Thrill Kill (Matt Sinclair #2) - Brian Thiem Page 0,44
agency. Within a few minutes, Danielle received a text from Helena’s phone, asking her to meet at Perry’s with the cash.
Sinclair and Braddock walked to a nondescript white van parked on Rhode Island Street at the rear entrance of the three-building complex that housed more than a hundred showrooms. They slid open the door and climbed into the tight quarters. Cummings, Roberts, and a plainclothes SFPD officer were sitting in front of a narrow built-in table that ran the length of the van’s cargo compartment. Two police radios squawked simultaneously. One was the SFPD channel for the geographical district they were in, and the other sounded like an FBI surveillance net.
Roberts introduced Sinclair and Braddock to the SFPD officer and said to Cummings, “It’s twenty-five after, should we send Danielle in?”
Cummings keyed the radio mic. “Let’s send the CI in,” he said, using the slang for confidential informant, even though it didn’t exactly fit Danielle’s status.
A voice that Sinclair recognized as Archard’s acknowledged over the radio.
Two minutes later, an agent with the FBI surveillance team that was set up inside the building’s atrium whispered over the radio, “CI is at the breakfast bar, getting coffee. Subject still not in sight.”
Cummings turned on another radio. Rustling sounds and distant voices, normal for concealed body microphones, came over the speaker.
The surveillance channel crackled. “Woman about sixty with platinum hair entering via front entrance. Appears to be our subject. Carrying an umbrella and a Starbuck’s cup. Approaching the CI.”
Sinclair heard Danielle’s voice over the body wire. “Hi, Helena.”
“Danielle, sweetheart, you look lovely,” the other voice, which had to be Helena, said. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
Danielle laughed. “Not much.”
“Let’s get the business out of the way,” Helena said.
“This is all of it,” Danielle said. “The money for last night and the advance for the weekend.”
“The CI handed the subject an envelope,” a voice said over the surveillance channel. “Subject placing it into a handbag on her lap. Looking down, probably counting it. Handing an envelope back to the CI.”
“Twenty-four hundred,” said Helena. “Did you ever dream you’d make this much for doing what most women do for free?”
“Last night was easy money,” Danielle said. “But he wanted a morning fuck and it took him forever to come.”
Sinclair gave a thumbs-up to Braddock. Danielle was a natural at this. Her mentioning that she had sex with the client, as long as it wasn’t followed by an admonishment by Helena, would play well with a jury.
Danielle continued, “I’m a bit nervous about the weekend.”
“Nothing to be nervous about, honey,” Helena said. “Did you ever go away with a boyfriend?”
“Sure,” Danielle said. “A weekend in Napa and Carmel. Once I went to Cabo for a week with an old boyfriend.”
“It’s the same thing, except Mr. Gutierrez is paying you for your time.”
“But when a man’s paying me, I feel like I’m required to do . . . well, you know.”
“When that boyfriend took you to Napa, did he pay for the weekend?” Helena asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you feel obligated to make him happy?”
“I guess.”
“Spending a weekend with a client is like that,” Helena said. “A normal call is about the sex. An overnight is about the sex as well as companionship. A weekend will be primarily about companionship.”
“You think?”
Helena chuckled. “Oh, honey, there’s going to be some physical requirements, but no man can fuck continuously for three days. Think of him as a very generous boyfriend whose generosity you want to reward.”
“So I should do whatever he wants.”
“Sweetheart, you never have to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with. I’m sure you’ll be going out to dinner and probably lounging around the pool drinking cocktails. He might be a golfer and send you off to the spa. Suck his dick or fuck him once or twice a day. That’s all it takes to keep a man happy. The rest of the time, just enjoy yourself.”
“We’ve got enough.” Cummings slammed open the van door and jumped out.
Sinclair followed Cummings as he jogged into the building. Roberts and Braddock brought up the rear. They entered an atrium filled with dozens of tables covered with blue-and-white checkered tablecloths. Archard was converging on Danielle and Helena from their right.
Cummings changed his gait to a brisk walk and flashed his badge when he was ten feet from the table. “Federal agent. Ladies, put your hands on the table where I can see them.”
Helena reached into her purse. Sinclair grabbed her wrist and slowly pulled her hand out. She was holding a