I opened the middle van’s rear doors, releasing a cloud of disinfectant fumes.
Gurneys. Sheets. Body bags. Shrink-wrapped disposable coveralls. Tool kit. Smaller miscellany: nitrile gloves, N95s, spare camera batteries, baby wipes.
Still Life, with Death.
I stole what I needed.
Seven minutes later I was easing over the speed bump on Kilmarnock Court, past the sign forbidding entrance to anyone other than members of the Chabot Park Summit Homeowners’ Association or their guests. The paving smoothed out and I coasted between the trees.
Rory Vandervelde’s driveway gates were shut. I parked around the bend, put on a mask, and doubled back on foot. Behind hedges and walls the estate homes brooded. With their hollow windows and high flat faces they resembled the lopped-off heads of giants.
I pulled on a crumpled pair of gloves and jumped the fence to Vandervelde’s property, landing in a clump of sword ferns. I climbed from the planting bed and started up the driveway.
Even that much modest effort had my lungs on fire. I coughed and pounded as though I could jar loose the obstruction. But the obstruction was the air itself.
To my left, to my right, security cameras laid their blind stare on me.
I imagined the power surging on, exposing me — wouldn’t that be opportune?
Streetlights, stoplights, neon, chandeliers, sconces, desk lamps, table lamps, floor lamps; microwaves chirping and printers booting up and idiotic oven clocks flashing twelve; an army of zombie devices resuming assigned tasks as though no time had passed.
Children jarred from their dreams, crying out.
And me, hiking up the hill to a dead man’s house.
Beneath filthy scudding clouds, the empty motor court looked immense. I hurried over it and took the front steps two at a time, preparing to commit my fourth crime of the evening. Or fifth, or sixth. Who could keep track?
A sticker joined the door to the jamb. Another covered the lock.
ANY PERSON BREAKING OR MUTILATING THIS SEAL OR ENTERING THESE PREMISES WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW — AUTHORITY
27491.3 CA GOV’T CODE
ALAMEDA COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE
CORONER’S BUREAU
Both seals were signed by Harkless, dated Tuesday, with a time of 1617.
Both were broken.
Jagged edges. Someone pushing through impatiently.
Neither lock nor frame showed sign of forced entry.
I drew my gun, clicked on my flashlight, and, pointing it down, let myself in.
The foyer was humid, overhung with a gamy odor. Absent the yellow evidence markers, the living room resembled the aftermath of a kegger.
I let my backpack down to the marble and paused to listen.
Feeble scratching, from deep in the house.
I crept after it, into the hallway, following the blood trail.
The sound got louder and more frenetic. The smell redoubled.
I reached the fork that led to the kill zone, paused again.
Close now.
I dared to extend my head.
A section of baseboard had been sawn away to allow retrieval of the slug. The pool of blood had shrunk down to black enamel, shot through with cracks, like the inside of a saucepan accidentally left on the fire. Constellation of spatter. Drag marks into the office.
The scratching noise was coming from there.
Frantic, staticky, animal.
I edged up and pivoted into the doorway, sweeping the beam, trigger at the ready.
The desk had been ransacked. Papers littered the floor. The Rolodex was in place but the silver-framed snapshots were knocked over. The desk window was thrown open to the night.
Wind gusted in, flapping a plastic shopping bag on the blotter.
I lowered the sash. The air went limp, the bag drooped, the scratching sound died.
I played the flashlight over the display cases. The bathroom door was shut.
In the bag were a pair of baseballs, the ’89 World Series commemorative autographed by Eck and another with what looked like Ken Griffey, Jr.’s signature. There was a Nolan Ryan rookie card in a hard protective case. The makings of a nice little shopping spree.
I started forward to check the bathroom.
A faint cough wheeled me around.
I moved back into the hall, toward the next door, the next, drawn by a living presence. We know when others are near. We crave them and fear them and sometimes we destroy them.
I came to a door. The parlor. Where the knives were kept.
The emanation changed. It listened back. It felt me, too.
Chapter 18
Sean Vandervelde was leaning over a display table, its lid raised forty-five degrees, using his phone’s flashlight to browse. He was wearing the same jeans and polo and had a black bandanna pressed to his nose and mouth, and when I charged in yelling police hands hands hands he tripped over his own feet, dropping the phone with a soft thud and sending up the cloth like a penalty flag.
“Get down. Let me see your hands. Hands.”
He didn’t put up a fight. I rolled him onto his stomach. He reeked of booze.
“Get the fuck off me.”
I frisked him, released him, stood back as he crawled toward his phone.
“I’m going to sue your dick off,” he slurred.
He pulled himself up on a club chair. His eyes went wide. “The fuck are you doing here.”
“Let’s start by asking you that.”
“It’s my house.”
“It’s sealed. Maybe you noticed that on the way in, when you violated the order.”
A bottle of Japanese scotch sat uncorked on the mantel. He grabbed it down and took a belt.
“I saw the stuff in the office,” I said. “What else have you taken?”
He took another swallow. Flexed his elbow. “You fucked up my arm.”
“Mr. Vandervelde, what else have you taken?”
“Nothing. I haven’t taken anything. Nothing’s left the premises.”
“What else have you touched?”
His gaze strayed to the open display table. I inspected it. Knives in an intact grid, five by five. He hadn’t finished making his selection before I tackled him.
I shut the lid. “What else?”
“Nothing that isn’t mine.”
“You can work that out on your own time.”
“I’m not talking about all of it,” he said petulantly. “There’s things that belong to me, that he gave to me. The baseball... There’s a knife, he bought it for me when I was twelve. It’s sentimental value, she won’t miss it.”
“So you decided to help yourself.”
“Like she isn’t going to do the same thing.”
“She’s not the one breaking and entering. How’d you get in?”
“Hopped the fence.” He tipped the bottle toward me with a small smile. Proud of his agility.
“How’d you get into the house.”
“I have a key.”
“I’ll take it, please.”
“I don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t have to arrest you, either.”
Defiance puffed up his chest. But it was a chemical bravery, swiftly dissipated. He fished the key out and tossed it to me. Flimsy wire ring; plastic tab with a paper insert. DAD.
“Have you been into any of the other rooms?”
“Just the office.”
“What about the desk? What’d you take?”
“God’s sake, nothing.”
“What were you looking for?”
“His will.”
“It’s not here,” I said. “We have it.”
A long silence.
“What does it say?” he asked.
“Ask the lawyer for a copy.”