Red Line Read Free Page B

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 officerresponsible 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