I performed an analysis using the point and time of immersion you provided. The calculation took two minutes and fourteen seconds. The results reflect a range of possible outcomes and thus display as a probability map scaled in increments of 10 linear meters. The maximum probability for any given increment ≈ .0003137, therefore I would not expect this to be useful in any way.
A slew of links followed.
I said, “I don’t know what this means.”
She opened an image file. It was enormous, filling the screen several times over.
“This guy, Brenner,” she said, sizing the image down, “works up at the Bay Model.”
“In Sausalito?”
“You’ve heard of it.”
“I went there on a field trip. I think it was third grade.”
“It hasn’t changed,” Shupfer said. “They showed you the fun stuff. Brenner does the real stuff. Studies ocean currents. I asked him to help me figure out where Kudelka was dumped. He wrote a computer program only he understands. Entered the time and place the body washed up, and ran the clock backward. Look.”
I leaned toward the screen, still unable to grasp what I was seeing.
“You’re thinking like a human,” she said. “Think like a fish. What use do they have for dirt and asphalt?”
Instantly the image clicked. A map of San Francisco Bay, but in negative.
All the land effaced, leaving only water, rendered in minute detail.
A multicolored band limned the coast from the South Bay up to San Pablo Bay, stopping at the Carquinez Strait. More bands outlined the bridges as well as the largest islands: Angel, Alcatraz, Yerba Buena, Brooks, Treasure.
I couldn’t discern a pattern to the colors, which spanned the rainbow, like the work of some hippie cartographer.
“Red or orange,” she said, indicating a hot spot near Point Pinole, “means higher probability of being the dump site. Blue means less likely.”
“Why didn’t you show this to me back then?”
“ ’Cause it didn’t lead anywhere. There’s too many unknowns. Kudelka’s last seen is March 29, but it’s anyone’s guess when he died or went into the water. To get something going, I had Brenner start at one minute to midnight. This is the result. Problem is, the tides keep shifting. Start a few hours later and you get a totally different map. Looks cool; doesn’t tell you squat.”
I studied the shoreline. “Not on its own. But it’d be interesting to put in Adam’s info. Maybe there’s overlap.”
Shoops shrugged. “How should I know? I’m a dumb trash-collecting cop.”
“Can I get a copy?”
She forwarded me Brenner’s email, adding, “Don’t bother writing to him. Just show up, it’ll be more efficient.”
She cracked a can.
I said, “Happy retirement.”
“Only type there is.”
Chapter 10
Among the links Brenner had provided was the original source code, hosted on a site catering to software developers. I sat at my desk, eyes glazing over as I stared at line after line of hieroglyphics.
At four p.m. I gave up, sent everything on to Regina, and killed the lights.
“How was camp?” I asked, rubbing shampoo into Charlotte’s hair.
“Fun,” she said.
“What did you do?”
“Made slime. Mine was green and I used blue glitter.”
“Nice. Look up.” I rinsed her hair with water from a plastic whale and reached for the conditioner. The bottle squelched, down to its last quarter inch.
“Farted,” Myles said.
“That’s right, bud,” I said. “The bottle farted.”
My phone was ringing on the sink. Regina.
I answered and tapped Speaker with a wet pinkie. “Yo.”
“What the fuck is this shit?”
“Hi, Auntie Regina,” Charlotte said.
“Oh shi — ssshhhoot. Hey, Charlotte.”
“Why are you mad?”
“I’m not mad.”
“You sound mad.”
“ ’Cause I have to work with your daddy.”
“Don’t say that. My daddy is the best.”
“I stand corrected.”
Myles waved at the phone.
“Myles is waving,” Charlotte said.
“Hi, Myles,” Regina said.
“Farted,” Myles said.
“Who did?”
“He wants you to know that the bottle farted,” I said.
“Ooh, I hate when they do that.”
I dried my hands and put the phone to my ear. “You get what I sent you?”
“Yeah, I got it. Do I look like I speak dork?”
I explained, directing her to the color-coded shoreline map.
“You’re saying this doesn’t tell us anything,” she said.
“We’ll see. I’m heading out to Sausalito tomorrow. Word from Adam’s sister?”
“Radio silence.”
“I can stop by her place. It’s on the way.”
“Hands off my woman.”
“I’m trying to save you a trip, Regina.”
“I’ll meet you there at eight.”
Mill Valley, a snug, wealthy community nestled in the Marin Hills, lies seven miles north of the Golden Gate Bridge. The short commute must’ve appealed to Kirsten Valois’s husband, a partner at a San Francisco IP firm.
She, on the other hand, served as in-house counsel for an educational nonprofit headquartered on the East Coast. Shades of her mother.
We expected her to work remotely, and pulling up to the address I was encouraged by the gray Audi charging in the driveway.
Regina was waiting for me on the curb.
“How frickin early did you leave?” I asked.
“Four score and seven years ago.”
The house was a massive brown shingle, larger even than Rick and Liz’s, surrounded by stately redwoods and coast live oaks. Regina rang the video doorbell and turned to admire the view, Mount Tam crowning through fog.
“I should’ve been a lawyer,” she said.
“You argue enough.”
A woman spoke through the intercom: “Yes?”
“Kirsten Barry, please,” I said.
“This is she.”
“My name is Clay Edison. Do you have a moment to talk?”
“Sorry, who is this?”
“Clay Edison. I’m a private investigator. I’m here with my partner, Regina Klein. It’s about your bro—”
The intercom clicked off.
Through the leaded sidelight, a shape rapidly approached.
Kirsten Barry née Valois opened the door. In person the contrast with Adam was even more pronounced — her strong bone structure and smoky eyes. Chemically straightened hair suggested a lifelong struggle for dominance; right now she had the upper hand, but that might change at any moment. Emerald satin blouse and pearls over sweatpants and fuzzy slippers.
Zoom couture.
She folded her arms across her chest. “Did my parents send you?”
“No,” I said. “But we’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Can I see some ID, please?”
We obliged.
“FYI, I have an eight thirty.”
“We’ll try not to take up any more of your time than necessary.”
“Fine, but I really don’t know what else you people expect me to say.” She returned the cards. “I’ve already given my statement.”
“Who’d you talk to? Was it the Ackerman Group?”
“I don’t remember their names. Maybe.”
“We’re not with them,” I said. “We’re new.”
“Mm.” A lip-smile. “How long do you suppose you’ll last?”
Regina said, “Hopefully till eight thirty.”
The smile blossomed into laughter. “Clock’s ticking.”