He thought a moment, then said, “Come with me.”
The restaurant had begun to fill up with customers — captains of industry, relaxing at the bar after a round or enjoying an early-bird dinner. Steak, lobster, truffles. I followed Fuller over the carpet, pausing at every other table so he could shake hands and exchange pleasantries.
In the corridor, an arrow pointed the way to hole #1.
“Forgot my clubs,” I said.
Fuller chuckled and opened a door marked History Room.
It was small, windowless, permeated by a smell of old paper and packed with memorabilia: plaques, signed golf balls, trophy case. A framed article anointed El Bosque’s course the third best in California after Cypress Point and Pebble Beach. Former club presidents gazed out from golden frames. Since 1931 the position had been held by eleven people — all male and, up until recently, all white. I wondered who’d founded a country club during the Great Depression.
A leather armchair and brass floor lamp formed a reading nook within reach of the club yearbooks. Fuller pried out a mid-2000s volume.
“Adam was about five years younger,” he said, turning pages. “I remember him hanging around as a kid.”
He swapped the yearbook for another, finding what he wanted: a lifestyle magazine spread on El Bosque’s annual casino night to benefit Stanford Children’s Hospital. Green felt, cocktail dresses, croupiers in black tie and sleeve garters. The text boasted that they’d raised over three hundred thousand dollars.
“That’s him.”
Smiling faces around a poker table. A teenage Adam Valois sat behind a massive stack of chips. Rick was at his side, one hand resting on his shoulder. They looked more alike when they were happy. Both Shel Fullers peeked in at the edge of the frame.
IV said, “He cleaned up that night. His dad was so proud.” A beat. “It’s not easy, being the son of.”
I nodded.
“And it’s not all about billable hours, either,” Fuller said. “Believe it or not, I’m human. What happened to Liz and Rick is horrendous.”
He snapped shut the yearbook. “They’ll validate you at the front desk.”
“I’m reserving the right to call you again.”
“Anytime,” Fuller said. “The NDA is perpetual.”
Chapter 8
By Tuesday, I’d finished my report on the embezzlement case. Once I submitted it, a guy was going to lose his job. Tough for him: He had two alimonies, two mortgages, and three kids in private school.
Better than going to prison, though. His employer didn’t want the negative publicity on the eve of their IPO.
Silicon Valley is funny.
I hit Send.
My inbox contained a note from Kat Davenport.
Clay,
Leave me out of it.
K
She’d attached a PDF of the Dennis Kudelka file — the sanitized version, available to any member of the public. That’s who I was now.
The cover sheet bore Lisa Shupfer’s name and badge number. My name didn’t appear anywhere, though I’d worked on the case. One of my last, before I put in notice.
Leaving before I was told to.
I read through the report, seeing the parallels to Adam Valois.
Young male.
Bit of a loner.
Drowned in the Bay.
Adam had died with six substances in his blood. I expected Kudelka’s tox screen, performed by FML Inc., to show the same.
Wrong.
Alcohol, cannabis, ketamine, Versed, Amrix.
No Lexapro.
Still. Five of six. I was batting.833. Hall of Fame numbers.
I texted Lisa Shupfer. Hey Shoops. Hope all’s well. You around to talk?
Unlike Kat, she didn’t reply on the spot. Older generation.
Closing the file, I turned my full attention to Trevor Vogel.
Gary Kinney wasn’t kidding when he said Vogel had gone to ground. The most recent address on record was several years out of date. He didn’t own a vehicle, didn’t use social media. I dug up contact information for his family. Both sisters disavowed knowledge of his whereabouts and ordered me not to call them again. When I reached his parents at their Palo Alto home, his mother hung up on me.
Baby mama time.
Jasmine Worth lived in the Iron Triangle, a gritty Richmond neighborhood dotted with Section 8 housing. Her unit was on the ground floor of a chartreuse stucco duplex with a bowed roof. The door was open for ventilation but blocked by a heavy-duty security gate on crumbling hinges. Inside, a television droned the Peppa Pig theme song.
My knock drew a blurry, backlit shape to the perforated steel.
A female voice said, “Yes?”
“Hi there. I’m looking for Jasmine.”
“She’s at work.”
“Right. Remind me where that is?”
“Who’re you?”
“A friend.”
“You’re her friend, you don’t know where she works?”
A child called out: “Nana Wee, who is it?”
“Nobody, baby,” the woman said.
Behind the grate, she started to shut the door.
“Wait, please,” I said. “I’m looking for Trevor Vogel.”
The woman paused. “That’s not what you said.”
“I’m having trouble reaching him. I thought Jasmine might be able to connect me.”
“You’re police.”
“No, ma’am. Private investigator.”
“What do you want with that one?”
“Talk to him.”
“Is he in trouble?”
Enough scorn in her voice for me to take a chance: “Do you want him to be?”
That earned a snicker. “Hold on.”
She unlocked the grate and pushed it outward, forcing me to step back.
She was fifties, Black, bird-like, wearing a brocaded housecoat and cradling an infant in one arm. Behind them, a girl of four kept a watchful distance.
I waved to her. “Hello.”
She turned and fled.
“Don’t mind her,” the woman said.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m Clay.”
“Louisa.”
I smiled at the baby — six months or so, alert but silent, gazing up at me with huge, chocolate-brown eyes. “What’s your name?”
“This is London.”
“Hello, London. You’re beautiful.”
“Yes she is.”
“They’re Jasmine’s?”
Louisa nodded.
“Trevor’s?”
“You wouldn’t know it, from the way he acts.”
The baby’s age suggested conception right before Trevor embarked on his Las Vegas misadventure. Nice timing, Pops.
I said, “You’re grandma?”
“No sir, I just live upstairs.”
“When’s the last time he came around?”
“He doesn’t. I don’t allow it.”
“Problems.”
“Oh yes,” Louisa said. She looked at London, as if for confirmation. “Drugs, fighting. I had to call the police on them more than once. I told him, ‘You lay a finger on those children, I’ll take care of you myself.’ ”
I smiled. “You would, too.”
“He never tried to find out.”
“Was Trevor dealing?”
“Mm-hm. And using, I could smell it through the vents. I had people showing up in the middle of the night, ringing my bell. I told Jasmine she didn’t put an end to it, there’d be hell to pay.”
“Does she still see him?”
“If she does, she’s smart enough not to tell me.”
London mewled. Louisa began to twist gently at the waist. “I don’t understand what gets into that girl. I told her: ‘Have some self-respect. He’s living in your home, eating your food, bringing trouble to your doorstep.’ ”
I showed her a photo of Adam on my phone. “Recognize this individual?”
She nodded. “I saw them together.”
“Him and Trevor.”