Amy and Charlotte had gone with Sarah and the baby to Huntington Gardens in Pasadena. I thumbed through photos of Charlotte in a bamboo grove, looking contemplative beyond her years.
I had another missed call from Billy Watts, the Berkeley detective, one from Andrea, and one from a number I didn’t recognize. I listened to the attached voicemail.
Mr. Edison, my name is James Okafor. I work with your brother. I understand you were here asking about him. Feel free to give me a ring…
I went out to the employee lot and called him from my car.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Mr. Okafor. It’s Clay Edison, Luke’s brother.”
“Oh, hey.” His soft, gravelly baritone faded into the bustle of the office floor. “Hang on a sec, let me find a room.” A brushy sound as he walked. The noise dampened. “Okay.”
“Thanks for calling.”
“No problem. Sorry I missed you yesterday, I had to leave to pick up my kids. Annie Lin told me you were by. She said you can’t reach Luke.”
“He’s been AWOL since Sunday. Have you spoken to him?”
“Not recently. You mind if I ask what’s going on?”
“I don’t really know. His wife hasn’t heard from him, either.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I don’t want to alarm you, because I don’t know if this means anything.”
I’m alarmed. “Go ahead.”
“Your brother thought he was being followed.”
It was a weekday. Four, five months back. Okafor arrived at the office early. He and Luke were among the few who did. They were the Old Guys. His was the workstation to the left of Luke’s. They joked about it, like there was a designated zone for anyone over thirty.
He stopped to get coffee and ran into Luke, standing at the kitchen counter, unmoving.
“I’m like, ‘What’s up, king.’ He told me he was driving in and almost got into an accident. One block from the building, he stops at a hard yellow and the guy behind him almost rear-ends him. I could see he was shaken up. I thought because, you know, he loves that car. I’m like, ‘At least nothing happened, right?’ Then he tells me he went out to get his lunch. He was distracted on account of the near miss and forgot to bring it in with him. He steps outside and there’s the same truck that almost hit him, parked across the street.”
My scalp prickled. “A truck.”
“That’s what he said. He said it was like it was waiting for him. The driver has the window down, and Luke expects the guy to start cussing him out. But he doesn’t say anything. He just points his phone at Luke, like he’s taking a picture of him, or filming him. Luke goes and gets his lunch from the car. The whole time the guy’s following him with the camera.”
“Was he able to describe the driver?”
“Not that he said. I told him, ‘It’s probably an insurance scam, the guy’s gonna say you hit him so he can make a claim.’ Luke’s like, ‘Maybe, I don’t know.’ But he looked nervous.”
“What about the truck? Make and model, a plate number?”
“All he said was white. I remember, because I went out myself to see. He told me what to look for: white truck, across the street. But it was gone.”
“What about if it had a cover over the bed? Or any detail, no matter how small or insignificant it might seem.”
A chair creaked. “That’s as much as I remember.”
“Okay. First off, Mr. Okafor, thank you.”
“It’s James. My pleasure. I mean, not my pleasure. You know what I mean.”
“Do you think Luke might’ve mentioned the incident to Annie or anyone else?”
“I’ll ask her but I wouldn’t count on it. Luke…He’s not a sharer. Neither of us are.”
“There’s a security camera at the entrance. Is it possible it caught the truck?”
“…could be.”
“Could you find out? Scott knows what’s going on, tell him it’s for me. Or Evelyn Girgis. They’ll need you to tell them what dates to look at.”
“I’ll try. Is there anything else I can do to help?”
“Not right now. Thanks, James. It’s really helpful and I appreciate it. If you remember anything else please get in touch.”
“I will. Hey, I’m sorry about this. Your brother’s a good dude.”
The temperature inside the car had climbed. Every breath tasted like an ashtray tipped into my mouth. I put on the AC and unfastened the top three buttons of my shirt and slapped myself in the cheek a couple of times to wake myself up.
Andrea answered on the first ring. “What is it? What’s going on?”
“Nothing bad. I’m checking in. Any word?”
“No. I did what you said and called our friends.” Her voice was abraded, as if she had been crying nonstop since leaving my house. “No one’s seen him. I still have a couple left to ask.”
“Credit card activity?”
“There haven’t been any charges since Saturday.”
“What did he buy?”
“Fish oil. I was with him, we went together.”
“All right.” I paused. “How are you doing?”
“How do you think? I was up all night. I feel like I’m going crazy.”
“I’m sorry you have to go through this. Do you need me to come over tonight and help with your shots?”
“I did them myself. I threw up. Whatever. Stick to finding Luke. What about you?”
“Me?”
“How are you feeling?”
Coming from her, the question invariably preceded a lecture.
Clay, you should be more mindful of…
As a therapist, I feel it’s unhealthy to…
But she added nothing.
I said, “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
“Have you talked to your parents yet?”
“I emailed my dad. I want to run the conversation through him.”
“Your mother called me.”
“Shit. When?”
“This morning.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I didn’t pick up.”
“Thank you. Just keep putting her off and I’ll get to them as soon as I can. Listen, I spoke to one of Luke’s colleagues.”
I recounted my conversation with James Okafor for her and got silence.
“You’ve never seen a truck like that,” I said.
“No.”
“Okay. And Luke didn’t—”
“No.”
“I’m sure he didn’t want to upset you.”
“You’re upsetting me.”
“We don’t know what it means. It could be nothing. I just want to keep you in the loop.”
A text appeared from Sergeant Clarkson. Where r u
“I’m going to have to get off in a minute,” I said. “Keep trying your friends. Call the places he hangs out. The gym. Go to the motels, show them his picture. Can you handle calling the hospitals?”
Andrea began again to weep.
I said, “Don’t worry, I’ll do it.”
“No. No. I can do it.”
“Are you sure?”
“It should be me.” She blew her nose. “What are you going to do?”
“I have a few things on my list. The NA meeting is tonight, I was going to start there.”
“I’ll go.”
“You don’t have to.”
“It’s right in town. I’d rather be doing something than nothing.”
“Fine. Let me know. I tried the passwords you gave me. They don’t work.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, that’s everything I could think of. Isn’t there a way we can—get in? Can we contact Google and explain what’s going on?”
“They’re not going to listen to us.”
“They have to, you’re a cop.”
“It’s not that simple.”
R u here Sergeant Clarkson wrote.
“What about the families?” Andrea said. “The ones…you were going to check them out.”
“I will,” I said, typing Sorry on my way 5 min
“When?”
“Soon as I can.”
“You need to go now, Clay. They could be doing something to him right now.”
“Andrea. Listen—”
“No, you listen. You told me you were going to find him. I trusted you.”
“I am on it. I promise. I have to go so I can follow up on all this stuff. We’ll talk later. Okay?”
Silence.
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s talk later.”
She sounded stupefied, as if a tranquilizer had just hit her bloodstream.
The line went dead.
Before heading inside I made one final call to the office of Terrence J. Milford, warden of Pleasant Valley State Prison, ending up talking to an assistant warden named Keith Gluck who spoke in a low, bored nasal drone. I gave my name and badge number and told him I was interested in reviewing the file of a former inmate.
“Date of release?”
“Mid-twenty-eighteen.”
“That case,” Gluck said, “we’re not going to have it here. You can order it up from CDCR.”
In four to six weeks.
“Maybe someone’s around who remembers him,” I said.
“What did you say the name was?”
I hadn’t. “Luke Alan Edison.”
“What was this concerning?”
“It’s an ongoing investigation.”
“And remind me your name?”
“Clay Edison.”
Gluck said, “That’s a coincidence.”
“He’s my brother. Do you remember him?”
“I’m not sure what I want to tell you over the phone.”
“If I were to come down there, could we talk?”
“When did you want to come?”
“I could be there by eight.”
“Tonight?” He laughed. “How’s tomorrow at…two. That work for you?”
Another bottomless night of wondering. “Two it is.”
I swiped into the squad room. Sergeant Clarkson leaned out from her office.
“Hey there. Where’d you go?”
“Had to take a personal call.”
She nodded slowly. Prior to becoming a sheriff, Juanita Clarkson had served two tours in Iraq. Her reputation was tough, but fair. But tough. “Body in Fremont. You’re up. Lindsey’s prepping the van.” She looked me over. “Everything okay?”
My shirt was untucked, the buttons undone to mid-chest. “Yes, ma’am. It’s just…hot.”
“Mm,” she said. “Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate.”
Earlier in the day, Cindy Albright, thirty-seven years old, an employee of the utility company, had responded to a report of a downed power line near the campus of the California School for the Blind. As a rule, any such report called for a bucket truck and repair crew. Deluged with complaints since the start of the shutoff, dispatch had begun sending a customer support unit van to verify the situation and, if justified, secure the area till a full crew became available.
Seeing nothing amiss, Cindy Albright circled the block a few times and phoned her supervisor. He checked the incident log.
Overacker Avenue he read. South side of Walnut, by the train tracks.
She told him she was right there, looking up at the lines running pole-to-pole, one-two-three, plain as day. Probably the call was a prank. Or somebody mistook a garden hose for a hot wire.
He instructed her to get out and have a poke around on foot. Could’ve fallen behind a bush or a fence. He didn’t want to have to send her out twice.
Annoyed, Cindy Albright hopped down from the van and walked around to the sidewalk.
She stepped up onto the curb.
A bullet slammed into the side of the customer support unit van, puckering the ampersand in the utility company logo.
Cindy Albright jumped at the impact. She peered at the bullet hole. She had never been shot at and was slow to grasp how the hole had gotten there. Then a second bullet spliced the upright of the logo’s P and she dropped screaming to her hands and knees.
Three more bullets followed in a tight grouping. An eyewitness at the bus stop on Walnut would describe the sound of them hitting the metal siding by rapidly smacking his lips: mup-mup-mup.
A bullet shattered the customer support unit van’s passenger-side window.
Cindy Albright crawled to the driver’s-side door. Hyperventilating, shaking, she hoisted herself behind the wheel. Pebbles of glass studded the seat fabric; there was glass on the dash and in the cushion crevices and glass embedded in her palms.
She tried to start the engine.
She dropped her keys.
A bullet pierced the van’s right rear tire.
She retrieved the keys and started the engine and stamped the gas, and the van broke through the red light at Mission Boulevard, fishtailing northbound on the blown rear tire. Both lanes of traffic were dammed with cars going unacceptably, insanely slow. To get around them, Cindy Albright veered into the bike lane, running down twenty-five-year-old Fletcher Kohn.
Kohn’s girlfriend, Jenn Volpe, was riding lead. She heard the growl of the oncoming van and turned to see Kohn disappear beneath the front bumper. Reflexively she jerked the handlebars. Her front wheel caught the curb and she pitched headfirst onto the sidewalk.
She was in the ambulance, being screened for concussion, when Lindsey Bagoyo and I arrived. The customer support unit van sat at an angle, haloed by flares. Up the block Cindy Albright was giving a statement to a uniform. The bulk of the police response was concentrated on sweeping the campus and surrounding neighborhoods. A shooter on the loose took priority.
Opinion was divided as to his intention. The first school of thought held that he’d waited for Cindy Albright to exit the van so he could take a potshot at her. But he had lousy aim and hit the van by mistake. Others believed that the van was the target. By letting Cindy get out, he’d tried to avoid hitting anyone inside.
One thing everyone could agree on: Cindy Albright was chosen at random. The real target was the utility company, the shooter enraged at having his power shut off for the third time in a calendar year. This theory would later be supported by the discovery, two hundred yards down Overacker, of a pile of rifle casings, alongside a Gatorade bottle containing a note.
Lights out bitches
Bagoyo and I erected privacy screens around Fletcher Kohn’s body. She began the physical exam while I grabbed the camera and went to talk to Jenn Volpe.
She was young and tan, with pale stripes left by the stems of her missing sunglasses. She had scrapes on her face and forehead, large gauze pads on her scraped knees. A drop of clear liquid trembled at the end of a Roman nose. Her eyes were vacant. Three times while we spoke she said, “He was wearing a helmet,” as if virtue trumped physics.
I got a phone number for Fletcher Kohn’s parents and gave Jenn Volpe my card.
The ambulance took her away.
Bagoyo finished her exam and went to interview Cindy Albright.
I took photos and collected Fletcher Kohn’s personal property. His bicycle, frame torqued, rear wheel like a shredded fingernail; a backpack containing his wallet, keys, and phone; his own sunglasses, miraculously unscathed and caught by a boxwood hedge. A crack ran up the left side of his helmet, nearly cleaving it into two unequal parts.
Back at the bureau, Bagoyo braked to let the vehicle lot gate roll open.
“All good?” she said.
“Mm?”
“You keep checking your phone.”
For a call from my father. From Andrea. From James Okafor.
A sick feeling came over me as I realized that I no longer expected to hear from Luke.
I put the phone away. “I was hoping they could tell me when my power’s coming back on.”
“And?”
“They don’t know yet.”
Bagoyo clucked her tongue in disapproval.
We weighed Fletcher Kohn and brought him inside to be photographed under bright clinical light, first clothed, then nude. I went to the van, hefting the bike on my shoulder and the backpack in the crook of my elbow.
When I reentered the intake bay, Lydia Januchak had joined us. She was folding Kohn’s bloody jeans into an evidence bag. She saw the mangled bike and winced.
Hooking the bag on a free finger, I swiped into the property room.
Forty feet by thirty of cinder block and luggage lockers. The bus station that time forgot.
Stacks of clothing. Fewer shoes; an astonishing number of people die barefoot. Wallets and phones, handbags and watches. Eyeglasses. House keys. Jewelry. It smelled like Other People’s Stuff; like a school gym after a long, contentious PTA meeting.
I wondered which lockers contained the valuables from Rory Vandervelde’s home. The tiny fraction of a rich man’s stash that Harkless and Bagoyo had deemed most worthy of protection.
I put away Fletcher Kohn’s Stuff and took the elevator to the second floor.
Edmond, the property clerk, had his headphones on and didn’t hear my knock.
I texted him: behind you
He glanced down, grabbed off the headphones, and spun in his chair, gripping the armrests. “You’re like a dang ninja,” he said.
He handed me a chain-of-custody tag. I filled it out and he attached it to Fletcher Kohn’s locker keys. A tinny voice issued from the headphones.
“What are you listening to?”
“Podcast.” He hit PAUSE and rolled over to the master safe, a heavy-duty steel cube. A purple key carabiner hung on a lanyard around his neck. He unclipped it and selected a key.
“What about?” I asked.
He unlocked the safe, filed away Fletcher Kohn’s locker keys, relocked the safe, twirled the carabiner on one finger. Grinned. “Ninjas.”
Sergeant Clarkson’s office door was shut. I went to Bagoyo’s cubicle.
“Hey,” I said. “I may need to clock out a few minutes early. Are you set here?”
She faced up at me. Lindsey Bagoyo was a devout Catholic, active in her church choir, volunteering on the weekends. In the four years since she’d joined the bureau I had never heard her use profanity or raise her voice. The most she ever conceded was a mischievous smile.
“Go ahead,” she said, her dark eyes crinkling. “I won’t tell.”