Wanting to doubt myself, I moved the beam to the Camaro’s license plate.
Do you know your own plate number by heart, let alone your brother’s?
A brother you aren’t especially close with?
It didn’t have to be his car.
I swayed. My clammy shirt sucked against my back, sweat slimed the insides of my gloves. I was dehydrated and tired, eyes taxed from hours of straining.
How many 1969 Camaros existed? How many in that distinctive shade of green?
Had to be dozens. Hundreds, worldwide.
How many in California? Fewer. Still, we lead the nation in automobile registrations. Almost twice as many as number two Texas.
How many neon-green 1969 Camaros make their way to the East Bay? Our car culture isn’t as strong as Southern California’s. Still. No shortage of money. Enough interest to support the San Francisco Auto Show and a show in Silicon Valley. Danville has a smallish but well-regarded automotive museum.
It didn’t have to be Luke’s car.
We aren’t close but we do see each other occasionally. He lives forty minutes from me and I live six blocks from our parents. Holidays. Birthdays. My mother can’t or won’t accept that her boys aren’t best friends. Last year she’d instituted a monthly brunch. For the inaugural gathering she squeezed fresh orange juice and baked two kinds of mini-muffin. Chocolate chip and banana nut. This from a woman stumped by any kitchen tool more complicated than a microwave. Every successive menu got more aggressively elaborate, as if she could cook her way to family unity.
That was the last time I’d seen my brother: at brunch, at my parents’ house, nine days ago.
Lemon sour cream waffles and virgin Bellinis.
Amy, Charlotte, and I walked.
Luke and Andrea pulled up in his bright, snarling, neon-green ’69 Camaro.
He hadn’t mentioned selling or trading the car. I couldn’t imagine he’d ever consider it. And if he did, I couldn’t imagine he wouldn’t say so.
Maybe the opportunity had presented itself suddenly.
Or he’d loaned it out. Maybe he and Rory Vandervelde were friends. Car enthusiasts knew one another. They haunted the same events.
Why would a rich guy with thirty-plus hot-wheels need to borrow anything?
I ducked beneath the hangar door, pulled out my phone, and tapped a preset.
You’ve reached Luke Edison at Bay Area Therapeutics. Sorry I’m unavailable at the moment. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks and have a blessed day.
“Hey, it’s me. Quick question when you have a sec. Thanks.”
I stepped back into the darkness.
The Camaro was slick and menacing, like some venomous creature that had escaped the reptile house at the zoo. I circled it, my reflection swelling in the tinted windows. Luke had fixed up his Camaro by hand, over months, including applying a tint kit. I remembered him telling me about it. Along with Delaware and Iowa, California had the most liberal tinting laws in the country. You could go up to seventy percent in front and a hundred percent in back. The windshield had to be clear, though you could apply a four-inch visor at the top.
Rory Vandervelde’s Camaro had a four-inch visor on the windshield.
I shined the light in at spotless seats.
Tried the door handles.
Locked.
The key safe, too, was locked, secured by a combination dial and fingerprint scanner. I didn’t know what a ’69 Camaro key looked like but none of the ones hanging behind the glass seemed to fit the bill. No logo for Chevrolet or GM.
It might not be Luke’s car.
Even if it was his, that meant nothing.
If he had any tie to the crime, why would he abandon his car at the scene? How had he gotten home? You don’t Uber away from a murder.
Near the scene. Not at it.
One of thirty-plus vehicles.
If it was even his car.
Which it didn’t have to be.
Statistically.
I understood all of this.
I also understood how investigations work. Detectives look for the obvious suspect because the obvious suspect is often the right one. I understood tunnel vision. I understood the apparatus of the law, its unstoppable momentum.
My brother was a convicted felon.
I took a photo of the Camaro’s license plate.
After a moment’s contemplation, I deleted the image.
I copied down the tag and the VIN. I tore the page out of my notebook, folded it several times, and stuffed it in my back pocket.
Walked out of the garage, into the burnt and blinding air.
I still had to document the rest of the property. I had to act normal while I did it.
The pool house was roomy and sweltering. There were stalls for changing and a sauna; another wet bar, which made me irrationally angry. How many fucking wet bars did one man need?
Davina Santos perched at the end of a white chaise longue, taking up an inch of cushion, avoiding eye contact with the officer by her side. His name tag read B. Shufflebottom. He shot me an SOS look. The two of them had covered all topics of mutual interest.
I had questions of my own for Ms. Santos. Maybe she’d witnessed a recent visit from a man who stood six foot four and looked an awful lot like me, with the addition of a few pounds and a sandy-colored beard. Was this man wearing short sleeves? Did she notice a tattoo of a crown on the inside of his right biceps? When had he come? What was he driving? What did he and her employer talk about? Was the conversation friendly? Were voices raised? Maybe they’d been negotiating a sale; that could get testy.
This man—who looked like me, except he was a bit older and had endured hardship, mostly of his own making, the effects of which he packed beneath a goofy exterior but which broke through in occasional flashes of rage and depression—did Davina Santos know his name?
Had she mentioned him to anyone? Deputy Coroner Harkless? Detective Rigo? Officer Shufflebottom? What did they know?
Our eyes met. She smiled sadly. No recognition. So far, so good.
I left the pool house and cut through the landscaping, kicking up mulch. I photographed the pond and the putting green. A while later I found myself down on the tennis court with no recollection of having gotten there.
I tried Luke again.
You’ve reached Luke Edison at Bay Area Therapeutics. Sorry I’m unavailable at the moment…
I opened my messages, intending to text Harkless and let him know that he should come fetch me, ASAP. Instead I keyed L.
The screen autopopulated Luke Edison.
I touched his name, bringing up our chat history.
We had last communicated eight days ago, the morning after brunch.
R u around he’d written. Can we talk
The message had come in at ten thirty-three a.m. I would have been at work.
In any event, I’d never replied.
Now I typed Yo sorry what’s up
I watched the screen.
It remained static.
Call me please I wrote.
Detective Rigo was standing at the far end of the motor court, immersed in his phone, one foot propped on an artfully placed boulder.
I had questions for him, too.
What did he make of the open driveway gates, the partially raised hangar door?
Did he intend to check for security camera footage? Or had he written off that possibility due to the outage, the way Harkless had?
With no cars missing, there was no reason for Rigo to zero in on the collection. Not before he’d done the basics. Talk to the victim’s girlfriend, family, friends, business associates.
He noticed me coming and waved. “Were you able to find the phone?”
“Nope. I’m going to head back.”
He nodded. Cocked a thumb toward the garage. “Remarkable.”
“I’m not much of a car guy,” I said.
“Nor am I. But one must admire the conviction.”
“Oh sure. We can’t leave it open like that.”
“The driveway is the only way in or out,” he said.
“You’ll have someone here around the clock.”
“That was what you requested, is it not?”
“Have they had a chance to dust out there?”
“Not yet.”
“Once you’re all set, ping us please, so we can seal up. My partner will email about the autopsy.”
Rigo smiled. “Open communication.”
“Good luck,” I said.
“To you as well.” He paused. “But.”
I looked at him. His tie was tightly knotted and his suit jacket free of sweat stains.
“I saw your picture,” he said. “In the office? Basketball. Also my sport.”
I nodded, not catching the joke. Then he began waving his hand over his head to emphasize his short stature, saying “Eh? Eh?” and laughing.
I joined him. Ha ha ha.
“Actually, I was a gymnast,” he said.
“Is that right,” I said, because apparently we were having a conversation.
“Back in Brazil.”
“Right. That’s awesome. Okay, well, I’ll have my guy pick me up. Be in touch.”
Rigo turned and began climbing the front steps. I composed a text to Harkless. Held my thumb over the send arrow.
The detective disappeared inside.
I hit the arrow and sprinted down the concrete path to the garage.
Ducking beneath the hangar door, I drew from my vest a small packet of tissues.
I’ve been a law enforcement officer for twelve years. I’ve been a coroner for ten. I have never accepted a bribe, bowed to the influence of another, exploited my power, knowingly arrested an innocent person, or distorted evidence to suit my preferences. I’m a human being, I’m fallible, but I strive to be honest and to stay within the limits of the law and morality.
Without that, what am I?
All my life I have been the brother to a person I did not want to understand. Even as a child I considered him lazy and sloppy. Then he became reckless and volatile.
Then he became a criminal.
He is the action, I the equal and opposite reaction.
I wiped down the Camaro’s doors and handles.
I wiped down the windows, the hood, the trunk latch, and the side mirrors.
I exited the garage and walked toward the motor court at a steady pace.
I stopped.
Rigo was back on the motor court, his foot on the same boulder. Maybe he’d sensed the awkwardness between us and gone inside to wait for me to leave.
He looked up from his screen. Gave his slight, inquisitive smile. “Deputy?”
I trotted forward with the tissue balled in my palm. “Had to take one more peek.”
“And you claim to have no interest.”
“You said it. Respect the conviction.”
“Mm.” He resumed scrolling.
I slipped the tissue in my pocket. Luke hadn’t replied to my texts. He still hadn’t, six minutes later, when Harkless pulled up to retrieve me.