The man made a U-turn on MLK Jr. Way and jumped on the freeway toward San Francisco. The Bay Bridge tollgate had no lines and he quickly accelerated to speed. The San Francisco skyline filled his windshield as he passed Treasure Island, the location of a former naval base. He sucked in the cool night air through his open window as his van passed by the skyscrapers and wound into the heart of the city. He traveled for ten minutes on city streets until he reached his target. The second-floor apartment was dark. A Mini Cooper sat in the driveway, indicating she was still working the day shift and would be asleep for several more hours. After having checked on her for several weeks, he had her schedule down.
From there, he drove back over the Bay Bridge to the old warehouse and produce district of Oakland. He counted six floors up and two from the side of the luxury condo building. The lights were off, so this woman too was probably asleep, just as she should be. A Ford Crown Vic shot out of the underground parking garage of the building and sped down the dark street. He knew where it was going.
A dim light glowed in the front window of the third house he visited, high in the Oakland hills. Based on his previous drive-bys of the house, he figured the doctor was working his normal night shift and the wife was asleep. Satisfied that his next three targets hadn’t changed their routines, he pointed the van toward West Oakland.
He parked in the motel lot and buzzed the office door. The twenty-year-old night manager looked up from a pile of open physics textbooks and peered through the thick plastic window. The skinny Indian’s paisley shirt looked like a Goodwill store reject. The heavy aroma of curry filled the air.
“Good evening, Mr. Smith.”
When he’d checked into the Golden State Motel three weeks earlier, he told the motel owner, Mr. Patel, he had no ID or credit card but could pay in cash. The middle-aged man grinned slyly and said it would be $300 a week in advance, plus a $200 nonrefundable deposit for having no identification. Patel stuffed two of the hundred-dollar bills directly into his pocket. On the registration card, the man wrote the name John Smith, a phony address in New York as his home address, and a driver’s license number he made up.
“I’d like to pay for another week,” he said as he slid three hundred-dollar bills through the opening.
“Thank you, sir,” the night manager said, examining each bill closely. “Would you like the maid tomorrow?”
He didn’t want the intrusion of the weekly maid service but didn’t want to do anything that might draw attention. “That will be fine.”
Once inside his room, he went straight to the bathroom. As the last of the woman’s life drained out of her
yesterday afternoon, he had sat there watching and thinking. Six hours had passed and the water had seeped through the brittle, rubber plug. He ran the shower over her body for ten minutes, yet the body still had a red hue. He had left her in the bloody water too long. However, once he dried her off and laid her on the bed, it was hardly noticeable. She looked to be asleep. No pain etched her face. She had gone peacefully. Once she was dry, he had combed her hair and dressed her in her running clothes before loading her in the van and delivering her.
He inspected the bathroom carefully. There was no blood in the tub or on the floor. The towels were wet but not blood soaked. He hung them on the rack. The bed sheets were still damp, but they would be dry by the time the maid came. He took some soda cans and old newspapers out of the trash can and scattered them around the room and checked the drawers to make sure he still had some clothes there. He locked the door on his way out. After surveying the inside of the van to ensure nothing was visible, he locked the doors, set the alarm, and slipped through the fence and across the field to Fifty-Fifth Street carrying a well-worn backpack.
Praise Baptist Church sat among small single-family houses on Marshall Street a block north of Fifty-Fifth. A white wooden structure, it looked more like it belonged in a quaint New England village than the East Bay. Tucked behind the church were a small parking area and the minister’s house. He had met Reverend Cecil Little, an elderly, gray-haired black man, while reconnoitering the neighborhood, and the reverend was more than happy to allow him to park his car there for a modest donation to the collection plate each Sunday. He even gave him a church
bumper sticker, which the man slapped on the back of the van among all the other stickers. He figured it helped the van fit into the neighborhood better.
Now he climbed into the new Volvo S80 sedan and left this part of his life behind.
Sinclair and Braddock walked up a curved, brick walkway to the front door of the sprawling ranch-style house in the Happy Valley area of Lafayette. Large, leafy trees graced the neighborhood, unlike newer developments where bulldozers razed the land and developers added pencil-thin saplings that took decades to mature. It was similar to the neighborhood on the other side of Lafayette where Sinclair had lived with his ex-wife—quiet and serene, an area that felt more country than suburb. Braddock had checked the address on her phone on the way there. Single story, twenty-nine-hundred square feet, four bedrooms, three baths. Built in 1954, worth 1.2 million today.
The only streetlights in the neighborhood were on light posts in front of each house. The wealth in this area was more understated than Blackhawk, where the Caldwells lived. Sinclair could see lights on inside as he pressed the doorbell. The porch light came on a second before the door opened. The man was in his midsixties, with a noticeable belly under the dress shirt that hung outside his trousers.
“Mr. Hammond,” said Sinclair, pausing long enough to allow him to deny it. “I’m Sergeant Sinclair, this is Sergeant
Braddock. May we come in?” Sinclair swept aside his suit coat to show the sterling silver badge on his belt.
“Is this about my wife?” He slurred his words but answered what would have been Sinclair’s next question.
“Yes. Can we talk inside?”
Hammond led the way past a spacious kitchen to a living room with dark, glistening hardwood floors. A piano sat against one wall and a brick fireplace flanked the wall opposite. Windows and French doors covered the back wall. Hammond dropped into a plush chair. An open book and a glass filled with an amber liquid rested on the end table. He closed the book and picked up his drink.
Sinclair watched closely as Hammond took a long swallow. He remembered how it felt when the liquor warmed his throat as it went down.
“I’ve been reading the same chapter for the last hour,” he said. “She’s never done this before.”
“You mean . . . ?”
“Not come home.”
Sinclair opened his notebook and asked the basic questions: name, birth date, address, phone numbers, employment. “What kind of law do you practice?” Sinclair asked.
“Personal injury and medical malpractice. One partner does family law and the other business—mostly contracts.”
Susan worked mornings at the law office, he told Sinclair. Most days, she and her husband would have lunch together, after which, she would go home to take care of the house and her “ladies’ appointments—you know, manicures, pedicures, hair, facials, and whatever else women do.” Hammond paused and took another pull on his drink. “I’m surprised you came. Your dispatcher said they don’t
send officers out for adults missing less than forty-eight hours absent foul play.”
“When did you call it in?”
“Around seven.”
Braddock pulled her cell phone from her purse and left the room. A moment later, she returned and said, “Nineteen-oh-three, call came from their home phone number. I requested they put out a comm order on her car.”
Hammond looked at her funny.
“That means a communication order, something that’s sent electronically to other departments and broadcast over police radios to get officers looking for her car.”
Hammond nodded and drained his glass. Sinclair could nearly taste the booze—something with an oaky fragrance. “Can I get either of you something to drink?” Hammond asked.
“Coffee?” Sinclair suggested.
“I’d have to figure out where it is. Susan always—”
“Sergeant Braddock will help you. Meanwhile, you don’t mind if I look around, do you?”
He shrugged and led Braddock toward the kitchen. Sinclair anticipated an objection, Hammond being a lawyer and all, but Hammond didn’t appear the least bit suspicious of Sinclair’s request. A man whose wife was missing wouldn’t be. Sinclair was prepared to tell him that it was standard procedure to search the house on all missing persons reports, which it was. Too often, cops found missing children hiding under beds or in closets when their mothers swore they checked the house before calling the police. When working patrol, Sinclair once found a piece of mulch in a missing child’s bedroom. That led him outside where he found footprints in the shrub bed and a jimmied window.
The child had been abducted by the estranged stepfather. Another time he noticed a fresh deposit of dust on a closet floor and an empty space on the shelf above where a suitcase had been. The wife left on her own accord—no foul play involved. He never knew what he’d find in a house until he looked.
Whenever Sinclair searched the home of a homicide victim, he seldom knew what he was looking for. Sometimes it was what was
not
there that was important. Other times, it was an overall feeling that he got for the victim after seeing her habitat—an organized or sloppy personality; her taste in clothes; what she ate; whether she smoked, drank, or used drugs. Even though his gut told him Russell Hammond was not involved, he would keep an eye out for anything that would change his mind.
The first bedroom contained an antique white desk and bookshelf, sewing machine, and a small couch. A Coach handbag hung from the doorknob. Nothing interesting inside. The next bedroom was Russell’s office and contained a heavy oak roll-top desk, high-backed leather chair, and bookshelves. A guest bath followed, fancy towels that weren’t meant to be used hung on racks. It reminded him of the guest bath in the house he used to live in with his ex-wife. Farther down the hall was a comfortable-looking but sterile guest room.
The door at the end of the hall opened to a master suite. The king-size bed was neatly made and covered with as many pillows as the guest room bed. A stack of novels covered one nightstand. A John Grisham novel was on the other nightstand alongside a pair of drugstore reading glasses. The closets were neatly organized with an equal distribution of men and women’s clothes. The bathroom
cabinet held the usual assortment of toiletries and a few prescriptions: Viagra, Flomax, a statin for high cholesterol. None with Susan’s name.
A sliding glass door led onto a brick patio and past that a rectangular pool surrounded by fruit trees and manicured shrubs. He jotted down a note to ask about a gardener and pool service. Sinclair walked across the patio and opened a sliding glass door that led into a family room. Huge stone fireplace against one wall. A sectional sofa in front of it. A bar stood in a corner opposite the fireplace. Sinclair studied the assortment of bottles: good bourbons, Kentucky whiskey, single malt scotches, brandies, and cognac—nearly forty bottles in all. He picked up one to study the label. He’d seen Stein Oregon Bourbon at his old liquor store for sixty dollars a fifth. He could get four bottles of Jim Beam or Jack Daniels for that price. And at the end of his drinking, four was always better than one.
Sinclair wondered if it was even worth staying sober. Back at the crime scene, Maloney had taken him aside once the chief left and told him the chief still felt insulted by the arbitration ruling that returned Sinclair to homicide. The chief called Sinclair a loose cannon, saying his investigations resulted in too much collateral damage too often. He ordered Maloney to issue Sinclair an official reprimand for insubordination for the way he spoke to him. An oral reprimand was an official slap on the wrist, documented with a written notation in his file. Normally, orals weren’t a big deal, but Sinclair knew it was the beginning of the process of documentation and file building. An oral reprimand, a letter of discussion, a written reprimand, a one-day suspension, and then
boom
—demotion or termination.
He wasn’t about to let the chief win. He put the bottle back and followed a door into the garage. A new Lexus sedan took up one space. The other stall was empty. He popped the trunk of the Lexus LS and glanced through the plush interior. Nothing.
Braddock poured Sinclair a cup of coffee as soon as he came into the kitchen.
“Mr. Hammond had lunch with Susan,” she said, glancing at her notes. “He spent the afternoon at his desk, typical paperwork and phone calls. Left at five, got home quarter to six. Susan wasn’t here. He called her cell. It rang then went to voicemail. He called several of her friends. I have a list here.”
Braddock looked at Sinclair. She shook her head.
Sinclair took a business card from his shirt pocket and slid it toward Hammond. “I have some bad news for you. We found your wife.”
The alcohol probably delayed his reaction. He looked from the card to Sinclair and back to the card. “What?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hammond, but your wife is dead.”
“Dead?” Hammond stared at Sinclair, apparently hoping he had misunderstood.
Sinclair nodded.
“No,” Hammond howled. Then the tears came.
Sinclair sat quietly while Hammond regained his composure. Then he suggested Hammond call a friend or relative. While waiting for Hammond’s brother to arrive from the next town over, Sinclair asked the standard questions about enemies, suspicious people, and unusual occurrences but got nothing from Hammond that pointed toward who would want to kill his wife or why.
Sinclair found two of the uniformed cops from the crime scene standing in the dark hallway outside the homicide office.
“Either of you know how to make coffee?”
They met Sinclair’s look with blank stares.
“I don’t drink coffee,” the younger officer said.
Sinclair sighed. “We depend on you guys, especially after hours. If you get here before us, get the door key, come inside, and start the coffee. Your fellow officers drink it, and if we have witnesses or suspects to interview, we need them awake. And I need coffee, so if you don’t want me on your ass the moment I walk through the door, have the coffee ready.”
“Sorry, Sarge,” said the senior officer.
Sinclair turned his computer on and hung up his coat as he heard one officer giving the other a step-by-step class on coffee making. Sinclair was amazed at how many of the young cops stood in line at Starbucks several times a day yet had never made a cup at home.
He and Braddock had left the house when Hammond’s brother arrived. Within minutes, they got a call saying the
East Bay Regional Parks Police had found Susan’s SUV. They met several officers in the parking lot of a hiking trail. Susan’s car was unlocked and a cell phone sat in a cup holder next to an unopened sport drink. Nothing in the car looked disturbed. The park police officer found the key on the ground underneath the car, and Sinclair figured the killer surprised her and she dropped it during a struggle. He might have grabbed Zachary as he approached his car too, Sinclair surmised. Another similarity was that both cars were in secluded spots where an abduction wouldn’t be noticed. Sinclair felt a pattern developing and pieces fitting together.
Sinclair grabbed an empty case packet out of the office supply locker and wrote
Hammond, Susan, 5200 MLK Jr Way
and the date on it. He was posting number seventy-seven on the board when Braddock came through the door.
“Good job, you guys.” She smiled at the officers as she plucked her coffee mug off her desk. “Nice to see you know the priorities.”
Sinclair shot a glance at the officers, and they winked at him. Braddock took a sip and said, “I had Talbert print Susan’s phone so we can handle it. I’ll start recording calls, contacts, calendar entries, and anything else I find on it.”
Sinclair said, “After I check a few things in the Arquette packet, I’ll begin doing the same with Zachary’s phone.” As much as he hated the laborious process of comparing every detail of their lives in search of a match, if he could find a place where their lives intersected, it might tell them something about the killer. But first, he had to satisfy the gnawing feeling about the peace medallions he’d had ever since he saw one around Susan’s neck.
Sinclair went through Samantha’s case packet, removed a CD, and slipped it into his computer. One hundred
fourteen photos. The first twenty showed the bus bench and a girl—must have been Jenny Fitzgerald, he figured—being attended to by paramedics. The next fifty showed the roadway where the traffic collision occurred and a pool of blood from every possible angle. Twenty shots showed the car, most focusing on the damage to the front where it struck the girl.
He turned to the tech report, titled as a 901 Injury/Auto-Ped. The narrative said that when the tech arrived, the pedestrian (Arquette) had already been transported from the scene. At the scene, the tech recovered bloody clothing that the paramedics had apparently cut away as they examined her for life-threatening injuries. The tech cleared the scene and went to Children’s Hospital to take photos of the victim’s injuries and collect any additional evidence.
Sinclair tapped his mouse and went through fifteen photos of a small, battered, blonde girl wearing a blue-and-white gown lying in a hospital bed. Her face was so badly swollen he had trouble seeing where her nose ended and her mouth began, except for a respirator tube taped around her mouth. In a photo that showed a close-up of Samantha’s face, Sinclair noticed a chain around her neck. He clicked through four more photos until he came to one showing her face. Sinclair enlarged it on the computer screen and zeroed in on a shiny object on her chest just above the hospital gown.
“Bingo,” he said.
Braddock wheeled her chair alongside Sinclair. “Well, I’ll be . . .”
They both stared the photo. A peace medallion, exactly like the ones on Zachary and Susan.