Red Line (19 page)

The man pulled to the curb on a quiet street in San Francisco’s Potrero Hill District. He gathered up what he would need, stuffed it into his pockets, and then crawled into the back. He had bought the van for cash on the streets from a Mexican who admitted he didn’t register it and had bought it with cash himself. There were probably a line of unregistered owners that preceded him. He poured the remaining gas from the gallon can around the inside and climbed out. He lit a flare, tossed it on the front seat, and slammed the door.

He was three blocks away when he heard the fire engines.

After three more blocks, he reached the parking garage of San Francisco General Hospital and walked the line of cars in the physician parking section. The red Mini Cooper was parked by the stairwell. Melissa was working the ER tonight as part of her residence rotation, and with it being a Friday night, she’d probably work late.

He looked around for a concealed place to wait. Above the stairwell door, a security camera stared down at him,
its red light flashing every few seconds. He had anticipated that and shifted to plan B.

He flagged down a cab and gave the Vietnamese driver a street corner in Noe Valley, an upscale neighborhood nicknamed Stroller Valley. When he had scouted the area last weekend, its sidewalks were jammed with young professional couples pushing baby strollers in front of its overpriced shops and restaurants. He paid the fare and walked two blocks to Melissa’s flat. Along the way, he saw a poster for a lost cat stapled to a telephone pole. He ripped it off and stuffed it in his pocket.

The residential street of remodeled row houses was quiet. He found a dark walkway between two houses, crept into the shadows, and waited.

Normally, fog would blanket the city by this time of night, and the average nighttime temperature in the midfifties would feel like a bone-chilling forty. However, as often occurred in September, hot, dry winds from the central valley blew westward, blocking the natural air conditioning of the ocean winds. That kept this night’s temperature in the midsixties, a bit cool to be without a jacket but not unbearable.

When the red car pulled into the driveway, he crept out of his hiding place and strolled up the sidewalk. Melissa turned off the engine and swung open the door.

“Excuse me,” he said. “My cat ran off and I was wondering if you’ve seen her.”

He held out the flyer. Melissa smiled and took it from him. She was twenty-five, heavyset, and wore dark blue scrubs. “I haven’t seen any cats—”

He shoved the stun gun against her side and pressed the trigger. When she went limp, he dragged her to the other
side of the Mini and folded her into the passenger seat. He zip-tied her ankles together and her wrists behind her back. He slipped a peace medallion over her head, fastened the seatbelt around her, pulled it tight, and shut the door.

As he zigzagged through the residential streets, Melissa came to and shouted, “What the hell is going on?”

He took the stun gun from his pocket and gave her a three-second jolt. Her muscles tensed and her eyes bugged out, but it wasn’t enough to knock her unconscious.

“Sit there quietly, or I’ll zap you again.”

The on-ramp to the 101 Freeway lay less than two miles down Cesar Chavez Street. He shifted through the gears, winding the small four-cylinder engine near redline, and merged into the freeway traffic. He slid the shifter into sixth gear and settled in with the flow of traffic at sixty-five.

“You must have me confused with someone else,” said Melissa.

“No mistake.” He moved into the right lanes and merged onto Interstate 80, following the signs to the Bay Bridge. The bars had closed an hour ago, and the freeway was packed with cars leaving the city.

“I can get money, if that’s what you want.”

“Money won’t right this wrong.” He steered the car into the middle lane of the Bay Bridge’s five-lane lower deck.

“Did I do something to harm you?”

They passed Treasure Island and the lights of Oakland came into view. “You did nothing. This isn’t personal.”

“I don’t know what happened to you, but hurting me won’t change it.”

They were approaching the MacArthur maze, the short stretch of freeway where four interstates merged in less than a mile.

He leaned across her and unlatched the door.

She yelled over the wind noise. “What are you doing?”

He downshifted and accelerated toward a group of cars stacked together. He sped to the front of the pack and looked in his rearview mirror to see the cars switching lanes and jockeying positions for the right freeway.

He clicked her seatbelt undone and shoved her against the door, but she twisted her shoulder against the doorjamb. He pushed her harder, and the Mini Cooper swerved out of its lane. A car blew its horn.

He jammed the stun gun against her leg and pulled the trigger. She tensed and went limp. He pushed her out the door.

Horns blew and tires screeched behind him. In his mirror, he saw the body bounce and tumble. A compact car struck her on the right side of its bumper, knocking her into the next lane where a truck hit her full on. Cars skidded and crashed into other cars in a chain reaction pile-up.

He yanked the door shut and followed the signs to the 580 Freeway.

Sinclair was sitting in the front seat of his unmarked car trying to doze. He opened his eyes and saw Maloney standing there.

“They found the van in San Francisco,” he said.

Sinclair jumped out of the car. “Where?”

Maloney held out a cup of coffee and waited for Sinclair to take it. “It was torched, and you’re not going.”

“It’s my case, and—”

“You want me to go?” asked Braddock.

“It’s your job to babysit your partner,” said Maloney. “I sent one of our guys with a sheriff’s detective. They’ll do what they can there and have it towed back to OPD for full processing.”

“How do you know it’s the right one?” asked Braddock.

“The SFPD officer who responded to take the arson report had heard the BOLO for the van and right away noticed two bullet holes in the rear doors,” said Maloney, referring to the be-on-the-lookout radio broadcast.

“You mean my partner missed one round?” said Braddock.

Maloney grinned. “The other one took out the window, remember?”

“Any blood?” asked Sinclair.

“Too badly burned to tell. The crime lab will have to determine that, but two rounds exited through the windshield. Who knows where the third one ended up. SFPD notified all the local hospitals. SF General’s just down the street, but no gunshot walk-ins so far.”

“Let me know if you hear anything else.”

Maloney nodded. “The chief will be here in about an hour. The sheriff called him personally. Said it would look bad if he didn’t show up—one of his officers being shot at and all.”

Sinclair relit his cigar. “So he’s coming just to check on me. How sweet.”

“Be respectful,” Maloney said. “By the way, Liz Schueller’s waiting outside the tape to see you. She says she’s not working.”

“Any idea when they’ll be done with me here?”

“I’ll check after the chief leaves.” Maloney waded back into the crowd of investigators.

“You know the procedure,” said Braddock. “You’re both a victim and the subject of this investigation. You can’t be involved or privy to the details.”

“I’m wasting time sitting here.”

“Why don’t you visit with Liz for a while?”

Sinclair knew that cops don’t visit with their girlfriends at the scene of officer-involved shootings. They take care of business stoically until their commander releases them and then go home and release whatever emotions necessary in the privacy of their homes. Girlfriends bring emotions to a scene where the cop involved in a shooting is fighting to control his. Sinclair didn’t want Liz there. He didn’t want other cops seeing Liz trying to comfort
him, and he didn’t want other cops seeing him having to comfort her.

“I’m already accused of giving her special treatment. How would it look, me walking out there just to say hi?”

“Her boyfriend was almost killed,” said Braddock. “I’ll escort her in.”

A few minutes later, Liz slid into Sinclair’s car and buried her face in his neck. He felt her hot tears on his skin. “I was so worried.” She choked out the words between sobs.

Sinclair held her until she quieted. She pulled away and wiped her eyes with a tissue. “How are you?”

Sinclair stared out the windshield. “Okay.”

She smiled and dabbed her eyes again. “I hate how we parted last night.”

“I had a lot going on inside my head.”

“About the case?” she asked. “Or about us?”

Their relationship and how she used it in her career was the last thing he wanted to discuss. “Have your media friends out there been told what happened?”

“Nothing formal, but it’s obvious you were the intended target and the bus bench killer is responsible.”

“I’ve been warned not to comment.”

“I’m not asking you to.” She turned in her seat to face Sinclair, but he continued to look straight ahead. “We knew when we started seeing each other that our careers might clash.”

Sinclair puffed on his cigar and blew the smoke out the open window. “I can’t wrap my head around this conversation right now.”

Liz reached out and took his right hand in both of hers. “Where will you stay?”

“The lieutenant’s working on something.”

“Stay with me while you get through this.”

“This guy’s still after me. It wouldn’t be safe.”

“I’m not worried. I’ve always felt safe when sleeping with the toughest cop in Oakland.”

Liz kissed him deeply and exited the car. Braddock walked her to the other side of the crime scene tape, the eyes of every cop following her as she walked by.

Sinclair had finished another cup of coffee and smoked his cigar to the nub by the time Chief Brown walked his way, followed by two deputy chiefs, the captain of the personnel and training division, and Maloney.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” said Brown, looking at the scorched apartment building behind Sinclair. “The press would have had a field day if this killer claimed the life of one of our officers.”

“I appreciate your concern, Chief.”

Brown didn’t recognize his sarcasm or decided to ignore it. He turned to Maloney and his staff. “What do we do about the murder investigations?”

“As I briefed you,” said Maloney, “we’re following up on—”

“I mean about Sinclair. We can’t leave him on the case.”

“That’s exactly what this prick wants,” said Sinclair. “I’m getting close and that’s why he did this.”

“Or maybe it’s because you insulted him like some kid in a schoolyard pissing match.”

Maloney cleared his throat. “Sergeant Sinclair could have chosen his words more carefully at the press conference, but we’d be sending the wrong message by pulling him. The rank and file look up to Sinclair. You’d lose a lot of support, Chief, if you replaced him.”

“We’ll tell the troops it’s for Sinclair’s safety,” said Brown.

“The department would look weak,” said Maloney. “Besides, Matt’s our best chance for stopping this killer.”

The chief glared at Maloney. “If this man comes after him again and there’s collateral damage, the mayor will hang me out to dry.”

“Then we need to find him first,” said Sinclair.

Brown turned to Maloney. “We’ll leave him as the lead investigator, but he’s restricted to the building. You’ve got plenty of other people to do the field work.”

Sinclair was preparing to object when Maloney put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll make it work.”

After a long shower, Sinclair changed into the jeans and polo shirt he kept in his locker and made his way upstairs. The homicide office was buzzing with activity and noise. Every member of the homicide section was there, along with a cluster of uniformed officers and a dozen officers and supervisors in plainclothes. SWAT officers dressed in their black BDUs, pistols hanging at fingertip level in thigh holsters, flexed their arms and legs like a football team getting ready for a big game.

The room fell silent as Sinclair stepped inside. Beginning with a senior SWAT sergeant, they converged on him to shake his hand, slap his back, and offer encouragement: “We’ll get this fucker,” “Tell us how we can help,” “He’ll regret the day he was born.”

Everyone in the room was there because the bus bench killer had violated the code of the streets—you don’t mess with a cop’s family or home.

Years before Sinclair even considered becoming a cop, the Oakland narcotics unit had initiated a long-term investigation into the Hells Angels’ methamphetamine trade. After months of work, the narcs had picked off several
underlings in the outlaw gang and were starting to disrupt their drug trade. One morning, an officer on loan from the traffic division for the investigation received a large envelope in the mail. Inside were photographs of the officer’s home, his wife, and his children on their way to school and playing in the front yard, with a note reading,
Nice family. Best regards, Sonny
.

Whether Sonny Barger, the president of the Oakland chapter, had personally ordered the threat was never determined. Nor did it matter to the members of the department. The Hells Angels had declared war. Officers swept through every house and business associated with the motorcycle gang, stopped every car or motorcycle they owned, and dragged every hang-around, associate, prospect, and full-patch member they could find to jail, many requiring a detour through the emergency room. Although the DA threw out most of the arrests, since the cops mostly ignored the legalities of probable cause, search warrants, and due process, the code was reestablished.

The officer who had received the threat was Jack Braddock, and Cathy was one of the children in the photographs.

Sinclair knew the difference with the current situation. The department had no target on which to unleash its wrath. Nevertheless, everyone in the room looked to Sinclair for direction. He gathered the SWAT and uniformed officers and told them that he’d received a tip about the killer buying heroin somewhere in Oakland—a necessary lie to protect Dr. Gorman—and sent them out to scour the streets for anyone who might have seen a man fitting the broad description of the killer or van. It was a long shot, but it gave the street cops something to focus on. Sinclair assigned a group of investigators, mostly from the robbery and assault
units, to run out every van listed in crime reports, field contacts, and traffic tickets. Every investigator dreaded the monumental task of sorting through thousands of computer hits with little chance of success, but none complained. Braddock meanwhile briefed a group of property crimes investigators about the recovery of the torched van and sent them to San Francisco to knock on doors in the area, with the hope that someone saw something or the killer had a connection to that area.

Once the crowd thinned in the office, Sinclair spotted Heather Kim sitting on a desk in the corner, swinging her legs to an imaginary beat. Kim was a veteran street cop who had been working the downtown walking patrol for several years. She was also on the board of directors for the police officer’s association.

“My turn?” she asked with a big smile.

Sinclair waved her over to his desk.

“I’m here wearing my OPOA hat,” she said. “Your lieutenant said the department will come up with funds to get you a hotel room. With OPD’s wonderful efficiency, that might take days, so in the meantime, the association will get you a room at the Marriott.”

“I don’t need anything that fancy,” said Sinclair.

“They have a state-of-the-art security system and professional staff, and they gave me a suite for the price of a regular room. We’ll list you under a fake name and have two plainclothes officers outside your room.”

“I don’t need protection.”

“The chief ordered it and the watch commander already has a list of twenty volunteers.”

“I’d feel stupid having fellow cops standing outside my room while I sleep.”

“The department’s paying overtime, but every officer on the department would do it for free on the off chance the asshole shows up and they get to take him out.”

Braddock, who had been sitting quietly at her desk, said, “He’ll do it, Heather. And we appreciate the help.”

“If we can catch this asshole, none of this’ll be necessary,” said Sinclair.

“In the meantime, you need a safe place to sleep,” said Kim. “I’ll also work with your insurance company. They’ll probably provide money for emergency housing and other expenses. What else?”

“He needs to go shopping,” said Braddock. “He won’t feel like a homicide dick again until he’s wearing a suit.”

“This’ll be fun,” said Kim. “Me and you taking a studly man shopping. We’ll be the envy of all the girls.”

“Great,” said Sinclair. “A chick outing.”

Kim turned serious. “My cousin’s boyfriend works at Macys. He can set it up so we’re in and out in no time.”

Jankowski came through the door just as Kim was leaving. “I just finished speaking to a detective from NYPD Nineteenth Precinct.”

“About time,” said Sinclair.

“He wasn’t much help. Except for the initial scene and preliminary interviews, his partner did the follow-up alone, and because of who the family was, he kept it all hush-hush.”

“Why won’t his partner talk to us?”

“He’s super evasive about that. He says he’s trying to find his partner, as if he’s a parolee-at-large or something.”

“Something weird’s going on there.” Sinclair felt the intolerable twist in his gut that always meant one thing—he was being played. What were they hiding? Why was NYPD stonewalling them?

“He says they’re positive the Arquette family had nothing to do with Jane’s suicide.”

“Pardon me for not trusting NYPD, but I want the facts so I can form my own conclusion.”

“After I told the detective what happened to you, his tone changed.”

“Does that mean he’ll get off his ass and help?”

“He said he’ll call his boss at home for authorization to work it from his end.”

“If another agency asked us for help on a case like this, we’d drop everything and do whatever they needed.”

“We complain about politics here in Oakland,” said Jankowski. “It’s nothing compared to a place like New York. Cops make detective based on politics and they only keep their gold shields if they play politics.”

Sinclair was about to suggest they talk to Lieutenant Maloney to see if he’d use his rank and call the NYPD brass when he heard Lieutenant Maloney yell from across the room. “Sinclair, Braddock, my office.”