The Betrayal

by Terry Lynn Thomas

  Sharon preferred the old-school diner, with its Formica countertops, generous portions, and uniformed waitresses that knew Sharon’s name. There were two spots at the counter. Sharon took one, nodding at the waitress who knew her by sight.

  “Good morning, Inspector. The usual?” The waitress put down a full cup of coffee.

  “Thank you, Beatrice.” A man across the counter from Sharon had his nose buried in his newspaper. She flinched at a large picture of Olivia Sinclair on the front page, with the headline Wife of Prominent Lawyer Arrested for Murder. Sharon forced herself to stop looking at the headline. She had learned long ago that the best course of action was not only to avoid reporters – the department had a media relations person to handle those issues – but to not read the papers at all during a murder investigation. She saved a lot of grief by keeping her nose down and staying focused on gathering facts. This course of action would serve her well now, as headlines such as that one were turning Sandy Watson’s murder into a rapidly escalating PR nightmare.

  Beatrice set a large stack of blueberry pancakes with real maple syrup in front of Sharon. She poured a generous dollop of syrup on the top of the stack, and was just about to take her first bite when Captain Wasniki sat down on the empty stool next to her.

  “Good morning, Inspector.” He motioned for Beatrice, who poured him a cup of coffee.

  “Will you be having breakfast, Captain Wasniki?” Beatrice asked.

  Damn. Sharon put her fork down and said a silent prayer that her irritation didn’t show. She wasn’t ready to think about work yet.

  “No, thank you. Just a quick cup of coffee.”

  “Good morning, sir,” Sharon said.

  “I thought I might find you here. Sorry to barge in on your breakfast, Sharon, but I wanted to catch you before you went to the office.” He added cream and sugar to his coffee and took a big sip. “We’ll be reopening the Janelle Maycott case.”

  “Okay,” Sharon said, with a question in her voice. “Why does that—”

  “The girl with the rope around her neck. Your first murder. The one that Brian Vickery wouldn’t let go.”

  Sharon remembered Janelle Maycott, a young girl found in her apartment in San Francisco, strangled, with a rope around her neck, exactly like Sandy Watson. Sharon set her fork down and turned to face Captain Wasniki as the specifics of the case flooded into her memory. How could she have been so stupid? She thought of Ellie. You never forget your first murder. As it turns out, Sharon had. “They’re exactly the same. I can’t believe I didn’t remember.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it. It was a long time ago.”

  “You remembered,” Sharon said.

  “No, I didn’t. Brian Vickery came to my house last night, if you can believe that. He explained the similarities between Sandy Watson and Janelle Maycott. I agree with him, don’t get me wrong. But he was always a little crazed about Janelle Maycott’s murder. Last night he told me if I didn’t reopen the Maycott case, he was going to the press with the similarities.”

  “Oh, no,” Sharon said.

  “You haven’t spoken to Brian, have you? I thought he might reach out to you, since you were his partner.”

  “No,” Sharon said. “And if he does, I won’t say anything.”

  “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that the information between the two of you should flow one way.”

  “You don’t need to tell me, sir.”

  “No disrespect intended, Sharon. I know you and Brian were tight, but you need to tread carefully here. Stephen Vine hired Brian to work the Olivia Sinclair case.” Captain Wasniki threw a few bills on the counter. “See if you can find a connection between Janelle Maycott and Sandy Watson. And keep your nose down on this one. Once the press gets hold of the connection between the two cases – and you should assume they will – it will become sensational.”

  “Understood.”

  Captain Wasniki stood up, changed his mind and sat down again. “I had a call from Andrew Rincon last night. He wasn’t happy with your visit to his law firm. He demanded that he be notified when anyone involved in the investigation needed to speak to any of his employees.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him in no uncertain terms that my officers don’t take orders from civilians.” Captain Wasniki smiled.

  “Sir, I think it would be prudent to get a DNA test on Richard Sinclair. He may well be the father of Sandy Watson’s baby. Olivia Sinclair wouldn’t have been too happy if she’d discovered that.”

  “Agreed. Do you think he’d give a swab without a warrant?”

  “I have no idea. He certainly wanted me to think he would cooperate.”

  Wasniki stood. “Carry on.”

  “Thanks, boss,” she said.

  After he left, she sat for moment, staring at the beautiful pancakes that had now gone cold.

  An hour later, Sharon and Ellie signed for eight banker’s boxes from the evidence locker that contained evidence from the Janelle Maycott case. Ellie had arranged the evidence in organized stacks and planned on spending the rest of the day reading through the documents and familiarizing herself with the case. Once that task was complete, she and Sharon would mine what they knew and look for a common denominator in the Sandy Watson case. Maybe the connection between the two cases would lead to Olivia. Or not. Sharon wondered how receptive Jonas would be if the reopening of the Maycott murder took suspicion away from Olivia Sinclair.

  “You know having this case as a reference just made our job easier. Once we get through this lot, we’ll be able to cross-reference the two cases.” Ellie said as she dusted her hands off on the legs of her trousers.

  Sharon opened the first box, which contained Janelle’s bloody clothes and the rope that had been tied around her neck. Ellie looked up. “That looks like the same type of rope that was used on Sandy Watson,” she said.

  “Well, we don’t really know that. All we know is that it’s marine rope.”

  Ellie took the bag from Sharon and examined the rope inside it closely. “I think it’s the same. Should I take this to our rope expert?”

  “Is he open on Saturday?”

  “His lab is in his house. Won’t hurt to try and reach him.”

  Sharon nodded and looked at her watch. “Good idea. What do you think of this: I’ll review the Maycott case, and then turn it over to you for the preparation of a detailed outline and summary. I’ll prepare an outline and summary of the Sandy Watson case. From there we can look for a common denominator. Let’s be sure and note every single location and person – no matter how menial or seemingly unimportant – and then we’ll compare them. We’ll list the connections between the two cases, and make a plan from there. Sound good?”

  “Good,” Ellie said. She grabbed the evidence bag with the rope in it and tucked it into her purse. “Back soon.”

  It didn’t take Sharon long to dive into the Janelle Maycott case. She had just been promoted to inspector and been assigned to Brian Vickery, whose methods were unorthodox but successful. Brian was an old-school cop who believed in working his cases on a personal level. Although he gave Sharon some important and challenging assignments – just as she was doing with Ellie – Brian Vickery had a flair for seeing the humanity in the situation. He could have risen up the ranks. Sharon knew firsthand that he had turned down promotion after promotion because he liked being a detective and the idea of sitting behind a desk did not appeal to him. As she read through the notes she had prepared fourteen years ago, the memory of the facts and nuances of the case returned.

  She got out a notebook and wrote down the date of Janelle’s murder. As she read the police report, she made notes of the names of witnesses and of Janelle’s neighbors.

  “Inspector Bailey?” A uniform stuck his head in Sharon’s office. “There’s a guy on the phone. Won’t speak to anyone but you. Says it’s about the Watson murder, about Richard Sinclair.”

  “Put him through,” Sharon said as she
moved to her desk and picked up the phone. “Inspector Bailey.”

  “James Pritchard here. Is this the woman who is leading the Sandy Watson investigation?”

  “Correct. This is Inspector Bailey.”

  “You were given my name by Richard Sinclair. I’m out front of your building. I’d like to speak to you.”

  “Of course, Mr. Pritchard. If you’ll come to the desk—”

  “No. You’re to come down and speak to me outside.”

  Sharon didn’t like being told what to do. Her mother had always been amazed that Sharon had joined the police force, where obedience to hierarchy was everything. She didn’t appreciate James Pritchard’s imperious tone of voice, but she bit back her irritation and responded in a professional tone. “Certainly. I’ll be down in a moment.”

  He waited in front of the building, dressed like a banker in a navy blue suit, complete with a red power tie. He had a hooked nose and he looked down at her with beady eyes, bird-like. Sharon disliked him on sight.

  “Inspector Bailey? Credentials, please.” James Pritchard held out his hand while Sharon handed over her badge and waited while he studied it, eventually handing it back to her. “I’ve something to say to you, but I’ll deny saying it if you or anyone asks, and I most certainly will not – let me repeat myself – will not testify in court. Do you understand?”

  “Mr. Pritchard, say your piece. I’m in the middle of a murder investigation.”

  “Don’t get impertinent with me, young lady. I’ve got friends.”

  Sharon waited.

  “First of all, Olivia Sinclair is no killer. You’re being bamboozled. Second of all, Richard Sinclair didn’t stay at my house on Sunday night. He slipped away around 9:30 p.m. and never came back. That’s all I have to say. Good day.” James Pritchard turned to leave.

  “Wait! I need more information.”

  He faced Sharon and took a few steps toward her. “I’ve given you a tip. Do your job and investigate.” And with that, he turned and walked away.

  Chapter 15

  Saturday, October 18

  Brian drove south on 101, turned towards Golden Gate Park, headed down Lincoln towards the beach, finally weaving his way into the Sea Cliff neighborhood. Tucked deep in the exclusive enclave of opulent houses overlooking San Francisco Bay, Alana Maycott’s abode had a sweeping view of the Golden Gate. Brian hadn’t called to make an appointment, a cowardly move designed to give himself an out should he change his mind about once again making a promise to Alana Maycott that he couldn’t keep.

  Although Sea Cliff was a gorgeous neighborhood, it was regularly cloaked in the pea-soup fog that was San Francisco’s trademark. Today was no exception. Damp tendrils clung to Brian’s hair and jacket as he walked up to the front door, trying to rehearse some eloquent speech but failing miserably. The front door opened before he could knock, and a very tall man with dreadlocks and a giant ring through his nose looked at Brian with the disdain of a British butler.

  “Can I help you?” The man’s voice was a deep baritone, his articulation spoke of breeding and education.

  “Brian Vickery to see Alana Maycott.”

  “One moment.”

  The man closed the door. Brian waited for about sixty seconds before the man opened the door once again. This time, he smiled and spoke in a friendly voice. “She’s had a long morning and she tires easily. Follow me.”

  Brian stepped into the foyer of Alana’s house, taking in the natural light and warm honey-colored wood, as he followed the man into a big living room. Under normal circumstances the furnishings would have been arranged facing the window, with its view of the Pacific Ocean and the Golden Gate Bridge. But the couches had been pushed aside to make way for the hospital bed, which had been set up near the window. All the pictures had been taken from the walls, leaving white squares where they once had hung. Now they were bunched together next to stacks on the floor.

  Alana Maycott sat in a chaise longue near the bed. She wore a bright red wig, a mink coat, and a pair of bug-shaped sunglasses. Her left wrist was connected to an IV drip, which rested near her chair. She clutched a martini glass in her bony right hand. “Brian Vickery,” Alana said. She set her martini on the table next to her. “I’m too weak to stand on my own, so come to me. Alphonse, get Mr. Vickery a chair.”

  The poor thing looked wretched, but Brian had to admire the same indomitable spirit that he remembered when Alana Maycott had suffered every parent’s worst nightmare, the death of a child.

  Alphonse carried over a leather club chair and set it near Alana, carrying its weight as if it were nothing.

  “Thank you,” Brian said. He sat down, feeling Alana’s impenetrable gaze behind her glasses. “Are you moving?”

  She tried to laugh but the sound that came out resembled a squawk. “You could say that. I’m dying. Cancer. Nothing to be done. Have you heard of Swedish death cleaning? It’s about getting rid of everything you don’t use. I’ve undertaken that, with Alphonse’s help. I admit to enjoying giving my things away.” She looked around the empty room and sipped her martini. “Somehow I like this room in its emptiness. I’m living the life I have left to the fullest, thus the martini. Although Alphonse is stingy with his pour, says he’s worried about mixing it with my medication.” A pause. “I heard your wife died, Brian. I was sorry to hear that. I know you two loved each other.”

  “Thank you,” Brian said.

  She stared, not bothering to hide her scrutiny. “You’ve aged well, but I can see your sorrow. Tell me, why have you come? I am delighted to see you, but I’m sure your visit has a purpose.”

  Brian leaned close to Alana and spoke in a low voice. “There’s been another murder. Just like Janelle, with the rope. I just want you to know that I haven’t given up.”

  “Oh, you dear man. I never thought you’d given up. There was no denying your dogged diligence as you tried to find Janelle’s killer. I’ll be forever grateful to you for that, Brian. I felt very alone at that time, but I recognized a fellow fighter. I never lost faith in you. You’ll get justice for my Janelle.” Her eyes drooped. “It’s the medicine and the martinis. I think I need to get back in bed.”

  Brian stood. “I wanted you to hear it from me personally, Alana. I’m still working on Janelle’s case. The police are reopening the official investigation.”

  “I’ve come across boxes and boxes of Janelle’s things. There’s diaries and letters and probably thousands of photographs. My daughter was a pack rat. Shall I send them? You might find something useful. Alphonse can see to that.”

  Brian handed Stephen Vine’s business card to Alphonse. “Can you please mail them care of this office in San Rafael? That would be helpful.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do that tomorrow.” He cast a concerned glance at Alana, whose head had lolled forward.

  “Do you need help moving her?”

  “No, we’ll be fine. The medication makes her sleepy. And just in case you think I’m being remiss, the martini is mostly club soda. Her medication takes away her sense of taste.”

  “I heard that, Alphonse.”

  “I’ll bet you did, ma’am.”

  “I’ll see myself out,” Brian said, stepping out of the way as Alphonse swept Alana Maycott into his arms and set her gently into the hospital bed.

  Chapter 16

  Monday, October 20

  Brian slept a deep, dreamless sleep and for once he didn’t need pills to do it. When the smell of coffee woke him, he lay in bed for a moment disoriented. As he came fully awake, his disorientation slipped away. He had simply set the timer on the coffeemaker, something he hadn’t bothered to do since Maureen died. As he showered and made his breakfast, he realized his grief was still there, but rather than lying on his back like a bag of stones, it now sat on his shoulder, lightweight and easier to manage.

  He sat in his kitchen, just as he and Maureen had done for decades, embracing the expected wave of longing that washed over him. The ache was physical and alive,
but at least it came in waves now, with the time between the spasms of pain growing longer.

  Just as he was walking out the door, a FedEx truck pulled to a stop in front of his house. Brian met the driver at the door and signed for an envelope from Alana Maycott, thick and jammed full of photos of Janelle. A note said, “Thought you might want these. I found them after I sent the boxes to Mr. Vine.” The note was signed, Alphonse. Tucking it under his arm, Brian decided he would drop it off at Olivia’s house later on in the evening.

  He headed south on 101 into San Francisco, weaving towards the Waldo Tunnel and taking in the magnificent view of the bay and Angel Island on his left. Rush hour was long over, but the going was still slow. The lobby at 44 Montgomery was all but deserted, save the two uniformed security officers. Brian wrote his name in the sign-in book, along with time of his arrival, and the company he was visiting.

  “Rincon Sinclair’s on the twenty-second floor, sir,” the security guard said.

  As Brian rode the elevator, he planned his strategy depending on who would speak to him. He stepped into the corridor, heading towards the heavy wooden door with the words Rincon Sinclair in brass letters. There was a receptionist’s desk at the front, but it was empty, so Brian stepped around it into the main office area.

  The office plan was open and spacious. Along one wall were three offices with glass walls separating the offices from the central area, which housed two secretarial stations. All the offices had sweeping views of the city and held desks and credenzas piled with files. Banker’s boxes were stacked along the walls in the conference room. Brian noticed that Richard Sinclair’s clutter was organized, whereas Andrew Rincon’s office seemed a bit chaotic.

  The third office was occupied by a middle-aged woman in a suit, and was fastidiously organized. A neat stack of banker’s boxes were tucked away in the corner, but other than that, the office was spotless. The woman worked on the computer, cast her glance between two monitors, oblivious to Brian’s presence. Good. There were two secretary desks, one of them inhabited by a young woman with a blue streak in her hair and a diamond pierced into her nose. A pair of Bose headphones rested on her head. She listened to something and typed furiously on her keyboard. Brian spoke to her.