Shallow Grave

by Brian Thiem

  “All your members are African American?”

  “That’s the way it is. Folks have been trying to integrate the races for generations. Still, it’s human nature to want to hang with people like you. I think the only club that says they won’t allow people of another race are the Angels. I’m not a board member, but if I were and a white or Latino wanted to join the Simbas, I’d have no problem.”

  Sinclair had expected a response like he’d heard too many times in this room—about how blacks needed to band together against the still blatant discrimination in the world. It was clear Pelletier wasn’t a product of the Oakland streets.

  “How well did you know Animal?” Jankowski asked.

  “Better than most. He tried to help the new guys stay out of trouble with the law, find employment, go back to school.”

  “But he couldn’t do that himself, could he?”

  Pelletier took a deep breath and exhaled. “I don’t know what happened. He must’ve just flipped. I’m sure alcohol fueled it. What happened that night was an embarrassment to the club.”

  “Were you there?”

  “Not when it happened. I worked until five and went to the bar afterward for about an hour. They told me it was a surprise birthday party for Animal and we should all show up. I’m more into the gym than the bar scene, so I had a beer—yes, one beer—and went home. I have a wife and a young son.”

  “Why’d Animal shoot him?”

  “I have no idea. People are saying Shane did something that disrespected the club and took a swing at Animal. That’s all I know.”

  “We brought a bunch of club members in that night,” Jankowski said. “Every single one said nothing—seemed like the code of the club to not talk with police.”

  “They were scared shitless that night. I heard about it. Police crashed down doors and treated the brothers like they were terrorists.”

  “We recovered a bunch of guns and some drugs.”

  “Whoever had drugs needs to go to jail. The club doesn’t condone it. Possession of a firearm in one’s home or a private establishment like the clubhouse isn’t illegal. At least not yet in California.”

  Jankowski nodded to Sinclair.

  “What’s your club name, Jamal?” Sinclair asked. “The name on your vest.”

  “Rock.”

  Pelletier’s biceps stretched the sleeves of his short-sleeve uniform shirt, and the extralarge shirt was tight across his chest. “Because of your physique?” Sinclair asked.

  “They gave me the nickname when I was a prospect. I began lifting when I was in the Air Force. Found it to be a great stress reducer.”

  “How long were you in the Air Force?” Sinclair asked.

  “Six years.”

  “Thank you for your service,” Sinclair said. “I was Army. Actually, I guess I still am because I’m still in the reserves.”

  “Any deployments?” Pelletier asked.

  “A year in Iraq,” Sinclair said. “What about you?”

  “The Air Force has shorter deployments than you guys. I did four months in Afghanistan and another four in Kuwait. Both on air bases, so not much risk.”

  “Just being there carries a risk,” Sinclair said.

  Pelletier smiled. “Thanks.”

  “Why’d you get out?”

  “Wanted to put down roots. I was at Travis when I met my wife. We wanted to raise a family and not move our kids every few years.”

  “Why Oakland?”

  “It’s where we both grew up. The city’s changing—getting better.”

  “How’d you come to work for Eastman?”

  “A bunch of veterans work security, so I had no trouble getting hired. I worked for a few of the big companies. One day, I met Animal in the gym. He was a powerlifter and was impressed with what I could lift. We started talking motorcycles, and he invited me to take a look at the Simbas. Last year, he, Pops, and Mr. Eastman started up their own security company. He had big plans for expansion. Expecting some major corporate and government contracts after November. Animal liked my work ethic and the way I carried myself. Said he wanted me as a supervisor and later as part of the management team of the company.”

  “He sounds like a dreamer,” Sinclair offered.

  “I guess I am too. He said he made some great contacts with influential people in Oakland who’d hook him up.”

  “Any idea who these influential people were or what contracts he was talking about?”

  “He said he had to keep it top secret to prevent other companies from knowing our business plan, but once he negotiated the contracts, we needed to be ready to hit the ground running. I trusted him.”

  “What about now?”

  Pelletier shrugged. “I don’t know. I can always go back to my last employer.”

  Sinclair changed the subject. “Do you know Bobby Richards?”

  “Tiny? Sure. One of the best wrenches in the state.”

  “We hear he was with Shane before he got killed.”

  “I heard the same,” Pelletier said.

  “Do you know where they were or what they were doing?”

  Pelletier shook his head.

  “Where would we find him now?” Sinclair asked.

  “I haven’t been back to the club or hardly talked to anyone since this thing happened. My guess—Tiny got spooked and went into hiding.”

  “Spooked over what?”

  “If you believe the stuff you see on TV about motorcycle gangs, you’d think the club could be coming for you next.”

  “Would they be?”

  “No way. Maybe the HAs do hits on members who break a club rule, but we’re not the Angels.”

  “Where was Animal planning to get guards from if he won these big contracts?” Sinclair asked.

  “He’d hired people away from other companies, but he was also trying to take care of the Simbas. He was handing out state guard paperwork to members and telling them when guard training classes were scheduled.”

  “Was Shane one of them?”

  “I don’t know. He could’ve been.”

  “What about Tiny?”

  “No way. He’s a good dude, but he’s a fat slob. That’s not the image Animal wanted to present.”

  “Who in the club would be likely candidates for him to recruit?”

  Pelletier mentioned the names of fifteen club members who Animal might consider. Sinclair copied down the names and said, “I really appreciate your cooperation. If you hear anything, I’d appreciate a call.” He handed him his business card. “Have you ever thought about applying for OPD?”

  Pelletier smiled. “I’d love the pay and benefits, but it’s not worth it. People on the streets hate you. No offense intended, but you’ve got to be crazy to be a cop in Oakland.”

  Chapter 24

  Sinclair stood on the landing outside the back door of CID and lit a short Oliva, a mild cigar with a light Connecticut wrapper. He slipped on his sunglasses and looked at the list of voice mails on his phone. He called the number he most dreaded first.

  “Hi, Matt,” his mother said. “How’s your big case coming?”

  Sinclair never told her much about his work beyond how busy it kept him. “Haven’t cracked it yet, but I think we’re making headway.”

  “I’ve been reading the papers. Not much else to do when you’re sitting around a hospital. It’s so sad about your friend being murdered.”

  Sinclair heard in her voice, It could’ve been you. The papers were printing article after article about Phil and his family. Anything that stirred up emotions sold. The only thing that sold more papers was a scandal. Reporters would love to get their hands on information about his murder having resulted from a confidential investigation with political implications. “Yeah, Mom, that’s why they need me here.”

  “Your father’s awake and doing better. They get him up and make him walk a bit every few hours.”

  “That’s probably a good thing.”

  “I know you’re busy, but if you coul
d make time, I’m sure he’d like to see you.”

  “Did he say that?”

  The line was silent for a few beats. “No, but you know your father doesn’t talk about his feelings much.”

  “How much longer will he be in the hospital?”

  “They might transfer him to a rehab center in a few days or even let him go home.”

  “Sounds like he’s in good hands. How are you doing, Mom?”

  “I’m doing fine.”

  Sinclair called Alyssa’s cell next. Since she left her phone in the nurses’ breakroom when on duty, they mostly traded voice mails when they were working. She’d called when he was interviewing Pelletier, but he couldn’t exactly tell Jankowski and his witness he needed to excuse himself to take a call from his girlfriend.

  He told her voice mail that he didn’t want to keep her on the hook for tonight. As much as he wanted to see her, he knew he wouldn’t be getting off until late. If she didn’t mind the possibility of being stood up again on Saturday, he’d like to take her to dinner around seven, he said to the recording. With twenty-four hours to plan it, he figured he could arrange for a two-hour break, unless they picked up a hot lead or something. He almost slipped and ended the call with Love you.

  He didn’t know where that came from. Hell, they hadn’t even slept together yet. It had been a long time since he said the L word to a woman, and it wasn’t a word he said lightly. When women heard a man say he loved her, they pretty much held their breath waiting for, “Will you marry me?” It was probably the stress of the case and the lack of sleep that almost caused the slip.

  “You got another one of those?” Jankowski asked as he stepped outside.

  Jankowski was famous for mooching food, drinks, or smokes from everyone in the unit. Sinclair handed him the cigar he’d pocketed a few minutes earlier in anticipation of Jankowski’s visit. He eyed the label carefully before he clipped off the end and lit it. “You know, Sinclair, you moving in with that rich guy in Piedmont sure improved the class of cigars I smoke.”

  “Why do you still put up with this bureaucratic bullshit?” Sinclair asked. Jankowski hit thirty years with the department three years ago and could’ve retired with ninety percent of his salary. If you took away his overtime pay, he was nearly working for free.

  “What am I gonna do, sit home all day with ole what’s-her-name? I’ve got no hobbies. I’m already tired of the stupid TV shows I end up watching at night. I read one mystery after another about crooked cops who frame innocent people—it’s enough to make me throw most books against the wall. Thousands of murder cases across the nation every year. One or two of the people we arrest are innocent, and they make it sound like it’s an epidemic. Besides, my retirement check wouldn’t include all the OT I pull in by looking at dead bodies and talking to liars in the wee hours of the morning. Without that cash, what’s-her-name wouldn’t be able to buy more clothes she never wears or replace all the faucets in the house again because the ones she put in two years ago are dated now.”

  A few years ago, a seventy-five-year-old sergeant retired from OPD with forty-five years of service, most of it working in uniform as a street supervisor. The man loved what he did. Even though Jankowski constantly complained, he loved the work. Sinclair doubted he’d stay a day after he turned fifty, assuming he survived the politics that long. He puffed on his cigar and watched the warm breeze carry the smoke toward the street. After a few days of the high barely hitting seventy—normal for June in Oakland—the forecast called for highs in the low eighties over the next several days. “What did you think of Rock?”

  Jankowski positioned the cigar in the corner of his mouth and said, “The kid sounded righteous.”

  “If all the Savage Simbas aren’t outlaws, maybe we should try to approach them again.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.” Jankowski’s cigar bobbed up and down as he spoke. “Of the names Rock gave us, we interviewed six of them Tuesday morning after our raids, and they said nothing. But we came down hard on them at the time because we figured they were major badasses. We might’ve had better luck with a softer approach.”

  Sinclair wanted to tell Jankowski what Assistant Chief James told him about the infighting between security companies, but he promised James he’d keep his name out of it. This case had too many secrets. Only James, Sinclair, and Braddock knew about the security guard company situation at City Hall, and Sinclair couldn’t even say anything about it to Maloney. When he tried to keep Maureen Yates’s involvement secret long enough to get the truth from her, that bit him in the ass the moment Brown and Maloney found out. He didn’t know how Phil was able to work Intel, where just about everything he did was secret.

  “I’m thinking that’s the best direction,” Sinclair said. “We do a work-up on the remaining nine and talk to them. Do you or Sanchez have a problem with working late tonight?”

  Before he could answer, Braddock pushed through the heavy door carrying a pile of loose papers in her hands. “I found something interesting in the files. Eastman isn’t as disorganized as we thought, or maybe his disorganization makes sense to me.”

  Braddock found a form in a folder titled Yates that had been filled out in handwriting that looked like Animal’s. The form included Maureen Yates’s name, home and business addresses, and three phone numbers. Driver/Bodyguard was written in a box labeled Services and $50/hr. in the box for Rate. Location read Varied.

  Braddock held up a pink telephone message form. “I found hundreds of these in different folders. It looks like any time Eastman received a phone call, he wrote it down on a message slip. He then wrote some cryptic notes about what action he took and stuck it in a file folder. For instance, here’s one dated Monday at three fifteen. It shows a call from Rosina Lopez, a phone number, and a note saying, ‘Tonight, pickup seven sharp.’ At the bottom of the form is written, ‘Called Animal—OK.’”

  “Who’s Rosina Lopez?” Sinclair asked. “Name sounds familiar.”

  “I thought so too, so I did an online search.” She handed him a printout.

  Sinclair read a short article that appeared in the Oakland Tribune two months ago:

  City Staffer Resigns to Run Mayoral Campaign

  Rosina Lopez, the chief of staff to City Councilmember Preston Yates for the past three years, has taken a leave of absence from her city position to assume the duties of campaign director for Preston Yates’s bid to become the next mayor of Oakland. Early polls show Yates as the favorite to win the election, taking place November 8. Prior to becoming his chief of staff, Ms. Lopez worked in a variety of positions for the city of Oakland and the Port of Oakland. Mr. Yates’s campaign headquarters will operate out of his council district’s community outreach office on Telegraph Avenue. When reached for comment about her future prospects, Ms. Lopez said, “The only thing I’m focusing on at this time is helping the citizens elect the man who will lead Oakland into its rightful place as the safest and most business-friendly city in the nation.”

  Chapter 25

  Braddock crossed her arms and stared at Sinclair. “Assuming she was willing to talk to us, what would you ask her?”

  “Who she wanted Animal to pick up at seven, where they were going, and what they were doing.”

  “And what if she gave a perfectly logical answer, like to pick up Maureen and take her to a fund raiser in Walnut Creek?”

  “Then we verify the event happened and ask why Animal didn’t show up.”

  “And she says Maureen had a headache and decided not to go.”

  “We can play this fucking game all day long, Braddock. There might be a perfectly reasonable explanation, but there’s something here that doesn’t smell right. And until we get people to tell us the truth, we won’t know what it is.”

  “Animal knows the truth,” Jankowski said.

  “And he’s sitting in jail on a murder charge with an attorney of record,” Sinclair shot back.

  “You want this to be about Preston Yates,” Braddock pre
ssed.

  “I don’t want anything other than the truth,” Sinclair said. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think Lopez’s call was a request for Animal to pick up Preston Yates.”

  “And what?” Braddock asked. “Take him to a bar where a bunch of outlaw bikers were hanging out?”

  “We’ll never know if we don’t ask her.” Sinclair took a few puffs on his cigar. “Did you run her out?”

  Braddock pulled the papers against her chest.

  “Come on, Braddock, hand them over.”

  She shoved the papers toward him. Sinclair read through the LRMS printout, which showed Lopez was the reporting person on several crime reports, once for vandalism to the community office, once to report threatening phone calls directed at Yates, and once to report a burglary at her home. She had no arrests but had an atrocious driving record, with a half dozen moving violations over the past three years. The last page showed a thousand-dollar warrant for failure to appear for 14601 VC, a vehicle code violation for driving on a suspended license. “What have we got here?”

  “Matt, the woman didn’t pay some parking tickets, so they held up her vehicle registration and wouldn’t renew her license until she did. She was stopped and ticketed.”

  “And she didn’t show up for court, so the judge issued a warrant.”

  “If she walked into the department and turned herself in, they’d just give her a new court date and release her,” Braddock said.

  “The warrant calls for her arrest,” Jankowski said. “We’ve been looking for a hammer to hold over one of these folks’ head. This is it. She comes down to homicide and talks to us or we walk her to the jail in handcuffs.”

  “The chief will blow a gasket,” she protested.

  “Our orders didn’t say shit about not talking to someone just because she has a connection to Yates,” Sinclair continued. “Hell, he’s a councilman, he knows everyone. Does that mean we can’t talk to anyone he might know?”

  “You’ve got the murder that matters, Sinclair,” Jankowski said. “It’s your call.”