No answer. I called Billy Watts, the Berkeley detective I’d been playing phone tag with, and left him a voicemail. I switched on the radio and let it babble while I crept over the bridge into Menlo Park, low and dry as a griddle.
Stanford Hospital was a concrete abscess amid the stucco and red tile of the university. The receptionist at the cancer center told me that Dr. Yap was in clinic.
“Can I leave her a note? It’s an urgent matter.”
The receptionist frowned. What could be more urgent than cancer? “I can’t guarantee she’ll get back to you.”
I gave her my card and headed to the lobby. Wan residents lined up for the coffee cart. My order of six expresso shots did not impress the barista. I dumped in dairy and sugar and occupied a bench near a power outlet.
Luke’s laptop prompted me for a password. Using the list Andrea had given me, I got in on the second try.
Feeling deliriously lucky, I opened the browser. Google defaulted to his work account. I clicked over to his personal account. The password autofilled. Angels sang.
Everything that had come into his Gmail since Saturday was spam. I put Vandervelde and Rory into the search bar and got nothing.
Camaro, on the other hand, summoned hundreds of hits. Luke ordering parts. Guys offering to buy the car from him. Guys sending proud pictures of their own Camaros, like birth announcements. One hundred eighty-eight inches! Thirty-seven hundred pounds! Everyone is doing great.
I came to an email, two years old, subject line blank, sender RWV.
Luke
Good meeting you. Happy to show you the collection whenever it suits you. Phone is best.
Take care
R
PS You ever change your mind on the Camaro I have dibs
Contact information followed. I dialed the number.
This is Rory. I’m unavailable at the moment.
I’d never heard his voice. Thinner than I’d expected. I disconnected.
The email was the one and only communication from RWV, no hint of how they’d met or if Luke had taken him up on the invitation. Scrolling back I discovered a promotional email for a swap meet held the weekend prior. Luke regularly drove three or more hours for such events, mostly to spectate, sometimes to deal.
Good bet Vandervelde frequented the same events. No matter that he could buy any car he wanted. The thrill was in the chase. In the tribal sense of belonging. Sizing up the competition. Comparing rides.
A place where guys like Rory and guys like Luke, men from vastly different universes, could become friends.
What a beauty. How much you want for her?
She’s so sweet. Think I might hold on to her a little while.
The last website Luke had visited, at four twenty-four Sunday afternoon, was the Wikipedia page for Bentley Azures.
Before that, he’d read up on Ferrari Testarossas.
Before that: Davis Divan. A quirky miniature with three wheels.
Koenigsegg One:1.
In the hours before his disappearance, Luke had made fourteen similar searches, all for vehicles in Rory Vandervelde’s car barn. As though cramming for an exam.
My phone rang with a 650 number. A brisk voice said, “This is Nancy Yap. I only have a few minutes.”
“I’ll be right up.”
“Come to the cafeteria.”
She was at the register when I got there, shepherding a tray with a salad and a bottle of green juice. Spotting me, she flung a hand toward the tables, any table, pick one.
Her white coat billowed as she approached and sat. “You don’t mind if I eat.”
She was even more luminously beautiful in person than in the vacation photo, notwithstanding the effects of acute stress: lopsided hair and one lapel folded over.
“Please. I appreciate your taking the time, Doctor. First off, my condolences.”
“I assume this is about the body. I spoke to someone from your office yesterday. Harden?”
“Harkless.”
She gulped juice, wiped her mouth. “He said the autopsy was complete and you’d be ready to release it today. He assured me he’d inform the funeral home.”
“Deputy Harkless is out of the office, but someone will handle it.”
“As long as we get it done today. Rory’s son is throwing a tantrum. He told my lawyer he’s filing for a restraining order.”
“From what I read the will provides instructions for burial.”
“It does, but I’d prefer not to have to go to court to get it enforced, and I don’t want Rory lying in a mortuary basement for weeks and months. Just so you know,” she said, prying open the plastic clamshell, “I didn’t ask for any of this. I begged him not to do it. He wouldn’t budge.”
“As soon as we’re done I’ll call my office and make sure they’re aware of the situation.”
“I’d appreciate it.” She raised a forkful of leaves, paused. “Is that not why you’re here? They told me you said it was urgent.”
“I have a few questions about Mr. Vandervelde’s activities prior to his passing.”
“I’ve been over this several times.”
“I realize that, and I’m sorry to make you repeat yourself.”
She put down the fork and sighed. Solemn, as if delivering bad news to a patient.
“I last saw him on Saturday night. My daughter’s boyfriend came in from out of town and the four of us went out to dinner. We met at seven, at a restaurant in San Mateo. Wursthall. Rory was in a good mood and I noticed nothing unusual about his behavior. He didn’t drink more than usual. He didn’t seem preoccupied or concerned for his safety. I suggested he spend the night at my house, rather than have to drive home. He declined and left the restaurant around nine.”
“Did he give a reason for not staying?”
“No. But I’m used to it.”
A wisp of irritation. She caught herself and softened. “It’s not his fault. He’s a light sleeper. He wakes up when I turn over, or he gets up to go to the bathroom and can’t fall back asleep. It’s more comfortable for him in his own bed. The majority of the nights I’m in Oakland I end up in a guest room. So I always ask, but I don’t expect him to say yes.”
“Did you talk to him on Sunday?”
“He called in the afternoon to let me know his power had gone out. I wanted him to move in with me for a few days, so he wouldn’t have to go without air-conditioning. I told him I’d take the guest room and give him the master. He said he’d think about it. That was the last time we spoke.”
Her posture caved under the weight of finality. Only for a second: She snatched up the fork and tore into her salad, eating against the clock. “That’s it.”
“Are you aware of anyone else he might’ve been in contact with on Sunday?”
“No.”
“Is it possible he went home on Saturday intending to meet someone the next day?”
“Who would he be meeting?”
I’d touched a nerve. If Sean was to be believed, his mother was still alive when Nancy Yap and Rory Vandervelde took up together. Like any relationship begun in infidelity, theirs contained the anxious seeds of its own undoing. Rory had strayed once. Why wouldn’t he do it again?
“A repair person, for example,” I said. “Or a friend.”
“He didn’t say so, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t. We respected each other’s space. That’s one of the things that made it work. We knew what to expect from each other. At this stage of life, you can’t start recalibrating who you are. Service people, his housekeeper doesn’t come on the weekends. It’s a big house, though. Something’s always breaking.”