by Brian Thiem
He heard a squeal of tires through his open window. In his rearview mirror, he saw the Malibu come off Grand and make a left, pulling into traffic a few cars behind him. It must have made the block past him when he turned on Lake Park, raced through the residential streets, and caught up with him. Now there was no doubt it was tailing him, and Sinclair needed to figure out his next move.
If it was the FBI or another federal agency and they were conducting a solo surveillance, it was amateurish. It was impossible to follow someone who was surveillance conscious without a team of at least three or four cars. But if it wasn’t the FBI, then who could it be? Was someone else looking for Sheila? Maybe the same people who killed Phil?
If he had a gun, he might take them on. He could lead them into a dead end, block their car from escaping, and take them out of the car at gunpoint and identify them. But he wasn’t even a cop anymore.
The light turned green, and instead of turning left, Sinclair went straight and took the freeway on-ramp. The green car followed.
He drove slowly up the ramp. Being Sunday, the traffic was light. He merged onto the freeway, still going forty. A few cars whizzed by at seventy. The Malibu remained about a hundred yards back. He punched it. At sixty, he shifted into third and popped the clutch. The Mustang lurched forward. Pressed back in his seat, he turned the steering wheel a tad to the left and cut across the four lanes. When the tachometer hit redline, he shifted into fourth. Ninety miles an hour. He kept the gas pedal floored. The two left lanes ahead were clear. The high-performance V-8 was still pulling.
The Malibu had made it into the left lane but was falling far behind. Sinclair continued to accelerate and shifted into fifth at 110, just shy of redline. The freeway curved slightly to the left, and Sinclair let his speed climb to 130. He lost sight of the Malibu as he passed Thirty-Fifth Avenue. A mile later, he still couldn’t see it. As he approached Seminary Avenue, he braked hard, cut across the four lanes, and took the exit. He made a series of left turns and got back onto the 580 Freeway, going in the opposite direction. He caught a last glimpse of the Malibu speeding past the Seminary exit.
Chapter 38
Sinclair stretched out his legs and accidentally kicked Amber, who had taken up residence under the library table. She nuzzled his foot and resumed her position on the plush Persian rug. He went back to reviewing the papers he’d copied from the case packet when his phone buzzed.
“Hey, you,” Alyssa said.
“How’d church go?”
“I might be going to hell because I was thinking about what you and I did last night instead of listening to the priest’s sermon.”
“I keep thinking about it too.”
“I’m just leaving my parents’ house. I still need to go grocery shopping and run a load of laundry. And I’m beat. You didn’t let me sleep much last night. What I’m trying to say is, as much as I’d love to see you again tonight, I really should get to bed early for work tomorrow.”
Amber sat up and looked at him. “I understand,” he said to Alyssa.
“Let’s talk tomorrow once I get a chance to look at my schedule for the week.”
“That sounds fine.”
“Did you do anything fun today?”
“Not really. You know, just hanging out.”
“Think of it as extra vacation days,” she said. “You should do something fun tomorrow.”
“I will.”
“Bye, Matt.”
Sinclair set the phone on the table and patted Amber’s head. Did she just brush him off? Was he sensing a tinge of regret in her voice about sleeping with him? Part of him was glad she was tired and busy tonight. Otherwise, he’d have to lie about what he was doing. But she sounded like she was glad to have a reason not to see him. It seemed real last night when they were together, but maybe to her it was just sympathy sex. She knew he was feeling down about his suspension and Phil’s death, so she did it to cheer him up. In the early morning hours as he was watching her sleep, he could imagine falling in love with her and wondered if she was feeling the same. There was no way that he would have said that to her though. Now he didn’t know how he felt. He definitely didn’t want to fall in love with someone who didn’t love him back. What the hell did he know about love anyway?
Sinclair went back to the murder investigation, something he did understand. He found the entry in Braddock’s follow-up report that detailed their visit with Sheila’s grandfather, Melvin Harris, at the nursing home. Sheila’s cell phone number was in their notes, but he was reluctant to call it. He always preferred face-to-face interviews. It was too easy to lie over the phone. People could make an excuse why they couldn’t physically meet, and if they didn’t want to talk in the first place, they’d go into hiding as soon as he called. But he was out of options and running out of time. He dialed the number and held his breath.
He heard a recording saying the number was no longer in service. He dialed it again. Same recording.
Sheila was on the run. She’d left her apartment, and it now appeared she’d ditched her phone.
He went on the Internet and brought up one of the white pages websites. The phone number that Braddock had found at the nursing home listed for Charlotte Harris came back to a Sprint cell phone out of Detroit. Sinclair called the number.
“Hi, this is Charlotte.”
“Hi, Charlotte, I’m a friend of Sheila’s from Oakland.”
“Yes,” she said, drawing out the word.
“She hasn’t been home for a few days, and her phone number is disconnected. Do you have a new number for her?”
“How’d you get my number?”
Sinclair thought. “One of her neighbors gave it to me. I guess Sheila gave it to her as an emergency contact or something.”
“I don’t know why she’d do that.”
“I thought you were her mother,” Sinclair said. “I’m just trying to reach her.”
“Give me your name and number, and if I talk to her, I’ll let her know you called.”
Sinclair gave her his first name and cell phone number. He wanted to ask if she knew where Sheila was, but he was pushing the woman to even take down his name and number.
“What’s your last name, Matt?”
He thought for a second. “Roberts, ma’am. Matt Roberts.”
“I don’t expect to hear from her, but if I do, I’ll pass on your number to her.”
“When did you last speak to her?”
“Are you sure you aren’t a bill collector or a telemarketer?”
“No, ma’am, just a friend.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Roberts.”
With all the scam calls these days, it was no wonder people were suspicious. Fraud experts constantly told people not to give out any personal information over the phone unless you knew who you were speaking to. Maybe she detected Sinclair’s scam—after all, everything he’d told her was a lie. For all he knew, Sheila might’ve been sitting beside Charlotte when she spoke to him. Nevertheless, it was a dead end.
He entered Melvin Harris into an Internet search engine, and 342 different Melvin Harrises in California popped up. No wonder Braddock had said it was too common of a name to pin down the right Melvin Harris. If he had access to his work computer, he could find him. Even if Melvin had no arrest record or contacts with OPD, he would run the name in DMV with an age range from seventy to ninety. DMV might show as many people with that name, but the age parameter would cut it down significantly, especially after eliminating those in Southern California. By looking at the height and weight of those Melvin Harrises remaining, he could eliminate at least half. He’d then pull up the driver’s licenses of the remaining ones to find a photo that matched the man they spoke to.
But the Internet search engine had something DMV didn’t. Since these websites compiled their information from credit reports and other public data, they listed relatives. Scrolling through the names, he found a Melvin Harris who was eighty years old with a relative named Melvin Harris Jr. Braddock’
s initial search for Charlotte Harris had shown a sixty-one-year-old Melvin Harris at the same address. The listing for this Melvin Harris showed an address in Berkeley and a phone number. He called the number but got a recording saying it was disconnected and no longer in service. He wouldn’t find Melvin Harris at the address, but he wouldn’t know what else he might find there unless he went and knocked on a few doors.
Chapter 39
The drive to Buena Vista Way, a half mile north of the University of California campus, took twenty minutes, including the extra turns to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Sinclair parked in front of the rose-colored two-story stucco house and walked through the gate of the picket fence that surrounded the front yard. A white man with unkempt brown hair and dressed in khaki pants and a long-sleeve oxford opened the door before Sinclair could knock. He appeared to be in his midforties.
“I’m looking for Melvin Harris,” Sinclair said. “I take it he doesn’t live here anymore.”
“We bought the house eight years ago. I believe that was the name of the previous owner.”
Sinclair sighed. “My grandfather and Mr. Harris were old friends, but they lost touch years ago. He recently tried to reconnect, but the phone number he had for Mr. Harris is disconnected. He asked me to try to locate him.”
“I never met him. We only dealt with his realtor, but I seem to recall his children handled the sale—Mr. Harris was quite elderly.”
“Yeah, so is my grandfather,” Sinclair said. “Can you think of anyone in the neighborhood who might’ve known him and maybe kept in touch?”
“You can try Dr. Lowenstein next door.” The man gestured to his left. “He’s lived here for close to fifty years.”
Sinclair thanked him and walked up the sidewalk to a brown shingle house with a two-car detached garage next to it. He pressed the doorbell alongside the restored wood-plank door. A long minute later, a white-haired man wearing a rust-brown cardigan sweater opened the door. Sinclair introduced himself as Matt Roberts and repeated his story about looking for Melvin Harris for his grandfather.
“Melvin? Oh, sure. It’s been some time since I’ve seen him.”
“Do you know where he is? I think my grandfather’s trying to connect with some of his old friends in his final days.”
“Would you like to come in?”
Sinclair followed him inside to a large room with polished wood floors and a vaulted ceiling. “Beautiful house,” Sinclair said.
“It was built in 1924, and we try to maintain it in its original form the best we can, allowing for modern conveniences and such. Can I get you a glass of wine?”
Sinclair declined and followed Dr. Lowenstein to a redwood deck on the back of the house. A teak table surrounded by four chairs took up most of the outdoor space. Through the trees, the San Francisco Bay and a foggy San Francisco was visible. Sections of the Sunday edition of the New York Times and San Francisco Chronicle lay scattered across the table. Lowenstein picked up a half-full glass of red wine and sat down, gesturing for Sinclair to do the same.
“How long did Mr. Harris live next door?” Sinclair asked.
“Oh, my, I think it was about thirty years ago when the university recruited him to take the department chair position. That’s when he and Marie bought the house and moved in.”
“He lived in Michigan before that, didn’t he?”
“Oh, yes, he taught at the University of Michigan for years. He loved Ann Arbor but absolutely hated the winters there.”
“I understand his children are still there. My grandfather spoke of them.”
“I know Mel Jr. still lives back there. He and his current wife were the ones who moved Mel out when it was time.”
“When it was time?” Sinclair asked, pretending he knew nothing about Melvin’s current condition.
“I regret that I have some bad news for you to take back to your grandfather. Mel began showing signs of dementia some years ago. After the police picked him up for a second time wandering around and unable to tell them who he was, Mel Jr. arranged to move him to an assisted living facility in El Cerrito.”
“That’s too bad. Would I be wasting my time helping him and my grandfather reconnect?”
“I stopped visiting him when he no longer recognized me. That was about two or three years ago. I imagine he’s worse now. How did your grandfather know him?”
“They met professionally,” Sinclair said.
“Was he a painter himself or in academia?”
Sinclair thought quickly. Since he assumed the doctor title Lowenstein used meant he had a PhD and was a professor at Berkeley, he couldn’t say his fictional grandfather worked there as well, because Lowenstein would know fellow professors. He took a gamble and said, “He worked for different museums. He was at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art for many years. Did you teach at UC also?”
“I was a medical doctor.” Lowenstein laughed. “Been retired a few years myself. Around here, most every doctor is a PhD.”
“My grandfather said Mr. Harris often spoke about his granddaughter, Sheila. Did you know her?”
“Ah, I’ll bet your grandfather talks about you too, Matt. But Sheila . . . she was everything to him. Do you have children?”
“Afraid not.”
“Well, men often become fathers about the same time their careers are taking off. That was the case with Mel. I think he regretted not spending more time with his children. When Sheila was born, he had time and spoiled her rotten.” Lowenstein smiled. “As a little girl, she’d come out and visit him and Marie during the summers and even went on vacation with them. They were overjoyed when Sheila was accepted to UC and could move in with them full time. When she graduated, she got a job in the area and continued to live with them.”
Sinclair pulled a copy of the photo of Sheila on the beach from his pocket. “I think my grandfather vacationed with Mr. Harris a few times. He gave me this photo to make sure I asked about Sheila.”
Lowenstein removed his wire-rimmed glasses, wiped them on his sweater, and studied the photograph. “Such a beautiful girl. She was the spitting image of Marie. She must’ve inherited her island genes.”
“Island?” Sinclair asked.
“I guess your grandfather didn’t tell you much about the young Melvin. He was quite adventurous for an African American man coming of age in the fifties. After school, he studied art in Paris. There, he was inspired by the work of Paul Gaugin and moved to Martinique to paint the same scenes made famous by the French master. That’s where he met Marie. Some of his most famous early paintings were portraits of her.”
The breeze picked up, bringing a gust of cool air through the trees from the bay far below. “Where’s Marie now?”
“Died about eight years ago. Cancer. Mel started slipping after that.”
“I guess that’s where they vacationed,” Sinclair said looking at the photo. “Certainly a beautiful beach.”
“Oh, no. After they married, Marie fell in love with America. She always said America had beaches just as beautiful as Martinique and then joked that they weren’t filled with rude French tourists. They discovered Hilton Head Island back in the sixties, before the development really took off. Until Marie passed, they went down there for two or three weeks every June and for a week or so in December between semesters.”
“Was there any special place they liked to stay there?”
“Jeez, I don’t know. I just remember Mel talking about walking on the beach and sitting in the sun.”
“I’m sure my grandfather would love to talk to Sheila. You wouldn’t happen to have a phone number for her?”
He shook his head. “She got her own apartment when Mel was moved into the home. The last I saw her was at the facility in El Cerrito. We spoke about how dreadful a place it was, and she said she was going to move him to a nicer assisted-living home in Napa as soon as she could come up with the money to pay the difference.”
Dr. Lowenstein would’ve talked all night if Sinclair
let him, but he had what he needed. He thanked him for his hospitality and returned to his car. As he drove his Mustang around the eastern edge of the UC campus on his way home, his phone rang. He pressed the button on the steering wheel. “Hello.”
“Hi, Matt, this is Lori.”
“Hey, Lori. How are you?”
“Good. My roommate said Sheila’s trip just happened all of a sudden, like she just got extra vacation days or something. She packed a suitcase and left Tuesday evening.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“Only that she didn’t need a big suitcase, because all she needed was a swimsuit, shorts, and T-shirts.”
“How long was she planning to be gone?”
“That’s what was strange. Sheila told my roommate she didn’t know when she’d be back.”
“Her old phone’s been disconnected. Did she leave a new phone number or any way to reach her?”
“That was weird too. She told my roommate she was getting a new phone and would text her the number. But she hasn’t yet.”
“If you get it, can you let me know?”
“Sure. Take care, Matt.”
There was no doubt in Sinclair’s mind that Sheila had gone into hiding. And he was pretty sure he knew where.
Chapter 40
Sinclair made himself a quick dinner of stir-fried vegetables and sliced chicken breast, which he ate at his kitchen table with his laptop in front of him. People hiding out from the police often flee to their parents’ house or where they grew up, but after talking to Dr. Lowenstein and Charlotte, Sinclair got the feeling Sheila wasn’t especially close to her parents. Besides, Sheila seemed more sophisticated than the average crook he dealt with and would know that would be the first place someone would look for her. June in central Michigan can be warm, sometimes downright hot, but nights sometimes dropped into the fifties, so it wouldn’t be a place to travel to without a jacket and long pants. Although he’d never been to Hilton Head, he’d spent enough hot, humid summers in the south, courtesy of the Army, to know you didn’t need a jacket come June in South Carolina.