influxes of cash or unusual expenses?”

  “Not that I know of.” She smiled at Sinclair’s puzzled look and continued. “My parents are rather well-to-do, and I’m in line to inherit a sizable portion of their estate, so they insisted we sign a prenuptial before we married and suggested we keep separate accounts. At first, it was uncomfortable, but we found that we like it. Each month, most of our salaries go into a joint account, from which I pay all our living expenses. What we had left was our own, to do with as we wished. Last summer, Phil treated us to an Alaska cruise for our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. For Christmas, he bought me a diamond tennis bracelet. I paid for a week in Barbados in April for the girls and us. So, to tell you the truth, I don’t know if Phil spends whatever he has or if he has significant investments.”

  “This might feel intrusive, but I normally search a murder victim’s home and go through their financials. I sometimes find things that tell me the motive for the murder and who did it. Other times I just learn things about my victim that can help me later on in the investigation. Phil would expect me to do this.”

  “I think you’re wasting your time. I can’t imagine there is something in our home that will tell you who killed my husband.”

  “Phil would’ve done the same if Matt or I were murdered,” Braddock said. “And we’ll treat your home with the same dignity and respect as Phil would’ve with ours.”

  Chapter 15

  A few hours later, Sinclair waited for the heavy wrought-iron gate across the driveway of the Towers’s estate to open. While he’d taken a quick shower and changed into a suit, Braddock spread the files they collected from Phil’s home office on his kitchen table and went through them. They had found nothing noteworthy in Phil’s house until they reached the fourth bedroom, which he and Abby used as a home office. Matching cherry desks faced each other in the small room. A closed laptop sat on Phil’s desk. The organization Phil demonstrated at work carried over to his home desk. Two desk drawers contained labeled file folders filled with neat papers organized in chronological order. Sinclair asked if they could borrow those that dealt with his finances: bank statements, money market, deferred compensation plan, personal credit card, and mutual funds. After a little persuasion, Abby also gave them Phil’s laptop for a few days. Sinclair found a list of his passwords taped to a slide-out shelf and took a photo of it with his phone.

  “As far as Abby’s concerned, Phil was the perfect husband and father,” Braddock said as they drove out the gate and turned onto Sea View Avenue. “She could not imagine him having an affair, everybody in their community loves him, and it doesn’t look like he had any money problems.”

  “I didn’t suspect we’d find the motive in his personal life,” Sinclair said. “But, then again, Phil’s a master at keeping secrets, so if he was hiding something, his wife wouldn’t know.”

  “Did you call Alyssa last night?” Braddock asked.

  “I forgot—got busy with my mother and the hospital stuff.”

  “When you’re going through a family tragedy like that, you’re supposed to call your girlfriend so she can support you.”

  “I was okay.”

  “You always think you’re okay. Alyssa knows how to be a girlfriend, but you need to tell her what’s going on so she can be one. That is, if you really want a girlfriend.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll call her.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as I can get some privacy from a meddling partner who’s trying to run my love life.”

  *

  When Sinclair and Braddock entered the homicide office, the other investigators were hanging up their coats and filling their coffee cups. “Where’ve you guys been?” Sinclair asked Jankowski.

  “Did a search warrant on Animal’s momma’s house.”

  “Find anything interesting?”

  “A bunch of bills and paperwork,” Jankowski replied. “He used his mother’s house as his mailing address. I also found a stack of pay stubs from Eastman Security.”

  “Animal worked as a security guard?”

  “Most of the Savage Simbas had straight jobs. Believe it or not, Animal had no conviction record and only a few minor arrests. When I ran him in the state license database, I found he had a state guard card and a firearm card for armed security.”

  “The nine-millimeter Glock he just happened to have at the bar was probably his duty weapon,” Sinclair said. “I’ll bet the Simbas made pretty formidable security guards. Did Eastman employ other club members?”

  “I was gonna head on over there and ask. Wanna join me?”

  Sinclair left Braddock analyzing Phil’s financials and rode with Jankowski to the East Oakland address where the state license bureau showed Eastman Security’s office. Although his gut still told him that he and Braddock were on the right path looking into Phil’s sensitive investigation, he couldn’t ignore the obvious link to the Simbas. But connecting the motorcycle gang to a security company raised numerous questions, the answers to which might tell him why Phil was killed. They stopped at a storefront on International Boulevard that matched the address. A sign in the window read, Latasha’s Nail Salon.

  A heavyset black woman with bright-red lipstick and black braided hair sat behind a counter next to a cashbox. “We’re looking for Eastman Security,” Jankowski said.

  An index finger with a long red nail tipped with silver beads pointed to the back of the shop. Sinclair followed Jankowski past six workstations, all occupied by manicurists and their clients. A short hallway led to a back door covered by metal bars. On one side of the hallway was a bathroom, and the other had a door with a sign that read, Eastman Security. Jankowski pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  A sixtysomething black man with nappy gray hair sat behind a beat-up particleboard desk that looked like a reject from Goodwill. He put a phone receiver down and looked up at them. Jankowski reached over his huge belly and pulled his badge off his belt. “We’re looking for Silas Eastman, the owner of Eastman Security.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Tell me about Reggie Clement,” Jankowski said. “A Savage Simba known as Animal.”

  “I’m sure you know he’s one of the partners here. You got him in jail. That’s why you’re here, huh?”

  Jankowski stepped out of the doorway to allow Sinclair to squeeze into the tiny office. “Tell me about the partnership of Eastman Security.”

  “I’m not at liberty to say without talking to the other partner.”

  “You’re the only one listed on the license,” Jankowski said.

  “Nothing illegal about having financial partners. I’m the managing partner.”

  “And the partners work security gigs,” Jankowski offered.

  “Not me. I’m too old for that. Why you askin’ if you already know?”

  “How many guards work here?”

  “I gotta clear that with my partner. Don’t seem like your questions got nothin’ to do with your investigation. You two are homicide, not the people that polices security guards.”

  “I could call a buddy of mine at the Bureau of Security and Investigative Services and see what he thinks about a private patrol licensee that doesn’t cooperate with the police,” Jankowski said.

  “And you make sure you tell him old Silas answered all your questions about the subject of your investigation but ensured he protected the privacy of his employees and clients.”

  Jankowski’s face began turning red. Sinclair stepped forward and said, “Look, Mr. Eastman, we don’t want to make you any trouble. Please talk with your partner and see what info you can give us. In the meantime, we need to investigate Animal. We can’t change what happened. All we
’re doing is searching for the truth.”

  Eastman pulled a Swisher Sweet cigar from a package on his desk and stuck it in his mouth. He chewed on it for a minute. “Whatcha wanna know?”

  “What were Animal’s duties as a partner?” Sinclair asked.

  “He got new accounts and sometimes worked them himself.”

  “Which accounts are these?”

  “Main one was B&J Liquors down the street. They wanted an armed uniformed guard Friday and Saturday night from six to closing. Animal usually did it himself.”

  Sinclair jotted some notes into his notebook. “What else?”

  “The other account he worked was a funny one.” Eastman pulled a folder from his desk. “Still don’t know exactly what he did for this client. Woman works in a big company in the city. Animal billed her four or five hours two or three times a week. She always paid her bill on time. He was supposed to be working on that account Monday night. Maybe if he was working, none of this nonsense would’ve happened.”

  “You have a name and address for this client?” Sinclair asked.

  Eastman chewed on his Swisher Sweet and opened the folder. “She’s got a home address in Oakland, but we use her office address in San Francisco for billing. Her name’s Maureen Yates.”

  Chapter 16

  “Maureen Yates, the wife of Councilmember Preston Yates?” Braddock asked.

  With a Simba connected to Phil’s murder, the Simbas connected to Eastman Security, and Eastman Security connected to Yates, Sinclair wondered if his focus on Phil’s sensitive work had distracted him from the right path.

  Now back at the office, Sinclair grabbed the handwritten case log from a homicide packet in his desk drawer. “Same home address that I had on Preston from Dawn’s murder. I listed Maureen’s name in the work-up I did on Preston back then. She was ten years older than him and not particularly attractive. It made sense to me that Preston was stepping out on her with escorts. She owns a big ad agency in San Francisco.”

  “Why would she hire a mean-looking black biker for security?”