Page 78

CHAPTER 78

DAVE SUMMERLY LEANED ON the horn. When the minivan driver in front of them flipped them the bird, Baby moved over and hammered on the horn herself.

Los Angeles late-afternoon traffic was only slightly worse than Los Angeles traffic in general, which meant they’d struggled their way out of Skid Row as though driving through molasses. Summerly took the detachable emergency light from under his seat, reached out of his window, and smacked it onto the roof of the car. He rolled up his window and flicked it on. The wailing siren meant they both had to raise their voices on the separate phone calls they were making.

“I’m trying to find out the name of the last police officer or detective who came to your house to speak to you about your missing husband,” Summerly said, enunciating his words in order to be heard over the muffled wail of the siren. “If you can just ... oh, you don’t? Do you have a — a badge number or did he leave a business card? Even just a description of the guy ... yes. Yes. If you could ask her what she remembers and call me back ... ”

Baby was drumming her fingernails on the dashboard, fighting the crazy impulse to get out of the car and run through the traffic to the highway.

“I want to speak to Troy Hansen,” she growled into her phone. “Now. It’s a matter of life and death ... No, I don’t know his inmate number. You know who he is! The man has been all over the internet for the past week and a half!”

She threw the phone into her footwell at the same time Summerly threw his, and the two devices banged into each other on the floor.

“Fuck!”

“God damn it!”

They watched the traffic lazily clearing ahead of them, the cars making a gap wide enough for a person with a shopping cart to weave through and not much else.

“Where did Rhonda say she was?”

“About three hours from home.” Summerly sighed. “That was around three o’clock.”

Baby looked at the map app on her phone. “If she kept driving at the speed limit, that would put her” — she pointed — “about here.”

The gap ahead widened. Summerly and Baby rocked back and forth in their seats as he surged and braked, surged and braked. “If we can get through this mess I can make it in an hour. Jesus.” He held his head.

“What?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “Maybe there’s a chance. What if it’s someone from one of those missing-person volunteer groups? The families agree to see them. They have a meeting in the home, look at the victim’s room, nab an item to put in the box. Maybe we’re looking at someone from a church group? What about a journalist? Maybe a reporter visited every single family — ”

“Dave.” Baby put a hand on his leg. “Your desperate hope that the world isn’t stuffed full of evil cops is seriously cute, but it’s wrong. It had to be a cop who snuck into Troy’s house and placed the note saying where Daisy’s body was. Only a cop would know they didn’t have the back of the house covered. And only a cop could have taken it from him at the crime scene.”

“I just can’t get my head around the fact that it’s a cop who’s done this,” he said. “This is ... it always makes me sick, this stuff. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not an idiot. I’ve been through a lot of corruption sweeps in my time. Guys I have known and trusted were picked up. I just never get used to it. Feels worse to me when it’s a cop.”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Baby said. Her phone rang. Men’s Central Jail. She picked both phones up and handed Summerly his.

“Troy.” Baby drew in a deep breath. “I’ve got a lot of things to run by you.”

“Before you start, I have something that might help,” Troy Hansen said. Baby put a finger in her ear to block the sound of Summerly making another call beside her. “I spoke to Rhonda earlier. She asked me about a girl named Chelsea Hupp. Asked me if I killed her.”

“Right?”

“I’ve never heard of Chelsea Hupp,” Troy said. Somewhere in the background, a prison door buzzed and slammed. “I’ve been racking my brain about it. I’m certain that I’ve never heard that name before. But Rhonda said the girl died when I was a kid.”

“Okay?”

Troy struggled. His voice came out thin, shaken. “I did something when I was seven or eight. My parents told me that nobody got hurt, but ... but maybe they were just trying to protect me. Or themselves.”