They work for the family.
Not anymore, we didn’t.
Even after I’d circulated our resignation email, Kinney had demanded to see a reply from the Valoises accepting it.
They hadn’t replied.
Hadn’t paid their July invoice, either.
I said, “Thanks for having us.”
Regina said, “We also brought the bagels. Don’t anyone forget that.”
—
It had been a busy few weeks.
In response to San Francisco’s warrant, Pläegroünd furnished a list of users their algorithm had matched with CaliRoyal247, including DK420xx69, aka Dennis Kudelka, and ijT&8_Me*q~a, free account, no profile pic. The site claimed they couldn’t determine who’d corresponded with whom, since all three accounts had been dormant for more than twelve months and their direct messages purged, per terms of service.
Winterholz and Pettit didn’t believe it for a hot second. No one in the room did; there wasn’t a company on earth that deleted user data voluntarily.
The situation called for additional legal pressure. Which required prosecutorial buy-in. Which SF didn’t yet have.
But they did have a clue: ijT&8_Me*q~a’s bio.
Introverted but thoughtful 27-year-old seeking a special spicy connection! I work in information security, so no matter how hot things get, my lips are sealed! 
Let’s crack each other’s codes.
Linus Hao, the one verified homicide.
Pinning down the yacht as crime scene was proving equally tough. Haven Harbor was refusing to hand over CCTV footage or records, denying dock access.
Shelby Fuller IV wasn’t returning calls.
That left a clear path forward.
Accompanied by uniforms, Tiffany Reuss and Gary Kinney drove to Oakland and picked up Damian Roby from Nia Coleman’s apartment.
He put up no resistance. After five-plus weeks of hiding, he was trashed. His hostess didn’t look unhappy to see him go, either.
For the interview, Kinney and Reuss borrowed a room from Oakland PD. The interrogation room camera at the Parks headquarters was on the fritz. No sense paying to fix it. They were getting a brand-new facility. Any day now.
The detectives plied Roby with snacks and drinks. Thankfully, he didn’t lawyer up.
Sitting around the conference table, we watched the tape.
Dame Reuss said do you know why we wanted to talk to you today?
They assumed he’d make a show of ignorance. Most people did.
The guy Dame said.
Which guy? Kinney asked.
He called himself Mike. No way was that his real name. They weren’t the first couple Dame had gotten with. He knew how it worked: feelers, coded queries, pic exchange. Not their first rodeo, either. He could tell.
Kinney laid out photos of Adam Valois and Olivia Parisi.
Dame nodded.
What name did she give you? Reuss asked.
He couldn’t remember. He wasn’t sure she’d ever said. Couldn’t remember which site they’d met on, either. Reuss showed him WildBullPen, his comment on their wall, their comment on his.
Oh yeah Dame said.
Reuss and Kinney had Roby log into his account. He complied. It took him a good long while; he had to reset his password, a comedic interlude of confirmation codes zinging back and forth to his phone, his email.
The conversation between Dameinator and CaliRoyal247 had begun six weeks before Adam’s death. They traded a handful of private messages — casual, then increasingly flirty — before CaliRoyal247 suggested meeting up IRL to explore their chemistry.
Was it him writing to you or her Kinney asked. Or both.
Dame didn’t know. He accepted the invitation, and they picked a bar called Anvil in downtown Oakland. When he got there, only “Mike” was waiting at a table.
That had also happened before. Sometimes the dude wanted to vet him before getting the girl involved. Sometimes there was no girl but the dude was pretending there was to get him to show. Dame didn’t yet know what the situation was. They had a few drinks and talked.
Who paid? Kinney asked.
Him.
Did he use a credit card or cash?
Dame couldn’t remember.
What did you talk about? Reuss asked.
The gym.
Mike and Roby finished their round and walked to a different bar to meet her.
Which one? Kinney asked.
Dame couldn’t remember. There were a lot of bars in that neighborhood.
Along the way Reuss asked did you happen to run into anyone?
...yeah Dame said, slowly.
Who was that?
This guy Victor. We used to play football. I saw him on the street.
At the second bar he met the girl. She was “blond and not bad.” They didn’t stay long. She looked him over approvingly and said they had a place they could go.
Dame asked for the address to put into his phone.
She replied that it was hard to find. He might get lost. They could all take Mike’s car instead.
Dame demurred. He had work in the morning. He didn’t want to wait for them to drive him back afterward.
In that case, she’d ride with him, tell him where to go. Mike would join them there.
What did you think when she said that? Reuss asked.
It was different for sure Roby said. But he wasn’t afraid of getting into a car with some chick half his size. Weirder was her lack of fear at getting into a car with him.
Then another weird thing happened: She told him to shut off his phone.
Did she say why? Reuss asked.
She said it’s not their place, it’s a friend’s. They don’t want him finding out we was there.
What’s that got to do with your phone? Kinney asked.
Dame shook his head. She said I had to or we couldn’t go.
Did you? Reuss asked.
He nodded. He wasn’t thinking 100, he could admit that. And people had all kinds of crazy rules, like for example this one chick who only wanted to be touched on the right side of her body, something to do with how her brain was wired. They weren’t the first to advance a no-phone policy, either. One couple, in their sixties, kept laughing about ending up on Facebook, paranoid Dame might sneak a picture or video.
Come on, bro. Like he wanted that shit out there on the internet? But they wouldn’t let him into their hotel room till he turned out his pockets. Probably they wanted to make sure he didn’t have a gun or something. He wasn’t mad. It could be like that.
So, yeah: Telling him to turn off the phone was weird, for sure. Not enough to make him change his mind, though. He felt ready to go.
The girl directed him to Emeryville. He started seeing boats. He’d never been out that way. He didn’t know it existed.
Do you remember the address? Kinney said. Maybe you saw a sign?
I don’t know. It was dark.
What if we took you there? Reuss asked. Would you remember it then?
Probably, yeah.
They parked on the street. Mike met them by a driveway gate with a door. He used a keychain thingy to get in and they crossed a parking lot, passing through another gate to where the boats were. They led him to one and they all went inside.