Thrill Kill (Matt Sinclair #2) - Brian Thiem Page 0,11
I can attribute to her?”
“You mean other than ‘lady of the evening’?” Sinclair said. “I talked to a friend in Hayward who said she was an accountant. I haven’t verified that through an employer or anything.”
“I’ll put it down. No one will complain if it’s not true. Is there anything you can tell me—any great quote about how you’re going to catch her killer?”
“I met Dawn about ten years ago when she was seventeen and had just moved to Oakland. She was a sweet kid, mature for her age, very pretty, and optimistic. She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”
Johnson wrote feverously in his notebook. “You worked vice-narcotics back then, so I imagine you don’t want to say under what circumstances you met her.”
“You know we seldom meet people in Oakland when their lives are going well.”
Chapter 4
By the time Sinclair finished his report, it was dark outside. The rain had turned into a light mist, so the sidewalks along San Pablo Avenue were full of working girls trying to make up their lost income. Sinclair pulled up to a street corner. Upon seeing his unmarked car, three girls scurried down a side street. One remained in her spot and waved. Tanya had been working that corner longer than Sinclair had been a cop. She was about five-foot-six, dark skinned, and had shoulder-length straight hair that was undoubtedly a wig. Tanya was known for her large butt, which she swore was natural and more perfectly formed than Kim Kardashian’s.
Braddock lowered her window, and Tanya looked past her and smiled at Sinclair. “How ya doin’, honey?”
“I’m good, Tanya.” He pulled a photocopy of Dawn’s DMV photo from his portfolio. “You know this girl?”
“That’s Blondie. She okay?”
“No, she’s not. What can you tell us about her?”
“Business is slow out here. Buy a girl dinner and I’ll talk with you.”
Sinclair bought Tanya a bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake, and coffee for him and Braddock, at the Carl’s Jr. drive-through on Telegraph Avenue. He parked in the BART lot across the street. Sinclair looked at his watch: 7:00 PM. On weekdays, trains rumbled overhead every five minutes and deposited late commuters from San Francisco and other parts of the Bay Area who were lucky enough to get a parking spot at this station. But on Sundays, trains only ran every thirty minutes, and the lot was nearly empty. Sinclair pulled a Macanudo Robusto cigar from his breast pocket and held it up. “Do you mind?” he asked Tanya.
“Baby, a man buys me dinner, he can smoke crack while I eat if he wants.”
Sinclair lowered the front windows, turned the heat up a notch, and lit the cigar with the old Zippo lighter he’d bought at the Army PX in Baghdad five years ago. “When did you last see Blondie?”
“Maybe last summer. On this side of the street between Thirty-Third and Thirty-Fourth.”
“Is she out there much?” Sinclair asked.
“These days just to visit. I remember when she was fresh off the farm in Iowa. She comes out here, watches the pros, and in a week, she’s got the walk and the talk down. Then she’s gone for a year, then back a few months. After a while, we girls figure out she’s mostly doing regulars and calls.”
“When was this?”
“I don’t know—a while ago. I just remembers she was working the stro more nights than not. Sometimes for just an hour, then her phone rings and she says she gotta go—she got an appointment, gots to go home and freshen up for some real money.”
Sinclair puffed on his cigar and blew the smoke out the window. “You think she got those calls from regulars?”
“Oh, yeah, she had regulars. Sometimes tricks pull up and I think they want some of Tanya’s sweet chocolate bubble butt, but they ask for Blondie.”
“It’s been a while since I worked the girls and dope, but do johns call you all for dates these days?”
“You know, Sinclair, some girls just like the street. I pick my hours and pick my johns. Don’t nobody call me to suck his dick when I’m off duty. But most girls dream of being escorts or call girls. They give out their numbers to tricks all the time, hoping to score enough regulars so they don’t need to work the corner.”
“You think that’s what happened with Blondie?”
“I think she so movie-star pretty that some john paid to keep her, like Richard Gere did with Julia Roberts. But that movie’s a fairy tale. Rich men might pay