Dawn’s death was connected to her escort work.”
Sinclair heard Braddock’s subtle I told you so in her comment. “I can’t see Dawn having anything to do with this stuff. Tomorrow, we’ll dig more into Garvin and Pratt and see what else they were involved in when they weren’t gaming or protesting.”
*
The digital clock on Sinclair’s bed table flipped to 5:30. He’d been watching it jump minute by minute for the last hour. It had taken him an hour to fall asleep after he went to bed around midnight, his mind churning through the latest murder and trying to fit it into the one involving Dawn. Too many pieces didn’t fit. When he finally drifted off, it was a fitful sleep, punctuated by a dream of him standing in the Mills Café and watching bullets exit Sean Garvin’s gun and punch through him. He woke drenched in sweat. He changed into a dry T-shirt and boxers and crawled back into bed. But sleep never came.
He finally showered, dressed, and padded to the kitchen. He was about to hit the button to the coffee grinder when he saw the kitchen lights in the main house come on. The decorative lights guided him around the pool and down the path to the mansion. He opened the back door without knocking.
“Good morning, Matthew,” Walt said. “Coffee’ll be ready in a minute. You got in late last night.”
“Yeah, we had another murder.” Sinclair gave him the basics.
Walt poured two mugs of coffee and handed one to Sinclair. “Peet’s Sumatra.”
Sinclair took a sip of the gutsy, dark roast blend. Walt took a seat at the kitchen table, and Sinclair pulled out a chair and sat across from him.
“Didn’t sleep well, huh?” Walt said, undoubtedly seeing the fatigue written on his face.
“Trying to figure out the murders.”
“Is there something more personal you’re also trying to figure out?”
Sinclair set his cup on the table. “You cut right through my shit, don’t you?”
Walt smiled. “Sometimes we need to tell our friends what they need to hear and not just what they want to hear.”
“You remember when I started therapy with Dr. Elliott and you mentioned that until I can risk a chink in my armor, I’ll never be able to have a deep and meaningful relationship with anyone?”
“Yes, although the metaphor may not be perfect. What I meant is that like most people, you likely developed defense mechanisms over the years; however, yours were reinforced by traumatic incidents in your life. These defenses allowed you to protect yourself from getting hurt. Avoiding pain is good, but when the fear of getting hurt emotionally becomes your driving force, it prevents you from getting close to people. By opening up a little bit and risking emotional pain, you also make yourself available to all the pleasures of close human contact.”
“Dr. Elliott mentioned this stuff again the other day. When I started therapy, I told her one of my concerns was that if I started to feel too much, I’d lose my edge at work. I’d start feeling at the wrong time, and in the worst case scenario, it could get me killed.”
“Feeling is not weakness, Matthew, it’s the opposite. Only the strong are capable of the full range of emotions.”
“Yeah, well this therapy that’s putting chinks in my armor or allowing me to drop my shield, or whatever the fuck analogy you want to use, almost got me killed yesterday.”
Walt raised his eyebrows and was ready to say something when Betty, Walt’s wife, came down the back stairway into the kitchen.
“Matthew,” she said, opening her arms.
Sinclair got up and received her hug. She was a year or two younger than Walt, heavyset, and with the kind of rosy, wrinkle-free face that women in their forties wished for.
“How about some breakfast?” she said.
“I’ve really got to—”
“Matthew, you look gaunt,” she said. “When did you last eat?”
Sinclair thought about it. It had been a sandwich at lunchtime yesterday. “I’d love some breakfast.”
“I’m sorry I disturbed you boys. You go back to your discussion, and I’ll stay out of your hair.” Betty went to the other side of the kitchen, put two large pans on the commercial-grade gas stove, and began unloading the refrigerator onto the counter.
“Would you like to tell me what happened?” Walt said once Betty focused her full attention to cooking.
Sinclair told him about the incident with Garvin at the Mills Café.
When he finished, Walt asked, “Why didn’t you shoot?”
“Maybe I froze. I should’ve shot. He had a gun. He could’ve