Thrill Kill (Matt Sinclair #2) - Brian Thiem Page 0,39
back bare. She turned to face him, and Sinclair couldn’t keep his eyes from following the plunging neckline.
She smiled, knowing few men would be able to maintain eye contact with her in that dress. “Do you always wear your suit jacket in your hotel room?”
“I just put it on to answer the door.” He laughed. “Now it seems a bit silly.”
She giggled and stepped behind him. Fingertips with long red nails grasped his lapels and slid his suitcoat off his shoulders. “Just relax. We’re here to have fun.”
Sinclair flashed back to Dawn’s autopsy. Her short nails and clear polish were a further indication she was no longer in the same line of work as Danielle. He turned to face Danielle and saw her eying the jacket’s lining.
“Beautiful material,” she said. “No label?”
“My tailor in Beverly Hills thinks it’s tacky to put his name in another man’s clothes.”
She hung it in the closet and walked through the bedroom, looking over her shoulder to ensure he was following. “When I was given your name I was expecting someone different.”
“Someone more Mexican?”
She chuckled. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“My grandfather was born in Mexico, but that’s the extent of my Hispanic blood.” Although Sinclair was, in fact, a quarter Mexican, it was his maternal grandmother who had been born in Mexico. As a teenager, she crossed the border with her migrant farm-worker parents for seasonal work in California’s Central Valley.
Danielle continued into the living room and looked out the window. “Nice room. Are you in town for business?”
“I have a few meetings tomorrow. Then I’m off to Seattle for another meeting the day after that.”
“That’s a busy schedule. What kind of work do you do?”
“I work for an employee benefits firm. We provide—”
“I think you’re more than just a worker,” she said, looking at the table containing the computer, assorted papers, and half-eaten pizza.
“I’m a VP for the company.”
“That must be very stressful. How can I help you relax?” She took his hand and led him back into the bedroom. “Don’t be shy. Tell me what you have in mind.”
“Just regular sex,” he said. “Maybe you on top.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
A successful case required her accepting money and agreeing to an act of sex. That was now covered. But to avoid a defense of entrapment, an overt act, such as her undressing or asking him to, was an added bonus.
She untied the halter around her neck and let her dress drop to the floor. Then she stepped out of her pumps, wearing nothing but lace panties. “Your turn,” she said.
The door flew open and Cummings and Roberts burst into the room, followed by Braddock two steps behind.
Danielle screamed and grabbed her dress in an attempt to cover herself.
Roberts held his badge in his hand and said, “Police. Just relax.” He took her dress, searched it quickly, and handed it back. “Get dressed.”
“You,” Cummings said to Sinclair, “come with me.” Cummings grabbed Sinclair’s arm with one hand, scooped up Danielle’s purse with the other, and escorted him out of the room.
Chapter 15
The show for Danielle was over once they were in the hallway. Cummings released his grip on Sinclair’s arm and opened the door to a room across the hall. The makeshift command post was smaller than the suite across the hall. Seated at a desk in front of two laptop computers, each with split screens showing different camera views of Sinclair’s room, was Linda Archard, an FBI agent in her midforties with severely short brown hair and wearing a plain black suit and sensible shoes.
“Forty-six minutes,” she said.
She toggled one computer to full screen, showing Danielle sitting at the table in the living room of the hotel suite with tears running down her face. Archard turned up the volume. Sinclair heard Braddock’s and Roberts’s voices. Although they weren’t visible on the screen, he knew they were sitting at the table across from Danielle.
Sinclair followed the interview by Roberts and Braddock on the computer. They told Danielle they were with OPD and that she was under arrest for prostitution. Their questions collected her personal information: Danielle Rhodes, twenty-four years old, lived in San Francisco in a two-bedroom flat with a girlfriend, worked as an interior designer with an established firm in the city.
Meanwhile, back in the command post, Cummings found Danielle’s ID in her purse, brought up a federal website on the other computer, and entered her personal information.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” asked Sinclair, watching over their shoulders.