Page 56

CHAPTER 56

I WAS PUTTING MY overnight bag into the Chevy Impala when Baby called. The surf was up, crunching hard beyond our row of houses, and I could hear kids squealing and dogs barking out on the esplanade.

There was a hipster-looking couple on the opposite corner who’d been there when I emerged from the house, and from their theatrically casual gestures, I’d known immediately that they were web sleuths or citizen journalists trying not to get made. Half the skill of being undercover is staying relaxed. The guy yawned, then the girl copied him, then they laughed too hard about it. By the time Baby called, they’d given up the ruse and were openly filming me on their phones.

“Hey,” I said.

There was a pause, then Baby asked, “What happened?”

“You hear me say ‘Hey’ and you immediately know something happened?”

“I’m your sister.”

“Yeah, well.” I got into the car and started fiddling with the phone. “Dave was at the house and I ... I figured it was time to tell him everything. So I did. He blew up. He took the box, the backpack, the messages, all of it. I was about to call you.”

“What was Dave Summerly doing at the house? You two are back on? I knew that would happen.”

“That’s what you wanna know? Whether Dave and I are banging again?”

“I’m your sister, Rhonda.”

“Fine, we were . ” I put the phone on speaker and pulled out. “But the whole ‘He thinks I’m covering for a possible serial killer’ thing snuffed us back out. I’m leaving now to go north. I want to speak to Troy’s parents. I mean, where have they been in all this?”

“True. And what’s the deal with his childhood?” Baby said. “Daisy told Alex there were too many closed doors. Was she right to be worried?”

“Look, no offense,” I said. I took a deep breath. “But I really feel like going alone. I need some time to think.”

“I get it.”

“Talk later.”

“Drive safe.”

For two hours I drove in silence, just my wheels on the road and the sound of traffic ebbing and flowing around me. Red lights, billboards, overpasses. Dry, rocky mountains. I called Men’s Central Jail to speak to Troy, already knowing the response I would get — inmates weren’t permitted to use the phones after five p.m. It was useless, but I had to try. Next, letting my impulses carry me, I dialed Mark and Summer Rayburn. I hung up halfway through the first ring, cursing myself for being so insensitive. After a minute, I got a call back from the same number. I winced as Mark came on the line.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s Rhonda Bird. I just realized it’s a terrible time to call.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I heard the sound of people talking, then a door sliding shut. The other voices were cut off abruptly. “I needed an excuse to go out and get some air. The house is full of people. Everybody’s crying.”

I listened to Mark’s gravelly voice and willed myself to keep it together.

“I’m all cried out myself,” he said. “I was going to call you, actually.”

“You were?”

“Yeah,” he said. “They’re doing the autopsy on Daisy. Getting it rushed through because of all the public interest. They don’t know everything, but there were some things they were able to tell us. Her body was burned inside the car, but it looks like she was already dead.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just listened.

“If it was Troy, why would he do that?” Mark asked. “I mean, there was no need to hide evidence, right? Fingerprints and stuff. Troy used Daisy’s car all the time. Would make sense for traces of Troy to be there.”

“Look.” I took a deep breath, feeling like I was on unsteady ground. “The psychology behind all this stuff is ... there are mixed opinions, okay? Sometimes killers cover their victims with a blanket to hide what they’ve done. That happens particularly when it’s a known victim. Could be that burning the ... the scene ... was driven by shame.”

“So now you think it could be him?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But, Mark?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not gonna stop until I know.”

Mark Rayburn gave a hoarse grunt. I didn’t know if it was appreciation or derision.

“Personally, I think we should be looking harder at that George Crawley guy,” he said. “The man makes me uncomfortable. Always has. Never known him to have a girlfriend. Maybe he got jealous, went to the house, made a pass at Daisy.”

“Maybe,” I said. I thought about George Crawley weeping from stress in my car. “I don’t want to discount anything yet, but I’m following other leads.”

I saw a cluster of lights approaching, a gas station flanked by fast-food joints. I started shifting lanes. “Tell me, did you ever meet Troy’s parents?” I asked Mark.

“No,” Mark said. “They didn’t come to the wedding. Troy said they were elderly. Limited mobility. But I think that was bullshit. From what Daisy told me, they’re hicks from some backwater place up north somewhere.”

“Outside Ukiah, up in Mendocino County.”

“Right. I’m thinking the kids just didn’t invite them. Didn’t want their big day to turn into an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies .”

I said goodbye to Mark, pulled the Chevy up to a pump, and started filling it with gas. The site was identical to a thousand highway oases I had stopped at. A dusty, ruddy-faced panhandler begged for change on the edge of the lot. A mom and dad with sleeping kids in the back seat of their car checked their tires, calculated the time left before they hit LA.

In the attached convenience store, I grabbed snacks without much thought — nuts, chips, jerky, whatever I could eat one-handed. As I was filling a forty-four-ounce slushy cup, the attendant grabbed my arm. I was so startled, I dropped the cup, spilling chunky sludge everywhere.

“Yo, lady,” the guy said. He was looking out the big dark windows to the lot. “Don’t go to your car yet, okay? Some dude just crawled up and snuck into the back seat.”