Lombardi looked at him. “You come crawling out of the bushes. How am I fucking supposed to know you from Wayne Newton?”

“Wayne Newton?”

“Whoever,” Lombardi said. “This is your scene. The body’s ours for the morgue.”

Carmody raised an eyebrow. “What body?”

“The one in the trunk of the car,” Lombardi said. “Looks like he was a rideshare driver.”

“How do you know?”

“Because there’s a GoRide sticker in his window. And because he kept his registration and insurance card in his glove box, and we ran a check. Some people actually carry their docs.”

Carmody stood there a second and said, “I want a look at him.”

Lombardi gave a philosophical shrug.

“Your scene, like I told you,” he said. “I’ll bring you over to the garage so nobody else wastes your precious time.”

Carmody followed him around to the front of the bungalow. He saw half a dozen police cruisers with flashing roof racks outside. Also, a crime scene van. And a white Net Force cyber-triage van. The cops were kind of loitering around. The techs looked more purposeful rolling their equipment carts to and from their vehicles.

They went to the garage. Carmody saw at once that the trunk of the car was open. Lombardi brought him over, the photographers and evidence collectors around it parting ranks to open a lane for them.

Carmody bent over the trunk and saw a young man stuffed inside with the side of his head caved in. The trunk liner under the head was saturated and gummy with drying blood.

Carmody looked at Lombardi. “You have his name?”

“Terrence Josephs,” Lombardi said. “Twenty-two years old. Guy’s barely ripe. Looks like somebody hit him with a brick.”

“You know where he made his last pickup?”

Lombardi shook his head. “His phone’s gone. Or whatever device he used to log his rides.”

“We’ll need to contact GoRide to find out.”

“Already did,” Lombardi said. “I’m waiting for a callback. Don’t think it’ll take long. This isn’t the kind of situation where they make a stink about sharing the info.”

“You’ll let me know?”

“Sure. Give me your cell number. Or do you not carry a phone either?”

Carmody nodded and gave it to him. Then he turned and looked out the garage door. Musil was standing near the Seeker with his girls.

“There’s a totaled motorcycle inside the bungalow,” Lombardi said. “Expensive BMW. Looks like somebody rode it clear through the window.”

Carmody didn’t say anything.

“I notice you’re wearing a biker jacket,” Lombardi said.

“So?”

Lombardi shrugged.

“That’s a helluva ten-speed you ride,” he said. “Very Steve McQueen.”

Carmody looked at him.

“Beats Wayne Newton,” he said.