Thrill Kill (Matt Sinclair #2) - Brian Thiem Page 0,17
took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Sorry, man. A black man’s not used to having cop friends. I known Blondie since she left the farm in Nebraska. In no time, she finds some rich regulars. One even buys her a condo and takes care of her. She’d come by the stro and visit, showing off new cars and nice clothes. But after a year or two, she leaves him and disappears. When she come back, she’s working for some escort services. Make lots of money, but she still come out here. Sometimes she helps me out. I haven’t seen her since I went to Santa Rita.”
“Is she still living in that condo?” Braddock asked. “Where is it?”
“That was like a 007 pad. She never tells no one where it was. She takes me to her apartment a while ago. Different than her condo. She makes me dinner and helps me do tax returns. Never did that before.” Jimmy took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Did you know that for people who got no job and no income, the government gives you money for just sending in tax forms?”
“Was that apartment in Hayward?” Sinclair asked.
Jimmy finished his cigarette, flicked it to the street, and lit another one. “She says she just moved from Hayward, but this place is in Oakland.”
“You know the address?”
“No, but I can show you.”
Jimmy directed them down MacArthur Boulevard and around the east side of Lake Merritt.
“I’m having trouble picturing you and Dawn as BFFs, Jimmy,” said Braddock.
“It wasn’t like that. In all that time, I never touched that girl. When she first come to Oakland, she was like one of them little deer with the big eyes—nice, trusting. I watched over her so she didn’t get eaten by the big bad wolves. But she was smart. The vice squad got her once early on, sent her to juvie, then home to Nebraska. When she come back, she was smarter and had big plans.”
“What plans?” asked Sinclair.
“You know, get off the street, make some real money, invest it, and live happy ever after.”
Jimmy pointed out a three-story tan stucco building on Athol Avenue, about three blocks from the lake.
“You know her apartment number?” Sinclair asked.
“No, but I can show you. Second floor, go right out the elevator, third door on the right.”
“We need to handle it alone from here,” Sinclair said. “Let’s run you back to the Palms first.”
“I can walk. You do what you gotta do here.”
Sinclair pulled two twenties out of his wallet and handed them to Jimmy.
Jimmy stuffed the bills in his pocket. “I ain’t doing this for no snitch money. Blondie didn’t deserve this. You get the motherfucker who killed her.”
“I will. You keep in touch and call me if you hear anything.”
“You know it.” Jimmy bounced out of the car and sauntered down the hill in the rain.
Chapter 7
A petite Chinese woman with wire-rimmed glasses perched on a beak-like nose leaned against the open doorway of the manager’s apartment. Sinclair and Braddock flashed their badges. “Do you have a tenant named Dawn Gustafson?” Sinclair asked.
“Unit two-oh-eight,” the gray-haired woman said. “Is there a problem?”
“She was killed yesterday. We need to take a look in her apartment.”
“Oh, my goodness.” She stepped into her apartment and returned with a key. “What happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Sinclair said as they walked to the elevator. “What kind of a tenant was she?”
“Quiet, always paid her rent on time. A nice, polite young lady.”
“Did she live alone?”
“Yes. She sometimes had friends visit, but it was never a problem.”
“Male or female?” Sinclair asked.
“I never paid attention,” the woman said, leading them to the elevator.
“Did she have a boyfriend?” Braddock asked.
“Maybe. She wasn’t here much, so she may have been spending nights with a man.”
“You didn’t pay attention if her guests were male or female, yet you know she wasn’t here much,” Sinclair said.
“If I came through the garage around nine or ten at night, her car was normally gone. When my husband left for work at six the next morning, it still wasn’t in her space.”
“Is her car here now?” Sinclair asked.
“We can check.” They took the elevator down one level. As soon as the door opened, she said, “Nope, it’s not here.”
“What kind of car did she drive?” he asked.
“A red sports car.”
“A Camaro?” Braddock asked.
“I think that’s what it was.” The manager pressed the button for the second floor, and the small elevator bucked upward. Sinclair and Braddock followed her down the