Shallow Grave

by Brian Thiem

  She twisted the cap back on the bottle and set it on her lap. “Yes.”

  Sinclair met her gaze, waiting for her to say more. She sat there quietly, alternating between looking at him and her water bottle. Most people couldn’t stand silence, and by allowing the silence to build, Sinclair usually got some kind of response without saying another word. After two minutes, he knew it wasn’t working with her. “Yes what?” he asked. “Tell me about what Reggie did for you.”

  “It was a private matter,” she said.

  “Private for you or for your husband’s campaign?”

  “Where are you going with this line of questioning?” she shot back.

  “To be frank with you, Ms. Yates, I’m going wherever the truth takes me. Mr. Clement was scheduled to perform some sort of security services for you Monday night. But he didn’t. Instead, he was in a bar shooting Shane Gibbs. I’m trying to figure out why.”

  “What does this have to do with me? I wasn’t there. Mr. Clement clearly wasn’t working for me that evening, and I wasn’t at that bar. I’ve never stepped foot in it.”

  Sinclair turned in his chair to face Maureen directly. “What were you doing Monday evening?”

  “Am I a suspect?”

  “I don’t know what you are, Ms. Yates, other than someone who’s hiding something from us.”

  Her jaw muscles tightened. “What time are you referring to?”

  “Well, let’s begin at five o’clock and go from there.”

  “I was at the office at five,” she said.

  “After that?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “We’re only talking four days ago.”

  “I was at home.”

  “What time did you leave the office?”

  “Six o’clock.”

  “Let’s go step by step.” Sinclair felt like a lawyer cross-examining an uncooperative witness who’d been instructed to answer only the question asked and nothing more. “Did you go directly home?”

  “I commute with three coworkers. We leave at six o’clock. If traffic cooperates, that gets me home around seven. I went directly home that night and didn’t go out again until I left for work Tuesday morning.”

  “We’ll need the names of those you carpool with.”

  “I need to speak to them and get their permission before I do that. I’m not about to drag friends into some sort of police vendetta without their approval.”

  “What sort of police vendetta are you talking about?” Sinclair asked.

  She glared at him and asked, “Are you satisfied with my alibi for the murder?”

  Maureen didn’t provide a way to verify her whereabouts. Sinclair had found over the years that friends often lied for friends, and allowing a suspect to speak with potential alibi witnesses first makes them more likely to lie. But he wasn’t about to accuse her of involvement in the murder without some sort of evidence. “I don’t believe you committed the murder, but since you brought it up, was your husband home when you arrived around seven?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “It was—”

  “I know, it was only four days ago. Listen, Sergeant, Preston does much of his work in the evenings. That’s when his constituents are home, that’s when the city council and many of the committees meet, that’s when he has dinner or drinks with donors and associates. Most evenings he gets home by nine, but sometimes the city council meetings last until midnight in our crazy city. I don’t remember what time he got home Monday.”

  People who went to great lengths to explain why they didn’t know something were usually lying. And like most normal people, lying didn’t come easily to Maureen. She wasn’t good at it. If he’d had her in an interview room back in homicide right now, he would’ve pushed her harder. She would’ve gotten all indignant over being called a liar, but he would’ve persisted. Eventually, she would’ve cracked. But people lie for all kind of reasons, and they cover for people who might have no involvement in the crime. This was neither the time nor the place to confront her. Knowing she was lying was enough for now. When he knew more, they’d talk again. Maybe then, he’d have enough to get her into an interview room.

  “If you want to know where Preston was Monday night, why don’t you ask him?” Maureen said.

  Sinclair thought about it. “Maybe we will.” The second he spoke, he knew he’d paused too long before responding.

  Maureen sat up straight in her chair and puffed out her chest. “He doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”

  “The city council is not in our chain of command, Ms. Yates.”

  “Does Chief Brown even know you’re here?”

  “He’s in charge of more than a thousand people. He doesn’t concern himself with what every officer is doing every minute.”

  She stood. “I think we’re through here.”

  Sinclair and Braddock got up.

  “By the way, Sergeant Sinclair, I know all about Preston’s little indiscretion with that woman years ago. He has told me everything, and I have forgiven him. I’m sure you’ve been wondering who’s paying the child support and funding the college trust fund for that woman’s daughter. You’d like it to be some sort of evil cabal so you can justify your vendetta against my husband. Well, it’s been me.”

  Chapter 22

  Sinclair was at his desk eating a chicken breast sandwich he’d picked up on the way back from San Francisco when his phone rang. “What were you talking to Maureen Yates about?” Lieutenant Maloney asked.

  “A murder,” Sinclair said. “That’s what I normally talk to people about.”

  “Don’t be a smartass, Sinclair. I’m sitting in the police chief’s office, and he’s the one asking.”

  Sinclair took a deep breath. “Animal worked for Eastman Security on a security account in Maureen Yates’s name. Animal was scheduled to work Monday night on that account. Obviously he didn’t because he was busy killing Gibbs. That leaves me with lots of questions.”

  “What kind of security work?”

  “I don’t know. Eastman said he didn’t know, but he might’ve been lying. Mrs. Yates would only say it was private.”

  “She said you were trying to implicate the councilmember in the murder of Gibbs,” Maloney said.

  “That’s bullshit. Braddock was with me, and she can vouch for that being bullshit.”

  “She said you were demanding an alibi from them both for Monday night.”

  “I didn’t demand anything, Lieu. I was just trying to find out what went on Monday night that required a Savage Simba biker for security but later didn’t require him because he was in the bar when Gibbs came in. I don’t think it was a coincidence that that’s when Phil was killed. So if I’m being accused of trying to determine what people were doing around the time Phil was killed, I’m guilty.”

  “Okay,” Maloney said. “Don’t leave the office. I want to talk with you when I’m done here.”

  The line went dead, and Sinclair gently replaced the receiver.

  “Was he pissed?” Braddock asked.

  “He was with the chief, so he was probably trying to show how cool he is under pressure.”

  Jankowski and Sanchez walked into the office with a muscular black man dressed in a dark-blue security guard uniform. They escorted him to an interview room and shut the door. Jankowski stopped at Sinclair’s desk and told him and Braddock they’d collected a box of files and a computer from Eastman Security and the man they had in the room was an Eastman security guard. While Sanchez continued bringing up boxes of evidence from their car, Sinclair told Jankowski about their meeting with Maureen Yates.

  Just as he finished, the office door banged against the wall and Maloney entered like the point man on a drug house raid. He scanned the room, pointed at Jankowski, Braddock, and Sinclair, and waved them into his office. Maloney removed his coat and dropped into his chair. He wiped the perspiration from his red face with a handkerchief.

  “All three of you knew of Maureen Yates’s
connection to the security company, right?”

  They all nodded.

  “And none of you saw fit to tell me.” Maloney was fighting to keep his voice low enough so those outside the office couldn’t hear. It was causing his face to get redder.

  “My fault, boss,” Jankowski said. “It was my case, but I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

  “I’m the one responsible,” Sinclair said. “I made the decision to interview her.”

  “I knew better,” Braddock said. “I should’ve told you.”

  “She tried to talk me out of it,” Sinclair said.

  Maloney raised his hand for silence. “I don’t want to hear any of this all for one—one for all crap.”

  “What did the chief say?” Sinclair asked.

  “What do you think? ‘Who’s running the homicide unit, Maloney?’ ‘Is there anyone controlling Sinclair, Maloney?’ ‘What was he thinking, Maloney?’”

  “I didn’t realize she was off limits,” Sinclair said.

  “Sinclair, don’t act dumb with me. You were told to leave Councilmember Yates and the escort service client list alone. You knew damn well jamming up the councilmember’s wife would get back to the chief.”

  “So I guess we’re not supposed to pursue a lead in the murder of a cop because someone might call the chief and complain,” Sinclair said.

  “You know I’m not saying that. I want to find Phil’s killer as much as anyone. Am I missing something here?” Maloney asked. “Do we think Yates killed Phil?”

  All three of them shrugged.

  Braddock said, “There’s something funny going on with Eastman Security. Why would Maureen Yates hire a motorcycle gang member for security?”

  “The guy she hired is the biker who killed the dude we’re pinning Phil’s murder on,” Jankowski added. “That’s too convenient.”

  “Are you three plotting to pick up Councilman Yates to try to force a confession or something?” Maloney asked. “Please tell me no.”

  “No,” Sinclair said. “We’re not that stupid. Not only do we have nothing on him right now, I know from our last dealing with him he’ll lawyer up in a heartbeat.”

  “Okay.” Maloney took a deep breath, exhaled, and wiped his brow again. “If that changes, if you even think about arresting or even talking to Yates—or any other city councilmember, for that matter—you have to see me first.”

  Braddock and Jankowski left the office, and Sinclair hung in the doorway for a minute. “He must get a huge hard-on bullying people,” Sinclair said. “I don’t know how you put up with it.”

  “That’s the job of a lieutenant—take shit from the bosses and try to keep it off your people so they can do their jobs.”

  Sanchez was busy setting up Eastman’s computer on an empty desk, running cables and power cords to an old monitor that had been sitting atop a file cabinet. Normally, investigators sent computers seized as evidence to a contracted computer forensics lab for examination. One problem with them was their speed. A rush job meant investigators might get information back in a week, and that was if the lab knew what they were looking for and where in the computer the data might be. Sanchez was the closest thing to an IT guru the unit had. As long as he wasn’t shut out with passwords or other security measures, he could conduct a basic search of a computer a lot faster than the forensics lab.

  The cardboard box on Jankowski’s desk contained a stack of file folders two feet thick. Most had handwritten subjects written on the tab. Sinclair opened a few folders and found a mixture of computer-printed sheets of paper, handwritten notes, and scraps of paper.

  “Yeah, it’s obvious Eastman doesn’t have the best organizational skills,” Jankowski said. “Whenever he had a piece of paper he didn’t know what to do with, he scribbled something on a file folder and stuck the paper inside. I looked in the one marked Guard Cards. That was the closest thing to a list of employees they had. A copy of Animal’s state card and one for Pops and this guy, Jamal Pelletier, were there. There was a file on Pelletier with some time sheets showing he worked at a market in East Oakland, so we stopped there and picked him up.”

  “Any idea what he knows?” asked Sinclair.

  “No, but seems like a good kid. I’m thinking we let Sanchez do his computer stuff, Braddock can go through the files, and me and you will talk to him.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Sinclair said.

  Just as Sinclair was gathering up his notebook to join Jankowski for the interview, a thirtyish woman dressed in a pair of stretch pants and a loose top entered the office and called his name.

  “Look at you!” Braddock hugged her, avoiding her protruding belly. “How far along are you?”

  “Seven months”—Officer Julie Decker patted her bump—“but I feel like I’m ready to pop any day now.”

  “I’ve wondered why I haven’t seen you on the streets,” Braddock said.

  “They’ve got me working in personnel until I deliver. That’s another good reason to drop this kid early. I need to get back to real police work.” She massaged the small of her back and faced Sinclair. “They asked me to hand-deliver this to you.”

  She gave Sinclair a copy of the department’s emergency notification form. OPD developed this form years ago after a series of awkward mistakes when officers were injured or killed on duty. One time, a watch commander went to the address they had on record after an officer was involved in a serious car accident to break the news to his wife only to have the woman say they’d been separated for a year and was sad to hear her soon-to-be ex was still alive. When another officer was shot and killed on duty, his sergeant cleaned out his locker. After turning in the department equipment, he delivered everything else from the locker to his wife. Unbeknown to him, among the years of accumulated papers was a stack of love letters from a woman the officer had been having an affair with for a decade.

  Sinclair scanned Phil’s form. It listed Sinclair as the person to make required emergency notifications to his wife. Sinclair knew Brown was privy to this information when he decided to handle it personally. Phil also requested that Sinclair be the family liaison and clean out his locker if he were killed in the line of duty. The form contained several lines at the bottom of the form for special requests. In this area, officers were known to write things such as, I leave my long baton, with its thirty notches, to Officer Jones. Use it well, Jonsie. A few years ago, after three years without a pay raise, scores of officers wrote, If I die in the line of duty, don’t let the asshole mayor speak at my funeral.

  Written at the bottom of the form in Phil’s handwriting was, If I’m killed in the line of duty in one of those whodunits that we in homicide always love, I want Matt Sinclair to be assigned the investigation. If that really happens, let my old Traffic Div. partner, T. Kelly, be the family liaison so Sinclair can find my killer.

  Six years ago when they were partners, Phil and Sinclair had both filled out new forms and listed each other as their family liaison and the one to investigate their death. They figured their boss or someone in personnel would chuckle and make them redo the paperwork, but no one did. Damn Phil for not updating the form when he left homicide. Damn him again for not updating it after their falling out last year. He studied the form more closely. Next to Phil’s signature was last month’s date.

  Sinclair handed the form to Braddock and looked up at Decker.

  “He had quite a sense of humor, didn’t he?” Decker said. “I’m sure that has no bearing on you being assigned his murder, but it is sort of ironic . . .”

  “What does the family liaison duty entail?” Sinclair asked.

  “You really can’t do both. Family liaison is an eighteen-hour-a-day job from now until after the funeral. I ran this by the personnel manager when I learned you caught the case, and he said we would use Officer Kelly. I guess those two rode Harleys together in traffic years ago. Since it was specifically requested, you should be the one to clean out his locker. Not much to it. Turn in his handgun and other safety
equipment to the range master, turn in other department equipment to the appropriate unit, and box up all of his personal effects for his wife. You’re allowed to screen out anything that’s not appropriate for his family, if you know what I mean.”

  Chapter 23

  Jankowski had Jamal Pelletier sit in the center of the small metal table, leaving the chairs at either end for the investigators so they could triangulate on him. Sinclair had already looked at what the police databases revealed about him. Not much. A valid driver’s license showed he lived in the flatlands of East Oakland, was twenty-eight years old, and drove a four-year-old Toyota. He’d never been arrested, which was a rarity for a young black man in Oakland. His state guard card was issued three years ago, and his only police contact was for a speeding violation two years ago.

  Sinclair slid his legal pad from his leather folio to take notes while Jankowski took the lead. Jankowski led him through his basic information: name, address, phone numbers, employment. Pelletier answered the questions politely. Sinclair watched his facial expressions and body language for signs of deception.

  “Do you know why we asked you to come down and talk with us?” Jankowski asked.

  “I imagine it’s about the murder of Shane Gibbs.”

  “That’s right. Did you know Shane?”

  “Sure, we were both members of the Simbas.”

  “How long have you known him?” Jankowski asked.

  “A few years. He joined the club just after I did.”

  “Were you both full-patch members?”

  Pelletier’s face tightened. “Sergeant, so you don’t get the wrong idea, I know what you probably believe. That the Simbas are a black version of the Hells Angels—a motorcycle gang that deals in drugs and runs prostitutes or something like that. We’re not. We’re a group of men who like to ride and socialize around our love of motorcycles.”

  “How would you compare yourselves to the East Bay Dragons?” Jankowski asked.

  “They’re an old-school club. They’ve been around for over fifty years, and most of their members are my grandfather’s age. They do more drinking and socializing than riding.”