“How do you know he hasn’t relapsed?”
“We’ve been managing this way without a problem for two years.”
“Managing with what.”
“Diet. Exercise. Self-care. You need to read a little, Clay.”
I gave myself a second. “How about this: Where did he used to go for his meetings?”
She named a church in Moraga. “You’re wasting your time, though.”
“I’m covering all the bases. What about people from prison? Does he associate with any of them?”
“He’s been out for five years. That’s in the past.”
“Did he have a beef with anyone inside? Anything that could follow him out?”
“No... I don’t know. Who is this person?”
“Which person?”
“The man who died.”
News about the murder would go public soon enough. Withholding Vandervelde’s name served little purpose. And she might know something about him.
“Rory Vandervelde,” I said.
Her silence read as despair, not deception. Her face was moist and flushed. Candlelight scooped out her cheeks, the cavities beneath her eyes. I felt her sorrow touch mine.
“Who is he?” she asked.
“A car collector. That’s the only connection I can see between them. If Luke was looking to sell the Camaro, this guy had the means to buy it.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“It’s okay.” I tapped the pad with the pen. “Please write down the password to Luke’s Gmail account.”
“Why?”
“So I can see who he was in contact with. Starting with the victim.”
“Why do you have to keep calling him that?”
“That’s what he is.”
“You’re acting like it’s Luke who made him into a victim.”
“I—”
“What happened to lining up facts?”
“That’s what I’m doing.”
“No, it’s not. All you want to talk about are things that make him look guilty. What does he have to do to prove himself to you?”
“That’s not the issue here.”
“Oh please. Please.”
She rolled her eyes. My face got hot.
“You know what, Andrea? You want to know what I think? Okay. Here’s what I think. I think it’s one hundred percent possible he did something terrible.”
“Great, well, at least you’re admitting it.”
“I think it’s totally possible. But there are other possibilities, such as that he’s overdosed. Or he’s out somewhere, suicidal. Or he owes someone money, he pissed someone off, and they did something to him. What I’m trying to do is sort through all that, but unless you cut the self-righteous bullshit I’m never going to get anywhere.”
She lurched from her chair and vomited into the sink.
I went over to help her. She swung her arm to keep me at bay. She retched, spat, wiped her face on a dish towel, and hobbled past me to the living room sofa.
I stood in the doorway. “I’m sorry.”
Her eyes were shut, her fists clenched over her heart. “It’s not you, it’s the medication.”
“Do you need anything?”
“An ice pack would be nice.”
I opened the freezer and was greeted by the warm breath of over-thawed meat. Tepid pink water had pooled on the shelves. It dripped onto the kitchen floor. I’d forgotten.
I soaked a dish towel under the faucet, wrung it out, and brought it to her. “No ice. Best I can do.”
She spread the compress on her forehead. A weary, resentful peace settled over the room, like a drowning man giving in to his fate.
“He loves you,” she said.
“I know. I love him, too.”
“Do you?”
“Of course I do.”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant do you know it.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think you do.”
I kept silent.
“You should hear the way he talks about you.” She shifted onto her side. “Like you’re some kind of god he needs to beg forgiveness from.”
“I never him asked for that.”
“It doesn’t matter whether you did or you didn’t. It’s there.”
“Since when does he care about my opinion?”
“You really believe that.”
“He never has.”
“Then you’ve never paid attention.”
I said nothing.
“He has a few different passwords he uses,” she said.
I brought her pen and paper. She jotted down strings of letters and numbers.
“Thank you,” I said.
She stretched out again and put the compress on. I sat on the floor against the Great Wall of Cardboard.
“It’s not my forgiveness to grant,” I said. “If that’s what he wants, he should talk to the families of the women he killed.”
“He wanted to.”
Restorative justice.
It’s what your brother believes in.
“Is that what he said?”
“He said he wished he could apologize to them.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. A while ago. I told him not to contact them. That he’d only be reviving their trauma.”
For once I agreed with her. “Did he listen to you?”
She peeled off the towel and rose on her elbows. “Why?”
“If anybody has a good reason to want to hurt Luke, it’s them.”
Her throat was pulsing, her eyes bright with terror. “I told him it would be a bad idea. I—”
A knock cut her off.
A voice called, “San Leandro police.”
I said, “Wait here.”
Through the peephole I made out two blocky shapes at the foot of the porch steps.
I opened the door. A flashlight shone in my eyes.
“Evening, sir. We received a call about a disturbance at this location.”
The bald man, driving the red SUV.
The uniforms introduced themselves as Officers Broder and Huang. They asked my name and who else was home. I called Andrea over. She came to the door holding the wet compress against her forehead. Just the kind of thing you’d put over a bruise, if the power was out and you didn’t have any ice.
Broder said, “Is everything okay here, ma’am?”
Andrea looked at me. “What’s going on?”
“Somebody decided to be a hero,” I said.
“If you don’t mind stepping outside,” Huang said, “we’d like a word with each of you individually.”
“I’m fine,” Andrea said.
“Do what they say,” I said.
Even after we had established that she and I were not partners; that it was my residence and not hers; that I was a peace officer; that there was no allegation of violence; that neither she nor I knew the man in the red SUV or had asked him for help; even after Andrea began to lose her patience and complain that this was harassment, and their focus shifted from me to her — aha, she’s the crazy one — Broder and Huang were reluctant to leave the scene before Andrea did.
It was almost midnight. We’d been standing on the front lawn, two islets of two people each, for an hour. I had to force myself not to look toward my car, where a trash can liner containing a handgun sat in the footwell.
I said to Huang, “One minute to talk to her in private, please.”
He conferred with Broder. They backed off to the sidewalk.
“Go home,” I said to Andrea. “Get some sleep.”
“How am I supposed to sleep?”
“Lower your voice, please.”
“We can’t sit around and do nothing.”
“We’re doing what we can. Keep your phone turned on and nearby.”
She glanced at the cops.
“Andrea. Promise me you’ll listen for your phone.”
“Yes. Fine. Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She walked to her car. I started for the house, waving to the cops. “Have a good night.”