Sinclair stood on the landing outside the back door of CID and lit a short Oliva, a mild cigar with a light Connecticut wrapper. He slipped on his sunglasses and looked at the list of voice mails on his phone. He called the number he most dreaded first.
“Hi, Matt,” his mother said. “How’s your big case coming?”
Sinclair never told her much about his work beyond how busy it kept him. “Haven’t cracked it yet, but I think we’re making headway.”
“I’ve been reading the papers. Not much else to do when you’re sitting around a hospital. It’s so sad about your friend being murdered.”
Sinclair heard in her voice, It could’ve been you. The papers were printing article after article about Phil and his family. Anything that stirred up emotions sold. The only thing that sold more papers was a scandal. Reporters would love to get their hands on information about his murder having resulted from a confidential investigation with political implications. “Yeah, Mom, that’s why they need me here.”
“Your father’s awake and doing better. They get him up and make him walk a bit every few hours.”
“That’s probably a good thing.”
“I know you’re busy, but if you could make time, I’m sure he’d like to see you.”
The line was silent for a few beats. “No, but you know your father doesn’t talk about his feelings much.”
“How much longer will he be in the hospital?”
“They might transfer him to a rehab center in a few days or even let him go home.”
“Sounds like he’s in good hands. How are you doing, Mom?”
“I’m doing fine.”
Sinclair called Alyssa’s cell next. Since she left her phone in the nurses’ breakroom when on duty, they mostly traded voice mails when they were working. She’d called when he was interviewing Pelletier, but he couldn’t exactly tell Jankowski and his witness he needed to excuse himself to take a call from his girlfriend.
He told her voice mail that he didn’t want to keep her on the hook for tonight. As much as he wanted to see her, he knew he wouldn’t be getting off until late. If she didn’t mind the possibility of being stood up again on Saturday, he’d like to take her to dinner around seven, he said to the recording. With twenty-four hours to plan it, he figured he could arrange for a two-hour break, unless they picked up a hot lead or something. He almost slipped and ended the call with Love you.
He didn’t know where that came from. Hell, they hadn’t even slept together yet. It had been a long time since he said the L word to a woman, and it wasn’t a word he said lightly. When women heard a man say he loved her, they pretty much held their breath waiting for, “Will you marry me?” It was probably the stress of the case and the lack of sleep that almost caused the slip.
“You got another one of those?” Jankowski asked as he stepped outside.
Jankowski was famous for mooching food, drinks, or smokes from everyone in the unit. Sinclair handed him the cigar he’d pocketed a few minutes earlier in anticipation of Jankowski’s visit. He eyed the label carefully before he clipped off the end and lit it. “You know, Sinclair, you moving in with that rich guy in Piedmont sure improved the class of cigars I smoke.”
“Why do you still put up with this bureaucratic bullshit?” Sinclair asked. Jankowski hit thirty years with the department three years ago and could’ve retired with ninety percent of his salary. If you took away his overtime pay, he was nearly working for free.
“What am I gonna do, sit home all day with ole what’s-her-name? I’ve got no hobbies. I’m already tired of the stupid TV shows I end up watching at night. I read one mystery after another about crooked cops who frame innocent people—it’s enough to make me throw most books against the wall. Thousands of murder cases across the nation every year. One or two of the people we arrest are innocent, and they make it sound like it’s an epidemic. Besides, my retirement check wouldn’t include all the OT I pull in by looking at dead bodies and talking to liars in the wee hours of the morning. Without that cash, what’s-her-name wouldn’t be able to buy more clothes she never wears or replace all the faucets in the house again because the ones she put in two years ago are dated now.”
A few years ago, a seventy-five-year-old sergeant retired from OPD with forty-five years of service, most of it working in uniform as a street supervisor. The man loved what he did. Even though Jankowski constantly complained, he loved the work. Sinclair doubted he’d stay a day after he turned fifty, assuming he survived the politics that long. He puffed on his cigar and watched the warm breeze carry the smoke toward the street. After a few days of the high barely hitting seventy—normal for June in Oakland—the forecast called for highs in the low eighties over the next several days. “What did you think of Rock?”
Jankowski positioned the cigar in the corner of his mouth and said, “The kid sounded righteous.”
“If all the Savage Simbas aren’t outlaws, maybe we should try to approach them again.”
“I was thinking the same thing.” Jankowski’s cigar bobbed up and down as he spoke. “Of the names Rock gave us, we interviewed six of them Tuesday morning after our raids, and they said nothing. But we came down hard on them at the time because we figured they were major badasses. We might’ve had better luck with a softer approach.”
Sinclair wanted to tell Jankowski what Assistant Chief James told him about the infighting between security companies, but he promised James he’d keep his name out of it. This case had too many secrets. Only James, Sinclair, and Braddock knew about the security guard company situation at City Hall, and Sinclair couldn’t even say anything about it to Maloney. When he tried to keep Maureen Yates’s involvement secret long enough to get the truth from her, that bit him in the ass the moment Brown and Maloney found out. He didn’t know how Phil was able to work Intel, where just about everything he did was secret.
“I’m thinking that’s the best direction,” Sinclair said. “We do a work-up on the remaining nine and talk to them. Do you or Sanchez have a problem with working late tonight?”
Before he could answer, Braddock pushed through the heavy door carrying a pile of loose papers in her hands. “I found something interesting in the files. Eastman isn’t as disorganized as we thought, or maybe his disorganization makes sense to me.”
Braddock found a form in a folder titled Yates that had been filled out in handwriting that looked like Animal’s. The form included Maureen Yates’s name, home and business addresses, and three phone numbers. Driver/Bodyguard was written in a box labeled Services and $50/hr. in the box for Rate. Location read Varied.
Braddock held up a pink telephone message form. “I found hundreds of these in different folders. It looks like any time Eastman received a phone call, he wrote it down on a message slip. He then wrote some cryptic notes about what action he took and stuck it in a file folder. For instance, here’s one dated Monday at three fifteen. It shows a call from Rosina Lopez, a phone number, and a note saying, ‘Tonight, pickup seven sharp.’ At the bottom of the form is written, ‘Called Animal—OK.’”
“Who’s Rosina Lopez?” Sinclair asked. “Name sounds familiar.”
“I thought so too, so I did an online search.” She handed him a printout.
Sinclair read a short article that appeared in the Oakland Tribune two months ago:
City Staffer Resigns to Run Mayoral Campaign
Rosina Lopez, the chief of staff to City Councilmember Preston Yates for the past three years, has taken a leave of absence from her city position to assume the duties of campaign director for Preston Yates’s bid to become the next mayor of Oakland. Early polls show Yates as the favorite to win the election, taking place November 8. Prior to becoming his chief of staff, Ms. Lopez worked in a variety of positions for the city of Oakland and the Port of Oakland. Mr. Yates’s campaign headquarters will operate out of his council district’s community outreach office on Telegraph Avenue. When reached for comment about her future prospects, Ms. Lopez said, “The only thing I’m focusing on at this time is helping the citizens elect the man who will lead Oakland into its rightful place as the safest and most business-friendly city in the nation.”