“It was an accident,” Olive said. She’d been surprised by his sudden admission—I killed him . . . I could kill you too—and the effect it had on Sharkey. It had scared her; it had hardened his features, it had made him seem dangerous, especially in the fierce way he’d turned on Wencil.

“We get all kine accidents in here,” Stickney said. “Plenny bike-related. Plenny unattended death. But I thought you was ohana to the buggah.”

Sharkey considered this, nodding a little. “If I was ohana, would I be asking you his name?”

“He was riding down the wrong side of the road, in the rain, on that bad patch at Waimea,” Olive said.

“And he was probably stoned,” Stickney said. “The toxicology tests came back. He tested positive for lots of stuff. Alcohol. Pakalolo.”

“I would have tested positive for that,” Sharkey said. “At the time. If they’d run tests.”

“And crank—more worse. Traces of batu. This guy was full of illegal drugs.” He was nodding, repeating the word djrugs.

“Can we see the test report?” Olive asked.

“Got it somewhere here.” Stickney sorted through the papers again with his fat skidding fingers.

“Never mind,” Olive said. “What we need to know is if you got a name.”

“Got two, tree names,” Stickney said. “But we got some solid hits too. Mainly from his prints. We ran his prints and got stuff from all over.”

“Such as?” Olive said, and saw that Sharkey was glaring across the table at Stickney as though demanding an answer.

“Far-out stuff. We get some from the mainland, a place called”—he scrabbled at the paper with blunt finger pads—“Santa Clara.”

“Near Santa Cruz,” Sharkey said.

“You probably surfed Mavericks—Half Moon Bay. Awesome waves, yah?”

Sharkey said, “What was he doing there?”

“Say here was speeding.”

“He got a speeding ticket?”

“Yah. This long time ago. A moving violation ticket. Doing a hundred forty-two in a forty-five-mile-limit zone. They booked him, printed him.”

“What was his name?”

Stickney snorted and said, “The buggah name was not the thing that jumped out at me.”

“What jumped out?”

“One forty-two,” Stickney said. “What kine car does one forty-two?”

“A fast car,” Olive said.

“A spendy car,” Stickney said. “So I read the whole report. Turns out he was driving a Ferrari. All the specs are here.”

“He stole it.”

“Was new kine. Registration in his name,” Stickney said. “One of his names.”

Olive leaned to look at the police report, and Stickney put his fingers on the paper and spun it so that she could read it.

“Max Mulgrave,” she said.

“But we also have this,” Stickney said. “From the gun registry database—all gun owners in California get fingerprinted. Got a different name. Maybe he come up with a new name because he was turned down for a drug conviction. We get that sometimes.”

He showed the California Department of Justice Firearm Ownership Report, and the name, Robert Ray Low.