“Man, don’t underestimate stupidity. There are probably idiots getting high licking postage stamps.”
“Your gut’s saying no.”
“My gut says nothing except it’s too damn big. Look, Clay, I don’t want to rain on your parade.”
“You’re not. I asked. But if you saw anything with Denny that pointed to foul play, I want to hear it.”
“I’m happy to share,” he said. “Just get those fucking fries away from me.”
Prior to his disappearance, Dennis Kudelka was living with his parents and driving for Lyft. On Friday, March 29, 2024, he crisscrossed the Bay Area, making two airport runs and numerous shorter trips. His final fare ended with a drop-off in Berkeley, after which he logged out of the app. Cell towers placed him in downtown Oakland from about seven p.m. to ten p.m. Then his phone turned off and was never recovered. His friends denied seeing him or knowing his plans. A canvass of bars and clubs came to naught.
Kudelka’s car, a white Honda Accord, had been towed after sitting for a week in the Webster Street parking garage. From there to Jack London Square was a straight one-mile shot down Broadway, although, like Adam, Denny would’ve had to pass through some dicey areas. Why walk when he had a car? Nor could Mendes find evidence of Denny using alternative transportation: bus, BART, cab, rideshare, sidewalk scooter, bike rental.
If he’d gone home with someone, they weren’t talking.
“His mom kept beating the drum that he caught a bad fare,” Mendes said. “I ruled out everyone he drove that day. She’s asking me to test for DNA. How the hell am I supposed to justify that to my CO? There’s no blood in the vehicle. The guy makes a living picking up strangers. You’re gonna find everybody and their grandma.”
He took the last bite of his burger. “You said your guy’s gay.”
“His sister told us about one male relationship, but it’s unconfirmed, and we don’t know of any others. He’s got a girlfriend.”
“Uh-huh.” A beat, as Mendes weighed the merits of a quid pro quo. “One of Denny’s friends told me he slept with men and women.”
“Regularly?”
“Enough that the friend thought to mention it.”
“Was he out?”
“To the friend. Not to his parents.”
“Is that why he was hanging around downtown?” I said. “To meet people?”
“It crossed my mind. But nobody remembered talking to him.”
“Dating sites or apps?”
“Same thing as the DNA,” Mendes said. “There’s too many to choose from, each one’s got thousands of members. Where do you start? I didn’t get that far before your pal ruled accident. Then my hands are tied. I’m not knocking her, by the way. He was stoned. He wasn’t beat up. Him falling in still makes the most sense.”
I nodded. “Ever come across this guy, Trevor Vogel? He was a friend of Adam’s.”
Mendes peered at the mugshot on my phone. “What a beauty... Nope. Sorry. My turn. Why’d you quit being a coroner?”
“It was a good job. Then it wasn’t.”
“I have a cousin in L.A., works at the morgue. Gloria Mendes.”
I shook my head.
Mendes said, “Don’t know how she does it. It’d gross me out.”
“You get used to it.”
“I couldn’t. I know my limits.”
He reached for a fry but caught himself and went for his wallet instead.
“On me,” I said.
“You sure?”
“Business expense.”
He clapped my shoulder. “Thanks, brother. Keep me in the loop.”
On my way home I stopped off in Richmond and drove to Jasmine Worth’s apartment.
This time it was her slender silhouette that came to the security grate.
“Hi, Jasmine.”
I fully expected her to slam the door in my face. She didn’t. She didn’t unlock the grate, either.
“What do you want?”
“Checking in about Trevor. Have you had a chance to talk to him?”
“I told you, I don’t talk to him.”
“Did you give him my message?”
“He didn’t do nothing.”
“I know that,” I said. “He was in jail when Adam died.”
“So what do you want?”
“They were friends for a long time.”
The four-year-old girl’s voice: “Mama.”
“One second,” Jasmine answered. To me: “So?”
“So I think he probably knows things about Adam that other people don’t.”
“Let me tell you something about Trevor, okay? Me and him, that’s toxic. You put him away, you’re doing me a favor. But I ain’t gonna lie and tell you he did something he didn’t do. ’Cause that just means someone’s out there getting away with it.”
“Mama.”
“I said one second. And I’ll tell you something else. You can say whatever you want about him. He’s a piece of shit. Nobody knows that better than me. All right? But he loved that boy.”
“Mama.” The girl shuffled forward. “London threw up.”
Jasmine emitted a throaty sound. Anger and fatigue percolating. “I’m coming.”
The door banged shut.
Chapter 13
Internet romance had changed since my bachelor days. A handful of biggies continued to rule the landscape — Tinder, Grindr, Badoo, Zoosk, Bumble, Match. But few aspects of human experience are more varied than sexual appetite, and the free market had responded, churning out scores of niche sites and apps that sorted potential partners based on every trait or state imaginable: politics, fitness level, musical taste, preferred substance of abuse, star sign.
Bristlr for beard nuts. Equestrian Cupid for horse lovers.
Craving affection after a hard year’s whaling?
Fear not: Sea Captain Date was made for you.
Today’s users also had myriad ways to define themselves and their goals. To an old guy like me, many of these categories were obscure. What distinguished a friend-with-benefits from a fuckbuddy from a one-night stand from a situationship? It depended on context, on who was writing, and on the site’s implicit culture.
Add to that the usual problems caused by online anonymity. Nothing prevented folks from creating multiple profiles. Nothing required them to show their faces or use a real photo. The number of bots — AI bios, AI headshots — had exploded.
All in all, it made for a vast, confusing ocean of loneliness and desire. I felt for today’s singles. I could understand why Alan Mendes hadn’t bothered.
But he wasn’t getting paid by the hour.
I started with the biggies. Each had its own policy for how long it retained inactive profiles, ranging from one year to the end of time. Each employed a freemium model, limiting features to unpaid users, blurring photos or capping search results at five or ten pages. Adam Valois’s usual social media handles didn’t show up.
Which made sense. If he was cheating on Olivia, he’d err on the side of caution. In fact he’d be better served driving an hour from home and taking his chances in a bar.
Denny Kudelka, on the other hand, was everywhere.
I first stumbled across him on AdultFriendFinder, username DK420xx69. A shirtless profile pic showcased his sinewy build. His bio was a paragon of concision.
hmu i will get u wet
Poetry for the New Age.
The username enabled me to be more targeted, and by Friday, I’d located him on numerous sites, including HukUpp, Pläegroünd, Thirst City, and LuvvBouquet. On its own the list didn’t prove much; in that way it was similar to Jake Brenner’s shoreline map.
More instructive would be to see who Denny had communicated with around the time of his death, or if Adam kept profiles on any of the same sites.