Shallow Grave

by Brian Thiem

  Walt took a sip of his coffee. “How’s your dad?”

  “They’ll probably move him from ICU to a cardiac care floor tomorrow.”

  “Will you go up and see him?”

  Amber rose from the grass where she was lying, picked up a tennis ball, and dropped it on Sinclair’s lap. He threw it across the yard and watched her sprint after it. “I’m more than a little busy right now.”

  “I understand.” Walt took another sip of his coffee and watched as Amber scooped up the ball in her mouth at a full run.

  “Besides, my visiting him last night was more than he deserves.”

  “So you’re not ready to forgive him yet?” Walt grinned.

  Amber returned and dropped the ball at Sinclair’s feet. He picked it up and held it. She sat down in front of him, watching the ball intently.

  “Shortly after I got sober,” Walt said, “I was harboring serious resentments against a lot of people. I blamed everyone else for my predicament. I was wasting a great deal of emotional energy on hating people. I knew I needed to make amends—apologize—for my part to a number of people. It wasn’t as if some of them didn’t do things to me that weren’t right, but I needed to focus on what I’d done. Once I’d made apologies to most of these people, it sometimes opened a dialogue, and I started feeling differently toward them. I had begun forgiving them for what they’d done to me.”

  Sinclair threw the ball again. “And what if I don’t want to forgive him?”

  “I’m just sharing my experience. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  *

  Sinclair had been waiting in the PAB’s jail sally port since 6:30 AM. If this were a regular commercial building, this is where a loading dock for supplies and maintenance would be located. But a police station had additional needs and requirements. The vehicle entry door, located on Sixth Street, rose fifteen feet, high enough to accommodate the bus-like mobile command post and SWAT vans, which loaded and unloaded their equipment alongside a freight elevator that went to the basement, where the shooting range and storage rooms were located. A pedestrian door led from the open parking area to the rear door of the jail. Prisoner vans—called paddy wagons in the old days—parked there to unload arrestees. Another pedestrian door led to the first floor of the PAB, directly into the rear of the bureau of field operations, the uniformed division of the department. Powered, rolling metal doors could be lowered over the vehicle entrance and exits to seal off the sally port area, useful when moving a large group of prisoners into the jail or when loading the tactical operation team’s vehicles out of sight of the public. In addition to parking spaces for special-purpose vehicles, five spaces were reserved for the highest-ranking brass in the department: the police chief, the assistant chief, and three deputy chiefs.

  At 6:40 AM, a black unmarked sedan pulled into the space marked Assistant Chief, and a broad-shouldered white man with close-cut gray hair got out. Charley James turned fifty last year, a fact that he made known to everyone at City Hall, reminding anyone who considered messing with him that he could retire tomorrow. Unlike the others at the “chief” level, who spent most of their careers working IAD and OIG, the office of the inspector general, James worked his way up through the uniform ranks—patrol at the officer, sergeant, lieutenant, and captain level and a member of the tactical operations team as an officer, sergeant, and lieutenant. Chief Brown elevated him to the assistant chief position and made him responsible for the day-to-day operation of the department because, as much as he didn’t like James’s old-school mentality, he needed someone on the eighth floor who understood police work.

  Sinclair’s best memory of James was when Sinclair was a member of the SWAT entry team years ago and was going after a murder suspect holed up in an apartment. It turned out the suspect wasn’t there, and his family members made a complaint to IAD and the CPRB, the citizens police review board, accusing the entry team of unlawfully entering a house without a warrant or probable cause. James, who was the tactical commander and the lieutenant of the special operations section at the time, marched down to IAD. He demanded that the officers be removed from the complaint and that he be named as the subject officer since he ordered it, and he insisted that officers such as Sinclair were merely following orders. The CPRB held a hearing, viewed as a kangaroo court by OPD, and suspended James for three days. Although it took a year for his suspension to be overturned once it was shown the entry was legal, the officers in the department never forgot the lieutenant who was willing to sacrifice his career for his men.

  “Shouldn’t you be investigating a murder instead of hanging around in the bowels of the PAB?” James asked.

  “I was wondering if you had a minute to talk.”

  “Famous last words.” James removed his suitcoat from the back seat and slipped it on. “I come in early so I can lock myself in my office and get work done before everyone arrives and wants a minute.”

  “Sorry, Chief, but it’s important.”

  “I’m just busting your balls, Matt. Do you want to come upstairs?”

  “I thought it might be best if you weren’t seen with me.”

  “Maybe it’s actually the other way around, but go ahead. What’s on your mind?”

  “I’m trying to figure out what Roberts was working when he was killed, and I’m hitting a brick wall.”

  “One erected by my boss?”

  “I don’t want to be insubordinate.”

  “That’s one of your best qualities,” James said in his gravelly voice. “The chief didn’t bring me into the loop when he assigned Farrington to Intel.”

  “They’re hiding something,” Sinclair offered.

  “Some units report directly to the chief. IAD and Intel are two of them. I get involved with most of the IAD cases since they generally involve officers assigned to patrol and other operational units. I also get involved in most of what Intel’s doing because it’s related to operations, but there are some investigations or inquiries I’m not privy to.”

  “Such as Intel case number D-eighty-four?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  At that moment, Sinclair feared he’d made a huge miscalculation. James was the number two in the department after all. He owed his position to Brown and thus his total loyalty. “Look, Chief, I’m just searching for the truth—trying to find out who killed one of our own and why—but they’re shutting me out.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  He couldn’t squirm out of this. If James told Brown he was disregarding the order to leave this alone, he was finished. But he needed to trust someone. “Roberts wrote the number on his overtime slips citing surveillance and meetings every Friday night and usually another evening for the last few months.”

  “You obviously don’t want me to mention that you know about D-eighty-four, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I never said what I’m about to tell you.”

  Sinclair nodded.

  “I met with Phil once a week or so, usually when he delivered his unit’s time sheets and overtime slips to my admin. I asked him about the case since I noticed all the overtime he was submitting on it. He said it was one of the top-secret-I’d-have-to-kill-you-if-I-told-you cases, and if I preferred, he could submit his overtime directly to the chief. I told him I’d ask the chief about it myself. When I did, the chief told me the investigation was between him and Roberts, and he would tell me about it when the time was right.”

  “And the time hasn’t been right yet?”

  “Guess not,” James said. “What makes you think this has something to do with his murder? I thought the Savage Simbas were responsible.”

  “We have one likely suspect based on fingerprints, but there’s no motive. Besides, if Phil was working some investigation involving them, Fletcher would’ve known about it.”

  “Unless Phil was doing something deeper on the Simbas and that’s what D-eighty-four was about.”

  �
�I guess that’s possible, but if so, why would the chief withhold that information from me? Would he really let a cop killer walk?”

  James studied his shoes for a moment. “The chief is a lot of things, but not that.”

  “I’ve been doing this long enough to know that people lie and withhold the truth for all kinds of reasons. One of those is because they’re responsible for the crime. I’m not saying the chief’s responsible, but he might be withholding a key piece of the puzzle without even knowing it.”

  “I’ll ask him again about D-eighty-four. On another note, I’ve been asked to give the main speech—I guess they call it the eulogy—at Phil’s funeral since I was his day-to-day supervisor. That is, after all the political ones by the mayor, the chief, the attorney general, and anyone else from Sacramento that shows up. You two were partners for a long time, so I thought you might like to say a few words.”

  “I don’t think so,” Sinclair said. “I want to devote all my focus to solving his murder.”

  “Understood. And, Matt, I know no one will prevent you from looking under all the rocks to find the truth.” James slammed his car door. “Just don’t kick the rocks over and cause a rockslide if you can quietly peek under them when no one’s looking.”

  Chapter 19

  Braddock arrived in the office shortly before eight. Once she sat down at her desk with a cup of coffee, Sinclair told her about his motorcycle chase and his conversation with Assistant Chief James.

  “It looks like we have an ally,” she said.

  “I’d like to think so,” Sinclair said, “but you don’t keep the number-two job in the department by going against the chief of police.”

  “Is that what it’s come down to—me and you against the police chief and figuring out which side everyone else is on?”

  “It seems that way.”

  “You’re scaring me, Matt,” Braddock said. “I used to think everyone with a badge was one of the good guys. Do you think we can trust him?”

  “He puts on the knuckle-dragger, former-SWAT-cop facade, but he’s politically savvy. Has to be to survive at his level. But I think he’ll do what’s right if it comes down to it.”

  “Sort of like you,” she said.

  “The only difference is I really am just a knuckle-dragger. It’s not a facade.”

  “And your idea of playing politics is telling superiors no offense intended before you tell them they’re assholes.”

  Sinclair went back to typing up his investigative follow-up report. It was a constant battle trying to stay caught up. The more work he did on a case, the more he had to document. It almost made him reluctant to run down new leads and interview more people, knowing he’d have to spend more time pecking away on his keyboard.

  At nine o’clock, Jankowski rushed into the office out of breath.

  “Damn, Sinclair,” he bellowed. “I heard that fat fuck Tiny outran you last night.”

  “Looks like you’ve been doing some running of your own,” Sinclair replied.

  “Just got a judge’s signature on a search warrant. I’m headed over to our favorite security company to ruin someone’s day.”

  “I thought Eastman and his partners would want to help out their local police.”

  “I got tired of waiting. We’ll see how their tune changes once I take their computer and all their files.”

  “Have you had any luck talking to any of the other Simbas?”

  “Sanchez and I are still dragging them in and grilling them when we can, but nobody’s saying anything about Roberts’s murder. Either they really don’t know anything and Gibbs acted on his own and killed a cop for some reason that didn’t involve the club or they’re great liars.”

  “Do you need me to come along?”

  “No, I’m sure you’ve got plenty to keep yourself busy. Sanchez and I can handle it. All we’re gonna do is bring a shitload of paperwork back here and go through it to see if something jumps out at us. I’m mostly interested in their employee roster and what kind of work they were doing for the wife of your favorite city councilman. We might find something to pressure someone to talk.”

  Sinclair’s phone rang. It was the assistant chief’s administrative assistant, who said James wanted to see him. He and Braddock took the elevator to the eighth floor, where the admin waved them right into James’s office.

  “Close the door and grab a seat.” Once they were situated in the two guest chairs in front of his desk, James said, “I got a call from someone at City Hall asking what I knew about Eastman Security.”

  Sinclair didn’t know how much James knew about Eastman’s connection to the Savage Simbas murder. Maloney typically briefed the CID captain on normal cases, and the captain would brief the DC Investigations, the deputy chief responsible for criminal investigations if they were important enough. The DC would brief the chief and assistant chief on big cases or those in which the media was interested. But this was different. The chief was bypassing the chain of command and going directly to Maloney for updates, which probably left those in between out of the loop. Sinclair couldn’t determine if James was fishing for information or if he was trying to be helpful. “What did you tell him?”

  “What I normally do when it’s obvious someone’s trying to use the department to eliminate a business or political rival—I asked if there was something I should know.”

  Sinclair grinned. Although James had never been a major crimes investigator, he thought like one—gather information from people without giving up any more than necessary.

  James continued, “This person said we should speak to Mrs. Hattie Armstrong, the owner of SFBay Security, who would be able to tell us about Eastman Security Company being responsible for a recent murder. Does any of this mean anything to you?”

  Even if James was out of the loop, there was no reason to withhold this information from him. “Animal, the Savage Simba sergeant-at-arms who shot Shane Gibbs in the bar, worked for Eastman Security and was probably a part owner.”

  James slowly nodded, as if he already knew. Or maybe he wanted Sinclair to think he knew. “What do you know about SFBay Security?”

  Sinclair glanced out the window, the same view as from the police chief’s office, just through a smaller window. The sun illuminated the tops of a few of the high-rise buildings. In a few minutes, the ground fog would dissipate enough for the sun to bathe the entirety of the buildings in light. “Is there something about them you’d like me to know?”

  James chuckled. “Smart ass.”

  “I never heard of them until a few years ago when all of a sudden there were new shoulder patches on the security guards at City Hall and other city properties,” Sinclair said. “That’s really all I know.”

  “Years ago, the city contracted with the large national security companies for uniformed security at city venues. Then came new city contracting rules to help disadvantaged companies. Those bidding for city goods and services got a bid discount or credit if their company was female owned, minority owned, or locally based. It was cumulative, so if a company was owned by a black woman with an Oakland address, they could overbid another company, maybe by as much as ten percent, and still get the contract.”

  “Quite an advantage,” Braddock said.

  James leaned back in his desk chair. “One would think that if a newly formed Oakland company had no experience in this particular field, it could never win the contract; however, some people in the know said it often made no difference. Once the contracting and purchasing department did their due diligence on new contract bids, they would submit their recommendation to the city council for large contracts such as this, and they would vote on it.”

  “I take it the head of the contracting and purchasing department is appointed by the mayor,” Sinclair added.

  “Actually, by the city administrator, who’s appointed by the mayor,” James said. “Of course, there’s supposed to be no political influence involved in the issuance of contracts.”

  “Of cours
e,” Braddock said. “But how could someone with no security experience actually run an operation like that if they did happen to win the contract?”

  “As soon as they’re selected, they hire a security manager, such as the one that had the previous city contract.”

  “I imagine that since the security guards with the old company would be laid off as soon as the company’s contract expired, the new company could hire those people,” Sinclair said. “They already know how to do the job, so there’d be a seamless transition.”

  “So the same people are doing the same work, only a new person at the top is making a greater profit,” Braddock said.

  “Now you understand city of Oakland contracting one-oh-one,” James said. “It’s a lot more involved, but that’s the basics.”

  “Are you’re telling me that’s how SFBay got their contract?” Sinclair asked.

  “All I know is shortly after our current mayor took office three and a half years ago, the city council approved their contract.”

  “Who is this Hattie Armstrong?” Sinclair asked.

  “A very pleasant woman,” James said. “She’s been very responsive and cooperative to the department. From what I understand, she was a teacher’s aide at one of the middle schools in Oakland years ago. After that, she was a paid children’s advocate for a nonprofit organization that the school district hired to tutor children in reading. Early in the mayor’s political career, he was on the school board and took notice of Mrs. Armstrong’s program. The board gave her a position in the district office running after-school reading programs for children.”

  “From teacher’s aide and tutor to directing security for City Hall.” Braddock shook her head in disbelief.

  “What do you want us to do?” Sinclair asked.

  “I have no dog in this fight. If you think Hattie might know something useful, talk to her.”

  “Can I trust what she says?”

  “We all know that come November, there’ll be a new mayor. When that happens, alliances will change. Department heads will jockey for position with the new mayor. City councilmembers will form new voting blocs. People with sizable contracts like Hattie are jockeying for position already. If they can knock out some of their competitors before the new mayor comes in, they have a better chance of continuing their gravy train.”