Footsteps; silence.
“Mr. Roby?” I called.
“Who’s that?”
I displayed my license to the peephole. California PI licenses don’t look very authoritative, and I had no real authority, making it an empty gesture on two counts. Performed fast enough, however, and with enough confidence, it often yields compliance.
The door cracked a few inches, chain still latched.
I rarely need to look up to have a conversation. Roby had to be six-six, his broad V body befitting a former tight end. He braced an arm against the door, straining the sleeve of a gray mechanic’s shirt. Chest patch name tag, Jiffy Lube logo.
One dark bloodshot eye bore down on me. “What you want?”
“Adam Valois.”
“Who?”
I showed him my phone.
The eye darted away. “Don’t know him.”
“Could you please take another look?”
“Don’t need to.”
“You mind opening up so we can talk?”
Roby sniffed. “Hang on.”
He shut the door. I waited for the chain to slide free.
An airplane screamed overhead.
I knocked. “Mr. Roby.”
To my left, a metallic crunch, followed by the slap of sneakers.
“Shit.”
I ran to the end of the corridor and craned over the railing.
A second-floor window was open. Roby had jumped, leaving a dent in the hood of a station wagon parked below.
He was sprinting up the sidewalk at full bore. I expected him to zoom off in the Altima but he kept going. The athlete in me had to admire it — his fluidity and power as he juked potholes and hurdled trash. He had a hundred-yard head start, he was younger and closer to playing condition. I didn’t stand a chance. By the time I made it down to the street he was at the corner; by the time I made it to the corner he was nowhere in sight.
I returned the next morning to find the silver Altima had vanished overnight. The second-story window remained open, curtain pulled through and flapping in the breeze. Roby’s neighbors weren’t home or they weren’t talking to me.
But I’d done my homework: His mother, Angelica, and sister, Zahara, shared an address in Highland Terrace, up the hill from the hospital, on a block of one-story Craftsman bungalows. Theirs was butter-yellow stucco with red trim. White Corolla in the driveway, blocking an ancient green Volkswagen Beetle.
No silver Altima.
No answer to my knock.
Next stop: Roby’s brother, Gerald, on 20th near International. A high wooden driveway gate hid his rear unit.
The silver Altima was parked out front, two wheels propped on the curb.
Dame shouldn’t have bothered. Nobody else had. The street was plenty wide.
Force of habit.
I pulled over, switched on sports talk radio, readied my camera.
At ten a.m., a notification pinged. My package containing the Intel® Core™ i21-16700K processor had been delivered. The UPS driver supplied photographic proof: a blurry, deer-in-the-headlights shot of Jake Brenner, leaning out to collect the box.
At eleven, Regina called.
“Buckle up, Poirot,” she said. “Mama’s gonna paint you a masterpiece.”
“All ears, Frida Kahlo.”
She’d managed to track down a woman who’d gone to college with Olivia Parisi.
“Her name is Jennifer Lawrence.”
“You’re shitting me,” I said.
“I shit you not.”
“Does she look like Jennifer Lawrence?”
“She does not.”
“Ouch for her.”
“True dat,” Regina said. “Our Jennifer Lawrence, Jennifer Lynn Lawrence, is thirty-five. The Jennifer Lawrence, Jennifer Shrader Lawrence, is thirty-seven. Imagine: You’re this poor gal, living your average life, with an average name. Then: blammo. The Hunger Games.”
“She was famous before that,” I said.
“Not to me.”
“Winter’s Bone?”
“Nobody watched that,” Regina said.
“She won an Oscar.”
“Nobody cares.”
“How’d you find this JL?” I asked.
“Rush-week photo of her and Olivia from the Sac State student paper.”
“Blammo.”
“Please hold your applause till the end. Okay, Jennifer Lawrence... Stop laughing, you’re throwing my rhythm off.”
I laughed some more.
She said, “As I was saying... Average JL currently resides in Seattle, where she owns a floral design shop called Jennifer’s Flowers, will you stop fucking laughing.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just such a perfect name for a flower shop, owned by Jennifer.”
“As I was fucking saying. She and Olivia embrace Greek life and join Delta Zeta. They’re not just friends, they’re roommates and besties for two years.”
“What happened after two years?”
“I’m getting to that. Goddammit, you’re intolerable. How the hell does Amy put up with it?”
“With great pain.”
“Where was I... Shit.”
“Roommates and besties.”
“Roommates and besties,” Regina said. “Shacked up in sororal bliss. One morning Jennifer notices she’s missing a shirt. ‘Hey, Livvy, seen my shirt?’ ‘Oh, yeah, I borrowed it and forgot to put it back. My bad.’ Then: a pair of shoes. Earrings. A necklace.”
“Credit card,” I said.
“Close. Debit. She guessed the PIN.”
“Average Jennifer Lawrence’s birthday.”
“Poirot strikes again.”
“How much did she take?” I asked.
“Two hundred bucks.”
“Fallout?”
“Jennifer Lynn brings it to the chapter president, who orders her not to raise a stink, because they’re on probation for an alcohol violation. Fine, but she refuses to keep rooming with Olivia. They shuffle folks around, Olivia does the same thing to the next girl. They vote to boot her off the island.”
“It never gets reported.”
“No sir. She said that even prior to all this, Olivia had a reputation for making stuff up. Her nickname was ‘Livvy the Liar.’ ”
“What stuff?”
“Her background, family, money. Her parents aren’t divorced, they’re living in France. That kind of thing.”
“Same dynamic with Adam’s family. Trying to fit in with the rich kids.”
“Okay, Freud.”
“I thought it was Poirot.”
“You’re a man of many faces. All foreign with facial hair.”
“Boyfriends?” I asked.
“She never dated.”
“Never?”
“So says Jennifer Lynn. The house is throwing parties, everyone’s hooking up, Olivia leaves and goes to the library.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t kick her out for that,” I said.
“You can applaud now.”
“The crowd goes wild.”
“As it should. We know her record’s clean as an adult. And it’s a long way from swiping some heels to killing your boyfriend. Still.”
“Agreed. Interesting.”
The wooden driveway gate opened.
“Lemme call you back,” I said and clicked off.
The man who emerged resembled Damian Roby, only younger and stockier, with a low-cut Afro. I took pictures as he drove off in his brother’s silver Altima.
The main house was quiet and dark. Unlatching the gate, I crossed a mostly dirt yard to the ADU. Through uncurtained windows I saw a couch made up for sleeping. Two plates, two coffee cups, in the kitchen sink.