“There’s not much to read. Bare facts. But look where he served.”

Sharkey lifted the paper to his face. “Bien Hoa. Operation Fish Hook.”

“Operation Fish Hook—I mugged up on it,” Olive said. “May 1970, an incursion into Cambodia, less than a year after he enlisted and was shipped over. It was pretty famous, because it was an invasion, probably illegal. But it was on the Ho Chi Minh Trail—a big depot, just over the border. A huge firefight and the destruction of a whole arsenal of weapons—lots of American casualties, but obviously not our boy.”

Chastened by her quiet recitation of facts, Sharkey said, “Where did you find this out?”

“This morning—ten minutes on my computer. It’s all online.”

“‘Go online.’ That’s another expression I hate. Like ‘Do the paperwork.’” He began to sigh in frustration.

“Calm down. Look what else I found. This is the man. Check out the next page.”

Sharkey lifted the page. He read, “Awards and Decorations.”

“Out loud, Joe.”

“National Defense Service Medal. Vietnam Service Medal. Vietnam Campaign Medal. Expert Badge Rifle M-16. Presidential Unit Citation Award for Ninety Days or More in Combat.” Sharkey’s voice had slowed and softened as he’d gone down the list. “Purple Heart with Oak Leaf,” he said in a whisper, and handed the file to Olive.

She said, “He wasn’t driving a desk in Omaha.”

“My father would have loved this guy.”

“There’s more,” Olive said. “It gets better.”

She flicked through another file folder and brought out a document, this one more elegant than the birth certificate, with an etched border and the man’s name inked in the middle, ennobled in ornate script.

“University of California at Santa Cruz, Class of ’74. Bachelor’s degree—electrical engineering.” She handed the certificate to Sharkey, saying, “Do the math. Born in 1950. After his tour in ’Nam he’s still a kid. He gets the GI Bill. Finances his education. He’s only twenty-four when he graduates.”

“Could have been at Mavericks. That’s what I was doing around that time.”

The mention of Santa Cruz, his memories of Half Moon Bay, helped him see the man more clearly—not his features, not as an individual, but the sort of young man—student, stoner, skateboarder—who gathered with friends at the edge of the bay on big days, peering from the parking lot or standing on the beach, looking admiringly at the surfers. Sharkey had always been eager to flash a shaka sign at them, to show he was from Hawaii.

“But he couldn’t have surfed it. Very few guys did then. I knew most of them.”

“Maybe he wasn’t into big waves,” Olive said.

“He ended up in Hawaii, though.”

“We don’t know when. That’s not in these docs. But there’re a few clues. Remember what Stickney said about the speeding ticket?”