At 6:15 PM, Sinclair drove from his guesthouse toward the front gate. He wore the same suit he had three nights earlier when it was his job to meet with a high-class hooker. He recognized the irony.
Fred Towers’s Mercedes S550 partially blocked the driveway. Sinclair pulled alongside and saw Walt, dressed in a black suit with white shirt and tie, sitting behind the wheel. Sinclair rolled down his window as Fred exited the house wearing one of his impeccably tailored business suits. “Where’re you two off to?” Sinclair yelled.
“Another fundraiser,” Fred said with a wry smile. “Part of a CEO’s job description.”
“Not at the Scottish Rite, by any chance?”
“How’d you know?” Fred said.
“A long story, but a lawyer for someone connected to my case invited me with a promise that it’ll be beneficial to my investigation.”
“Ride with us,” Fred said.
“I don’t want to stay any longer than absolutely necessary, so I—”
“I just need to be seen, shake some hands, and deliver a check,” Fred said. “We’ll leave whenever you’re ready. Besides, parking’s a beast and Walt can deposit us at the front door.”
Sinclair parked his car and jogged up to the Mercedes. Walt held the left rear door for him. “I’m playing chauffer tonight, so you should sit in the back with Mr. Towers,” Walt said. Before Sinclair could object, Walt continued, “I know . . . but this is the image we must convey.”
Sinclair settled into the soft leather seat as Walt closed the door. Sinclair ran his hand along the real wood trim and stretched out his legs in the long-wheelbase sedan. “You get used to it after a while,” Fred said as Walt drove off. “Who are you hoping to talk to at this little affair?”
Sinclair summarized his telephone conversation with Fadell while avoiding details of the case.
Fred whistled. “If one of the clients of Special Ladies Escorts had something to do with your murder, you’ll have plenty of suspects at this event.”
Even though Sinclair hadn’t mentioned the name of the escort service, he wasn’t surprised that Fred had heard about the sting operation. “What makes you say that?”
“Matt, I’ve heard plenty of whispers in the boardrooms around Oakland and San Francisco over the years about that service. Many highly placed men are quite concerned at this moment. It doesn’t surprise me that Ms. Fadell is representing the owner.”
“Do you know her?”
“Bianca makes it her business to know everyone. I see her frequently on the social circuit, and her firm was engaged in an action against an overseas supplier that PRM was doing business with.”
Sinclair could tell Fred was being evasive, but he wasn’t about to treat him as a suspect and press the issue. “Can I trust her?”
“Behind those pretty eyes is an incredibly sharp and calculating mind. There’s a purpose behind everything she says and does. Even the clients she represents. It’s all about advancing her personal interests and her standing in the legal community and on the society page.”
“So the answer is no.”
“If her agenda is in line with yours, you have a powerful ally. However, even if she’s working at cross-purposes, I don’t think she’ll overtly sabotage you. Preventing the police from bringing a killer to justice only gets points for lawyers who want to do criminal defense work for the rest of their career.”
Walt stopped behind a line of cars creeping toward the main entrance of the imposing granite-faced building. The Scottish Rite Masons were a branch of the Freemason organization. When they outgrew their older building on Washington Street, they built this 110-foot-tall building overlooking Lake Merritt in 1927. In addition to the auditorium, the building included a ballroom that could hold 1,500 people and numerous other banquet and meeting rooms, as well as private rooms for members only. Sinclair didn’t buy into the conspiracy theories that abounded concerning the Masons, and he was less concerned about their veil of secrecy than he was about the same that took place in the back rooms of City Hall and the Police Administration Building.
A stretch limo three cars ahead of them deposited two elderly couples who climbed the stone steps that stretched across the front of the building. “We can walk from here,” Sinclair suggested.
“We should wait our turn,” Fred said. “How we make our entrance is important.”
The driver of a black Cadillac XTS sedan opened the back door, and Bianca Fadell, wearing a long fur coat—surely faux mink to avoid the ire of animal activists—stepped out. She looked at her watch as the Cadillac drove off to make room for the black Lexus that followed. Once the Lexus dropped off a heavyset bald man, Walt pulled up to the curb, opened the door for Sinclair, and hustled around the car to open the door for Fred.
“I had no idea you two knew each other,” Bianca said as Sinclair and Fred mounted the steps.
Bianca turned her cheek toward Fred, who gave her a light peck. “Matt’s been staying in the guest house for a while.”
“Interesting,” she said, stepping toward Sinclair with both hands outstretched.
He extended his right hand to shake her hand and keep her at a distance. A dozen people watched from the top of the steps.
“Despite the rumors,” she whispered, “I really don’t bite.”
She lightly took Sinclair’s left arm and led him up the steps. Velvet ropes corralled people into a single line leading toward the huge metal door, which he heard weighed more than a ton. A tuxedoed man with a clipboard stood at the entrance. “Ms. Fadell and guest,” he said and made a check mark on his paper. Another man in a tuxedo swung the door open.
Bianca slipped out of her fur and handed it to a coat-check girl just inside the entrance. She was wearing another show-stopper—a form-fitting black dress with a plunging neckline—which she tugged down, showing even more of her cleavage. She snatched a glass of champagne from a silver tray as a waiter approached. “Something nonalcoholic for the gentleman,” she said. When the waiter trotted off, she said, “You are still not drinking, am I correct?”
“That’s right,” Sinclair said.
“Probably wise. You’re lucky to have gotten your sergeant rank and your position in homicide back after what happened. As for me, I’m not sure I could live without it.”
Sinclair had thought the same in his early sobriety. Even though he knew he could no longer live with it, he didn’t know if he could live without it. Old timers in AA said that at some point it would be more natural not to drink than to drink. He looked forward to that day. A hundred people milled around in the palatial foyer. Grand staircases on both sides of the lobby led to a wide balcony. High above that, hand-carved wood ceiling panels painted gold glistened in the light from a massive chandelier. Dozens of eyes swept over Bianca, some trying not to be obvious, others not so discreet.
“Let’s work the room,” she said, taking Sinclair’s arm and strutting toward a circle of gray-haired men. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Sergeant Sinclair of the city’s homicide division.”
Each man introduced himself by name, followed by a firm handshake. Before Sinclair could ask their occupation or how they were connected, Bianca said, “So nice to see you, we must chat later,” and swept him further into the room.
A waiter handed Sinclair a fluted glass. “Sparkling cider, sir,” he said, and he turned toward another cluster of people with his tray. Other waiters made their rounds with trays of hors d’oeuvres: bacon-wrapped scallops, crackers mounded with caviar, bite-size sandwiches, and tiny pastry shells filled with soft cheese. Although he was hungry, Sinclair had never mastered the art of juggling a plate of food, a drink, and a woman on his arm, while keeping his right hand available to shake dozens of hands.
Across the room, Sinclair saw the shaved head of Clarence Brown, the Oakland police chief, towering above the cluster of people around him. Brown’s eyebrows rose and then furrowed when he noticed Sinclair, an unmistakable look of surprise followed by disapproval. “I better go and see him.”
“Yes, we should,” Bianca said.
As they crossed the room, Bianca set her champagne flute on a waiter’s tray and grabbed a fresh one in one smooth movement.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Sinclair,” Chief Brown said.
“He’s here as my guest,” Bianca said before Sinclair could speak. “I thought he might meet some people useful in his investigation.”
Sinclair said, “Chief, I’d like you to meet—”
“Ms. Fadell and I have met,” Brown said.
“Nice to see you again, Chief,” Bianca said, extending her hand.
Brown took her hand lightly.
She turned to Sinclair. “I’m sure you know Mr. O’Brien, the District Attorney.”
“Nice to see you, Sergeant,” O’Brien said. “As you might know, our office has strong partnerships with many of the organizations represented here tonight. We’re working toward a common quest to eradicate human trafficking in the county. Not as dramatic as investigating and prosecuting murderers, but every bit as vital.”
Sinclair smiled but said nothing.
A tall, thin, white man, probably in his midfifties, but with boyish good looks, extended his hand to Sinclair, and said, “I’m Jack Campbell. We’ve never met, but your reputation precedes you. I’m a fan of your work.”
Sinclair recognized the name. Campbell was the US Attorney for Northern California, a presidential appointee and the likely heir to one of California’s Senate seats if Diane Feinstein were ever to retire. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Sinclair said.
“Perhaps we can talk later,” Campbell replied.
“Whenever you wish,” Sinclair said.
“You gentlemen have a nice evening now.” Bianca smiled and led Sinclair away as a chorus of Bye, Biancas sounded from the men.
“Lots of power in that group,” Sinclair said. “Are any of them . . .”
“On the client list?” Bianca laughed. “I wish.”
She crowded in close and turned to face him. He could smell the champagne on her breath. Mixed with her perfume, it wasn’t unpleasant. He struggled to maintain eye contact and not look down into her deep cleavage, where from his angle, he could probably see her navel.
“The prying-open-of-the-checkbook speech is about to begin,” she said. “We should get a better position.” She took his hand and led him through the crowd to the top of one of the staircases.
“This is a good vantage point to see and be seen.” She leaned into him, her firm thigh pressed against his leg.
Sinclair inched away, and she looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. “As you wish. Public displays of affection are clearly not your thing.”
Bianca was beautiful in a sultry sort of way. She would no doubt be totally uninhibited in bed. “I’m a cop and you’re a high-priced lawyer defending a criminal I’m investigating. That would make a relationship extremely dangerous and overly complicated,” Sinclair said, as much to explain his actions as to convince himself. And despite himself, he couldn’t stop thinking about Alyssa.
“First, I’m not proposing a relationship. They’re so old-fashioned. Second, I like dangerous. And third, I thrive on complications.”
Sinclair slid a little farther from her as a man with a thick mane of silver hair stepped up to a podium at the front of the lobby. “Many of you know me from my role with Cal Asia, but tonight I’m here in a different capacity.”
“His name is William Whitt,” Bianca whispered. “He’s the COO of land operations for Cal Asia.”
“The shipping line?” asked Sinclair.
“One of the top three shipping companies between the United States and Asia.”
“Tonight, I’m here as the chair of the fundraising committee of Bay Area Businesses Against Sex Trafficking,” Whitt continued. “We’re a consortium of twelve East Bay corporations that have pledged to match, dollar for dollar, all donations tonight in order to provide much-needed services for victims of human sex trafficking. A number of nonprofits are in dire need of support to provide housing, legal, and counseling services for minors who have been sucked into the life of prostitution. In addition, we need alternatives to the traditional approach of arrest and prosecution for adult women in the sex trade. Everyone who was invited here, outside of the federal, state, and local government leaders with us tonight—because we know the limitations of government salaries”—Whitt paused to allow the laughter to subside, then continued midsentence—“will be contacted by a member of the committee during the course of the evening. We’ll ask you to open your checkbooks wide, as the need is great. Thank you all for coming.”
Whitt stepped away from the microphone and into the crowd to shake hands and accept envelopes. “Come on,” said Bianca as she led him down the stairs. “You should meet him.”
Sinclair followed Bianca as she pushed through a line of people waiting to meet Whitt. She glided in front of the first acolyte, an elderly woman wearing a diamond-studded necklace that should have required the presence of a full-time security guard.
“Bianca!” Whitt said. “You look lovelier than ever.”
She kissed his cheek and held his hand as she said, “Great speech, William. I’d like you to meet Sergeant Sinclair. Matt’s a homicide detective.”
“What brings you out to such a do-gooder cause, Sergeant?”
“I have a murder victim who worked as an escort, and Ms. Fadell thought I might meet some people who could shed some light on how she died.”
“I’m not sure how we could help with such a sordid act, but feel free to call on me.” He handed Sinclair a business card. His eyes turned to Bianca’s chest. “Call me. We really should catch up.”
Bianca stepped aside and the woman with the diamond necklace stepped up to Whitt with an embossed envelope in her hand. Bianca led Sinclair around the room, trading hugs, air kisses, and handshakes with scores of people, none of whom seemed interested in knowing who Sinclair was. She then directed Sinclair to a man standing alone in the back of the room, scrolling through his phone. Sinclair recognized him as a city council member with whom he had attended police-community meetings on several occasions.
“Good evening, Bianca.” Preston Yates held out a limp hand, which Bianca grasped lightly.
“Preston, have you met Sergeant Sinclair?”
Sinclair took him in as he would any suspect: male, white, forty to forty-five, five-nine, 150–160, slim build, sandy-brown hair, hazel eyes. His handshake was weak. Sinclair was careful to squeeze lightly. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Yates.”
“Please, everyone calls me Preston.”
Sinclair smiled to be polite. Politicians liked to pretend they were ordinary Joes to their constituents, but he refused to be drawn into their pretense. Yates was no friend of the department. He sided with every social issue and voted against every budget item or wage hike for police. Following a violent street protest last summer, Yates was the first politician to publicly condemn OPD’s use of tear gas to break up the crowd. The following night, when the police chief held the police line back to avoid criticism of police brutality as protesters smashed and burned downtown businesses, Yates criticized the police for not taking action. “Councilman Yates, departmental regulations specify I address you by your title.”
Yates maintained the phony smile that was fixed to his face. “I saw your name attached to several recent homicides. Is this indicative of a trend?”
“I leave those predictions to the media and sociologists. I just investigate them when they happen.”
“So then, if the primary objective of the police department is crime prevention, how do we justify spending money on a unit such as yours that only investigates crime after it’s already occurred?”
“That’s beyond my pay grade, Councilman, but if we don’t take a killer off the streets, he’ll kill again, so I guess that’s how I do my part to prevent future crimes.”
“Dawn Gustafson, the woman hung in the park, I understand she was a prostitute.” Yates pushed his hair from his forehead. “Don’t be shocked. It’s my job to know about these things.”
“She was, at some point in her life. We’re still trying to determine whether it had anything to do with her death. Have any of your constituents mentioned anything about the murder or the victim?”
“It didn’t occur in my council district, so it’s doubtful; however, if I can be of any further assistance, please feel free to contact my staff at any time.” The politician smile remained as he handed a card to Sinclair.
“Charming man,” Sinclair said to Bianca when they retreated to a corner of the room.
“That he is. His name’s being bandied about as the frontrunner in the next mayoral race.”
“Am I right to conclude that Yates and Whitt are two people you thought I should meet?”
She smiled and said nothing. A man dressed in a white shirt, bowtie, and black vest approached them and bowed his head slightly. “Mr. Sinclair, Mr. Campbell would like you to join him in the members lounge.”
“Where is that?”
“I’ll escort you, sir.”
Sinclair and Bianca stepped off behind him. The man stopped and turned. “Sorry, madam, but the invitation is for the gentleman only.”
“You’ve met those I thought you should, Matt,” Bianca said. “Can I wait around and give you a lift home?”
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “And thanks for your help.”
They took an elevator to the third floor and followed a long corridor lined with paintings and old photographs to a heavy wooden door, which the man unlocked with a large brass key. Two ornate billiard tables occupied the left side of the room. Across the dark-wood floors polished to a high sheen were several groupings of furniture, a few consisting of leather club chairs, while other larger ones included leather sofas. Five men sat in a group next to the pool tables, while Campbell sat with two men who looked like attorneys in a cluster of club chairs at the far end of the room.
Campbell waved him over. “Can you excuse us for a few minutes?” he said to his companions, who quietly rose and headed toward the billiard tables. Campbell motioned to the chair next to him. “Please have a seat, Sergeant.” Campbell held up a heavy crystal tumbler. “Would you care for a scotch? We have some of the finest single malts in the world.”
“No, thank you.”
The waiter who had escorted Sinclair to the room bowed his head slightly and took his leave.
“Sinclair—that is Scottish isn’t it?” Campbell said.
“My father was English and Scottish. The exact lines became blurred generations ago.”
“Of course.” Campbell swirled the amber liquid in his glass and took a sip.
Sinclair could smell the aroma from where he sat.
“And your mother is Latino?” Campbell said.
It was obvious Campbell had been well briefed. “Her mother was Mexican and her father was American. And you, sir, Scottish?”
“Ah yes, both of my parents trace their lines back to the old clans of feudal times. They weren’t too pleased when I married a beautiful woman of Austrian-Hungarian descent, but I don’t concern myself with such pedigrees as did my parents.”
Sinclair wondered if Campbell was truly impressed with his record and wanted to get to know him better or if this was this just preliminary ice breaking, but he wasn’t left wondering for long.
“The victim in the murder that prompted your investigation into Special Ladies Escorts was a prostitute, is that correct?”
“That’s right,” Sinclair said.
“I’m curious as to why you went to such great lengths—mounting an undercover operation into the service and gathering a mountain of information—when wading through it would take an army of analysts and likely get you no closer to solving the murder?”
“Are you asking why I took on so much work, or why I did so for this victim?”
“I’ve been told about your work ethic, so on that I’m clear, but this victim is not exactly a prominent citizen.”
Sinclair fought to control his composure. “She had friends and family that loved her. I don’t pick which murders to work based on someone’s determination of the victim’s worth. I investigate them all, because in my world, people shouldn’t be allowed to commit a murder and get away with it.”
“So you work as much for society as for the victim. Very noble. I admire that. However, is it practical? In my office, I make decisions about whom to investigate and prosecute daily. Often my decisions have national implications. For example, you’re well aware that under the current administration, police brutality is a major issue. My stance doesn’t please my law enforcement brethren, but the President and Attorney General are trying to reshape the way law enforcement agencies in our great nation do business. One of the ways in which we are doing so is by using the FBI’s civil rights division to investigate excessive force when it falls under federal jurisdiction and by using the US Attorneys to prosecute individual officers when the evidence is sufficient.”
Sinclair was well aware of the witch-hunts by the Attorney General. He announced federal investigations into incidents even before the local jurisdiction had a chance to investigate. “Are you saying I’m doing too much because Dawn Gustafson—that’s the victim’s name, by the way—was just a hooker?”
Campbell took a long pull of his scotch. “What I’m saying is that we all have only so much time, resources, and goodwill. We need to use it wisely. The path you’re taking may consume every bit of goodwill you’ve earned. You must ask yourself if it’s worth it, or if it’s wiser to save up some goodwill for the future. You’re a man of great honor—a noble knight, if you will—but this may not be the battle you want to ride into with sword and shield in hand.”
“May I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you have access to the client list?” Sinclair said.
Campbell looked down at his drink for a few counts. He then locked eyes with Sinclair. “What information I have access to is, quite frankly, none of your business. Your question might be more properly posed to your police chief.” Campbell raised his hand and snapped his fingers. The waiter who had brought Sinclair to the meeting reappeared. “Thomas here will escort you back to the party. Tread carefully, Sergeant, you’re too good a man to have this be your downfall.”