Thrill Kill (4 page)

Sinclair called the number and got a voicemail message: “Hello, this is Helena. Leave a message and I’ll return your call.”
Sinclair left his name and number and said he was inquiring about Dawn Gustafson, but didn’t mention that she was dead.

Sinclair and Braddock spent the next two hours driving the whore strolls from the San Pablo area in West Oakland to MacArthur Boulevard in East Oakland. The rain fell steadily, punctuated by several five-minute-long pounding torrents that emptied the streets. When it finally transitioned to lighter rain, they saw a few hookers and showed them Dawn’s driver’s license photo. None admitted to knowing her. Sinclair couldn’t tell if they were lying or not. Not many johns cruised for prostitutes on normal Sunday afternoons, and with the cold and rain, only the desperate girls or those with demanding pimps were out looking for business.

They returned to the office, and Sinclair drafted a press release—a requirement on every homicide call-out.

Sinclair e-mailed the release to the twenty people on the distribution list and put a hardcopy on the lieutenant’s desk and another on the desk of Connie, the unit admin. He returned to his computer and started typing his investigative log while Braddock
began combing the Internet and other public systems the department subscribed to in an attempt to learn more about Dawn.

A half hour later, the door to the office clicked, and John Johnson walked in. He’d worked the crime beat for the
Oakland Tribune
for forty years and was the only reporter who had free access to the PAB. Johnson poured a half cup of coffee into a Styrofoam cup and pulled a desk chair alongside Sinclair. He studied his BlackBerry for a few seconds and then said, “You kept the press release pretty vague.”

“We don’t know much yet.”

Johnson showed Sinclair a photo from his phone of Dawn hanging from the tree. “The editor wants to put this on the front page of tomorrow’s paper.”

“She’s no one famous, John. All that picture’s going to do is invite a lot more attention to this case than it probably deserves.”

“Won’t that help? Maybe get people to come forward?”

“It’ll cause the mayor and the chief to get involved in one of my cases again.”

“Not if I mention that she was a prostitute. Then the pressure will be off because everyone assumes her chosen occupation led to her demise.”

“Who said she was a prostitute?”

Johnson smiled.

“I sure wish other cops would stop blabbing about my cases,” Sinclair said.

“I’d find it out tomorrow anyway when I check court records and see the prostitution conviction.”

Sinclair grinned. “Nice bluff, but your sources are wrong. It was a juvenile arrest, so it’s sealed and you couldn’t get it. Besides, your editor knows better than to print a juvenile arrest record.”

Johnson pulled his spiral reporter notebook from his pocket, flipped it open, and studied a page. “I’ll bet if I scoured the jail logs, I’d find another arrest and get someone to confirm she was working the streets.”

“When the media says my victim’s involved in criminal activity, it infers she got what she deserved and that her life is less important than someone else’s. I need cooperation from friends and family to solve this, but when they read your paper, all they see is the cops badmouthing her.”

“It won’t be you saying it. Besides, if I run it by the PIO, you know he’ll say that it’s important for the public to think average citizens are safe so long as they’re not running the streets.”

The department public information officer’s purpose was to portray the department and crime in the best light possible. It looked better to City Hall when murder victims weren’t righteous citizens. “It probably won’t make much difference,” Sinclair conceded.

“The hanging’s obvious from the photo,” Johnson said. “What should we say about the burning?”

“I’d like to withhold that.”

“Okay. Do you mind if I talk to Dawn’s parents?”

“You’re going to print her name?”

“The coroner’s office already notified the parents, Eugene and Cynthia Gustafson of Mankato, Minnesota. Eugene manages a John Deere dealership there.”

“Go ahead.”

“What about an occupation I can attribute to her?”

“You mean other than ‘lady of the evening’?” Sinclair said. “I talked to a friend in Hayward who said she was an accountant. I haven’t verified that through an employer or anything.”

“I’ll put it down. No one will complain if it’s not true. Is there anything you can tell me—any great quote about how you’re going to catch her killer?”

“I met Dawn about ten years ago when she was seventeen and had just moved to Oakland. She was a sweet kid, mature for her age, very pretty, and optimistic. She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

Johnson wrote feverously in his notebook. “You worked vice-narcotics back then, so I imagine you don’t want to say under what circumstances you met her.”

“You know we seldom meet people in Oakland when their lives are going well.”

By the time Sinclair finished his report, it was dark outside. The rain had turned into a light mist, so the sidewalks along San Pablo Avenue were full of working girls trying to make up their lost income. Sinclair pulled up to a street corner. Upon seeing his unmarked car, three girls scurried down a side street. One remained in her spot and waved. Tanya had been working that corner longer than Sinclair had been a cop. She was about five-foot-six, dark skinned, and had shoulder-length straight hair that was undoubtedly a wig. Tanya was known for her large butt, which she swore was natural and more perfectly formed than Kim Kardashian’s.

Braddock lowered her window, and Tanya looked past her and smiled at Sinclair. “How ya doin’, honey?”

“I’m good, Tanya.” He pulled a photocopy of Dawn’s DMV photo from his portfolio. “You know this girl?”

“That’s Blondie. She okay?”

“No, she’s not. What can you tell us about her?”

“Business is slow out here. Buy a girl dinner and I’ll talk with you.”

Sinclair bought Tanya a bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake, and coffee for him and Braddock, at the Carl’s Jr. drive-through on Telegraph Avenue. He parked in the BART lot across the street. Sinclair looked at his watch: 7:00
PM
. On
weekdays, trains rumbled overhead every five minutes and deposited late commuters from San Francisco and other parts of the Bay Area who were lucky enough to get a parking spot at this station. But on Sundays, trains only ran every thirty minutes, and the lot was nearly empty. Sinclair pulled a Macanudo Robusto cigar from his breast pocket and held it up. “Do you mind?” he asked Tanya.

“Baby, a man buys me dinner, he can smoke crack while I eat if he wants.”

Sinclair lowered the front windows, turned the heat up a notch, and lit the cigar with the old Zippo lighter he’d bought at the Army PX in Baghdad five years ago. “When did you last see Blondie?”

“Maybe last summer. On this side of the street between Thirty-Third and Thirty-Fourth.”

“Is she out there much?” Sinclair asked.

“These days just to visit. I remember when she was fresh off the farm in Iowa. She comes out here, watches the pros, and in a week, she’s got the walk and the talk down. Then she’s gone for a year, then back a few months. After a while, we girls figure out she’s mostly doing regulars and calls.”

“When was this?”

“I don’t know—a while ago. I just remembers she was working the stro more nights than not. Sometimes for just an hour, then her phone rings and she says she gotta go—she got an appointment, gots to go home and freshen up for some real money.”

Sinclair puffed on his cigar and blew the smoke out the window. “You think she got those calls from regulars?”

“Oh, yeah, she had regulars. Sometimes tricks pull up and I think they want some of Tanya’s sweet chocolate bubble butt, but they ask for Blondie.”

“It’s been a while since I worked the girls and dope, but do johns call you all for dates these days?”

“You know, Sinclair, some girls just like the street. I pick my hours and pick my johns. Don’t nobody call me to suck his dick
when I’m off duty. But most girls dream of being escorts or call girls. They give out their numbers to tricks all the time, hoping to score enough regulars so they don’t need to work the corner.”

“You think that’s what happened with Blondie?”

“I think she so movie-star pretty that some john paid to keep her, like Richard Gere did with Julia Roberts. But that movie’s a fairy tale. Rich men might pay to keep a ho for a while. But pretty soon, she stop being a ho for the man and think she a lady. If a rich man wants a lady, he don’t come to the stro looking for one or dial one up from an escort service.”

“How long’s it been since she worked the corner?”

“Four, five years, maybe more.” Tanya stuffed the last bite of cheeseburger in her mouth, wadded up the wrapper, and threw it on the floor. “Blondie was always chirpy happy. Never a bad day. A sweetie pie. Always get along with everybody. I think that even when she had lots of regulars and was making plenty of money, she came out here for fun. You know—the thrill of a new dick. Just like with you, Sinclair. I bet when they make you chief of police, you still get in your po-lize car and come out here.”

“You don’t have to worry about me making police chief,” Sinclair said with a grin. “Who else might know what she’s been up to recently?”

“Talk with your friend Jimmy.”

“Jimmy?”

“Yeah, you know. Sheila’s old man.”

“I thought Jimmy was still in Santa Rita.”

“He been out at least a month.”

“Where’s he hanging?”

“Down here or maybe at the Palms.”

“What will Jimmy tell me when I talk to him?”

“He might tell you that he knows Blondie ever since she got off the bus. He watched over her back then. When Blondie stopped working the corner and she still come out here, most the time it was to check on him. Couple years back, Jimmy was
tweaking bad, shooting a hundred dollars a day. Blondie makes some calls and gets him into a thirty-day program in Napa. People say she paid for it.”

“So Jimmy was her pimp back in the day?”

“Maybe at first, but she probably went independent quick.”

“Did she have any problems with anyone, anyone who would want to hurt her?”

“All the girls loved her. There was no competition. Some men like her Barbie look, some like full-figured dark meat. Never heard a trick say she didn’t treat him good. But you know, Sinclair, sometimes a john can go off.”

“Have there been any weird or rough tricks around lately?”

“No more than usual.” Tanya loudly sucked the last of her milkshake through the straw and threw the cup on the floor next to the wrapper. “I didn’t ask because I know you homicide, and if you asking about Blondie, it means she dead. How’d she die?”

“Someone shot her and hung her from a tree out in East Oakland.”

“Honey, that’s some cold shit. You gonna get whoever did that?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m gonna get him.”

They dropped Tanya off on her corner and headed up Market Street. “You were awful quiet,” Sinclair said to Braddock.

“I know better than to interfere when you’re working your Sinclair charm with the ladies.”

“Yup, buy a girl dinner and they put out for you.”

“Is the Jimmy she mentioned the famous CI I’ve heard so much about?”

“Jimmy Davis, confidential informant extraordinaire. I popped him for a two-eleven strong arm when I worked robbery. He was a tennis-shoe pimp, running two or three old worn-out whores at Thirtieth and Market and supplementing his income by robbing tricks. I had three robbery cases on him. Needless to say, none of his victims were too thrilled about testifying. Who’d want to admit that when you’re getting head
from some skanky whore, a guy yanks open the car door and rips your wallet out of your pants? But I told Jimmy he was looking at five to ten with his past record. He came up with the names of the crew that was responsible for twenty bank jobs in the Bay Area. I had one of the cases—three guys all wearing masks who hit the Wells Fargo. The FBI coordinated the cases from eight different cities. They had no leads, but Jimmy’s info was enough for me to get a search warrant. From there, I had enough evidence to arrest the suspects and clear all the cases. Of course, the FBI tried to take credit for it.”

“Did Jimmy walk on the strong-arm robberies he committed?”

“I could have gotten him a pass, but he was out of control and needed to go away for a while, so I asked the DA to offer him six months.”

Braddock smiled. “And thus the relationship was formed.”

“He’s called me with tips ever since, and helped me solve three murders. If anything’s happening along West Mac or the San Pablo stroll, Jimmy knows about it. But it’s a tradeoff between the info he provides and his menace to society. He was all coked up last year and nearly beat some tweaker to death. It wasn’t a strong case, but everyone knew Jimmy needed to do some time, so they let him plead to a bullet in Santa Rita.”

“One year with no good time?”

“That’s what it was supposed to be, but it sounds like he got out early.”

“Do you believe what Tanya said about him being Dawn’s pimp when she first arrived in Oakland?”

“Jimmy was different before he started shooting heroin and smoking crack. He was smooth and quite the charmer, even when high, so I guess it’s possible.”

Sinclair pulled into the parking lot of the Palms Motel. The Palms had been around before the 580 Freeway existed, when MacArthur Boulevard was the main thoroughfare from the San Francisco Bay Bridge through Oakland and to cities beyond. It was among a dozen motels where travelers stayed back then, but
for the last forty years, the Palms and other motels along West MacArthur mostly catered to prostitutes, drug dealers, and occasional out-of-towners who didn’t know any better.

Sinclair flashed his badge to the elderly Indian man on the other side of the bulletproof partition that separated the tiny lobby from the office. He handed Sinclair the registration cards. Sinclair shuffled through them but didn’t see Jimmy or Sheila’s name. “Do you know who Jimmy Davis is?” Sinclair asked.

“Yes, I know Jimmy. He’s not registered here now.”

“I see that,” said Sinclair. “But has he been around?”

“I haven’t seen him. And if he’s not registered here, he’s not staying here.”

“Of course not.”

Sinclair and Braddock walked through the parking lot and up and down the sidewalk in front of the motel, asking people about Jimmy and passing out their cards. A few admitted to knowing him, but no one said they’d seen him recently, which didn’t surprise Sinclair. He knew no one would call, but the word would get back to Jimmy that Sinclair was looking for him.