Thrill Kill (Matt Sinclair #2) - Brian Thiem Page 0,32

meeting and became his sponsor. When Fred’s wife and daughter died in a drunk-driving accident a year later, he asked Walt to move into his house to manage the estate and his personal affairs. Walt and Sinclair’s friendship had started in a similar way—at Sinclair’s first AA meeting.

Sinclair hadn’t been too happy about having to attend AA meetings when he got out of rehab nearly two years ago, and seeing people such as Walt, who talked at every meeting about serenity and gratitude, drove him crazy. But when he almost picked up a drink while investigating the Bus Bench murders, Walt was there with support and needed words of wisdom. Fred and Walt invited Sinclair to stay in their guesthouse after his apartment was firebombed, and what was intended to be a month or so stay turned into more than a yearlong residency. Whenever he looked at the cost of rent for a decent apartment in a halfway decent area, he realized how good he had it here. Still, he dreamed of buying a house again someday, and hoped the escalating home prices in the East Bay didn’t outpace what he was able to save while living rent-free.

Sinclair walked through the commercial-grade kitchen and breakfast room onto a rear stone patio. The rain had stopped, but heavy clouds shadowed the light from the full moon above. He made his way down a flagstone path through the lush yard, around the pool, and into the guesthouse through the French doors. Originally a pool house with changing rooms and a large open space filled with pool tables and ping-pong tables, Fred had it converted to a one-bedroom apartment for his daughter when she turned twenty. By default, it became a guesthouse after she died.

Sinclair took a cigar from a drawer in the rolltop desk that sat in one corner of his living room. He grabbed a towel from the linen closet and a down jacket from the closet and returned to the pool area. After wiping down a chair, he sparked his lighter and puffed on the A. Flores Habano until it was evenly lit.

When he’d first recognized Dawn in the park yesterday morning, the first thought that jumped into his mind was that he had failed her—that if he had somehow said the right thing to her when she came to him several years earlier, she would have walked away from her life of prostitution. Maybe if he hadn’t been so focused on his own needs and problems. Although he hadn’t mentioned it to Dr. Elliott that morning, Dawn’s face was one of those that flashed through his mind as he was reliving the shooting on Telegraph Avenue. Dawn was one of those he couldn’t save.

As he savored the hint of vanilla and cocoa in the Dominican cigar, he knew the thought that he was somehow responsible for saving everyone was irrational. Nevertheless, it remained. He heard a door slam in the main house and turned to see a man walking toward him.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” Sinclair said.

Walt Cooper set two mugs on the patio table and wiped the rain from a chair with Sinclair’s towel. He was in his midsixties, short and wiry, with snow-white hair. “I was upstairs reading and heard your car come in. When I looked out and saw you here, I thought you might like some company.”

Sinclair picked up one of the cups. “Decaf?”

“Of course.”

Sinclair brought the cup to his lips, watching the steam rise into the cold evening air. He puffed on his cigar as they both sat there silently for a few minutes.

Finally, Walt said, “I saw today’s paper. The murder of that girl in the park is yours?”

“Yeah.” Sinclair didn’t want to talk about the murder, and Walt knew enough not to pry. Walt would continue to toss out other topics like a man blindly throwing darts at a board until one stuck.

“How’s it going with your therapy?” Walt asked.

Walt had been one of the top psychologists in the Bay Area until his drinking and prescription-drug abuse decimated his life when he was in his forties. He had lost everything and served time in prison for insurance fraud. Now sober for more than twenty years, he could never be licensed to practice again, but he remained well-versed in the field.

“Slower than I hoped,” Sinclair said. “This morning, we were into the shooting that got me started with the shrink and I flashed on other incidents.”

“That’s how EMDR works. Those are repressed memories,