“Dammit,” he said. “I don’t believe it. He was healthy as a horse.”
I’d never understood that phrase. Horses get sick. They die. The slightest defect, people shoot them.
Maybe that was the idea. For a horse, anything short of perfection spelled the end.
“You mentioned a heart attack,” I said.
“Well, sure, but it was minor. Anyway it was a long time ago.”
“How long?”
“Eight, nine years ago. After Martha died.”
Right around the time Vandervelde made Nancy Yap his healthcare proxy. “Do you remember the circumstances?”
“He and Sean had a fight.”
“Fight?”
“An argument,” Turlock said. “Words.”
“Bad blood between them?”
“That kid’s an asshole. He made life rough for Rory and Martha when he was growing up. Now he’s grown up and he’s still an asshole. I’ve told Rory a thousand times not to take it so hard. But it’s his son. I’d feel the same in his shoes.”
“What were they arguing about?”
“Who knows? Money, probably. Or Nancy. Sean didn’t like his mother being replaced. What’s he expect Rory to do, don sackcloth till the day he dies? He nursed Martha for years. He sat through every chemo session. God’s sake, let him have a little happiness.”
“I’m seeing a lot of changes to the terms of the estate.”
“I discouraged that. I didn’t think it would help matters. But Rory could be stubborn. The kid gets it from somewhere.”
I mentioned the timeline on the mansion, how its completion coincided with Martha Vandervelde’s death.
“Sad, her never seeing it. They tried to build here but got held up on permits and started looking elsewhere. They poured everything into that damn house. Emotionally, I mean. It kept Martha’s mind off being sick, too. Boy, you should’ve seen their old place. Tiny run-down thing.”
Which might explain the shopworn furniture crowded into Vandervelde’s office: a reminder of his roots. “Before they moved, where’d he keep his cars?”
“The cars,” Turlock said. “Wonder of the world, eh? Yeah, he bought those first. Used one of his warehouses over in San Jose. Bear in mind, he didn’t have as many back then. Ten or twelve.” He laughed. “Come to think, that is a lot.”
“How did he acquire them?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Did he buy them at auction? Through dealers, or private sales?”
“That I couldn’t tell you. All of the above, I presume. Me, I couldn’t care less about cars. I’ve driven the same Mercedes for twenty years. Rory ribbed me about it. ‘You need to look the part, clients will think you’re poor.’ By the way, that was another thing Sean didn’t like. After Martha passed, Rory got a lot freer with his money. He moved into the new place and had Nancy do the decorating.”
“She doesn’t live there full-time, though.”
“No, no. Here. Palo Alto,” he said. “Lily — that’s her daughter from her first marriage, she’s still in high school. Nancy stays at home with her most of the time. Rory would’ve loved for them to move in. You understand, she could say the word and never have to work again. But she’s her own woman.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s a doctor, works at Stanford. Listen, Deputy, I’ve been doing this my whole life. Something’s going on here or you wouldn’t have called me. Is there going to be an autopsy?”
“Yes, sir, there is.”
“You can’t tell me why.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Okay. Should I be there? Or Nancy?”
“I appreciate the offer, but that won’t be necessary.”
“Fine,” he said reluctantly. “Good grief, what a lousy way to end the day.”
We hung up, and I called the Los Angeles County Medical Examiner-Coroner to request they make notification to Sean Charles Vandervelde.
The sun melted into the Bay. The sky glowed radioactive peach. It was an unnatural color, unsettling, beautiful. Impossible to get used to and sadly normal.
October in Northern California. And September. August and July and June.
Lindsey Bagoyo rose from her cubicle. “Night, everybody.”
A chorus of farewells.
She started for the exit, pausing by my desk. “How’s Amy holding up?”
My wife was fourteen weeks’ pregnant with our second child. Yesterday morning, with the outage looming and the air quality index climbing into the purple, she and Charlotte had gotten on a plane to the preferred destination for anyone yearning to breathe free: Los Angeles.
“My dude,” Nikki Kennedy said. “Living that sweet, sweet bachelor life.”
Carmen Woolsey said, “They’re calling the wind a once-in-twenty-years event.”
Dani Botero said, “Nice, just like last year.”
Bagoyo patted me on the shoulder. “Stay cool.”
I wished her a good night, too.
Harkless left soon after, followed by Kennedy and the techs.
Two and a half hours had elapsed since I’d tried to reach Luke.
I unearthed my phone from the back of the drawer.
No missed calls. Six unread notifications.
A photo of Charlotte, her face smeared with what I hoped was chocolate ice cream. They were having fun, Amy wrote, but they missed me. I wrote that I’d call them soon.
The next message was from a reporter I’d once made the mistake of talking to. She had since anointed me her go-to source. A Hayward man with COPD had died after his power cut out and his BiPAP machine failed. Did I care to comment? I did not.
A Berkeley detective named Billy Watts asked me to get in touch when I had a second.
A former Cal teammate who’d moved out of state had been following the news about the fires and wanted to make sure I was okay.
Texts five and six were automated alerts. Red flag warning for Alameda County. High wind advisory. Elevated fire risk. AQI hazardous. Sensitive groups such as the elderly and those with underlying respiratory conditions were urged to remain indoors. For more information visit their website.
The utility company announced that the public safety power shutoff had been expanded to cover additional areas and extended for twenty-four hours, subject to further expansion and further extension. For more information visit their website.
Nothing from my brother.
I was the only one left from my team. Night shift was settling in, getting coffee.
I reached into my back pocket for the nub of paper. I unfolded it in my lap and ran the tag for the green Camaro in Rory Vandervelde’s garage.
It came back registered to Luke A. Edison, 1259 Jupiter Creek Road, Moraga, CA 94556.
The VINs matched.
Amorphous dread crawled through me.
“Closing time.”
Brad Moffett, the night shift sergeant, was ambling over.
I closed the search window and stuffed the paper in my pocket.
Moffett pressed his chest like an opera singer. “You don’t have to go home,” he crooned. “But you can’t. Stay. Here.”
“Daddy, I got ice cream.”
“Hi, lovey. That’s fantastic. What flavor?”
“Daddy, I can’t see you.”
“It’s the connection, sweetie,” Amy said. “You can talk, he can hear you.”
“He looks silly.”
“I often do,” I said. “Hi, hon. How are you?”
“We’re fine. How are you? Can you breathe?”
“More or less.”
“Did they say when the power’s coming back on?”
“They keep changing it. It was tomorrow morning. Now it’s Wednesday.”
“Uch. I’m so sorry.”
“Tell him we went to the museum,” Charlotte said.
“Why don’t you tell him yourself?” Amy said.
“You tell him.”