Thrill Kill (Matt Sinclair #2) - Brian Thiem Page 0,20
half of the card. On the right, it read, Blondie, Special Ladies Escorts, San Francisco & Bay Area, www.specialladies.com, followed by a 415 area code phone number.
“She was such a pretty girl.” Braddock sighed. “It’s so sad she allowed herself to be exploited like this.”
Sinclair put a few of the cards into his pocket. “It’s not like someone shanghaied her, dragged her to California, and forced her into a life of prostitution.”
“The coercion and influence that lead girls into this life is more subtle than that—abuse in their childhood, lack of opportunities,” Braddock said.
Sinclair didn’t buy the bad-childhood and no-job excuses for crime. He and Braddock had had this discussion before. Her stepfather was an ultraliberal professor at UC Berkeley whose worldview was the polar opposite of Sinclair’s. Sinclair had quipped with Braddock many times, only half-joking, that after four years at UC Berkeley, the Peace Corps, and social work jobs, her leftist brainwashing was nearly complete, and even with the harsh realities of the real world she saw as a cop, she had a tendency to slip toward the dark side when he wasn’t watching.
“Even if some of those factors got her into the life, she had plenty of opportunities to get out,” Sinclair said. “Don’t forget, when I busted her the first time, she was sent home. But she came back. On her own. She got out of the business a few years after that, but here she was again.”
“She got off the streets a second time?” Braddock asked. “When did that happen?”
Sinclair hesitated for a moment and then said, “I’m just assuming that, based on what Jimmy said and the rough timeline I have in my head about her life.”
Braddock studied him. He wondered if she was trying to read his mind or trying to get him to say more. “Okay then,” she said, obviously willing to let it drop. “Maybe that’s why she was studying to be an accountant—to change her life. And it looks like she was paying her bills—at least some of them—with her bookkeeping business.”
“So she might’ve been in the process of changing,” Sinclair said. “All I’m saying is most people don’t commit crimes because they have no alternative. They make a choice to sling dope or sell their bodies on the corner because it’s easier than getting up every morning, working at an entry-level job, and busting your ass to move up to something better.”
“I still feel sorry for Dawn.”
“So do I,” he said. “She didn’t deserve this, and the only person I blame for her death is the one who killed her.”
Braddock returned to her iPad while Sinclair went through the bookshelf, fanning each book and hoping a piece of paper with something relevant would drop out. Nothing did. When he was finished, he looked over Braddock’s shoulder as she swiped through the pages of the Special Ladies Escorts website. Dawn was one of about fifty women advertised. Each had a short bio designed to play into men’s fantasies.
The techs returned from the bedroom. The female tech said, “We’re done in here, if you want to have a look. We went through all the clothes and checked them with the ultraviolet light. We didn’t find any blood, semen, or other secretions, so they were probably washed before being put away. We went through all the boxes in the closet, photographed the contents, and put them back for you. When you’re done, we’ll collect them as evidence in case you want to have the lab examine them for DNA later.”
“What’s in the boxes?” Sinclair asked.
The female tech grinned. “You’ll see.”
The bedroom furniture was made of honey-colored oak, heavy and sturdy. The top of the dresser was clear. The top drawer contained some bras and panties, sexy, but the kind of underwear any twenty-something woman would wear. Two conservative sweaters and two sweat suits were in the next drawer—clothes someone would wear lounging around their home. The other drawers were empty, as were the drawers in both nightstands.
He pulled two boxes off the closet shelf and opened the first. Inside were an assortment of leather restraints and plastic handcuffs. The second box held a dozen satin blindfolds and a vast array of vibrators and dildos.
Sinclair looked at Braddock. “How many boxes of this stuff do you have in your bedroom?”
“My only sex toy is my husband,” she said. “What about you, Sinclair?”
“I’m saving myself for marriage, remember?” Sinclair replied with a wry smile.
Sinclair went into the bathroom and slid back the shower door.