“What did they say?”
“I didn’t read them.”
“Does she still have them?”
“I’m sure she threw them out. One night he showed up, banging on the door. Alex was there. He and Nick got into a fight.”
“How serious?”
“It was mostly yelling and shoving. Alex was like, ‘Stay away from her or I’ll kill you.’ ”
“Was that a real threat?”
“Alex? No. He’s pre-med. Trust me, Nick was out of control.”
“When was this?”
“Last year. Spring quarter.”
Prior to the disappearance.
“Has Maddie been in touch with Nick since then?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It would really help if I could talk to her.”
“I can ask, but not while Alex is here.”
“I’m in town for the rest of the day. If you can get the message to her, I’d be grateful.”
She accepted my card. “I hope Nick’s okay. I mean, he shouldn’t have acted like that. But he’s not a bad guy. Just... confused.”
I nodded.
She said, “He said some cuckoo things that night.”
“Such as.”
“He loved her, he was going to kill himself if he couldn’t be with her. Maddie was totally traumatized. So, I hope he’s okay, for his sake. But for hers, too.”
Randy Smythe’s cottage was tiny and decrepit, six or seven hundred square feet worth six or seven hundred thousand dollars due to its prime location on the San Lorenzo River.
The whine of machinery drew me along a driveway lined with kinetic sculptures in steel and wood.
The garage was a one-car, its door shut while work took place in a postage-stamp yard. Two men wearing dust masks hunched over a surfboard propped on sawhorses. The younger used an orbital sander to shape the board, while his companion — twice his age and taller, with steel-wool hair and a rawhide complexion — traced curves in the air to guide him. More sculptures rotated.
I waved. “Excuse me.”
The younger man glanced up and shut off the sander.
“Randy Smythe?” I said.
The older man said, “Yes?”
“My name is Clay Edison. If I could have a few minutes of your time—”
“We’re right in the middle of this.”
“It’s about Nick Moore.”
Smythe tugged down his mask. Taking a water bottle from the grass, he chugged it and waggled it at the young man. “Fill this up for me.”
The assistant obediently carried the bottle into the house.
Smythe said, “I’ve gone over this.”
“I realize that, but Nick’s still missing.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say, dude. I don’t know where he went, he didn’t tell me, I haven’t heard from him.”
“Let’s try to jog your memory.”
“There’s nothing to jog.”
“Did he ever mention a girl named Maddie Zwick?”
“No.”
“Did he ever bring people over?”
“No. That’s a shop rule. I don’t care what you do in your free time, you can’t do it here.”
“Before he left, did you notice changes in his behavior or mood?”
“Man, I don’t know. We were focused on the task. This is an art. It requires concentration. I can’t be having distractions.”
“How was he as a worker?”
“Fine. He learned quick, he didn’t complain. Creative. I liked him.”
“He was sleeping in the garage.”
“That’s how it works.”
“It’s not an accusation.”
“I fed him. I shared my knowledge. When I was in the same situation nobody paid me.”
“I’d like your permission to have a look in there.”
“Dude. I’m tellin you, there’s nothing, okay? He took everything with him when he left.”
A voice behind us said, “There was some letters.”
We pivoted toward the house. The shop assistant stood on the back steps. He’d removed his mask and was holding the refilled water bottle.
“What letters?” I asked.
He glanced at Smythe nervously.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Aiden.”
“Aiden, what letters?”
“They were in the locker,” he said.
I turned to Smythe.
He sighed. “Fine.”
He hauled up the garage door. A scalding, chemical stench billowed out.
I saw surfboards in various stages of completion: heaped on tables, drying on racks. Hand tools, power tools, oxyacetylene torch, fiberglass cloth, tubs of epoxy, a spray paint rainbow.
One errant match would level the neighborhood.
Good reason to work in the yard.
The three of us single-filed toward the back, where floor space had been carved out to accommodate an army cot. Creature comforts included a battery-operated fan and a clamp lamp. Aiden’s personal possessions fit into a duffel bag and a footlocker, also military surplus.
“May I?” I asked.
Aiden looked at Smythe. Smythe said, “You invited him, kid.”
I opened the footlocker. Sour Patch Kids, marijuana, a bong, lighters.
“Where are the letters?” I asked.
“I threw them out,” Aiden said.
Smythe shut his eyes. “Unbelievable.”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to keep them.”
“Why’d you tell us you had them?”
“I didn’t say that, I said they were there before.”
“Do you remember what they said?” I asked. “Who they were addressed to?”
“I wasn’t paying attention. It was somebody’s private stuff.”
“How many were there?”
“Uh...”
“A lot, or just a few.”
“Like ten?”
“Are we done, please?” Smythe said.
“Those sculptures,” I said to him. “Are they yours?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you ever make jewelry?”
“No.”
“But you have the tools to do it.”
“Nothing fancy.”
“What about Nick? Do you recall him making any jewelry?”
Smythe said, “Now that you mention it, yeah. He was cutting a piece of steel and broke a saw blade. I was not happy.”
I showed him the photo of the pendant. “Was it this?”
“Could be.”
If so, the rooster was one of a kind.
My phone buzzed with a text.
It’s Naomi. Alex left Maddie says you can come over
Chapter 27
“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” I said.
Maddie Zwick nodded.
She sat curled up on the living room futon, long legs folded beneath her, gnawing the cuff of her sweatshirt and gazing at me with watchful blue eyes. A miniature floral tattoo adorned the inside of her wrist. The sweatshirt read Banana Slugs Swimming & Diving.
After making introductions, Naomi Cardenas had excused herself to class. We weren’t alone — a third roommate was working in her bedroom — but Maddie still seemed uneasy, and I offered to move the conversation someplace public.
“It’s okay,” she said.
I said, “What’s your event?”
“One hundred fly and two hundred IM.”
“Cool.”
She reevaluated me. “Do you swim?”
“Dog paddle.”
She smiled cautiously. “That’s not an event.”
“Not yet. I did play basketball at Berkeley. Used to arrive for morning practice and the swimmers would be leaving. They’d already had two hours in the pool.”