The Betrayal

by Terry Lynn Thomas

  Sharon took a taxi from Celeste Watson’s house in the Marina District to the Financial District, getting out of the cab at Montgomery and California. Ellie had gone back to 850 Bryant to secure the search warrant and take a team to Sandy Watson’s apartment. Celeste Watson had been devastated at the news of her daughter’s murder. Although Sharon knew how important it was to speak to the family members immediately after notification of a violent crime, Celeste Watson had been so shaken that Sharon had treated her gently.

  Sandy’s mom had little information to provide about her daughter. She worked at Rincon Sinclair and was planning on going to law school. As far as Mrs. Watson could tell, Sandy seemed happy and had no enemies. Another visit would be in order, and Sharon was glad to leave Sandy’s mother to her grieving.

  Stepping into the busy lobby at 44 Montgomery Street, Sharon showed her badge to the security men at the desk in the lobby before she took the elevator up to the nineteenth floor. When she stepped into the office of Rincon Sinclair, she was met by a woman in her early forties, dressed in what looked like an Armani suit, with intelligent eyes and a no-nonsense way about her.

  “I’m Wendy Betters. How can I help you?”

  “Is there some place we can talk privately?” She eyed a young woman who was busy typing on a computer.

  “Do you mind if I see your identification? I don’t mean to be so particular, but we are involved in some rather tricky litigation at the moment.”

  “Of course.” Sharon handed the woman her identification and waited patiently while the woman studied it closely. Sharon knew how important it was for a policeman to be hyper-vigilant and aware of his or her reactions to a situation, and something about Wendy Betters rankled Sharon. She couldn’t put her finger on what irked her, but she made a mental note of it.

  Once assured that Sharon was who she said she was, Wendy led Sharon through the spacious common area with two secretarial stations situated in front of a row of offices. One of the desks was empty. Sandy Watson’s, Sharon guessed. A young woman with blue streaks in her hair beavered away at the other desk, a pair of headphones in her ears. All of the walls separating the offices from the main area were glass, which provided a sweeping view of the San Francisco Bay. They passed Richard Sinclair’s office, marked by brass lettering on a heavy-looking wooden door. The office beyond was spacious and bright, with a thick rug and an antique desk the size of a cruise ship.

  They wound up in Wendy’s office, which was smaller than the other two, but still had a breathtaking view. Sharon wondered for a moment if she could get any work done with a view like that.

  “Is this about Sandy Watson?” Wendy asked.

  “Why would you ask me that?” Sharon said.

  “She hasn’t been to work all week. I tried to call her mother – that’s her emergency contact person – and left a message. We’ve been worried.”

  “Sandy Watson is dead. Her body was discovered yesterday at a vacation rental in the Avenues.”

  Wendy Betters’s face paled. “Oh, my God. I knew something was wrong. Can you tell me what happened? How did she die?”

  Sharon shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t discuss that with you.”

  “Was she murdered?” Wendy asked, her voice incredulous and unbelieving. When she started to cry in earnest, her mascara ran, leaving dark rivers down her cheeks. She grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk and dabbed at her eyes, but her efforts only made things worse.

  Sharon gave Wendy a minute to compose herself before she continued with her questions. “What can you tell me about Sandy?”

  Wendy hesitated, as if calculating just how candid she should be.

  “It’s best if you’re honest with me.”

  “I know,” Wendy said. “You’re going to find this out anyway, so you may as well hear it from me. Sandy was having an affair with Richard Sinclair. It wasn’t serious. She wasn’t Richard’s first affair, and she won’t be his last. Richard Sinclair is a serial philanderer.”

  “Did Sandy have other boyfriends? Someone from her past who might be jealous of her relationship with Richard Sinclair?”

  Wendy shook her head. “I don’t think so. She was pretty involved with Richard, but she didn’t flaunt it. She was a hard worker, an ambitious young woman. She was frugal, brought her own lunch every day, didn’t buy expensive clothes, if you get my meaning.”

  “Where is Mr. Sinclair? I need to speak to him.”

  “Client meeting. I doubt he’ll be back in the office today. I’ll tell him to call you as soon as he is able.”

  She decided to go for the shock factor. “Could Mr. Sinclair have killed Sandy Watson?”

  Wendy Betters’s cheeks flushed red with indignation. “Of course not. Inspector Bailey, Mr. Sinclair is a well-respected attorney. He plays golf with the mayor. He is friends with the governor.”

  “Sorry, but I have to ask.” The last thing Sharon wanted to do was alienate Wendy Betters. An investigating officer never knew when they might need a favor. Since it was early days yet, Sharon reckoned it would be best to keep the players in this drama happy. For now.

  She stood. “Thank you, Mrs. Betters. I may need to speak to you again.”

  “Any time. It’s Ms., actually.” Wendy held up her left hand. “No husband for me, I’m afraid. Married to the job.”

  Sharon stood and handed Wendy her card. “I understand. Thanks for talking to me. If you think of anything, let me know?”

  “Of course,” Wendy said.

  “I can see myself out,” Sharon said.

  Once in the lobby, Sharon approached the security desk. It was after five, and the guard on duty was in the process of pouring coffee from a Thermos. “Excuse me,” Sharon said, once again showing her badge. “Could I bother you to tell me what kind of car Richard Sinclair drives? Does he have a specific parking space? It pertains to an investigation, so discretion is in order.”

  “Sure. He drives a brand-new Mercedes. Slate gray, convertible.” The guard entered something into his computer. “Slot 147. Elevator’s that way.” He pointed.

  “Thank you.”

  Sharon took the elevator down to the parking garage and wove through the parked vehicles until she found slot 147, where a gray Mercedes was parked. Sharon felt the hood. It was cold to the touch.

  Chapter 9

  Wednesday, October 15

  Olivia had been struggling with the day-to-day functions of life since she had seen the horrid video. Her bones felt as though they were filled with cement. It took everything she had to get out of bed in the morning. The idea of facing her clients and their marital issues left her with a stomach ache and a relentless desire to run for the hills.

  Mary had been sympathetic and had assured Olivia she would see to things. Try as she might, Olivia couldn’t shake the image of Richard and that young woman writhing naked on the video. The desire to throttle Richard, make him suffer, use their divorce to ruin his reputation, simply wasn’t there. Instead Olivia was ashamed. Ashamed for Richard, the poor young woman, and for herself. She wondered if anyone else had seen it. God help them if that video was leaked to the media. And then there was Denny … It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Her bedroom faced east by design. The sunbeams warmed her face, leaving her no choice but to get up and face reality. When she sat up, stars of headache pain exploded in front of her eyes. A migraine. Groaning, she reached for the water on her bedside table. This was all Richard’s fault. After taking two more ibuprofen, she stood under the hot jets of her shower, washing her hair with the organic lavender shampoo that was supposed to soothe the soul as it cleansed the hair and scalp. It didn’t.

  Half an hour later, showered and dressed, she still felt like death. A quick call to Mary to ensure things were going smoothly at the office, and Olivia would crawl back into bed.

  She was on the phone to Mary, who was busily assuring her she had the office under control, when two San Francisco PD cars pulled up in front of her house. Two unmarked
cars followed. The officers got out of their cars and Olivia watched as a cadre of police officers headed to her front door, led by a tall, middle-aged woman, dressed in a no-nonsense navy blue suit with sensible flat shoes. Dishwater blond hair framed her strong-boned face. She had the determined look of a woman on a mission.

  “Something’s not right,” Olivia muttered into the phone.

  “What’s going on?” Mary asked, concern in her voice.

  “There’s a swarm of police converging on my house. I’m going to put you on speaker phone, okay?” Olivia put the phone on speaker and hurried to the front door, where the knocking was growing more and more insistent.

  When she opened it, the blond woman said, “Olivia Sinclair?”

  “Yes,” Olivia said.

  The woman handed Olivia the piece of paper. “I’m Inspector Bailey with the San Francisco Police Department. This is a warrant to search your premises. I’ll be taking you in for questioning with regard to a homicide.”

  “A homicide? Who’s dead? Is it Richard?” Did these people think she killed him?

  Four uniformed officers and two detectives pushed Olivia aside and filed past her, invading her house. Inspector Bailey stepped into the hallway, blocking the front door as if she expected Olivia to make a run for it. “Get your shoes. I’ll drive you.”

  “Drive me where?” Olivia asked, speaking loud enough for Mary to hear her.

  “As I mentioned, we’re taking you to 850 Bryant Street for questioning with regard to a homicide. We just want to talk to you.”

  Olivia watched one of the plain-clothed detectives go through the books in her living room bookcase. He pulled them out one by one, rifled through them, and tossed them on the floor. Unsure what was happening, unsure what to do, Olivia put her cell phone to her ear. “Mary?”

  “I heard everything. I’m calling Stephen Vine. I’ll tell him where they’re taking you.”

  Inspector Bailey pulled a plastic evidence bag out of her jacket pocket and held out a latex-gloved hand. “I’ll take your phone, ma’am. It’s listed in the warrant.”

  Although she was full of questions, Olivia didn’t say anything on the ride to 850 Bryant Street. By the time she and Inspector Bailey stepped off the elevator, Olivia’s stomach was in knots. Her head pounded, and it was all she could do not to cry. What was happening? Why had they brought her here? She was so muddled, she didn’t notice Richard, flanked by two burly police officers, his face flushed with anger.

  “Olivia?” Richard called out. He started to move to her, but the uniformed officer who was with him grabbed his arm.

  “Richard, what are you doing here? What’s going on? The police are searching the house.”

  Richard gave Olivia a look of disgust. “What have you done?”

  She wanted to scream that she had done nothing, that she didn’t know why she was here. But someone had died. Who? And why would they think she was involved? But she couldn’t find the words to speak. It was as if her mind was unable to process what was happening. Inspector Bailey led her into a windowless room, which held a table, three chairs, and a camera in the corner.

  Sharon turned the camera on and gave Olivia the standard Miranda warning. “Do you understand these rights?”

  “Yes, but I don’t understand what’s happening or why I’m here.”

  Inspector Bailey ignored her. “Do you know a woman named Sandy Watson?”

  “No. Never heard of her. Should I know her?”

  Olivia felt confidence return as Inspector Bailey scrutinized her.

  Every lawyer who had ever set foot in a courtroom knew police officers lied to people they were questioning. It was perfectly legal to do so, and it happened all the time. Inspector Bailey was fishing. Under the glaring fluorescent lights Olivia noticed the dark circles under the woman’s eyes and the pinched tension of her lips. She’s had a tough night. The two women locked eyes, neither looking away.

  “You insinuated that I am here in connection with a homicide. I didn’t kill anyone. So unless you are prepared to charge me, I’m leaving.” Olivia stood.

  Inspector Bailey opened the file, took out an eight-by-ten photograph, along with another piece of paper and placed them upside down on top of the table between the two women. “Are you sure you don’t know a Sandy Watson, Mrs. Sinclair? Think about your answer.”

  “Of course, I’m sure—”

  “Your husband is the Sinclair part of Rincon Sinclair, correct?”

  “Yes,” Olivia said.

  “Do you spend much time at your husband’s office?”

  “No,” Olivia said.

  “Do you fraternize with his employees on a social level?”

  “I’m good friends with Wendy Betters, but other than that, no. I used to go to the office Christmas parties, but they started having them at lunchtime, so I couldn’t get away. I haven’t set foot in Rincon Sinclair in over a year.” The realization surprised Olivia, as if her words were a declaration of the sorry state of her marriage. Now that she knew of Richard’s betrayal, the clues were everywhere.

  “When was the last time you saw your husband?”

  “Friday night,” Olivia said. “My husband threw me a surprise party. Afterwards we got in a huge fight. I told him I wanted a divorce and asked him to leave.”

  “What did you fight about?” Sharon asked.

  “You have my cell phone. If you look, you’ll find a video saved to my photos, which I received in an email from an anonymous sender. It depicts my husband having sex with a younger woman.”

  “Had you ever seen that woman before?”

  “No. I had no idea who she was until last night. After I showed the video to my husband, he confessed that the young lady is his secretary.”

  Inspector Bailey turned the photograph face up and pushed it towards Olivia. “Have you ever seen this woman?”

  In the video, this woman had been young, beautiful, and full of life. Now she stared at Olivia with lifeless eyes, opaque with death, her tongue swollen and protruding from the lips that had kissed Richard. A rope had been tied around her neck, but even on first glance it seemed like a prop, a macabre piece of scenery.

  “Oh, my God,” Olivia whispered. She turned the picture over and tried to bite back the nausea. No luck. Pushing away from the table, she knocked her chair over as she ran to the garbage can in the corner of the room and vomited. Had Richard killed this girl? The heaving continued after her stomach emptied. When they finally subsided, Olivia felt as though she had been punched in the stomach. Hot tears ran down her face.

  Inspector Bailey handed her a tissue. Olivia took it and wiped her mouth. All the while, the inspector sat across from her, still as a statue, watching and – Olivia felt quite certain – missing nothing.

  “Is there something you need to tell me, ma’am?”

  “Prior to that I had never seen her.”

  “How did your husband react when you confronted him about the video?”

  “He didn’t bother to deny it. Said that men have needs.” Olivia shivered. How could she have been so blind?

  Inspector Bailey pulled out a packet of papers and pushed them over to Olivia. “Is that your email address?”

  The stack of papers were a printout of emails, apparently sent from olivia.lawyer@zeus.com. The addressee was Sandy.Watson@rinconsinclair.com.

  “No. That’s not my email. I don’t use Zeus. My email comes through my office. My address is olivia@oliviasinclair.com.” Olivia fished in her purse and handed Sharon her business card. “Email’s on the bottom.”

  “Go ahead and read through those. I’d like to know if you remember sending them.”

  “I don’t need to review them. I didn’t send them. This isn’t my email address.”

  “Ma’am, someone sent threatening emails in your name to Sandy Watson. Now Sandy Watson is dead. I advise you to read through them.”

  Olivia thumbed through the stack of emails, surprised at the death threats and the crude language. Sur
ely no one would believe Olivia capable of sending such nonsense.

  “Whoever sent these emails is angry, nursing a grudge against this poor girl. I didn’t send these.”

  “But that is your email address?”

  “As I said, it is not my email address. But anyone can open an email in my name. They don’t check your identification, do they?”

  Again Inspector Bailey didn’t answer Olivia. Instead she plowed on, as if Olivia hadn’t spoken. “Have you ever rented or are you familiar with a vacation rental on 48th Avenue?”

  “Vacation rental? No,” Olivia said.

  “Come on, Mrs. Sinclair. You’re a lawyer. Surely you don’t think you can rent a place at the beach with a credit card without leaving a record.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t rented a beach house, or gone on vacation for that matter, in a while.”

  “So just to be clear, you didn’t use an American Express card on or about September 25, 2014 and rent a beach house? And I advise you not to lie to me, Mrs. Sinclair.”

  Fear washed over Olivia all of a sudden. Inspector Bailey seemed confident, like a hunter ready to spring a trap. “Why am I here?”

  Sharon Bailey pushed a photocopy of an American Express receipt across the table. “Is that your American Express number?”

  Olivia didn’t even look at the paper. “I don’t have an American Express card. I have a business VISA and a personal Mastercard. I didn’t send the emails. I didn’t kill that poor girl. I’ve never even met her in person. The only time I’ve ever seen her is in a video on my phone and in this picture. Other than that, I wouldn’t recognize her. Someone’s setting me up. I didn’t write those emails. And again, in case I didn’t make it clear the first time, I don’t have an American Express card.”

  “Your husband didn’t deny his affair with Sandy?”

  “No,” Olivia said. “I told him I wanted a divorce. He left the house.”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t know,” Olivia snapped. “You’re accusing me of something I didn’t do. Do you have any evidence? If not, I’m leaving.”