Page 11

CHAPTER 11

I STOPPED BY THE house with the crab rolls for Baby. I was hungry too, so I’d gone ahead and bought us six.

After we ate, I hustled her into the Impala for the hour-plus drive from our house in Manhattan Beach to Glendale, where Troy Hansen lived. I figured we should visit our new client at the scene of the crime. So to speak.

Baby was applying lip gloss and admiring herself in the passenger-seat sun visor’s mirror as we approached the Hansen residence on Bonita Drive. I slowed when I spotted a dozen or so media vans crowding the intersection ahead. Bonita Drive itself was blocked and guarded by police. Troy had mentioned that they would allow only residents and known guests through.

“This is insane.” Baby flipped the mirror back up and looked at the huddles of press standing in the sunshine, comparing notes. “Tough luck if you live on Troy Hansen’s street. You’ve gotta go through a police checkpoint every time you go anywhere.”

“True, but still, I’d be grateful for the protection from gawkers and the press,” I said. “Without the blockade, both the media and amateur web sleuths would be free to knock on anyone’s door looking for sound bites.”

I pointed to where a woman was filming herself on her iPhone across the road from the TV reporters. As we drove past, Baby and I heard her voice through our open car windows.

“... with theories about what time Troy actually arrived home the night Daisy disappeared. Like and follow for part two, guys.”

We identified ourselves to the police and were let through. Two drones appeared and hovered maybe thirty feet above us as we walked up to the Hansens’ uncovered front porch. We rang the bell and Troy opened the door wearing flip-flops, sweats, and a muscle shirt. There was a scrubbing brush in his hand. I heard the buzz of the drones behind us as they tried to get closer and I all but threw myself at Troy in a likely futile attempt to block their view of him holding cleaning supplies.

The police blockade would help keep the press away, but nothing stopped rumors entirely, and those rumors hit the internet fast.

“What the hell, Troy?” I said as Baby and I hurried inside. I slammed the door shut behind us and pointed to the scrubbing brush. The air smelled of bleach. “What are you doing?”

He pushed back his floppy hair and glanced at Baby as though she could help. “The police said I could clean whatever I wanted as long as I didn’t touch the kitchen.”

“Troy.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Don’t clean anything, okay? Don’t throw anything away or try to sell anything either. While you’re at it, don’t start inquiring with your life insurance provider. Don’t get on a dating app. Don’t hook up the porn channel. These are all textbook examples of guilty-husband activities.”

Troy stared at the carpet. I waved a hand at Baby. “This is my kid sister, Baby. She’s my partner at the agency.”

“Don’t start doing any gardening either.” Baby took up where I’d left off. “Those drones film you in the yard with a shovel, and the whole internet will fry. Satellites will burst into flames in the stratosphere and tumble to the earth.”

“I have to do something.” Troy went to the couch in an immaculate living room. “I’m going nuts. If I go out there, people start filming me or yelling at me. If I stay in here, all I have is the television, and it’s either murder documentaries, murder dramas, or coverage of Daisy and me.”

“So let’s give you something to do,” I said. “You’re going to walk me through what happened the night Daisy went missing.”

Troy’s pale, hairy toes twitched on the rubber surface of his flip-flops. The drones buzzed outside, a tap dripped somewhere, and the house stood otherwise still and empty and smelling of cleaning products. I noticed a bowl of decorative wicker balls sitting on the huge coffee table. Magazines were fanned out near them; they looked pristine and unread.

Eventually, Troy spoke. “I came home. Daisy’s car wasn’t here,” he said. He gestured over his shoulder toward the kitchen without looking at it. “I saw the blood right away.”