Thrill Kill (Matt Sinclair #2) - Brian Thiem Page 0,25

used to do the john sweeps? We’d put a female officer that wanted to play hooker for a night out on the corner and snatch up every dude that solicited them.”

“I loved watching other officers I worked the streets with hang up their uniforms and slip into their hooker getups in the locker room. They made bets on who could snare the most johns.”

“I never saw you out there.”

“Not my kind of thing, but I respect the gals who did it.”

“I think the record was something like thirty-four johns in one night.”

“That was Jane Oliver,” Braddock said.

“Where’s she working now?”

“Still patrol in East Oakland. You’d never know how hot some of our female officers are when you only see them in uniform.”

Sinclair’s desk phone rang.

“This is number seventy-three in radio,” a dispatcher said. “We just received a nine-one-one call from a woman who said her name was Tanya and she’s helping you on a murder case.”

“Yeah, well, sort of,” Sinclair said.

“She said some really sketchy dude just approached a few of the girls at Thirty-Third and Market, showed off a gun in his waistband, and asked if any of them wanted to take a drive to Burckhalter Park and party. Isn’t that where your murder occurred?”

“Yeah. Did she give a description?”

“Male, Hispanic, twenty-five to thirty, five-ten, slim build, driving a black Camry, partial plate six-four-three.”

“Did you broadcast it?” Sinclair asked.

“I assigned two units to check the area. The caller said she wouldn’t talk to uniformed officers—only you. She’s waiting inside the Cajun restaurant in the thirty-one-hundred block of Market.”

Sinclair hung up the phone and said to Braddock, “Let’s go. Tanya might’ve spotted our killer.”

Chapter 10

Sinclair cruised north on San Pablo Avenue, scanning left for the black Camry, while Braddock scanned right. The sun had set more than an hour ago, making it difficult to distinguish car makes and models through the rain-streaked windows. The wipers beat rhythmically, ending with a squeak at the bottom of each sweep that reminded Sinclair that they were far beyond their useful lifespan. He could drive out to the city corp yard and wait an hour for a city mechanic to do the five-minute job, or stop at an AutoZone and change them himself as he usually did. He took a slight right onto Market Street and pulled to the curb in front of a fast-food restaurant that advertised Cajun chicken and fish. Tanya waved at them from inside the door and trotted to their car with short high-heeled steps.

Braddock lowered her window and Tanya leaned inside. “I think he the muthafucker.”

“The man you described to the dispatcher?” asked Braddock.

“Yeah, the Mexican.”

“Did you see a gun?” asked Braddock.

“He put his hand on it under his shirt.”

“But you didn’t actually see it?”

“No, but I know when a dude’s packing.”

“What did he say, Tanya?” asked Sinclair.

“He said he wanted to take me or some other girls to the park and party like he did with Blondie.”

“Let’s get a better description.” Braddock opened her notebook and poised her pen. “You told the dispatcher that he was Hispanic—”

“Yeah . . . there he is!” Tanya shouted, pointing at a dark-gray car creeping past them on the street.

Sinclair yanked the shift lever into drive as Braddock grabbed the radio microphone and said, “Thirteen-Adam-Five, we see the possible one-eighty-seven vehicle southbound thirty-one-hundred block of Market.”

Sinclair pulled from the curb, cranked the wheel to the left, and punched the accelerator. The big Crown Vic spun in a 180 on the wet pavement. The gray car ran the light at San Pablo. Sinclair flipped on his emergency lights and siren and took off after him.

“Code thirty-three,” the dispatcher said. “Thirteen-Adam-Five is in pursuit of a possible one-eighty-seven vehicle southbound thirty-one-hundred block of Market. Confirm this is the Toyota Camry, black, partial plate six-four-three.”

“It’s actually a dark-gray Honda Accord,” said Braddock. “I’ll get you a plate when I can. Turning westbound on Twenty-Sixth.”

Sinclair braked hard and felt the chatter of the ABS that prevented the Ford’s wheels from locking up and sending them into an out of control slide on the wet pavement. The Honda fishtailed in the turn. It then straightened and sped down Twenty-Sixth Street. Sinclair powered out of the turn, finessing the gas pedal to keep the car below the speed where it would break loose. Within a block, he gained to within three car lengths of the Honda.

“California license Five-George-Lincoln-Henry-Six-Four-Three,” Braddock said over the radio. “Turning north on Chestnut.”

The Honda took this turn more slowly. Sinclair stayed right on its