Luke’s particular passion was muscle cars. Chargers and Firebirds and Thunderbolts, machines and names that conveyed raw power. In our bedroom he kept a Bullitt movie poster over his headboard. Not for the film or for Steve McQueen — both well before our time — but for its image of a Ford Mustang GT, tearing across the white background like an artillery shell exiting the muzzle. Other posters went up around it as we got older. Michael Jordan. Tupac Shakur. But the Mustang retained its place of prominence.
Rory Vandervelde owned a single classic American muscle car. It lurked in the shadows, off to the right of the hangar door, as though it had shown up to the party stag and had yet to join a clique. Like a wallflower. Which was funny, because the car itself was the antithesis of shy: a late-sixties Camaro, restored to perfection, painted a searing shade of green, and kitted out with aftermarket embellishments. Towering rims and a spoiler and a gnashing grille.
Short of acquiring the Bullitt car itself — maybe Vandervelde had tried — you’d be hard-pressed to find a more extreme example of the species.
I’d missed the Camaro on my way in. So much to gawk at. Eyes not yet adjusted.
I saw it now. It was, to be specific, a 1969 SS/Z28. V-8 engine, concealed headlights, black racing stripes, custom leather upholstery.
A hell of a car. One that I recognized, specifically. I had seen it before, not once but many times.
It was my brother’s.
Chapter 2
Wanting to doubt myself, I moved the beam to the Camaro’s license plate.
Do you know your own plate number by heart, let alone your brother’s?
A brother you aren’t especially close with?
It didn’t have to be his car.
I swayed. My clammy shirt sucked against my back, sweat slimed the insides of my gloves. I was dehydrated and tired, eyes taxed from hours of straining.
How many 1969 Camaros existed? How many in that distinctive shade of green?
Had to be dozens. Hundreds, worldwide.
How many in California? Fewer. Still, we lead the nation in automobile registrations. Almost twice as many as number two Texas.
How many neon-green 1969 Camaros make their way to the East Bay? Our car culture isn’t as strong as Southern California’s. Still. No shortage of money. Enough interest to support the San Francisco Auto Show and a show in Silicon Valley. Danville has a smallish but well-regarded automotive museum.
It didn’t have to be Luke’s car.
We aren’t close but we do see each other occasionally. He lives forty minutes from me and I live six blocks from our parents. Holidays. Birthdays. My mother can’t or won’t accept that her boys aren’t best friends. Last year she’d instituted a monthly brunch. For the inaugural gathering she squeezed fresh orange juice and baked two kinds of mini-muffin. Chocolate chip and banana nut. This from a woman stumped by any kitchen tool more complicated than a microwave. Every successive menu got more aggressively elaborate, as if she could cook her way to family unity.
That was the last time I’d seen my brother: at brunch, at my parents’ house, nine days ago.
Lemon sour cream waffles and virgin Bellinis.
Amy, Charlotte, and I walked.
Luke and Andrea pulled up in his bright, snarling, neon-green ’69 Camaro.
He hadn’t mentioned selling or trading the car. I couldn’t imagine he’d ever consider it. And if he did, I couldn’t imagine he wouldn’t say so.
Maybe the opportunity had presented itself suddenly.
Or he’d loaned it out. Maybe he and Rory Vandervelde were friends. Car enthusiasts knew one another. They haunted the same events.
Why would a rich guy with thirty-plus hot-wheels need to borrow anything?
I ducked beneath the hangar door, pulled out my phone, and tapped a preset.
You’ve reached Luke Edison at Bay Area Therapeutics. Sorry I’m unavailable at the moment. Please leave your name, number, and a brief message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks and have a blessed day.
“Hey, it’s me. Quick question when you have a sec. Thanks.”
I stepped back into the darkness.
The Camaro was slick and menacing, like some venomous creature that had escaped the reptile house at the zoo. I circled it, my reflection swelling in the tinted windows. Luke had fixed up his Camaro by hand, over months, including applying a tint kit. I remembered him telling me about it. Along with Delaware and Iowa, California had the most liberal tinting laws in the country. You could go up to seventy percent in front and a hundred percent in back. The windshield had to be clear, though you could apply a four-inch visor at the top.
Rory Vandervelde’s Camaro had a four-inch visor on the windshield.
I shined the light in at spotless seats.
Tried the door handles.
Locked.
The key safe, too, was locked, secured by a combination dial and fingerprint scanner. I didn’t know what a ’69 Camaro key looked like but none of the ones hanging behind the glass seemed to fit the bill. No logo for Chevrolet or GM.
It might not be Luke’s car.
Even if it was his, that meant nothing.
If he had any tie to the crime, why would he abandon his car at the scene? How had he gotten home? You don’t Uber away from a murder.
Near the scene. Not at it.
One of thirty-plus vehicles.
If it was even his car.
Which it didn’t have to be.
Statistically.
I understood all of this.
I also understood how investigations work. Detectives look for the obvious suspect because the obvious suspect is often the right one. I understood tunnel vision. I understood the apparatus of the law, its unstoppable momentum.
My brother was a convicted felon.
I took a photo of the Camaro’s license plate.
After a moment’s contemplation, I deleted the image.
I copied down the tag and the VIN. I tore the page out of my notebook, folded it several times, and stuffed it in my back pocket.
Walked out of the garage, into the burnt and blinding air.
I still had to document the rest of the property. I had to act normal while I did it.
The pool house was roomy and sweltering. There were stalls for changing and a sauna; another wet bar, which made me irrationally angry. How many fucking wet bars did one man need?
Davina Santos perched at the end of a white chaise longue, taking up an inch of cushion, avoiding eye contact with the officer by her side. His name tag read B. SHUFFLEBOTTOM. He shot me an SOS look. The two of them had covered all topics of mutual interest.
I had questions of my own for Ms. Santos. Maybe she’d witnessed a recent visit from a man who stood six foot four and looked an awful lot like me, with the addition of a few pounds and a sandy-colored beard. Was this man wearing short sleeves? Did she notice a tattoo of a crown on the inside of his right biceps? When had he come? What was he driving? What did he and her employer talk about? Was the conversation friendly? Were voices raised? Maybe they’d been negotiating a sale; that could get testy.
This man — who looked like me, except he was a bit older and had endured hardship, mostly of his own making, the effects of which he packed beneath a goofy exterior but which broke through in occasional flashes of rage and depression — did Davina Santos know his name?
Had she mentioned him to anyone? Deputy Coroner Harkless? Detective Rigo? Officer Shufflebottom? What did they know?
Our eyes met. She smiled sadly. No recognition. So far, so good.
I left the pool house and cut through the landscaping, kicking up mulch. I photographed the pond and the putting green. A while later I found myself down on the tennis court with no recollection of having gotten there.