Thrill Kill (17 page)

“How’d your wife die?” Braddock asked.

“Car accident. Drove off the road on Grizzly Peak Boulevard. The car ended up three hundred feet down the cliff.”

“Where were you?” Sinclair asked.

“It was all investigated and I wasn’t there. But I’m still responsible.”

Sinclair raised his eyebrows.

“I told you we were reconciling,” Whitt said. “Well, it was a process. Susan put the divorce proceedings on hold and I was going to move back into the house at the end of the month. I was staying at the corporate apartment. Cal Asia had two at the time, mostly for overseas partners who were engaged in lengthy business here. Sunday morning I came to the house to take Travis for the day. She threw down a bunch of photos. It seems she had hired a PI to watch me, and they got photos of Dawn entering the corporate apartment. I tried to explain it was a one-time thing—a relapse. I had called my therapist the day after it happened. Susan was angry. I don’t blame her. I left with Travis. Took him canoeing at Lake Chabot. Later that day, the police called and said she ran off the road over a cliff. She had a temper and was known to drive crazy when she was mad. Probably took one of those hairpin turns too fast.”

Sinclair looked at the photograph of Travis. Tall, thin, good-looking kid. “Where’s Travis now?”

“It was tough at first, raising him alone. When he graduated from middle school, I sent him to a college prep school in Connecticut for his high school years. Great school with plenty of direction. He was accepted to MIT from there, and got a degree in computer science and engineering. He’s been working as a software designer at Google down in Mountain View
for the last three years. I think he still holds me responsible for his mom’s death.”

“If we wanted to talk to him, how do we reach him?” Sinclair asked.

Whitt recited his cell number. “If he doesn’t answer, text him. Kids never listen to their voicemails today.”

Sinclair thanked Whitt and signaled to Braddock that it was time to go.

When they started down the hill, Braddock said, “I had some more questions for him.”

“I want to dig a bit deeper into Mr. Whitt before we talk to him again, maybe check out the court file on the divorce, pull the traffic collision report, and talk to Lisa Harper. See if everything in his story matches up.”

“He appeared pretty up-front.”

“Yeah, he’s really good at appearing that way.”

Once in the guesthouse, Sinclair stripped off his coat and tie, pulled on a fleece jacket, and walked to the main house with an umbrella. It was only six o’clock, but the house was quiet. Sinclair got a cigar from Fred’s humidor in the library and walked out the side entrance, where a portico covered the driveway and service entry.

He sat on a step and typed a text to Alyssa:

Sinclair put his phone away and heard the door behind him open. He looked over his shoulder to see Walt.

“You want some company?” Walt asked.

“Sure.” Sinclair lit his cigar and waited for Walt to shut the door. “What do you think about men who engage the services of prostitutes?”

Walt buried his hands in his jacket pockets. “I look at the place and time when it occurred and try to understand the emotional and spiritual condition the man is in.”

Sinclair took a few puffs on his cigar and looked out at the rain pelting the driveway. One thing he liked about sitting with Walt was that periods of silence weren’t awkward. Sinclair was searching for a simple answer, not a “depends on the circumstances” response. But Walt seldom gave simple answers to such questions.

“Times have changed,” Walt continued. “When I was in Vietnam, most soldiers used prostitutes at one time or another. It was accepted. We can’t judge men in the past by our standards today.”

“What about the men who pay for escorts?”

“It’s the same, except those men have more money, and the girl receives greater compensation. That makes it more palatable to some people. But the reasons are the same. Some do it to try to fill an emptiness within them. Some enjoy the power that their money can buy.”

“Did you ever?”

Walt sat down on the step beside Sinclair. “In Vietnam. When I reflected back on it as I got older, I felt nothing but shame. What about you?”

“I’ve never paid for sex.” Sinclair puffed on his cigar and stared at the rain.

Walt glanced at him. “However . . .”

“I don’t know how you can always tell when there’s more to the story.”

Walt smiled.

Sinclair had heard people in AA say, “You’re only as sick as your secrets,” and he’d been holding this one in too long. “I’d
been back from Iraq less than a year, and Jill started on my case again to open up and talk about it.”

“Jill, your ex-wife?”

“Yeah. I thought I was fine. War changes you. You know that. It doesn’t mean you have PTSD or are about to go postal. Anyway, that’s what I thought at the time. Finally, her nagging got to be too much and I moved out for a while. One of the guys in CID had converted his uncle’s garage in Alameda into an apartment and rented it out short-term to fellow officers going through the suitcase drill with their wives. It was available, so I moved in. I’d been there about a week when I got a call from Dawn. She was scared, but wouldn’t tell me of who. Wouldn’t tell me the details other than she couldn’t go back to her apartment and had no one to turn to for help. I’d never done this before—taking someone from my work life into my house—but I gave her a spare key to the apartment and told her to stay there until I got home.”

“Are you the first police officer who brought someone like her into their home?” Walt asked. “In AA we do it all the time.”

“We had this sergeant years ago who was a born-again. He and his wife took plenty of prostitutes into their home to try to save them. But that was different. Everyone knew his intentions were pure.”

“And yours weren’t?” Walt asked.

“I gave her the couch and I slept in my bed. She said she was in trouble and it was because of the choices she had made. She didn’t want to discuss her past or concern herself with what she was going to do in the future for now. She didn’t ask me to talk about my past either. It was as if we could both exist fully in the present and use the opportunity to take a breath before we had to figure out what to do next. We took walks on the beach, held hands, drank wine, and talked late into the night.

“She’d been there almost a week when I heard her sobbing one night. I sat on the couch next to her as she cried. She said she’d have to make a decision soon about her situation and was
afraid it would be the wrong one. I didn’t pry or try to give her advice. I just sat with her until she fell asleep and then went back to bed. A little bit later, she knelt next to my bed and said she didn’t want to be alone. She slipped into bed with me. I held her and after a while, one thing led to another.”

“Two people clinging to life by its threads made love and took comfort in each other,” Walt said. “Is that wrong?”

“I think I had fantasized that because she was a
professional
she would do things to me that no woman had ever done, that it would be the most mind-blowing sex in the world. It wasn’t. It was soft, quiet, and, if a man can use that word, sweet. We slept together the rest of her time there. We made love as soon as I got home from work every day and again before we went to sleep. It was as if we couldn’t get close enough to each other. She pulled me into her as deep as she could, but it was never far enough. Yet at the same time, we gave each other everything we could. When I came home from work one evening, she was gone. She left a note.”

“What did she say?”

“She thanked me for being there for her and saving her from herself. Said I was the kindest and most loving man she’d ever met. And she had met a few. She added a smiley face. She said she made her decision, knew it was the right one, and what we had was special. She ended by saying she had never loved a man as much as she loved me and hoped that I would find that kind of love myself someday.”

“Did you ever try to find her?”

“No, it didn’t seem right. Not long afterward, Jill filed for divorce and I got caught up in that and then work stuff, and of course my drinking took over. I’d thought about her occasionally and hoped she found happiness. I ran her name a few times and was glad when I never found her in the system. I figured she left Oakland for good. And then I saw her hanging from the tree.”

“How’s your shoulder?” Braddock asked when Sinclair arrived at the office Monday morning an hour late.

He had called earlier and told her that the shoulder he was shot in years ago was acting up and he needed to see his physical therapist on the way to work. At least the part about seeing a therapist was the truth. In his session with Dr. Elliott, he had gone through the ambush in Baghdad again and begun talking about his brother’s death. He felt a bit lighter after bringing that incident to the surface.

“It’ll be okay,” he said to Braddock. Another thing he’d lied to her about.

She headed over to the court building to pull a copy of Whitt’s divorce proceeding, while Sinclair went downstairs to beg a police records specialist to pull a sixteen-year-old traffic collision report. Sinclair found an empty desk, opened the dusty accordion folder, and pulled out the collision form. It listed Susan Whitt as the driver and William Whitt as the registered owner of the 1998 BMW 750i four-door sedan. The incident time was listed as between 1300 and 1500 hours, and it was reported at 1510 when a passerby saw the car upside down in a canyon. The report prepared by the traffic accident investigator described the laborious process by a fire department rescue team to get to the wreckage and pronounce the driver dead.
In multiple pages, it detailed the recovery of the body and the recovery of the car, which took most of the following day.

Sinclair turned to a series of diagrams that indicated an absence of skid marks on the road but a set of tire tracks in the dirt leading from the roadway to the edge of the cliff. The traffic investigator concluded the vehicle was airborne for more than a hundred feet and then rolled and slid an additional 130 feet down the hillside until it came to rest. A statement from a firefighter stated the driver was still in the driver seat area, but the vehicle was crumpled in around her when his team reached the car. Her seat belt was unfastened.

A report by a vehicle inspector found no evidence of brake failure or steering malfunction, but due to the condition of the vehicle, he could not be 100 percent certain it hadn’t been tampered with.

Sinclair poked his head into the admin sergeant’s office and asked about the investigator who handled the scene. He had retired thirteen years ago, a year after Sinclair came on the department, and was working for an insurance company as an accident reconstruction investigator. Sinclair called the phone number the admin sergeant gave him and the retired officer answered on the first ring.

“Yeah, I remember that one like it was yesterday. Not every day we get that kind of crash.”

“Any suspicions about the husband?” Sinclair asked.

“I remember they were going through a divorce and just had a spat earlier that day, but the husband had an alibi. Besides, cutting brake lines or tampering with steering only works in the movies. Ya know what I think?”

“That’s why I called.”

“I put down the speed as sixty, but that’s the minimum. I think she was doing closer to eighty. She couldn’t have taken the previous curve at much above thirty, so I think she punched the pedal to the metal when she came out of that turn, pointed the car at the cliff, and rocketed off into space.”

“You think it was suicide?”

“I’d seen it before. People with terminal diseases who smash into a tree at seventy. I would never put that in a report unless I could prove it, because it messes up people’s insurance settlements and stuff. Some strict priests won’t even bury suicide victims in a Catholic cemetery. But the woman had lived there for years. She knew those roads like the back of her hand. The visibility was perfect, the road was dry, there were no indications of mechanical issues, and no skid marks or debris to indicate someone ran her off the road.”

“Did you look for a suicide note?”

“Nothing in the car. I asked the husband and he denied it. It’s not like a homicide. We don’t get a warrant to search a house and stuff like you guys do. Single vehicle accident, no one at fault other than the driver who’s dead. Case closed.”

Sinclair went back to the office, and Braddock returned a few minutes later with an inch-thick stack of paper.

“This is a copy of the entire court file,” she said. “I skimmed through it, and it looks like Whitt was being up-front with us. His wife’s lawyer put him through the ringer. They deposed Lisa Harper, who was only twenty-six back then, and asked her about every lurid detail of the affair, which amounts to about twenty pages of questions about their sex life.”

“Sounds unnecessarily cruel to me,” Sinclair said.

“Yeah, but pissed-off wives love to use their divorce lawyers to beat up cheating husbands. What better way to punish him than to ridicule the girlfriend?”

“Anything else interesting?”

“Susan wasn’t employed outside the home. The financial assets report put his net worth around five million, not too shabby for back then. She was asking for the house, half of all investments, forty thousand a month spousal support for the rest of her life, full custody of their son, and another twenty grand a month child support.”

“Hell, if she were our murder victim, I know who would’ve had plenty of motive to kill her.”

Sinclair called Harper’s school, found out her class had the early lunch period, and decided to make another run at NorCal in the meantime. They drove the six blocks to the city center complex, parked their car in a loading zone, hung the radio mic off the mirror to prevent a ticket or tow, and took the elevator to the top floor of the twenty-four-story building. They were bounced from person to person for an hour, finally landing in an office with a window. A fiftyish woman wearing a high-necked white blouse sat behind a desk with a nameplate reading Alice Chan. Sinclair told their story for the fifth time.

“NorCal developed that property and sold all of the condominiums in the building about ten years ago,” Chan said.

“Unit four-nineteen is still owned by NorCal,” Sinclair said.

“Who told you that?”

Sinclair told her again about the two maintenance workers employed by NorCal entering the unit to clean it out.

She picked up her phone, spoke softly, listened, and hung up. “You’re right, maintenance was dispatched there.”

“NorCal still owns the building, right?” Sinclair asked.

“Yes, but each unit is individually owned.”

“Every condo owner must pay a homeowner’s association fee to you to maintain the building and common areas, right?”

“Of course.”

“Who here has the list of those condo owners?”

“That would be the property management office.”

“And who can I speak to there?”

“I’m the assistant department head for property management,” Chan said.

Sinclair would’ve laughed if his business weren’t so serious. “Where do you keep the list of condo owners, Ms. Chan?”

“The information is on our computer server.”

Sinclair felt as if he were speaking to a child. “Do you have access to that data?”

“I do.”

“May I see it?”

“That’s confidential information. You need a court order.”

Sinclair took a deep breath and exhaled loudly to show his frustration. “There’s nothing confidential about a business owning property. These aren’t medical records or something of the sort. If you are refusing to cooperate with the police, it’s because you’re hiding something. Is NorCal listed as the owner of four-nineteen?”

“Yes.”

Chan’s performance reminded him of his first few times being cross-examined in court, when the DA instructed him to only answer what was asked and offer absolutely nothing more.

“Ms. Chan, I’m pleased that we’re making such progress,” Sinclair said. “Since we’re in agreement that NorCal owns it, my next question is who in NorCal is in charge of the unit? Now remember, I told you a woman was murdered there, so I need to find out who it is that gave my murder victim permission to live there.”

“I don’t know.”

Sinclair believed her. “Who at NorCal would know the answer to that?”

She sat there passively.

“Let me phrase this another way. Is there anyone besides Sergio Kozlov that would know the answer to my question?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’d like to see Mr. Kozlov.”

“You’ll have to call his personal assistant to arrange that.”

Sinclair had Chan dial the number. A pleasant woman answered the phone and said Mr. Kozlov was unavailable, but she would take Sinclair’s name and number, confer with Mr. Kozlov, and call back to arrange an appointment. Sinclair doubted he’d ever get a call.

When they got on the elevator, Sinclair pressed eighteen.

Braddock said, “That was bizarre.”

“I’ve known CIA officers who were more forthcoming.”

When the elevator opened on the eighteenth floor, Braddock looked around the lobby and fixed her eyes on the long marble reception desk where two people were seated. “Why are we here?”

“You remember Fred Towers, the man who owns the estate where I live?”

“Fred? Sure.”

“This is his company.”

A receptionist led them down a corridor lined with offices to a corner office with an open door. Fred was sitting at a round table in the corner of the spacious room, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up two turns. When Sinclair and Braddock entered, the three men who were seated with him rose.

“Let’s meet again at four, and you can show me what you came up with,” Fred said to the men as they filed out of the office. “Coffee?” he asked Sinclair and Braddock.

They both accepted, and the receptionist turned and left. Lake Merritt and the Oakland Hills were visible through the window beyond the massive mahogany desk and credenza centered toward the back of the wood-paneled room. Fred led them to the opposite corner, where a leather sofa and three chairs surrounded a low mahogany table.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Fred asked.

Sinclair recited his experience at NorCal.

Fred chuckled. “NorCal owns this building and a number of other ones throughout the Bay Area. They’re also in the development phase for a half dozen other properties, the most significant being the Global Logistics Center on the site of the old army base. Every other property management company I know selects one of the lower floors for their offices. The top floor always commands the highest rent, so it makes financial sense to lease that to a paying client and one with significant name recognition. Sergio Kozlov took the entire top floor for himself.”

“It sounds like Mr. Kozlov is more concerned with prestige than the bottom line,” Braddock said.

“Prestige, ego, power: those are all words that other business leaders in Oakland bandy about when they discuss Sergio,” Fred said.

“How do I get in to see him?” Sinclair asked.

“He emigrated from Russia in the nineties, so nothing American police can do scares him, and he has plenty of lawyers at his disposal. His reputation, however, is important to him, so if someone in a high place, such as your police chief, were to ask him nicely, he’d probably respond.”

“If he was giving a politician a perk, such as a free apartment, would he admit it?” Sinclair asked.

Fred laughed. “Not to you, but he might hint around to the old boys club that he was doing so. Who do you think he has in his pocket?”

“I shouldn’t say,” Sinclair said. “Is he the kind of businessman who would buy off politicians?”

“Matt, you’re talking such shades of gray. If you’re asking whether Kozlov and his company support the city and probably get more access to elected officials as a result, well sure. So does my company. Is he a little more direct in his dealings with local government? I’m sure he is. Would he come right out and tell elected officials he’ll give them X in exchange for Y? I don’t think he’s that dumb.”

“Is there anyone in Oakland City Hall who comes to mind that Kozlov has especially close ties with?”

Fred leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “You know I respect your oath and love you like a son, but I have to do business in this city.”

“I didn’t mean to put you in a tight spot,” Sinclair said. “I’d never mention your name or directly use anything you told me. This is only background so I can navigate through terrain that’s totally foreign to me.”

Fred leaned back in his chair. “You spoke to him at the fundraiser. I’m sure that’s why Bianca introduced you.”

“Preston Yates?”

Fred nodded.

“How about William Whitt?” Sinclair asked. “Is he close to Yates?”

“William’s an old-school businessman. He glad-hands all the elected officials, but he’d never buy a politician.”

“Would he and Kozlov know each other?”

“Sure. Their companies have been negotiating for years over the Global Logistics Center. Kozlov is developing it, and Cal Asia hopes to be their primary tenant.”