by Brian Thiem
“Eastman didn’t know, or else he was a good liar.” Sinclair filled his coffee cup and stood next to Braddock’s desk. “We also don’t know why Animal wasn’t working for her that night. Jankowski assembled the pieces from different witness statements from the bar, and it looked like the Simbas began showing up around four in the afternoon. It turned into a spontaneous birthday party for Animal. As the night wore on, more arrived and everybody got drunker.”
“If Animal was supposed to be working for Maureen, maybe he called in and said he couldn’t make it.”
“Or he got someone else to fill in for him,” Sinclair said.
“We need to talk to the other guards at Eastman.”
Sinclair took a big swallow of the bitter coffee and winced. “I have a funny feeling they don’t keep real tight records and might even work under the table whenever they can get away with it.”
“You’re saying that whoever might’ve filled in for Animal wasn’t necessarily an employee of Eastman with all the right permits?” Braddock asked.
“I wouldn’t doubt it. I know who can tell us exactly who, if anyone, worked for Maureen Yates Monday night.”
“Are you crazy?” she shouted as the muscles on her neck jutted out. The other investigators in the office turned and looked at her. She lowered her voice. “The chief told us last December in no uncertain terms to leave Councilmember Yates alone. Even if we gather compelling evidence showing he committed a murder, we’ve got to get permission before we talk to him.”
“They never said anything about his wife.”
“Come on, Matt. I like my job.”
Even though Yates hadn’t been directly involved in Dawn’s murder, Sinclair hated how he used her and then discarded her when she became pregnant. He’d been close to proving the connection between Sergio Kozlov, the multimillionaire developer, and Yates when the police chief and the Feds shut him down. If allowed to pursue the investigation, Sinclair was sure he could have proven Kozlov paid for the apartment where Dawn was set up as Yates’s mistress. In exchange, Kozlov would receive Yates’s vote and support that would award him a huge contract to develop the former Oakland Army Base. What pissed Sinclair off even more is that now Yates was so favored to win the mayoral election in November that a recent Oakland Tribune editorial suggested the other candidates should save their money and drop out of the race.
Sinclair was lost in his thoughts when he noticed Braddock staring at him. “What?” he asked.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “We need to work around the edges of this Yates connection. We can’t just go at them head on.”
“Okay,” he agreed. As much as he wanted to get Yates, Braddock was right. Absent some stronger link, they should continue collecting information and leave the high-risk/high-gain interviews for later. “Did you come up with anything while I was gone?”
“The lab called and said Gibbs tested positive for GSR.”
Although the chief would view that as corroboration to Gibbs’s fingerprints on the garbage bag, it actually didn’t prove much. Someone could have gunshot residue on their hands if they fired a gun, handled a gun that had been recently fired, or was in close proximity to a fired gun. They already knew that Gibbs had been up close and personal to Animal when he fired the fatal round.
Sinclair’s cell buzzed. “One of ATF’s CIs knows where Tiny will be later on tonight,” Fletcher said.
Tiny was another person who had answers to Sinclair’s questions. Whether he would give them up in an interview room was uncertain, but the only way to find out was to get him in one. “Great, can you put a team together to grab him?”
“It’s more complicated than that. If uniforms roll in there, we’ll burn the CI, and there’s no way to surveil the location without being made. But it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for me to show up there on my bike. I might be able to find out where he’s laying his head at night. If he’s there, I can try to jaw with him as a fellow biker.”
“If you’re gonna talk to him, I want to be there,” Sinclair said.
The phone was silent. Sinclair looked at the screen to make sure he still had a connection. Finally, Fletcher said, “There’s only one way that could work.”
“Whatever it takes,” Sinclair replied.
“You used to ride a Harley, didn’t you?”
Chapter 17
Sinclair downshifted the Harley Heritage Softail Classic as he exited the 242 Freeway, allowing the engine to help brake the ten-year-old motorcycle. He followed Fletcher on his two-year-old Street Glide through a left turn. When Sinclair had been a young officer in the special operations section, a bunch of the older guys rode, so he picked up a used Road King and joined them on short rides on their days off and occasional overnighters. Some of the off-duty cops he rode with were motormen—OPD officers who rode Harleys in the traffic division. They’d taught him riding skills few civilians ever learned. When he made sergeant and got married four years later, he no longer had enough spare time to ride, so he sold his bike. Although it had been years since he’d ridden, once he ran the Heritage through the gears a few times and leaned it into some turns, everything came back to him.
An hour ago, Sinclair had met Fletcher at his house in Pittsburg, one of a string of blue-collar cities in eastern Contra Costa County that run along the delta of the Sacramento and San Joaquin Rivers between the Central Valley and the San Francisco Bay. Fletcher told him that he and Phil began riding together off duty when Phil transferred to Intel. Fletcher had changed the oil and filter on Phil’s Heritage for him last weekend, and it was still sitting in his garage waiting for Phil to pick it up.
Sinclair felt strange sitting in the wide leather saddle of Phil’s Harley with the large V-twin engine rumbling between his legs; biker code included never sitting on another man’s bike. He and Fletcher rode side by side as they passed through downtown Concord. The sun, low in the sky, shined into their rearview mirrors. They took a side street and slowed in front of a brick building with a sign reading, No Colors Motorcycle Shop. When Irish Mike opened the shop fifteen years ago, he declared it a neutral zone, a place where bikers from any club could bring their Harleys for repair or service as long as they don’t wear their vests with club patches. Over the years, it also meant that bikers of any race—black, white, brown, or yellow—were welcome, which wasn’t always the case with many nondealer Harley shops.
The front doors were closed and locked. Sinclair followed Fletcher down an alley and through an opening in a chain link fence to a parking area behind the building. About ten Harleys stood in a neat row. Behind them, a dozen men sat on old car seats and lawn chairs drinking beer. Fletcher and Sinclair backed their bikes alongside the others, lowered the kickstands, and turned off the engines.
Fletcher pulled off his helmet and shook out his long hair. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and opened his saddlebag. Sinclair hung his helmet on the mirror, stepped off his bike, and pulled a black Harley baseball cap over his matted-down helmet hair. He’d worried about standing out with his clean-cut appearance, but that quickly evaporated when he saw the mix of men. Three were black, two Hispanic, one Asian, and the rest white. A few had long hair like Fletcher, while others had haircuts that would fit in at an accounting firm. The only commonality was their biker uniforms of boots, jeans, and black T-shirts.
Fletcher pulled a six-pack of Bud from his saddlebag, removed one from the plastic ring, and walked toward the group. Two men rose and grabbed a beer, and Fletcher set the remaining cans on a white plastic table. “My friend just bought this Heritage and is thinking about some performance work.”
A ruddy-faced man with stringy red hair sticking out the sides of a black-and-orange Harley Davidson hat stood and grabbed one of the beers. “I seen you around,” he said to Fletcher. “You show any colors or mention an affiliation, you’re eighty-sixed from here.”
“I know the rules, Mike,” Fletcher said.
Sinclair wondered if Irish Mike
thought Fletcher was with the Hells Angels or knew he was a cop. Maybe he mistook him for someone else, or maybe he just gave the warning to any nonregulars.
Irish Mike stood around five ten, and although he had to be close to sixty, his biceps bulged like those of a gym rat half his age. He limped toward Sinclair’s Heritage Softail, partly dragging one leg that was a few inches shorter than the other. “How many miles?” he asked Sinclair.
“Thirty-two thousand.”
“Not much for an oh-six. The engine stock?”
“Yeah. It’s got some slip-on pipes, more for sound than performance, but that’s it.”
“You mind?” Irish Mike asked, pointing to the big chrome switch above the gas tank.
Sinclair nodded his okay, pulled a small cigar from the saddlebag, and lit it with his Zippo. Mike turned the switch and thumbed the starter. The engine turned over and settled into the typical Harley rumble. Mike revved the engine to three thousand RPM, then slowly increased it to redline.
Irish Mike turned the bike off. “Engine sounds strong. It all depends on what you want to spend. I can do a stage one for around a grand. That’ll give you better airflow and make it run more efficiently. Might give you ten, fifteen percent more power. Add a big bore kit and we can turn your eighty-eight-inch engine into a ninety-five or one-oh-six. There’s other things I can suggest, but truth is, unless you absolutely love this bike, you can easily put more money into it than the cost of a new bike after your trade-in. And new ones have better suspension, brakes, a six-speed, and, of course, bigger engines.”
“What would you do?” Sinclair asked.
Mike pulled a shop rag from his pocket and wiped the dirt from the front fork. “You’ve got a leaking front fork seal, so first thing I’d do is get that fixed. Then I’d figure out how much money I want to put into my bike and come by when the shop’s open. I can work out exactly what you can get to give you the most bang for your buck.”
“Who you got helping you these days?” Fletcher asked.
“Hector does basic service, and Tiny helps me out with the performance work and rebuilds, but I oversee everything.”
“Haven’t seen Tiny around lately,” Fletcher said.
“Not if you’re looking in Oaktown,” Mike said. “He was here a bit ago. His old lady works at the barbecue joint on Clayton Road. I’m sure he’s stuffing his face down there right now.”
Sinclair and Fletcher thanked Irish Mike, swung their legs over their bikes, and started them up. Fletcher led the way, cruising through side streets to Clayton Road. When Sinclair pulled alongside him at a stop sign, Fletcher said, “I know the place he’s talking about. We’ll cruise by. If his bike’s there, we can call Concord PD to pick him up.”
Sinclair pulled off behind Fletcher. A few blocks ahead, a red chopper roared out of a parking lot and headed their way.
“That’s him,” Fletcher yelled to Sinclair and pulled a U-turn across a double yellow line. Sinclair downshifted to second and made a fast U-turn, scraping the floorboards as he leaned the bike into the turn.
Tiny looked over his shoulder and accelerated. The scream from his straight pipes told them he was making a run for it. Fletcher’s transmission clanked as he downshifted and took off after him. Sinclair did the same, accelerating to fifty in second gear before shifting into third and twisting the throttle again. Fletcher pulled away, and Sinclair realized he couldn’t keep up with the newer Harley with its more powerful engine. The red chopper swerved around cars, braking hard and accelerating into open gaps in traffic.
Sinclair concentrated on not crashing as he blew past cars, going twice their speed on the four-lane divided road that was flanked by houses on both sides. If he went down at this speed, he’d be lucky to survive. He braked hard behind two cars traveling abreast at thirty miles an hour. When there was enough room between them, he split the lane, squeezing between them, and rocketed forward.
Fletcher split the traffic lanes like a pro, weaving his eight-hundred-pound bike from one lane to the other and maneuvering between cars in the two lanes of traffic. A block behind, Sinclair tried to do the same, pressing the handlebar in the direction he wanted the Harley to turn and shifting his weight to make the bike dance from side to side like a slalom skier racing through the gates.
Red brake lights flashed on cars in front of him. The red chopper braked hard, locking its oversized rear tire with an angry squeal of rubber on asphalt. Fletcher braked hard too, but the ABS on his bike prevented his tires from losing traction. A small gray car behind him tried to swerve around the slowing traffic and sideswiped Fletcher’s Street Glide. Still traveling about twenty miles an hour, Fletcher’s bike wobbled back and forth for a few seconds. Sinclair thought Fletcher would be able to stay upright and ride it out until the back end suddenly bounced to one side and Fletcher went down.
Cars screeched to a stop. One rear-ended another. Fletcher’s Harley slid about thirty feet with Fletcher still on it. Sinclair weaved through the stopped cars on his bike until he reached Fletcher, who was picking himself up off the ground and trying to right his bike.
“I’m fine,” he yelled. “Don’t lose him.”
The red chopper disappeared down a side street two blocks away. Sinclair twisted the throttle and dumped the clutch, leaving a black ribbon of rubber on the road behind him. He speed-shifted into second gear and flung the bike into the right lane to pass cars slowing to enter a left-turn lane. He weaved back into the left lane, raced forward, and braked hard before turning right across the right lane of traffic. He leaned the bike hard, trying to keep his body as upright as possible. Car horns blasted behind him. Angry drivers he had cut off. He felt the right floorboard grating against the asphalt through the sole of his boot, but the tires stuck and he made the turn.
He rolled on the throttle as the chopper made a quick left turn ahead. Sinclair held second gear, the Harley engine near red line, then pressed the brake pedal while yanking the front brake lever with his left hand. Once he scrubbed off enough speed, he pressed the left handlebar forward to throw the bike into a sharp turn. Once again, the floorboard scraped the pavement, but this time, Sinclair was more under control than his previous reckless right turn in front of cars. The scraping sound became his barometer of how far he could lean the bike.
He rolled on the throttle. His bike came out of the turn onto another residential street. The chopper raced through the neighborhood of single-story ranch houses, the roar of its custom engine work announcing its horsepower advantage over Sinclair’s older stock bike. But choppers were built for looks and straight-line performance. Their fat rear tires, skinny front tires on extended forks, and ape-hanger handlebars made them corner about as well as Toyota minivans.
The chopper made another turn and then another, and Sinclair gained distance in each corner. He was so close after the last turn, he could finally make out the rider for the first time, confirming that he fit the physical of Tiny, a six-foot-six man weighing around two-eighty. It made no sense that Tiny would attempt to lose him by making quick turns when his bike’s advantage lay in the straightaways. But cops only caught the dumb crooks, as many of Sinclair’s police buddies were fond of saying.
Tiny made a right turn and accelerated down a narrow street. Even though he was afraid to take his eyes off the road for a second to look at the speedometer, Sinclair still knew he was approaching seventy—insane for a residential area. Ahead, numerous cars crisscrossed in front of him on a busy road. Sinclair didn’t know the streets of Concord like he did Oakland, but he recognized the street ahead as Kirker Pass Road. Instead of making a left that would’ve taken them over the pass and through the uninhabited brown hills to Pittsburg, Tiny turned right. Sinclair slowed at the stop sign and raced after him.
When Sinclair saw the red lights and flashing strobes of the first police car behind him, his first through was, What took you so long? He slowed slightly, expecting the police car to pass him and pursue the chopper, but the marked car stayed on his t
ail. He wished there was some way he could continue riding his motorcycle at double the speed limit while pulling his badge from his belt to show the pursuing officers. Since that was impossible, he wasn’t about to pull over until Tiny did.
Tiny blew through the intersection with Clayton Road and snaked through the Lime Ridge Open Space into the city of Walnut Creek. A second and third police car pulled behind Sinclair. The chopper began approaching a wide, sweeping right turn ahead. Tiny was too upright to take the sweeping turn at the speed he was traveling. He tried to lean the bike by throwing his body into the turn. He then made the mistake of pressing the rear brake pedal too hard. Braking hard in a turn when the bike is leaning is a recipe for disaster. The fat rear tire skidded on the pavement, and the bike slid out from under the rider.
The chopper slid into a center median. Sinclair pulled his bike to the right side of the road. Tiny got up, shook himself off, and ran across the road toward an open field, beyond which lay a gas station and car wash. Sinclair dropped his Harley to its side stand and leaped off the bike, preparing to give chase.
Behind him, he heard the unmistakable slick-slick sound of a shotgun’s slide racking a twelve-gauge round into the chamber, followed by “Police! Freeze!”
Chapter 18
Sinclair took a few puffs on the Rocky Patel Churchill and looked across the pool to the main house, which was dark except for a few night-lights inside. “By the time they proned me out, patted me down, and found my badge, Tiny was long gone. I can’t blame the officers. I would’ve handled it the same way. Fletcher had called it in, but the info didn’t make its way from the CHP nine-one-one dispatcher to the different police jurisdictions we were passing through in time. They assumed the bad guy was the one chasing the other one.”
“And your friend,” Walt asked, “Officer Fletcher. Is he okay?”
“Only his pride was hurt. His motorcycle is banged up a bit, but it’s repairable.”