Free Red Line by Brian Thiem Page B

the fan by morning and people will want answers.”
    “I understand, sir.”
    Brown stepped toward Sinclair. Sinclair’s eyes were level with Brown’s chin, and he looked up to meet the chief’s glare.
    “If you can’t put a red line through these cases quickly, I’ll have them reassigned to someone who can.”
    Brown craned his neck and took several whiffs.
    Sinclair felt his anger rising. Every captain and lieutenant cowered before this man. Sergeants and officers kept out of his way even though they were usually too insignificant for the chief to bother. But this was personal. First the urinalysis, now this.
    “You want me to walk a straight line, Chief? Or maybe stand on one foot and recite the alphabet?”
    “Don’t forget who you’re talking to, Sergeant.”
    Their eyes locked. Sinclair despised him. He hated the power he had over him. He hated how he made him feel. But he knew he couldn’t win this showdown.
    “I just want to do my job. I haven’t had a drink in six months and have no desire to.”
    The second part was a lie. At that moment, he wanted nothing more than a few swigs of bourbon. It would calm the rage he felt, dissolve the fear. It would allow him to say exactly what he wanted to that arrogant, condescending prick.
    “Then do it. And do it right,” Brown said as he turned. “Lieutenant, with me,” he growled at Maloney.

Chapter 14
    The man made a U-turn on MLK Jr. Way and jumped on the freeway toward San Francisco. The Bay Bridge tollgate had no lines and he quickly accelerated to speed. The San Francisco skyline filled his windshield as he passed Treasure Island, the location of a former naval base. He sucked in the cool night air through his open window as his van passed by the skyscrapers and wound into the heart of the city. He traveled for ten minutes on city streets until he reached his target. The second-floor apartment was dark. A Mini Cooper sat in the driveway, indicating she was still working the day shift and would be asleep for several more hours. After having checked on her for several weeks, he had her schedule down.
    From there, he drove back over the Bay Bridge to the old warehouse and produce district of Oakland. He counted six floors up and two from the side of the luxury condo building. The lights were off, so this woman too was probably asleep, just as she should be. A Ford Crown Vic shot out of the underground parking garage of the building and sped down the dark street. He knew where it was going.
    A dim light glowed in the front window of the third house he visited, high in the Oakland hills. Based on his previous drive-bys of the house, he figured the doctor was working his normal night shift and the wife was asleep. Satisfied that his next three targets hadn’t changed their routines, he pointed the van toward West Oakland.
    He parked in the motel lot and buzzed the office door. The twenty-year-old night manager looked up from a pile of open physics textbooks and peered through the thick plastic window. The skinny Indian’s paisley shirt looked like a Goodwill store reject. The heavy aroma of curry filled the air.
    “Good evening, Mr. Smith.”
    When he’d checked into the Golden State Motel three weeks earlier, he told the motel owner, Mr. Patel, he had no ID or credit card but could pay in cash. The middle-aged man grinned slyly and said it would be $300 a week in advance, plus a $200 nonrefundable deposit for having no identification. Patel stuffed two of the hundred-dollar bills directly into his pocket. On the registration card, the man wrote the name John Smith, a phony address in New York as his home address, and a driver’s license number he made up.
    “I’d like to pay for another week,” he said as he slid three hundred-dollar bills through the opening.
    “Thank you, sir,” the night manager said, examining each bill closely. “Would you like the maid tomorrow?”
    He didn’t want the intrusion of the weekly maid service but didn’t want