Page 64

CHAPTER 64

MY SLEEP WAS FITFUL, full of nightmares cut short by panicked wakefulness. Living so close to the ocean since I moved to LA less than a year ago, I’d gotten spoiled by the comforting night music — the crunch of the waves, the chatter of gulls, the sound of people clumping along on the esplanade. Here, there was only ringing silence that gave way to sinister suggestions of danger — a scrape, a scuttle, a squeak.

I gave up on sleep at six thirty a.m., washed my face, and dressed. There were fewer overnight voicemails to the 2 Sisters Detective Agency about the Hansen case than there had been before Troy was arrested, but there were still fifteen or twenty, and some of the numbers had intriguing international codes. I listened to a few while I brewed coffee in the sticky little machine.

“My name is Etienne Durand. I’m calling from Pierre Fonds, in France, about the Troy Hansen case — ”

“This is Sarah from Nashville — ”

“Bob Thompson. I’m a resident of Cape Town — ”

There were two cars in the lot when I left my room at seven. A tired-looking couple unloaded bags from a camper van into the room closest to the reception office, and the clerk had arrived for the day. I returned my key and stood looking out the front windows while he finalized my payment.

Across the street from the motel, parked by the edge of the woods, was a beat-up Ford pickup with flaking army-green paint. The morning sun was at such an angle that it bounced off the windshield and made it impossible for me to get a view of the driver.

“That truck,” I said to the clerk. “Was it there when you — ”

Before I could finish, the truck started up and drove away. I paid my bill and left.

But the truck was in my rearview mirror again as I pulled into Ukiah around seven thirty. It sent a cold tingle up my spine, an instinct I didn’t fully trust, given how tired I was. I told myself that the driver was probably a local farmer or hunter just using the same roads I was. But I took the license plate number down anyway. As I followed the GPS to the Hansen house outside of town, I used voice command to send a text to Jamie.

Can you run a plate for me? And yes, before you ask, I’ll deposit the money right into your account. Fifty dollars for a plate check, as usual, but I’ll double it for a response in under an hour.

I had the burning sense that I’d just wasted a hundred dollars on my own paranoia.

Not long after, I knocked on the door of a little log house on Camber Road. I could smell coffee and woodsmoke coming from inside, so I assumed the Hansens were awake. The door was opened by a man who was Troy’s spitting image: dark-haired, stooped, and with hard gray eyes. He surveyed me, unsmiling. Behind him, a small woman with stringy blond hair peered out from the shadows.

“Barney and Reina Hansen?” I asked.

“You people aren’t supposed to be here until this evening.” He looked at my Chevy parked in the driveway. “We’re in the middle of breakfast.”

Struck dumb by the greeting, I glanced at Mrs. Hansen, whose large, exhausted eyes and upturned nose gave her the appearance of a worried church mouse from a children’s book. She offered me a smile that was there and gone in a flash, little more than a facial tic that I sensed she got away with only when her husband’s back was turned.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “ ‘You people’?”

“RealFeal Productions.” Barney grimaced at my Van Halen T-shirt — or my breasts, I wasn’t sure which. “That’s you, ain’t it?”

“N-no,” I stammered. “Uh, no. That’s not me. I’m Rhonda Bird. I’m a private investigator your son hired, and I was hoping to speak to you about him.”

“Well, you should have called ahead.” Barney smirked. “Don’t tell me you drove all the way from LA thinkin’ you’d just march in here and we’d sit you down and give you coffee and tell you everything we know.”

I felt my eyes widen. That was exactly what I’d thought. “Maybe that was ... arrogant. But I just assumed you’d want to help your son with the ... the murder charges he’s facing,” I said. “I should have called ahead. Yes. And I’m sorry I’ve interrupted your breakfast. But, Mr. Hansen, I’m trying to help Troy. I’m trying to find out what the hell happened to your daughter-in-law.”

Reina looked like she wanted to speak. Barney didn’t let her.

“I’ll talk to you.” He shrugged. “Sure. And I got plenty to say too.”

“Good.”

“I know exactly who killed my daughter-in-law.”

A bolt of exhilaration whumped into my stomach. Barney Hansen stepped back. I moved to step forward, but he held out a hand to stop me from entering.

“The RealFeal people are paying us fifty-five thousand dollars for an interview,” he said. “You top that, and you can have all the time with us that you want.”

I felt my mouth fall open.

“Come back when you have the contract all written up,” he said.

He slammed the door in my face.