Shallow Grave

by Brian Thiem

She was quiet for a moment. “Probably not.”

  “So there’s a real possibility no one knew this side of Phil.”

  As they sat in their car, Braddock dug up what she could about Sheila online. Melvin Harris was too common of a name to find anything meaningful. The phone number for Sheila Harris came back to a Verizon cell phone out of Oakland, but the white pages and other searches for a Sheila Harris around thirty years old turned up no matches. The phone number for Charlotte Harris showed a Sprint cell phone out of Detroit. Braddock found a fifty-eight-year-old Charlotte Harris who lived in Birmingham, an affluent suburb of Detroit. Another website showed a sixty-one-year-old Melvin Harris at that same address. Possibly the son of the man they’d just met.

  Braddock put the car in drive and headed south toward Oakland. It felt strange having Braddock drive their car, carry the only badge between them, take the lead on interviews, and call the shots on what was his case. “What now?” he asked.

  “I drop you off at your car and you go home, where every officer on suspension is supposed to be.”

  “What about Sheila?”

  “I’ll run her out, and if I can ID her, I’ll do a full background and figure out the best way to approach her.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Hell, Matt, I don’t know. This is all uncharted territory for me. I don’t know what to do. If I get caught working with you, I’m done. I sure as hell can’t go driving around Oakland with you looking for Sheila.”

  “We can still—”

  “Don’t you get it, Matt? There’s no we. You’re no longer a cop. It’s just me.”

  He sighed. “You’re right. It’s your case now, but if word leaks, I’m sure the chief will cancel the department funeral. Even if we later find out Phil did nothing wrong, his reputation will be tainted forever.”

  “Isn’t it better for it to come out now rather than later?”

  “I think it’s best if it never needs to come out. Talk to Sheila. If Phil’s murder has nothing to do with her or the money, maybe this doesn’t have to become front-page news.”

  “I don’t know, Matt. You’re gone, and I’m all alone on this thing now. The funeral’s Wednesday, and if I can’t make sense out of what we found in Phil’s locker, I have to tell someone.”

  “Can you talk to me before you do that?”

  “Expect my call Tuesday morning,” she said.

  Chapter 34

  Braddock dropped him off at his car and drove back toward the PAB. As Sinclair put his Mustang in gear, his phone rang.

  “Hey, Uppy, what’s up?” Sinclair said, noting the name of Upton Bellamy on his caller ID. Uppy was one of the few FBI agents Sinclair considered a friend. After years as a Detroit cop, he was hired by the FBI and spent his first ten years in the New York field office. He came to Oakland two years ago and was assigned to the bank robbery squad, where Sinclair worked with him on a murder connected to a string of bank robberies the bureau was investigating.

  “Matt, we need to talk.”

  “What about?”

  “About Phil’s murder.”

  “In case you haven’t heard, I’ve been suspended, so you’ll have to talk to a real police detective. One who’s allowed to work homicide cases.”

  “I have heard,” Uppy said. “And that’s why we really need to talk. I can be at your place in twenty or thirty minutes. If you don’t like what I’ve got to say, kick me the hell out.”

  “You know my address?”

  “I’m the FBI—we know everything.”

  Sinclair called Walt to make sure the library was available and headed home. He parked his car in the circular driveway at the front of the house, opened the door, and stepped into the entry hallway. Walt was coming out of the library. “Your guests are inside. I’m getting coffee.”

  Standing in the middle of the wood-paneled room were Uppy, Linda Archard, Jack Campbell, and a balding white man in his late fifties who looked vaguely familiar. Sinclair stood by the doorway and said, “What the fuck, Uppy? You sandbagged me.”

  “Sorry, Matt, but you need to hear them out.”

  He didn’t trust Campbell or Archard as far as he could throw them. They’d done everything in their power to conceal from him information he needed during the Thrill Kill Murders. Why the US attorney would come to visit him at his home—and on a Sunday, to boot—baffled him.

  The bald man extended his hand. “Sergeant, I don’t believe we’ve met, but my name is Bruce Davis. I’m the US marshal for the Northern California District.”

  Sinclair had read about Davis when he took the position. The US marshal for a particular region of the country, like the US attorney, was a presidential appointee, and Davis spent a career with the Santa Clara Sheriff’s Department before being appointed to his position two years ago. He was in charge of all the deputy marshals in the northern part of the state and responsible for court security, federal prisoners, fugitive apprehension, and the enforcement and investigation of a wide array of federal laws.

  Sinclair shook his hand. Before he could ask what this was all about, Walt reentered carrying a tray of cups and coffee fixings.

  “Will your guests be sitting, or shall I set this up on the bar?” he asked.

  Sinclair’s first thought was to keep them standing because they’d be leaving in a minute, but he was too curious about their agenda. “We’ll sit.”

  Walt set the tray on the coffee table in the center of the room and placed one cup on the end table next to the club chair at the head of the furniture grouping. “Your coffee, Mr. Sinclair,” he said. Everyone took a seat on the leather sofas behind their cups of coffee, and all except Uppy removed cream and sweeteners from the tray. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  Although Sinclair had seen Walt serve Fred and his guests at dinners and parties before, it felt weird having Walt wait on him. He wanted to tell him to knock off the “sir” shit, but he understood Walt was performing for his benefit, even setting him up in the position of power around the table. “Thank you, Walt. That will be all.”

  Once Walt left and closed the door, Campbell asked, “Was that your butler?”

  “He’s more of a caretaker for Frederick Towers’s estate. I’m just a guest here.”

  Campbell smiled. “Fred and I are acquaintances.”

  The sense of déjà vu hit him. This felt just like when he was summoned to the private room at the Scottish Rite Temple by Campbell. That too was a room of old wood and leather and powerful men. Back then, it was Campbell who dismissed the waiter so they could talk, and when Campbell was finished, he dismissed Sinclair. The four visitors chose their seats based on their understood pecking order. Campbell and Davis sat closest to Sinclair, Archard sat on the sofa next to Campbell, and Uppy sat at the far end of the sofa on which Davis was sitting. Uppy leaned back and took a drink of his coffee. He acted as if he was supposed to stay out of the mix now that his job of getting them to Sinclair was finished.

  “I’ll get right to the point,” Campbell said. “Sergeant Sinclair, we’d like you to work with us.”

  Sinclair leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankle over his knee. “Doing what?”

  “Among other things, helping us find out who killed Phil Roberts.”

  If that was intended to get Sinclair’s attention, it worked. “There’re a few special circumstances that make murder a federal crime, but they don’t apply here. Why would you be interested in who killed an Oakland cop?”

  Campbell rubbed his chin. “I’m interested because I’m part of the law enforcement community in the Bay Area, but besides that, let’s just say we have a common goal.”

  “And what goal is that?” Sinclair asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to say at this time,” Campbell said. “We’d like to know what you’ve learned so far about what happened to him. Do you have a suspect or any leads at this time?”

  Sinclair stood. “I played this fucking game with you last year. We told you everything we knew and
you didn’t share shit in return. How do I know if you’re really interested in who killed Roberts or if you’re just concerned with what political toes I’m getting ready to step on?”

  Uppy leaned forward and looked at Campbell. “No disrespect meant, but I told you Sinclair wouldn’t go along with this. He’s not some kind of snitch you can pump for information and walk away from. If you want his help, make him part of the team.”

  Campbell nodded to Davis across the coffee table. Davis said, “We have records of you being sworn in as a special deputy US marshal in the past.” He reached in his briefcase and removed a folder and a large envelope.

  When Sinclair worked vice narcotics eleven years ago, he was assigned to a federal narcotics task force and sworn in as a special deputy so he could access information the DEA had collected through federal subpoenas. Four years later, he and Phil worked a series of drug-related murders, and he was sworn in again so he could hear wiretap recordings and follow the investigation outside California, where otherwise they’d have no law enforcement powers.

  “I’ve always done this as a sort of ceremony at the federal courthouse, but this is a special situation,” Davis said as he pulled a credential case from the envelope. Affixed on the outside was a five-point star set inside a ring. The badge said, Special Deputy, United States Marshal.

  “Please stand, raise your right hand, and repeat after me. I, Matthew Sinclair, do swear or affirm . . .”

  Sinclair completed the oath and signed a special deputization form.

  Archard spoke for the first time. “We’re giving you the creds for a very limited purpose. You cannot tell anyone outside the task force of your involvement with us. Everyone—and I mean everyone—at OPD must be kept in the dark. They need to think you’re still suspended.”

  “How am I supposed to investigate a crime in Oakland and make sure no one from OPD sees me doing it?”

  “You’ll be working with me,” Uppy answered. “We’ll mostly be in the task force headquarters looking through the information that’s been compiled so far. We’re hoping you’ll be able to connect the dots that have so far eluded the analysts.”

  “How can this happen if I’m still suspended?” Sinclair said. “I hope no one forgot that.”

  “If OPD finds out you’re working for us, they’ll probably fire you on the spot,” Campbell said. “Legally, you’re in a gray zone right now as far as special deputization goes. Being on administrative leave from your department doesn’t prevent us from deputizing you, but if it becomes known that you’re working with us, this entire thing can blow up in our faces.”

  The same icky feeling he had when he sat with the Feds in Phil’s office last December returned. He wondered if the Feds had said the same words to Phil and if that was why he was forced to betray his old homicide partners. But Sinclair needed to remain involved with the investigation one way or another. He owed it to Phil. “I understand.”

  Campbell handed Sinclair a two-page document. “Good, there’s one final thing. This is an agreement of nondisclosure and acknowledgment of confidentiality. You will have access to information that may be classified or law enforcement sensitive. You’ll see information obtained from wiretaps and other electronic intercepts and may listen to active wiretaps. You’ll see information obtained through federal subpoenas, search warrants, and grand juries. From this point forward, you cannot share information about this investigation with anyone outside the task force or without our permission.”

  Sinclair read the paper. “Let me get this straight—if I look at some of this stuff you’ve compiled and figure out who killed Roberts, but you decide you’re going to continue your investigation to look for bigger fish for the next year, or two years, or five years, I can’t say shit to anyone.”

  “I can’t imagine that happening,” Campbell said.

  “But it could. And this form says I understand I could be prosecuted under Title Ten, US Code, section . . . whatever.”

  “Technically, that’s right.”

  “You can take your badge and shove it up your ass.”

  “Sergeant, you’re making a big mistake,” Campbell said. “We can help you accomplish what you’ve been after.”

  “I’m not about to trade working for a police chief who tells me what I can’t pursue or talk about for a bunch of Feds who want to do the same.” He walked out of the library and opened the front door.

  Davis gathered up the badge and creds and followed the others to the door.

  “This isn’t what you think, Matt. We can make it work,” Uppy said as he walked out the door.

  Sinclair wanted to tell Uppy how ashamed he was to see how he’d forgotten his cop roots, but he kept his mouth shut. He’d probably said enough already. Sinclair suspected that the Feds either needed him because of what he knew or desperately wanted to keep whatever he knew from getting out.

  Chapter 35

  Sinclair plopped back into the soft leather chair in the library. Amber stood in front of him and rested her head on his leg. Walt filled his coffee cup. “How did your evening with Alyssa go?”

  Very little went on within the estate that Walt missed. He probably knew exactly what time Alyssa’s car exited the front gate. Sinclair smiled.

  “That well?” Walt said. “Good for you, Matthew. She’s an exceptional young lady, both Betty and I agree.”

  In more ways than you might imagine, Sinclair thought.

  Walt collected the empty coffee cups and put them on his serving tray. “Your guests left rather suddenly.”

  Sinclair patted Amber on the head, and she lay down on the Persian carpet at his feet. “Yeah, I’m afraid they didn’t get what they wanted from me.”

  “Is there anything Fred or I can do to help?”

  “No, I think this has to be up to me.”

  “Fred will be out of town for a few more days, so feel free to use the library to work.”

  Walt knew him well enough to know that despite being on suspension, he wasn’t about to stop working.

  “What’s a good rule of thumb for when we should keep a secret that could harm someone’s reputation?” Sinclair asked.

  “Sounds like a trick question,” Walt said. “In AA, people say things in meetings and to one another in confidence. With few exceptions, we should never repeat it. I think it becomes more complicated when you’re talking about secrets you discover in your job. It’s your duty to uncover people’s secrets and report them, so you have different obligations there.”

  “What if a man’s dead and I discovered things that would hurt his reputation and harm his wife and family?”

  “You’re obviously talking about your friend. People used to say we should never speak ill of the dead. If a man’s dead, is there a need to share his sins? Courts don’t try dead people for criminal offenses.”

  Sinclair took a sip of his coffee. “What if, by protecting the secret, someone else will get away with a serious crime?”

  “You answered your own question. You need to determine what’s more important, one person answering for his crime or the secret being buried with the dead.”

  “I’m asking someone else to keep this secret too.”

  “Secrets are harder to keep when more people know. And it makes you beholden to them. Have you ever been asked to keep a secret that made you uncomfortable or destroyed a friendship?”

  Sinclair nodded, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling.

  Walt closed the door behind him.

  Sinclair’s life had revolved around secrets when he was drinking. Not mentioning to a friend’s wife that his buddy was at the bar. Asking the friend not to tell Sinclair’s wife that he was there. Not telling the boss when a coworker went home early. Hoping no one told the boss when he sneaked out early to hit the Warehouse. Hiding his drinking required a lot of work. Now that he was sober, he didn’t have as many secrets in his personal life. But asking Braddock to keep this secret was destroying their friendship.

  Work
was different. There he lived in a world of secrets. Suspects and witnesses all had secrets, and it was his job to discover what they were so he could determine the truth surrounding a murder. While he forced others to reveal their secrets, murder investigations required him to withhold information from the public, from witnesses, and from suspects.

  He had no qualms about keeping secrets to maintain the integrity of a case. But the secrets he’d uncovered surrounding Phil’s murder were different. It was as if Phil had left him a note on the emergency contact form asking him to keep his confidences from his family and the department. And it pissed him off that Phil would ask him to do this when he’d kept secrets from Sinclair last year.

  But keeping secrets was sometimes necessary. Keeping a secret to maintain the integrity of a homicide investigation was right. Keeping a secret and ordering others to keep a secret for one’s personal ambition was wrong. That’s why it irked Sinclair when Brown ordered him to stand down on his investigation into Yates and Kozlov. Yates’s extramarital affair was none of Sinclair’s business. Heck, a US president had an affair and remained in the oval office afterward, so who was he to judge a man’s fitness for a city position who had done the same? But payoffs for political favors were wrong and shouldn’t be buried. Brown was obviously willing to ignore them to ensure he kept his chief of police badge when the next mayor took office.

  Sinclair wondered if the money in Phil’s locker came from Kozlov. Kozlov had paid Yates’s expenses to keep Dawn. What would Phil have had to give Kozlov in return for the money it took to keep Sheila?

  A primary reason for keeping secrets during an investigation was so he could determine the entire truth. That was Sinclair’s goal after all. If they told Maloney about the money and Sheila, it would spread like wildfire through the department. The case would be ripped from homicide’s hands and turned over to IAD. The important issue—who killed Phil and why—would become irrelevant. He needed to uncover the entire truth and the motive behind it before that happened.

  The question of how Sheila Harris was connected to Phil was still foremost in his mind, but the more direct route to the mystery of his death lay with the Savage Simbas. He knew Jankowski and Sanchez were pursuing that route, and if the answers were there, they would find them. But something had been nagging at him ever since he and Fletcher visited the motorcycle shop. He remembered keying on the light-blue shop rags at the coroner’s office when dark-red ones were more typical. As he recalled Irish Mike pulling the rag from his pocket to wipe the dirt from his bike, he knew what had been nagging at him.