Shallow Grave

by Brian Thiem

  “Damn!” Uppy said. “This is what they’ve been hoping for. I’ll get this to the task force tonight. I’m sure it’ll move up the timetable.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “If Kozlov had something to do with Phil’s murder, he must suspect the police know something. Then Sheila disappears and he figures out she was accessing his files. Assuming he sent the goons to grab her, he’ll soon know they failed. I don’t know how much longer he’ll wait before he starts liquidating assets and takes off to someplace from where we can’t extradite.”

  “We need to keep what happened here out of the media,” Sinclair said.

  “Already in the works. The Beaufort County Sheriff’s Office and the circuit solicitor—that’s what they call the district attorney out here—have to investigate the shooting. We’re cooperating with them and have already told them a special deputy US marshal working undercover as part of a secret task force was talking to a woman in witness protection when two armed men tried to kidnap her. That’s all they’ll know about you and Sheila—no names, nothing else. One of the assistant US attorneys from Columbia has been read in and will sit with you and Sheila during the interview. I’m sure they’ll rule the shooting justified.”

  “And the media?” Sinclair asked.

  “A federal agent was with a woman in the witness protection program when men tried to kill her. No innocent people were hurt, and the agent and witness are fine. The heroic agent, whose name must be withheld because of his sensitive assignment, drew the assassins away from the crowd, blah, blah, blah.”

  “After I’m done with the shooting interview?”

  “The bureau will do their investigation. An assistant special agent in charge from the Columbia field office is here with a team. They’ll be looking at whether your shooting was within policy, sort of what your IAD would do.”

  “Why do you Feebees need to investigate me?”

  “Because you’re a member of the FBI task force.”

  “I thought I told you guys yesterday to shove the badge up your ass.”

  “If you think about it for a second, Matt, you’ll agree that it would be best for you and everyone concerned if you just remember being sworn in, issued your badge and creds, and sent off to work the case independently as you saw fit.”

  Sinclair took a few puffs on his cigar and watched the smoke linger in the thick air for a few seconds before drifting off as the breeze returned. Uppy was right. Police treat a normal citizen who killed someone vastly different from a law enforcement officer who used deadly force in the line of duty. Although he was confident the system would eventually work out in his favor, as a citizen, he would need to hire an attorney, probably have to stick around for a few days while they verified his story, and possibly sit through a grand jury or a coroner’s inquest before it was ruled self-defense. “I need to tell Braddock something by tomorrow morning.” He explained Braddock’s deadline.

  “I have to tell you officially that you can’t say anything to her,” Uppy said. “But if she was my partner and I trusted her completely, I’d tell her enough to satisfy her so she doesn’t report Phil for shit he didn’t do and screw up the funeral he and his family deserve.”

  “I’d like to bring her in all the way.”

  “You have to ask Archard. She’s in charge of all the agents.”

  “She’s a piece of work,” Sinclair said.

  “I know you two didn’t hit it off well last year. There’s no doubt she’s known for being a hard-ass. But she’s also one of the sharpest agents I’ve ever worked with. She was brought in specifically to head this investigation. A few years ago, she did a similar case in Baltimore. Before that, Chicago. Her attitude toward you will be totally different now that you’re part of the team.”

  “I won’t let Phil’s murder get lost in all this political corruption bullshit you guys are working.”

  “Neither will we. Archard has some info that will help you. There’re four AUSAs assigned to the task force. All good guys. They’ve even talked about taking Phil’s murder federal. We can prosecute suspects in federal court for murdering a federal agent, and Phil qualifies since he was part of the task force. But we know it would be better to prosecute the killers locally, so everyone will be on board to help you make it happen. Don’t forget, they all knew Phil and want justice as much as OPD does.”

  Uppy’s phone pinged. He looked at the screen. “They’re ready for you. Let’s head on over to the office and get this over with.”

  Chapter 49

  The officer-involved shooting interviews finally wrapped up around midnight. Although he was dead tired, the adrenalin from the gunfight and reliving it repeatedly in minute details lingered in Sinclair’s body. The Beaufort County Sheriff’s Office obviously knew Sinclair was more than what the Feds told them, but they never questioned who he was or what he was doing before the men tried to snatch Sheila.

  When Sinclair slipped the comment “based on my training and experience,” the AUSA immediately interjected. He said, “Although we can’t go into details, suffice it to say the special deputy has extensive law enforcement and military training and experience, to include surviving more than one deadly force encounter against armed suspects.” Sinclair wondered if his identity would ever be revealed to the sheriff’s detectives or if they would forever think he was some kind of spook or covert operative who slipped into town, shot up one of their prime tourist landmarks, and was then whisked away by the FBI.

  Once they concluded that interview, Sinclair sat down with the FBI team. They covered much of the same ground. When finished, they told him he was booked on a 5:15 AM flight out of Savannah and handed him his itinerary. He declined their offer to drive him the half mile back to his motel.

  The temperature had dropped into the high seventies. The warm tropical air reminded him how long it had been since he took a vacation. With the time change, it was just past nine in California, so he called Alyssa. He had sent her a text when he landed this morning to say he was out of town but was looking forward to seeing her when he returned.

  “Hi, Matt. Is everything okay?”

  “It is now. I miss you.” He was walking through a parking lot parallel to the main road that led onto the island. Unlike the Bay Area, where the streets buzzed with activity all night long, the area was blissfully quiet this time of night.

  “I miss you too,” she said. “Where are you?”

  “I can’t say, but I’ll tell you all about it when I can.”

  “Fair enough. But you’re okay?”

  “I am.”

  “Were you in danger?”

  Sinclair didn’t know if she sensed something in his voice or was asking out of concern. Their relationship was new, but he didn’t want to begin a pattern of lying to her as he’d done with women in past relationships to keep them from worrying. “I was for a while, but it all worked out.”

  “Were you able to save whoever you were after?”

  He detected the crack in her voice as she spoke and knew she was thinking about her ordeal in the school last year when he rescued her, a number of teachers, and a classroom full of children. “I was.”

  He heard her sniffle—maybe fighting back tears. “I’m so glad. When are you coming home?”

  He walked through a shopping plaza, past a Kroger store, small cafés, and shops, all closed for the night. “Tomorrow, but I might be busy with this thing for a few days.”

  “Are you still suspended from OPD?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  She laughed. “It often is with you.”

  He wondered if she was commenting on his work or the state of their relationship. “I don’t know what will happen with the department, but I’m getting close to Phil’s killers.”

  “Have you talked to Cathy yet?”

  “I’m calling her next.”

  “She’s worried about you.”

  “I better let you go then,” he said.

  “Matt,” she started a
nd paused.

  Was she about to say, “I love you,” or tell him that what happened Saturday night was a huge mistake? He held his breath and waited.

  “I’m really glad you’re okay. Call me when you get back.”

  He hung up and stopped in front of a closed restaurant. The menu in the window had plenty of dishes Alyssa would love. He continued toward his motel, which was situated at the far end of the plaza. With Spanish moss hanging from the large trees and wide walkways in front of the stores and shops, it felt so different from the shopping centers in the Bay Area, where they crammed as many stores and parking stalls that would fit into a given footprint. Things here seemed more inviting and relaxing and moved at a slower pace.

  He continued walking and called Braddock’s cell. “Are you home or still at work?” he asked.

  “Just put the kids to bed. Getting ready to sit down and hug my hubby.”

  “I found her,” Sinclair blurted out.

  “Found who?”

  “Sheila Harris.”

  She said nothing for a few seconds. “Where?”

  “Hilton Head Island.”

  “Jesus, Matt, what are you doing out there?”

  “She and Phil weren’t having an affair. She was his CI.”

  “Are you just saying this so I don’t tell the lieutenant everything tomorrow morning?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “What about the money we found?”

  “Look, if you repeat this to anyone, everything Phil did will be for nothing, and we may never get who really killed him.”

  “What’s going on, Matt?” she asked. “This isn’t making any sense.”

  “Phil was working on a federal task force investigating political corruption. We think he was going to a meeting the night he was killed.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Me and Sheila,” he said. “And the FBI.”

  “Is Uppy down there with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, at least you have adult supervision.” She sighed. “When are you coming back here?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “We need to meet as soon as you get in.”

  “I can’t come to the PAB. No one can know I’m working this. Once I check in with the task force, I’ll call you. Until then, I need you to trust me.”

  “When have I not?”

  *

  Sinclair sat at the departure lounge in Atlanta waiting for the flight that would get him into San Francisco at 10:09 AM. After he’d gotten off the phone with Braddock last night, he called Walt and gave him his flight information so he could pick him up at the airport. He said his good-byes to Sheila, who thanked him profusely. The FBI and US marshals planned to hide her until they arrested Kozlov and she was no longer in danger. Uppy had to attend a meeting with the local FBI supervisors in the morning, after which he would jump on the next flight to the Bay Area. Sinclair got about two hours of sleep before he had to wake up and get to the airport in time for his 5:15 AM flight.

  The plane that took him from Savannah to Atlanta was in the air less than an hour, so even though he was in a middle seat, he coped. But he wasn’t looking forward to the next five-hour flight shoehorned into another middle seat when he desperately needed a few more hours of sleep. The loudspeaker called him to the ticket counter.

  He handed the agent his boarding pass, and she punched some keys on her computer. “You’ve been upgraded to first class, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “How’d that happen?”

  “Your sky miles have been applied to the upgrade,” she said.

  Sinclair didn’t even know he had a frequent flyer account with Delta. “I don’t know how that happened.”

  She shrugged and said, “You can board now. Enjoy your flight.”

  Sinclair walked down the jet way and settled into a spacious window seat in the third row. A flight attendant offered him a glass of wine, but he settled for Fresca and opened his laptop. His phone buzzed with a text from Walt: Hope the upgrade went through. Fred has so many miles, he’ll never use them.

  Sinclair opened the folder where he had downloaded everything from Phil’s cloud drive and scrolled through a hundred photos. Most were grainy pictures that looked as if they were shot with a telephoto lens. All were date and time stamped. Photos of people. Some he recognized. Several photos of Kozlov with Yates. One of Yates with Chief Brown. Sinclair wasn’t so naïve as to assume a man’s guilt by association, and he could expect a police chief would need to meet with a city councilmember. He sorted the photos by date and found nothing on the night of Phil’s murder. If he took any photos that night, he never had the chance to upload them.

  People were still filing into the plane’s economy section as he looked at photos dated the week prior. One of Yates exiting the passenger side of a Toyota Camry as a black man with a shaved head dressed in a dark suit held the door. A second photo showed the man’s face. Sinclair recognized Reggie “Animal” Clement, the sergeant-at-arms of the Savage Simbas. That answered his question about why Maureen Yates had hired Eastman Security. A photo showing the license plate of the Toyota followed. Sinclair jotted down the plate number in his notebook. A Camry wasn’t exactly a limo, nor did it require a driver, but if Yates didn’t want to alienate his constituents, he wouldn’t want to be seen pulling up to community meetings in a luxury sedan. And what better way to appeal to the minority voters than by including minorities on his staff—an African American driver and a Hispanic chief of staff.

  A gray-haired man dressed in a business suit dropped his briefcase on the seat next to Sinclair. A flight attendant took his coat. He sat down, acknowledged Sinclair with a nod, and pulled a Wall Street Journal from his briefcase. Sinclair went back to the photographs as the flight attendant brought the man a glass of tomato juice and ice and poured two small bottles of vodka over it. At times like this, Sinclair wished he could drink like a normal person. After all he’d been through, a complimentary scotch would taste wonderful, even if it was only eight in the morning. He wondered if normal people drank scotch in the morning when flying first class. He asked the flight attendant for another soft drink and went back to his work.

  In addition to the photos, the folder contained about a hundred document files, each labeled by date. He opened the most recent one, which was dated the week before Phil’s death.

  1710—Surveilling Yates’s car (Camry) outside City Hall. Man earlier identified as Clement, Reggie, arrives on foot and stands by car.

  1722—Yates exits City Hall south door, walks to car, hands keys to Clement. Gets in passenger seat. Clement drives. I follow.

  1741—Yates exits vehicle at Claremont Country Club, enters building. Clement stays with car. I walk through building, see Yates sit at table in dining room with Port of Oakland commissioner I know to be Jonathan Yee. Club is members only. I return to my car.

  1935—Yates returns to vehicle, still driven by Clement.

  1947—Vehicle stops at Yates’s residence. Pulls into garage. Clement walks to street. Waits. Lights in right front room come on.

  1958—Chev 2D gray pulls up. Vehicle previously identified as belonging to Gibbs, Shane. From my location, driver profile matches Gibbs, but I can’t positively ID. Clement gets in. Car drives off.

  2130—Light still on in right front room. No further activity. Ended surveillance.

  So much for getting sleep. Sinclair asked the flight attendant for a cup of black coffee and opened another document, starting from the beginning.

  Chapter 50

  Walt picked Sinclair up at the curb in the big Mercedes. With morning rush hour over, it took less than an hour to make it through San Francisco, over the Bay Bridge, and to the estate. Sinclair had read half of the documents from Phil’s cloud drive on the plane and was beginning to get a clear picture of Phil’s investigative activities. While other members of the task force might have been focusing on other players, Phil was working Yates and contributing to the case against Kozlov with what S
heila was providing. He’d prepared an interview summary after every meeting with Sheila and completed a second, redacted version that he labeled TF with the same date. The task force version was sanitized of details that would identify Sheila, indicating Phil didn’t fully trust the people on the team. Sinclair sometimes did the same with informants. When he worked narcotics, he was judicious about the details he included on search warrant affidavits, since including too many specifics could give away informants’ identities, which could get them killed.

  In a surveillance report dated months ago, Phil was following Yates from a meeting in Pleasanton, about a half hour from Oakland, when Yates ran a red light and hit a car broadside. Phil noted in his report that Yates was looking at his phone when he was driving, which Yates did frequently. A copy of the collision report was among the documents on the cloud drive, and Sinclair read that the responding officer cited Yates for distracted driving and use of a mobile device. In the next surveillance report, four days later, Phil noted that Yates’s chief of staff drove him during business hours but that Animal drove him after hours. Phil had followed Animal several times after he dropped off Yates and connected him to the Savage Simbas and Eastman Security. He also saw Animal with Gibbs and Tiny on different occasions.

  What most interested Sinclair were the unsanitized reports of Phil’s meetings with Sheila. She had barely touched the surface of what she knew when they talked at the Boathouse. Over the months that she and Phil had met, she laid out extensive details of Kozlov’s operation and his efforts to own Yates and other politicians. Kozlov provided the condo for Yates to set up Dawn as his mistress, paid all her hospital and doctor bills when she got pregnant, and established investment accounts through shell companies to pay Dawn after they broke up. If Maureen was being truthful when she told Sinclair she was now paying for Dawn’s daughter’s child support and college trust fund, he wondered where the money Kozlov was providing for that purpose was going.