Shallow Grave

by Brian Thiem

  Chapter 32

  The picturesque part of the Napa Valley that most tourists associated with the famous wine-producing area actually began just beyond the city of Napa and continued north to Calistoga. On sunny weekends, the roads there were packed with convertibles cruising between winery tasting rooms, restaurants, and overpriced shops. It took Sinclair and Braddock almost two hours to reach the Chardonnay Spa and Hotel.

  Before deciding to make the trek to Napa, Sinclair had called Bianca Fadell, the attorney who represented Helena Decker, the madam of Special Ladies Escorts. After they had arrested Decker last December, the organization shut down and their website disappeared. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had started up again under a new name, but if he were to start inquiring within those in the law enforcement community who would know, the word would get back to those who had told him to leave it alone last year. Even though Bianca had her own agenda, which didn’t coincide with the police’s, she had felt partially responsible for what could’ve been the worst school massacre in the nation had Sinclair and Braddock not intervened in time. Besides, Bianca had made it clear she had the hots for him, and he wasn’t above using that to get what he needed. But both her cell phone and her private office phone had messages saying she was out of the country for several weeks and was only checking voice mail infrequently. Nevertheless, he left a message.

  With no other way to identify Sheila and figure out what Phil’s relationship was with her, Sinclair suggested they go to the hotel. Braddock was rightfully reluctant, knowing that if she were discovered pursuing this lead, especially with an officer under suspension, without informing the chain of command, she’d suffer the same fate as Sinclair.

  They parked on the quiet street and walked up a flagstone walkway and through a small garden to the steps leading to a wide front porch lined with rocking chairs. A thirtysomething woman wearing a white shirt and black skirt greeted them from behind a reception desk. “Checking in?” she asked.

  Braddock smiled and swept her blazer aside to show her badge. “Afraid not. We’re looking into a guest who’s been staying here every Friday night for several months.” Braddock pulled the most recent credit card statement from her folio and showed it to the receptionist. “His name’s James Farron.”

  “The name sounds familiar.” She began typing on her computer. “Has he done something wrong?”

  Sometimes the best way to convince average people to cooperate was by letting them know they weren’t looking into something as minor as a stolen car or forged check. Dropping the “H-bomb” normally did the trick. “We work homicide in Oakland. Mr. Farron is dead,” Sinclair said, using Phil’s undercover name.

  She stopped typing. “Jesus! What happened?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Braddock said.

  She looked at the monitor. “Yes, he checked in a week ago Friday at nine twenty and checked out at eight fifty the following morning.”

  “Was he alone?” Braddock asked.

  “No, he had a guest.” She continued to type and said, “You’re right, he’s been staying here just about every Friday night—a room for two—all the way back to March.”

  “Does it show the guest’s name?” Braddock asked.

  “No, only the person whose name the reservation was made in.”

  Braddock showed her a photo of Phil on her iPad. “Is this James Farron?”

  “Sorry, but I never registered him. I get off at five, and it appears he checks in after that.”

  “Do you work on Saturday when he checks out?”

  “I come in at eight. I see that he’s checked out after that time most days, but that photo doesn’t look familiar. Maybe his guest turns in the key.”

  Braddock pulled up another photo from her iPad, a headshot of Sheila, cropped to eliminate the sexy swimsuit.

  “Oh, yeah. I remember her. I just didn’t associate her with Mr. Farron. She’s a sweet girl and always thanks us for a nice stay.”

  “Who would’ve been on duty when he checked in?” Braddock asked.

  “Friday nights, that would be Karen. She’s off today, but she’ll be here tomorrow. Our statements show they ate at the restaurant when they were here. Maybe someone there would recognize him.”

  Sinclair and Braddock made their way through the small lobby into the restaurant. A dozen empty tables stood in the back of the large room, while the tables in the sun-splashed front of the room overlooking the porch were all filled by couples dressed in shorts and sneakers. A slender man with shoulder-length hair wearing a black apron greeted them with two menus. “Inside or out?”

  That was the trouble with a female partner; everyone assumed he and Braddock were a couple. Braddock flashed her badge. The waiter said he only worked lunch, but Tess, who was busy serving customers on the patio, worked dinner hours. He seated them on the patio under a big umbrella and brought Braddock water with lemon and Sinclair a cup of coffee so he could maintain his caffeine level. A woman with short brown hair and a sun-weathered face smiled at them as she hurried back and forth with plates of food and pitchers of water and ice tea. Finally, she stopped at their table.

  “I understand you want to know about a customer?”

  Braddock showed her the photo of Phil.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Farron. A weekend regular. Veal picatta or the rib eye. And his”—she paused, searching for the right word—“ah, companion, normally has fish.”

  “What can you tell us about them?” Braddock asked.

  “Not much, other than what they order.”

  “Do they have a favorite table?”

  “Mr. Farron prefers a table in the back. Always inside.”

  “How do they interact with each other?” Braddock asked.

  Tess scrunched up her nose in a puzzled look.

  Although Sinclair was letting Braddock take the lead since she was the only one with a badge, he needed to get to the point. “Were they lovey-dovey, or did it look like they were having a business dinner?” Sinclair asked.

  She was silent for a moment. “I shouldn’t really be saying.”

  “Tess, Mr. Farron is dead,” Braddock said. “He was murdered in Oakland a few days ago.”

  She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. They waited for her to compose herself.

  “I guess it was somewhere in between. They didn’t arrive together but usually met in the bar. Their conversations seemed to start off serious, but by the end of dinner, they were laughing and having a good time together. With their age difference, I first thought she could be his daughter, but as I overheard their conversations, it was clear they weren’t related. So I assumed . . . well, you know.”

  “What did you overhear?” Braddock asked.

  “I try to be friendly with my customers, especially those I see regularly. It’s not like I eavesdrop or pry, but one night I asked her, just trying to be friendly, what brought them to Napa. She said that her grandfather was in a nursing home up here and she visited him Saturday mornings.”

  “From that you concluded they weren’t related?” Braddock asked.

  “Yeah, well, she didn’t include Mr. Farron in the statement. He sort of ignored what she was saying as if it didn’t concern him.”

  “Anything else you can think of?” Braddock asked.

  “Not really. Mr. Farron always took the chair facing the door. His eyes were always moving, but not like he was looking for anyone in particular. More like he didn’t want anyone to recognize them.”

  She handed the waitress her card. “If you see the woman again, please call. We really need to talk to her.”

  They returned to their car, where Sinclair asked, “What do you think now?”

  “Tess said they didn’t seem to be intimate.”

  “Open your eyes, Braddock. Phil wasn’t the kind of man to act all kissy-poo or grab boobs in public. We’ve got him getting a room for two in romantic Napa Valley, having dinner with a woman we know was an escort, and then checking out the
next morning. Other than a video of their bedroom activities, what more do you want?”

  “What’s an escort charge for an overnight?” Braddock asked. “The one we caught in the sting operation said two thousand dollars for eight hours, right?”

  Braddock was referring to the woman from Special Ladies Escorts who came to Sinclair’s hotel room when they were trying to make an inroad into the escort service to find out who killed Dawn. “A girl might charge portal to portal, which would be more like sixteen hours. Or she might charge less for a regular, especially if a nice meal and hotel room is included.”

  “So a thousand could be reasonable,” Braddock said, referring to the thousand-dollar notations in Phil’s pocket notebook. “With the room and meal, Phil would need to come up with close to fifteen hundred dollars a week—six grand a month—to see her. He didn’t pull it from his savings. Where would he come up with that kind of money?”

  “Maybe the question we should be asking is what would he have to do to get it?” Sinclair replied.

  Chapter 33

  They pulled into the fifth assisted-living facility on their list. Braddock had found twenty-nine of them in the Napa Valley. Sinclair knew several people from AA who got sober at one of the many treatment centers in the area, most of which ironically overlooked acres of vineyards. It seemed drinking, stopping drinking, and warehousing the elderly were the major industries in the area.

  They’d shown Sheila’s photo at the first four facilities, but no one recognized her. Sinclair was losing hope. They didn’t even know if Sheila was her real name, and without her full name or the name of her grandfather, they were relying on someone recognizing her as a visitor—if what she told the waitress was true, that is, and not something she just made up to avoid saying, “The reason I come to Napa every Friday is my client prefers I screw his brains out up here instead of in Oakland where someone might recognize him.”

  Sinclair and Braddock entered an office marked Director at Golden Years Retirement Home. After identifying themselves, Braddock showed a gray-haired woman sitting behind the desk Sheila’s photo.

  “Sure, I recognize her,” the woman said. “Sheila Harris. I wish all our guests had such dedicated and regular visitors.”

  “She visits her grandfather?” Braddock asked.

  “Yes, Melvin Harris.”

  “Do you have an address and phone number for Sheila?” Braddock continued.

  The woman tapped a few keys on her computer, jotted down a phone number on a scratch pad, and handed it to Sinclair. “Only a phone number. She’s one of Melvin’s emergency contacts.”

  “What else can you tell me about her?”

  “Nothing much. She’s been a weekly visitor since Melvin arrived about a year ago. Very pleasant woman. She brings small gifts to the staff and occasionally orders pizza at lunchtime. Usually stays for three or four hours, which must be very hard, considering.”

  “Considering what?” Braddock asked.

  “I can’t provide any information related to the medical condition of a resident, but you’re free to visit Mr. Harris. He’s in nineteen.”

  They walked down the hall to room nineteen. The facility was clean and absent the normal odor of urine and disinfectant that permeated many nursing homes. A light-skinned black man dressed in a long-sleeve shirt, sweater vest, and slacks sat in a recliner watching TV. Braddock approached, got his attention, and said, “Hi there.”

  “Hi there, yourself,” Melvin said.

  “I’m a friend of Sheila,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Sheila, your granddaughter.”

  “I have a granddaughter?” His eyes opened wide in amazement. “Do I know you?”

  “My name’s Cathy. What’s your name?”

  He smiled again and after a pause said, “Mel. What’s your name?”

  A dresser topped with photographs stood against one wall. One showed a younger Sheila, probably in her early twenties, standing on a beach. Sinclair used his phone to take a picture of it. A few magazines sat on a table next to Melvin’s chair: Sports Illustrated, Motor Trend, and Hilton Head Monthly.

  Sinclair picked up the Sports Illustrated. “What’s your team, Oakland A’s or San Francisco Giants?”

  “Oakland,” he said without hesitation.

  “Who’s your favorite player?”

  “Ricky Henderson, the man of steel.”

  Sinclair showed him the photo of Sheila on the beach. “She’s a pretty girl. What’s her name?”

  Melvin’s face contorted as if the effort of trying to remember was too great. He took a deep breath and sighed. “Dennis Eckersley was the best pitcher to ever play the game.”

  Sinclair handed him the Motor Trend. “I drive a Ford Mustang. What kind of car do you have?”

  “Cadillac Eldorado. Four-twenty-nine cube V-eight. Front-wheel drive.” He smiled broadly. “What a car!”

  Braddock picked up the last magazine. “Do you drive it in Hilton Head?”

  Melvin looked at her, puzzled. “Of course not, silly—that’s too far. We take a plane.”

  They spent another ten minutes with Melvin, but his thoughts gradually became even more scattered. When they returned to the facility administrator, she asked, “Was he able to help you at all?”

  “He didn’t even recognize Sheila but knew who played for the Oakland A’s thirty years ago and what car he had in the late sixties,” Sinclair said.

  “That’s not unusual for some patients.”

  “You said Sheila was one of his emergency contacts,” Braddock said. “Can we get the names of other family members?”

  “I don’t want to violate any privacy rights, but the other emergency contact is his daughter-in-law, Charlotte Harris.” She wrote a phone number on a pad and handed it to Braddock.

  “If you want any more information, you’ll need to have her contact me and authorize it.” She paused and said, “You never did tell me why two detectives would drive all the way from Oakland to talk with a man who can’t remember much from the last several decades.”

  “A man was murdered, and we believe Sheila might know him,” Braddock said.

  “If Sheila comes back to see her grandfather, would you like for me to call you?”

  Braddock slid her card across the desk. “Without tipping her off.”

  *

  Braddock turned the ignition and ran the air conditioner at full blast to cool down the car. “Should we call Sheila and see if she’ll meet with us?” she asked.

  “If she refuses and demands to know what we want to talk about over the phone—which she probably will—we’ll never get her to tell us the truth. Plus, if she’s involved in the murder, we’ve just played our hand.”

  “I can call the office. If Jankowski’s back in, he can run her out for us and maybe get us her address so we can catch her by surprise at her home.”

  The police department consistently remained at least half a decade behind the rest of the world in technology, so they didn’t have computer access to the department’s crime networks outside the PAB. “Do we really want to involve someone else in this?” Sinclair asked.

  “The longer we wait to tell the lieu, the more trouble we’re going to be in,” Braddock said.

  Finding Sheila was important. She held the key to many unanswered questions. If they discovered Phil was on the take, they’d have to decide what to do with that discovery. But they first needed answers. “I’ll work this angle alone if you want.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying, Matt. I just think Phil might’ve been involved in something we need to inform the boss about.”

  “So you now think he was having an affair with a hooker and paying her with money he got from some crooks?”

  “Come on, Matt. You heard the way Phil spoke about us to Abby. Yet you’re still mad at him because he wouldn’t support you instead of the police chief and the Feds on a case?”

  “He taught us that we in homicide were the ones who spoke for the
dead, that no more profound duty is ever imposed on police officers than when we are entrusted with the investigation of the death of a human being. But he let politics and his comfy position in Intel trump his duty as a cop.”

  “He’s dead, Matt. Forgive him.”

  As a kid, Sinclair had looked up to his father, but his father had let him down years ago. There was no one in the department who he had looked up to more than Phil. But he too had let him down. “It doesn’t matter how I feel about him,” Sinclair said. “It’s not like I refused to work a case when the victim was a dope dealer or a hooker. We’ll do what we always do on a homicide—collect all the facts and see where they point.”

  “He’s not just a victim. He was our friend—our partner.”

  Sinclair stared straight ahead and said nothing. He was mad at Phil for betraying him and betraying the badge. Why could he ignore the conduct of other victims—even ones who were killers themselves—when they were victims of murders he was assigned to investigate but couldn’t set aside what Phil had done? It was their duty to bring killers to justice, because if people were allowed to kill with impunity, society would collapse. It was even more important that people couldn’t be permitted to kill a cop and get away with it. Corrupt or not, the peacekeepers and law enforcers had to be off limits to the criminal element. He needed to shift his anger from Phil to those responsible for his murder.

  “You’re right,” Sinclair said. “What do you want to do about Sheila?”

  “I don’t know what to think. She visits her grandfather every weekend and, according to everyone who met her, is a sweet girl.” Braddock pulled her iPad out. “Heck, I know escorts are regular people with regular lives. Being a sex worker is just something they do. But this whole thing with Sheila and Phil just doesn’t feel right.”

  “If Phil was a regular murder victim, someone you didn’t know, would you feel the same way?”