Page 19

CHAPTER 19

SANTA MONICA ROLLS WITH the sun, showing its seedier underbelly only when the big red ball dips below the horizon. Once the parking lots are empty of tourist rental cars, the pier lights up and the roller coaster rattles by, trailing screams.

Baby and I sat on the sand, watching the sunset and snacking on overpriced food from vendors near the pier. Dave Summerly texted and reluctantly confessed that the date had indeed been incorrectly entered into Troy Hansen’s neighbor’s Jettno security camera. A shiver of both vindication and curiosity ran up my spine. I texted back immediately and asked if he had footage of the actual evening that Daisy disappeared. Did it line up with Troy’s account of when his wife disappeared?

He didn’t respond.

“I don’t know why you ghosted that guy,” Baby said.

“I didn’t ghost him.”

“Yeah, you did. He was perfect for you and you blew it.”

“Thanks for the advice, Dr. Love,” I said.

“I’m just saying, if you had a man in your life, you’d be less up in my business.”

The sand was clearing, the crowds evolving. The eyes were growing meaner, more driven. We watched our first group of homeless youths pass by, cardboard signs in hand, unrestrained mongrel dogs trotting at their feet. We got up and started canvassing for information about Jarrod Maloof, knowing that if Jarrod had been living out here on the beach, the night folks were more likely to recognize his picture on my phone than the folks who hung out here during the day. Baby and I stopped drifters, grifters, beggars, peddlers, and the occasional surfer who seemed comfortable enough with the terrain to be a local.

A theme emerged as we got closer to Venice Beach. Several people did recognize Jarrod and remembered the teenager as hopped up, paranoid, spouting conspiracy theories and accusations that some camp dwellers had been spying and colluding with the police. Jarrod might have been part of the Muscle Beach crew, we were told.

“But watch yourself,” people said. “They’re all crazies down there.”

The Muscle Beach camp was a slab of concrete behind a row of souvenir shops. It was strung with tarps and makeshift lean-tos, overcrowded, overrun with scrappy dogs. As we neared it, I saw a tall man with a mop of curly black hair step back from the raggedy-looking youth he’d been talking to and start yelling. Other camp dwellers, windswept and emaciated, watched from the fringes.

“You’ve got two choices, okay?” the curly-haired man barked. “You give it to me, or I get the cops down here to arrest your ass!” Curly was obviously not part of the camp. His clean clothes and clear eyes told me that.

The teenager being yelled at was wearing a backpack and scratching at the sweat-stained collar of his hoodie, a defiant grin on his face.

“Man, you don’t wanna play it like that,” the teen said. “Fastest way to get us all to scatter is by bringing the law down on us. You’ll be back to square one.”

“What’s going on here?” I asked as Baby and I approached.

“I’m looking for my nephew Jarrod.” Curly didn’t look at me. He was locked on the teen with the backpack, his jaw tight. “He was a part of this camp, and he’s missing.”

I glanced at Baby. Her eyes were electric.

“We’re trying to find Jarrod too,” I said. “I’m Rhonda Bird.” I offered my hand to Curly.

“Oliver Maloof.” The man finally turned his eyes to me, but only for a second. I could see the resemblance to Jarrod. I’d shown the photograph to dozens of people, and Jarrod Maloof’s lopsided grin was now burned into the backs of my eyelids. “You part of the church group looking for Jarrod?”

“No.”

“Must be the Facebook people, then,” said the teen in the hoodie, laughing. His mullet was so greasy, it shone in the streetlight. He sneered at me. “Or are you with the Red Cross? Police volunteers? True-crime podcasters? Hell, you could be one of a hundred goddamn people kicking over rocks looking for Jarrod. It’s just been one nosy asshole after another stopping by here. Nobody can get any sleep! But thanks so much for coordinating. Now I can tell all of you to fuck off at once.”

“So where is he?” I asked. “You want people to stop parading through your camp? Help us out.”

“I don’t know!” The teen threw his hands up. “Nobody knows. He split. Probably hopped a train. There was a crew from further down toward the pier who were heading to Florida. Probably joined them.”

“Too many probably s for my liking,” Baby said. “Come on. Think hard.”

“Nobody knows where he went,” the kid repeated. “I told this loser already. All I got is the bag, and that’s goin’ to the highest bidder.”

“What bag?”

“Jarrod’s bag.” The teen gave me a brown-toothed smile. “I found it this morning. All this time we been thinkin’ Jarrod must have taken it with him wherever the hell he went. But I found it when the recycling pickers came through. Lucky me, huh?” He shuffled, making the backpack he was wearing flap against his shoulders. I felt my eyes widen; my fingers itched with the desire to reach out and grab the bag.

“Give it to me,” Oliver Maloof snapped.

“You know my price.”

“I’m not paying for something that belongs to my family!” Maloof snarled. “Jarrod might be hurt somewhere! He might be — ”

“How much do you want for it?” Baby asked. “Rhonda, give me your wallet. I only have Apple Pay.”

“Don’t give him any money,” Maloof ordered.

“Don’t do it!” someone from the camp echoed. There was a rumble of excitement around us, some warning us off, some egging us on.

“Baby, wait.” I put my hand on hers but kept my eyes on the backpack. I could see the weight of the contents inside it pulling on the straps, making shapes in the fabric. Precious answers.

“I don’t see what the big deal is. The backpack is right there. Don’t we want to find him? A little cash seems a minor sacrifice.”

I reluctantly pulled out my wallet, but I hadn’t even slid the bills all the way out before the kid with the bag snatched them from my fingers.

“Thanks, bitch!” He laughed. Then he twisted away, stuffed the notes into the pocket of his hoodie, and came out with a thin, dark object. The stabbing happened so fast, I didn’t get a good look at the shank before the teen plunged it into Oliver Maloof’s side.