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  Sinclair got the Danville watch commander’s number from the YSD desk officer and punched the numbers into his cell phone. “Your missing person’s report says you guys found the BMW. What did you do with it?”

  “Nothing so far,” replied the watch commander.

  “I need you to tow it with a hold for OPD and search the area between where it’s parked and Starbucks.”

  “Search for what? Did you find our missing juvenile?”

  “Yeah, we found him.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yeah, dumped in our city but probably killed elsewhere, so look for any evidence that might relate to an abduction or homicide.”

  “Nothing good ever happens when I talk to you fellas in Oakland,” the Danville officer said. “Whenever one of our citizens ends up in your city, they’re raped, robbed, or shot.”

  “Job security,” said Sinclair. “Do me a favor and keep this quiet. I want to be the one to tell his parents.”

  “You think they did it?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” said Sinclair.

  Chapter 3

  The sky was beginning to turn light and overpower the yellow sodium-vapor streetlights when an attractive woman in civilian clothes made her way through the uniforms toward Sinclair. Sinclair remembered the first time he saw Cathy Braddock. He was a rookie, starting his tour of duty on the night shift. A hard-bodied young officer right out of the academy, wearing a pair of tight jeans and a revealing tank top, caught his attention as she walked out of the locker room at the end of her shift. He was admiring her backside when a veteran cop poked him in the ribs. “Tread lightly, kid. Her father and grandfather were both Oakland cops. That makes her part of the family, not some tossup for you to add to your list of conquests.”

  Since then, Braddock had added a husband, two kids, and twenty pounds as she worked her way from patrol to sexual assault and finally to homicide, where she took Sinclair’s slot when he was kicked out of the unit six months ago. A plastic clip contained her thick, chestnut-colored hair, and her only makeup was pink lip gloss. The jacket of her brown pantsuit was at least a size too large but still couldn’t conceal the bulge from the Glock on her right hip.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “Phil told me you’d always beat me to the scene.”

  When Sinclair transferred to homicide five years ago, Phil Roberts was his training officer. They remained partners until Sinclair was demoted, at which time Phil became Braddock’s trainer and partner. When Sinclair returned to homicide, Phil transferred to the intelligence unit, and that left Sinclair as the senior partner of the team and Braddock’s training officer for the remainder of her yearlong probation. Sinclair missed Phil. They had the best clearance rate in the unit, solving 80 percent of their cases. Now he was stuck with training a rookie homicide detective.

  Sinclair looked at his watch. “The one-hour rule is the outside limit. Good detectives make it to the scene a lot quicker.”

  When Sinclair was new in homicide, he would have slept in his clothes if that was what it took to get to a scene before his training officer.

  “Understood. I’ll do better next time,” she said, biting her lip.

  He briefed her on the scene and then said, “I’ll be the primary on this one—just shadow me and follow my lead.”

  “This isn’t my first dead body.”

  “It’s your first with me. I’ll give you more leeway when I think you’re ready. Besides, I haven’t had a fresh case in six months, and I don’t want the guys to think I’m dumping a shit case on my rookie partner.”

  A large van with the sheriff’s department seal on the sides crept toward the scene. “Here comes the meat wagon,” said Sinclair.

  Two older men stepped out. They wore rumpled sport coats and ties a decade out of style. Their title was coroner’s investigator, but to the police, they were little more than body snatchers. The forensic pathologists, the medical doctors who did the autopsies, rarely left the morgue.

  Charlie Dawson smiled broadly as he approached. “Sergeant Sinclair, I heard you were back.”

  “Charlie, have you met my new partner, Cathy Braddock?”

  Braddock extended her right hand. Sinclair reached out and pushed it back down.

  “Nice to meet you, Sergeant.” Dawson made no attempt to shake hands. “You’re a lot better looking than the other homicide dicks.”

  “Watch him. He’s a dirty old man,” said Sinclair, winking at Dawson.

  As Dawson’s partner set up the gurney and body bag, Dawson and Sinclair traded information, each of them scribbling notes in their respective notebooks. “I’ll handle the next of kin notification on this one,” said Sinclair.

  “You hate the sobbing and Oh Lordy, Oh Lordy wailing,” Dawson said.

  “Yeah, well, this kid ain’t your average dope-dealing, parolee murder victim. His suburban mom and dad might know something and actually believe talking to the police isn’t taboo.”

  “Doc Gorman’s already got two bodies waiting, so he probably won’t get to this one until late morning,” said Dawson.

  “Call me when he’s ready to start.”

  The body snatchers gloved up and approached the bench. Talbert stood to the side, snapping photos with her Nikon. A uniformed officer stood to the other side and took notes. Sergeant Clancy stood in the back watching. Braddock fished a pair of latex gloves from her pocket, pulled them on, and then handed another pair to Sinclair.

  “I don’t plan on touching anything,” Sinclair said without looking at her.

  She put them back into her pocket and moved in to get a better view.

  Dawson and his partner lifted the body and laid it on a white sheet spread on the sidewalk. As they did, the body released a pungent odor, and Sinclair heard Braddock catch her gag with a soft groan. The putrid smells—body gasses, feces, urine—filled the air, but Sinclair had long ago become accustomed to the smell of death.

  Dawson went through the kid’s pockets, dropping items into a plastic bag: key ring, cell phone, loose change, and wallet. He ran his hands over the victim’s clothes. “No rings, no watch,” he said. He removed a necklace with a shiny pendant from the kid’s neck. “Medallion on neck chain,” he said, dropping it in the bag.

  Dawson lifted the victim’s shirt and did a cursory look. “Let’s roll him,” he said. His partner grabbed an arm and pulled the body onto its side. Sinclair remembered a homicide a few years ago, when they were baffled as to the cause of death until the coroner rolled the body and pointed out a tiny, nearly bloodless entrance wound in his back. The autopsy showed a .25 caliber bullet embedded in his heart and the entire thoracic cavity filled with blood. However, this body had no such wounds.

  They grabbed the corners of the sheet and lifted the victim into a body bag and onto the gurney. Dawson announced, “No rigor, so probably been dead less than four to six hours.” As they tucked the arms into the bag, Dawson looked up. “Sergeant Sinclair, look here.”

  Sinclair looked at the crook of the right arm and saw several purple bruises and a series of fresh injection marks spotted with dried blood. “Danville boy turns into a junkie for a day,” Sinclair said but not believing it.

  “The doc’ll have to say for sure, but these bruises seem consistent with someone tightly gripping his arm,” said Dawson. “You can almost make out where the fingers pressed into the flesh. And whoever was working the needle wasn’t very good at it. Looks like he missed the vein a bunch a times. Accidental OD?”

  “Hands and legs bound, arm grabbed tightly, syringe jabbed and missed before it got the vein,” Sinclair said, thinking aloud. “If drugs killed him, I don’t think the kid did it voluntarily.”

  Dawson zipped the body bag and wheeled the gurney to his van. Sinclair reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an inexpensive cigar. He clipped the end of the Dominican corona and lit it with an old Zippo lighter he’d bought years ago in a dust-filled Army PX tent in Baghdad.

  Braddock shot him a look. �
�Isn’t smoking at a crime scene a no-no?”

  Sinclair glared back at her. “And why is that, Sergeant Braddock?”

  “Because it could contaminate the scene,” she answered.

  A BART train clattered along the elevated track above him, carrying business-suited workers from the East Bay suburbs to San Francisco offices. Once it passed, he said, “Yes, I’m sure a cigar ash on the sidewalk will contaminate the scene.” He continued to meet her eyes. When she looked away, he continued. “The other reason cops and new detectives are told not to eat, drink, or smoke at a crime scene is so they don’t transfer some contaminant, such as blood, from their hands to their mouths. You probably noted that I didn’t touch anything out here and sure as hell didn’t shake hands with a coroner investigator, whose hands have been who-the-fuck-knows-where.”

  The tightness had returned to his stomach. He knew he shouldn’t take it out on Braddock, but having to work with her pissed him off. He needed to ease back into the job. Pick up a few easy cases. Keep a low profile for a while. Not have to worry about and carry a rookie.

  Sinclair left her standing there and ambled up the street to a cluster of three officers. After chatting with them for a while, he visited a cop who was sitting in a car writing his report and another who was directing cars and pedestrians around the scene. Phil had taught him the value of walking around and being accessible to the uniforms. Occasionally one would say, “I didn’t put it in my report because I didn’t think it was important, but—” and then provide a tidbit that proved invaluable. Besides, Sinclair enjoyed talking with the street cops. Although he was a sergeant, he still thought of himself as one of them.

  Sinclair finished his stroll just as the sun broke over the horizon, an orange glow through the fog that still hung thick over the San Francisco Bay and downtown Oakland. This wasn’t the kind of case he needed his second day back in the unit. The old Sinclair would have relished the challenge, but with all he’d been through, he would have preferred a simple domestic homicide—a mom-and-pop, as they called them—with the wife dead at the scene and the husband sitting in the kitchen crying when officers arrived. Or maybe a gang drive-by. Even if there were no leads on it, a week later, no one would care. This one was going to require work and skill.

  “Officer Ramirez is the RO on this,” said Braddock, identifying him as the reporting officer, the patrol officer responsible for writing the crime report. “I told him to get a supplemental report from everyone on the scene, then head downtown and get started on his report.”

  “And don’t leave until Sergeant Braddock or I review it,” Sinclair said to Ramirez.

  “Yes, sir,” Ramirez said. After a pause, he asked, “Any theories, Sarge?”

  “Do I look like Sherlock Holmes?” said Sinclair. “Detectives that come up with theories before collecting the facts often end up going down the wrong path.”

  Sinclair took several puffs on his cigar. He didn’t know enough to come up with a theory yet, but he didn’t believe in coincidences. There had to be a connection to the two girls from last summer. He’d seen victims killed in the same locations before, usually a drug corner, where bodies from warring narcotics gangs littered the streets for weeks until eventually the police locked up the shooters or one side wiped out the other. He wondered if this kid was the one who raped Samantha Arquette or if his death was retaliation, like he’d seen in drug turf wars. Or maybe he and the girls were friends, and the same suspect was responsible for both crimes. Too many possibilities this early.

  Sinclair met Ramirez’s stare. “All I do at this stage is observe and collect information. It’s not glamorous or exciting. So to answer your question—I have no idea who killed this kid or why—but I sure as hell intend to find out.”

  Sinclair strode to his car, and Braddock scurried to catch up. “Leave your car here and ride with me,” he said.

  “Where’re we going?”

  “To tell the mom and dad the bad news and see how they react.”

  Chapter 4

  Braddock climbed into the passenger seat, her arms filled with a briefcase, handbag, and notebook. Sinclair accelerated off before she closed the door. She swung her briefcase into the backseat, buckled her seatbelt, and stared at Sinclair.

  “Thanks for making me look stupid back there.”

  “Act like a homicide detective and I’ll treat you like one.” Sinclair weaved through the city streets to the freeway onramp.

  “Like you—a friggin’ ass?”

  “If you’re gonna work homicide, you have to learn to say fuck.”

  “I can say fuck when it’s necessary.”

  “Good for you,” said Sinclair, unable to prevent himself from grinning.

  “Don’t give me that condescending crap.”

  “Shit,” Sinclair corrected.

  “So that’s the first lesson from my new training officer, how to say shit and fuck.”

  “You’re learning.”

  “I didn’t ask for this either,” she said. “I was quite happy working with Phil.”

  “Phil was my partner long before anyone considered you for homicide.”

  “You left. That’s not my fault.”

  Sinclair hadn’t found out Phil was gone until he stepped into the office yesterday. Braddock was junior. They should’ve transferred her when Sinclair returned to the unit. Instead, they offered Phil a plum assignment in intelligence. Maybe what really burned him was Phil accepting the transfer. Phil said he needed a change. Homicide had worn him down. Lieutenant Maloney could’ve shuffled the teams and let Sinclair work with one of the other guys. Sinclair wondered if the lieutenant had asked, and no one wanted to partner with him.

  “The chief’s looking for a reason to strip me of my stripes permanently. I know that.” Sinclair merged into the morning commute traffic on the 24 Freeway. “Instead of getting a partner like Phil, who could maybe keep me from stepping on my dick, I get stuck with someone who I need to watch over to keep her from stepping on her . . .”

  “Real cute, Matt.”

  Sinclair smiled. “I’ll try not to embarrass you in front of the other cops.”

  “I’m not a bad cop, you know.”

  Sinclair knew Braddock’s reputation was that of a damn good cop. She was in the academy class after his and spent her first seven years in uniform. She worked the toughest parts of town and never let her gender or size stop her from handling every call on her beat or making her share of arrests. Whenever another officer called for assistance, she was one of the first to arrive and jump into the fray, even when the assholes were twice her size. After patrol, she worked as an investigator in the Sexual Assault Unit and as a supervisor when she made sergeant. She was known to be damn good at it, so when the slot opened in homicide, she was the top candidate.

  “Call Danville, tell them we’re on our way. And run the parents. They’re probably clean, but you never know.”

  While Braddock made the calls, Sinclair pulled his cell phone off his belt and made the required notifications to the homicide lieutenant and the police chief’s chief of staff. He gave both the same rundown, both asked the same questions, and he gave both the same responses. “No, we have no suspects at this time,” and “No, we don’t know what the motive is.”

  Sinclair’s phone clicked while he was making the notifications. One voicemail: Liz. His relationship with Elizabeth Schueller, a reporter for Channel 6 News, had started six months ago when she was after the inside scoop on a high-profile murder he was working and invited him out for a drink. He agreed—what man wouldn’t? She was the most beautiful television personality in the Bay Area. Everyone knew Liz flirted with cops and prosecutors over drinks to get a story, but she was known as a tease—nothing more. After a half-dozen drinks, Liz invited him back to her place, and they had been together—if you could call it that—ever since.

  Sinclair saw Braddock was listening to someone on her phone and taking notes. He pressed the button for Liz’s cell phone.


  “Hey, Matt, I’m lying here in bed, curled up with your pillow between my legs.”

  “I’ll be here for a while. Looks like a homicide.”

  “Typical Oakland murder or one my viewers would be interested in?”

  “Victim’s a righteous citizen. My partner and I are driving out to Danville to interview the parents right now.”

  “So you can’t talk now, huh?”

  “Right.”

  “Call me later with the inside scoop. Love ya.”

  As Sinclair returned his cell phone to its belt case, Braddock looked up from her notebook.

  “So, you’re still doing the sexy Channel Six reporter.”

  Sinclair glared at Braddock. Very intuitive for hearing only half of the conversation, he thought.

  “She’s gorgeous. Heck, if I wasn’t a happily married woman, I could be attracted to her myself.”

  Sinclair rolled his eyes and then glanced at Braddock to see if she was serious.

  She giggled. “Gotcha.”

  Chapter 5

  Sinclair got off the freeway at Camino Tassajara Road and drove west toward Blackhawk. In 1975, a land developer named Ken Behring had bought the former 4,200-acre horse ranch and began building houses and the exclusive Blackhawk Country Club. Eventually, about 2,000 houses were built, including many large estates, one of which was the 28,000-square-foot Behring estate. During the 1990s, the overnight millionaires from the technology boom snapped up the lesser estates, the “McMansions,” as fast as they could be built.

  Braddock juggled two phones and a notepad on her lap as she spoke. “Brenda Caldwell has no rap sheet and her CDL is clear, not even a ticket in the last five years. Paul is clean too. His bio on the Children’s Hospital website says he’s board certified in neurological surgery, med school at USC, did his residency at Mass General in Boston. He was on the staff at Children’s Hospital in Philadelphia until he came to Oakland in 2007. I found his house online. Four bedrooms, three and a half baths, four thousand square feet. It sold in 1997 for seven hundred thousand, and last sold in May 2007 for two point one million. That must be when the Caldwells bought it.”