The Adams Point neighborhood was one of the more desirable areas for young, single people to live in Oakland. A hundred apartment buildings, most plain concrete or stucco boxes, dotted the hill north of Lake Merritt. A mile from downtown and close to mass transit, shopping, restaurants, and nightlife, the cheapest one-bedroom apartments in the area started at $2,000 a month, with two bedrooms another thousand higher.
Sinclair cruised by Sheila’s DMV address on Lee Street looking for parking. Since he didn’t have a police car, he didn’t dare park in a yellow or red zone. Not only didn’t he want an eighty-three-dollar ticket, he didn’t need any official record of his car in this area. He cruised the area and eventually found a place to park a block away.
He pressed the buzzer for 206 and waited. No answer. If he had his badge, he would’ve buzzed the apartment manager next, but he couldn’t come up with a plausible story to convince him or her to give out information on a single woman living in his complex. He took out his cell phone, pressed it to his ear, and waited. About ten minutes later, a thirtysomething hipster-looking man came out the door. Sinclair continued to carry on his conversation with the imaginary person on the other end, caught the door, and said, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be right up.”
He took the stairs to the second floor and followed the open walkway around the inside of the building. Below was a lush courtyard filled with plants and small trees in large pots and a few small tables. He pressed the doorbell on apartment 206 and knocked. He waited a minute and knocked again.
A door opened behind him and a voice said, “She’s not home.”
Sinclair turned and faced a plump blonde in her late twenties. “Yeah, I see that. I’m a friend of Sheila’s from Napa. I was in the area and thought I’d surprise her.”
“From Napa?” Her voice indicated she wasn’t buying it.
“I’m Matt,” he said, giving her his best smile, the one Braddock said caused girls to get weak-kneed. “I had dinner with Sheila last weekend in Napa. She hasn’t mentioned me?”
“Oh, we’re not that close. But I’ve wondered where she’s been going every weekend.”
Sinclair winked, hinting that he and Sheila might be more than just friends.
She stepped out of her doorway onto the balcony. “I think she left on vacation or something.”
“Maybe that’s why she’s hasn’t answered her phone.” Sinclair looked down at his feet. “I guess I’m making a fool of myself, but I thought we had something.”
Her eyes softened, obviously understanding how it felt to be rejected. “Sheila’s really hot, but she’s nice too. I don’t think she’d lead you on.”
“When did you last see her?”
“It must’ve been last Saturday or Sunday. She just got back from Napa.”
“That was our weekend,” Sinclair said, looking down again.
“No, wait, I saw her at the bus stop Monday morning.”
“Going to work?”
“Yeah, I often run into her at Perkins and Grand. We both take the number twelve and get off at Twelfth Street. I get on BART and head into the city. She must work somewhere downtown because I see her walking in the opposite direction.”
“I seem to know so little about her,” he said. “I don’t even know what she does for a living.”
“I think she’s in business administration. Maybe an office manager or something. She always dresses very professionally.”
“Any idea where she was going on vacation?”
“My roommate might know. She’s watering her plants while she’s gone.”
“Is your roommate around?”
“No, she’s out with her boyfriend.” Her look said she wished she had a boyfriend to be out with on a Sunday evening.
“Do you think you could ask your roommate where Sheila went and if she knows when she’ll be back?” Sinclair shuffled his feet and looked at her with his best awe-shucks look. “I hope you don’t think I’m a stalker or something, but I really like her.”
“A guy like you doesn’t need to stalk women,” she said. “What’s your number?”
Sinclair gave her his cell number, which she entered into her phone. “Call me so I can make sure you got it right.”
A second later, his phone buzzed. “Hi, this is Matt, who’s this?”
She giggled. “Lori.”
Sinclair entered her name into in his phone. “Well, thanks, Lori.”
“If things don’t work out with Sheila, and you wanna . . . you know—”
“I’ve got your number.”
Sinclair walked back to the staircase, feeling Lori’s eyes on him as he walked away. He continued down the steps to the underground parking garage. He spotted a Honda Accord and verified it was the same license as the one registered to Sheila according to the DMV printout. Although he wanted to go door to door and talk to other neighbors, if Lori saw him, it would blow the story he’d concocted and any chance she might pass on something her roommate knew. Besides, this was Oakland, and someone would call the police after they saw him knocking on multiple doors. He’d be in a world of shit if he was discovered working the case while on suspension. As he was walking back to his car, he wondered how much more successful Braddock would be with Sheila’s neighbors and the manager by showing her badge.
He drove down Van Buren Avenue, passing cars parked bumper to bumper on both sides of the street. A dark-green sedan followed about a block back. He’d noticed the car parked a few buildings down from Sheila’s apartment when he came out and thought he’d spotted it sitting in a yellow zone when he went inside. Too far away to be sure, but it looked like two men inside. He turned right on MacArthur Boulevard. The car turned behind him, remaining about a block back. Probably nothing—plenty of people live in this area, and it wouldn’t be unusual for someone else to be leaving by the same route.
Sinclair stopped at the light at Grand Avenue. The green car had slowed to let two other cars get in front of it. A classic surveillance technique. Definitely two people in the car. Looked to be a Chevy Malibu. His first thought was that the FBI was tailing him to see what he was up to after he rejected their offer. If so, he was getting sloppy because they had to have picked him up at his house and been following him ever since. He should’ve noticed the tail earlier. But he crossed out that possibility since they wouldn’t have been sitting in front of Sheila’s apartment when he got there. If he was working, he would’ve gotten on the radio and had a patrol unit stop the car and check them out. But that wasn’t an option. Before he did anything else, he’d have to be certain he was being followed and not just being paranoid.
At the next block, he made a left onto Lakeshore Avenue. If it wasn’t the FBI, he didn’t want to lead them to his house, so he put on his left turn signal as he came out from under the freeway and made a quick left onto Lake Park Avenue. The Malibu drove past him. He turned left onto Grand Avenue and made another left to get back on MacArthur Boulevard. If the car was in fact following him, he had lost it.
He heard a squeal of tires through his open window. In his rearview mirror, he saw the Malibu come off Grand and make a left, pulling into traffic a few cars behind him. It must have made the block past him when he turned on Lake Park, raced through the residential streets, and caught up with him. Now there was no doubt it was tailing him, and Sinclair needed to figure out his next move.
If it was the FBI or another federal agency and they were conducting a solo surveillance, it was amateurish. It was impossible to follow someone who was surveillance conscious without a team of at least three or four cars. But if it wasn’t the FBI, then who could it be? Was someone else looking for Sheila? Maybe the same people who killed Phil?
If he had a gun, he might take them on. He could lead them into a dead end, block their car from escaping, and take them out of the car at gunpoint and identify them. But he wasn’t even a cop anymore.
The light turned green, and instead of turning left, Sinclair went straight and took the freeway on-ramp. The green car followed.
He drove slowly up the ramp. Being Sunday, the traffic was light. He merged onto the freeway, still going forty. A few cars whizzed by at seventy. The Malibu remained about a hundred yards back. He punched it. At sixty, he shifted into third and popped the clutch. The Mustang lurched forward. Pressed back in his seat, he turned the steering wheel a tad to the left and cut across the four lanes. When the tachometer hit redline, he shifted into fourth. Ninety miles an hour. He kept the gas pedal floored. The two left lanes ahead were clear. The high-performance V-8 was still pulling.
The Malibu had made it into the left lane but was falling far behind. Sinclair continued to accelerate and shifted into fifth at 110, just shy of redline. The freeway curved slightly to the left, and Sinclair let his speed climb to 130. He lost sight of the Malibu as he passed Thirty-Fifth Avenue. A mile later, he still couldn’t see it. As he approached Seminary Avenue, he braked hard, cut across the four lanes, and took the exit. He made a series of left turns and got back onto the 580 Freeway, going in the opposite direction. He caught a last glimpse of the Malibu speeding past the Seminary exit.