No Dame.
I drove to my office to look up Gerald Roby.
His record was spotless. White Toyota Corolla registered in his name.
The very same vehicle parked at their mother’s house.
Neat trick.
Listen, bro, I need to swap cars with you for a while.
I drove back to Highland Terrace.
The Corolla was gone, leaving only the green Volkswagen Beetle.
I rang the doorbell. “Ms. Roby? Hello?”
No amount of knocking mattered.
I started calling Jiffy Lubes.
I wanted to express my appreciation for the exceptional service I received from one of your technicians.
Who’s that?
Guy named Dame, I think that’s what it was. He really went above and beyond. Please thank him for me.
Say that name one more time?
Dame.
We don’t have anyone named Dame.
Damian, maybe? Big tall guy. Shaved head.
You sure you got the right place?
This is the Jiffy Lube on University?
That’s Berkeley. This is San Leandro.
Whoops, sorry.
Automotive lubrication was big business: The Greater Bay Area boasted twenty-seven franchises, many of them too overrun with customers to answer the phone. By day’s end I’d finished half the list.
“Have we considered,” Regina said, “that he doesn’t work at Jiffy Lube, he just has the shirt?”
“Never know till you try,” I said. “I also emailed the park cops. Adam being seen with someone that night ought to stir them up.”
“Did it?”
“Nothing yet.”
Regina had hit a similar wall with Olivia, who had stopped responding to texts.
“I’m beginning to feel unloved,” she said.
“That reminds me: How’s Ed?” I asked. “Did you give him an answer?”
She hung up.
Chapter 22
There were two Jiffy Lubes within the San Francisco city limits. The manager at the Van Ness location told me over the phone that they didn’t have an employee named Dame who had provided me exceptional service. Maybe I wanted the Jiffy Lube on Geary?
The manager at Geary Boulevard said, “Cool, I’ll let him know.”
“Thanks. Is he working today? My wife needs her car looked at.”
“Dame? Uh... I thought he was. Hang on. Anyone seen Dame?”
No.
“Sorry, I don’t know where he’s at,” the manager said. “Just have her bring it in, all the guys are good.”
“Will do.”
I drove to the city. The garage entrance was off 25th Ave. I didn’t see Roby’s silver Altima or his brother’s white Corolla in the employee spots or anywhere else.
I parked across the street, turned on sports talk radio, and readied my camera.
At midday, Gary Kinney called.
“Hi, Detective.”
“Heeey, brother. Good to hear your voice.”
“Thanks for getting back to me.”
“Yeah, no prob. I wanted to talk to you anyway.”
Irritation lurked beneath the jollity. A Little League coach, bucking up his team after a blowout loss.
“So here’s the deal,” he said. “I got your note, about Adam going on these, eh, outings, for lack of a better term. I need to ask if that’s something you shared with the parents.”
“Yes, although I stressed that there’s not much evidence to support—”
“Well, okay, but hold your horses.” Kinney chuckled. “Let’s call it what it is. No evidence.”
“We do have reason to believe he was with—”
“Clay. Clay. I’m gonna stop you right there.”
The cheer had peeled off to expose raw nerve. The same coach after eight straight blowouts.
“Let’s you and me understand each other, okay?” Kinney said. “This is not a homicide. That’s coming from the coroner. Those are your people, all right?”
“I understand.”
“Do you? ’Cause I gotta say, I find it a wee bit troublesome you’re planting ideas in the parents’ heads.”
“Did the Valoises contact you?”
“They sure did. Dad’s on me more or less daily.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Saying what?”
“He wants me to go after the girlfriend. I told him: I can’t do that, because, A, we checked her out, and B, end of the day, it doesn’t matter how Adam spent his free time or how she felt about it. It’s not a frickin homicide. Now he’s ranting and raving about how he’s gonna have me fired.”
“Shit. I’m sorry.”
“Ah, I don’t give a flying fart. He ain’t the first. Point is, here I am, doing my best to be open with you, thinking we’re on the same page, and you go rile them up.”
All I ask is that you give it to them straight. Maybe they’ll listen to you.
I said, “I’ll have a word with them.”
“You do that.”
“Before you go: Can I tell you why I was calling?”
He grunted. “Listen, Clay. I get that you got a job to do. So do I. Last Sunday we had a sexual assault on a jogger. Third this year.”
“I read about it.”
“Then you know. That’s where my head’s at and where I need it to stay.”
“Message received. Thanks and, again, apologies.”
“Have a good one.”
I dialed Elizabeth Valois.
“Hello,” she said. “Let me run and fetch Rick.”
“Liz? Can I speak to you privately, please?”
“I see,” she said uneasily. “Just a moment.”
I heard her walking, heard a door shut.
She said, “What is it?”
I relayed Gary Kinney’s complaint.
“Oh, Richard,” she murmured. “What are you doing.”
I said, “I’m sure it feels to him like he’s sitting on his hands. But we have to take the long view. We need these folks on our side. Overreaching now makes it easier for them to dismiss us.”
“I’m sorry, Clay. I’ll talk to him.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll sort it out. How are you holding up?”
“Me? Getting by.” She paused. “I can’t stop thinking about Adam in the hospital in New York. That was our chance.”
“For what?”
“To help him,” she said. “Get him back on track. And we missed it. I missed it.”
“In my experience, these situations never boil down to a single moment.”
She laughed sadly. “You’ve heard this before. Parents. Blaming themselves.”
“It’s what parents do.”
“Oh, not me. I never was one of those.” She laughed again, louder; a wild, intemperate sound. “Late bloomer.”
Silence.
“Liz?” I said. “Is everything all right?”
Silence.
“I’ll speak to Rick,” she said.
By two p.m. it seemed reasonable to conclude that Dame Roby was taking the day off. I grabbed my bag and jogged to the garage. A Tesla was up on the hydraulic lift; its presumptive owner sat in the waiting room, nibbling a quinoa bar and yakking on earbuds.
“Like, I get it, okay?” she said. “You’re into kombucha.”
A mechanic in a greasy gray shirt came to the register. “Help you?”
On the wall behind him hung an employee gallery. Our Team.
Damian Roby — smudged, crooked — glared out at me.
“I’d like to speak with the manager, please,” I said.
The mechanic shouted toward a door marked Office. “Felix.”