Page 81

CHAPTER 81

“THE FIRE CAME UP on us suddenly,” Brogan said. “It blocked off the only road out of the farm. My father told us to climb into the water tank. We all got in. Chelsea didn’t get out.”

We were climbing still, the rocky mountain road narrowing. Water-starved eucalyptus trees reached for the hard blue sky. I brought my good leg onto the seat with difficulty and started unlacing my shoe. Brogan glanced over.

“So here I am, thirty years later, leaving my goddamn therapy session, heading to a bar to try to drink the night away,” he continued. “I stop in a corner store to get some cigarettes. This beautiful woman is at the counter checking her lottery ticket in the little machine. Blond. Perfect body. Yoga pants. Her skinny, douchey husband is in the aisles trying to decide on what crackers to get. I’m waiting at the counter to buy my smokes and the blonde suddenly starts screaming. Everybody in the store stops to watch. The husband rushes over. She tells everyone they’ve just won the lottery.”

Brogan was wringing the steering wheel. I pulled my shoe off.

“Everybody is clapping, and the two of them are dancing around and hugging,” Brogan said. “And I’m hating on these lucky assholes. But what can I do? I wish them the best, I congratulate them, I ask their names. That’s when I find out — it’s him. It’s Troy fucking Hansen. This is the guy who obliterated my family. Who killed my sister. Who drove my father to the bottle and my stepmother to pills. I hadn’t seen him since his family split town. My own family also moved to get away from the memories. But now here he is, right in front of me, with his beautiful wife, jumping up and down celebrating his fucking lottery win ? Are you kidding me? And, oh, of course. I can see it all as I look at him — his blessed, blessed life. His parents probably never told him about what happened in the fire. Maybe nobody in town did. I mean, everybody knew, but it just became a thing nobody talked about. Maybe people figured why burden him with that?”

I peeled my sock off, rolled it into a tight little ball half the size of my fist.

“I followed Troy and Daisy home,” Brogan said, watching me idly, caught up in his own memories. “And the more I learned about Troy, the easier the weight of my own life became. The trouble I was having at work didn’t matter. The ex-wives and their bullshit were just background noise. I watched Daisy. Learned her habits. I followed Troy on his route around the telephone poles. It was always in my mind to deal with it, like my ex-wife said. Like the therapist said. Deal with my anger. I knew I could do that if I really fucked up Troy’s life. Made things even.”

“You’re not the meditation-and-forgiveness-and-affirmations type, huh,” I said.

“There were opportunities,” he said, ignoring me. “I learned about Daisy’s affair and thought about revealing it to him. I thought about matching his telephone-repair route to a bunch of burglaries. I even paid some techie asshole to show me how to copy Troy’s work log and alter it so I could make it look like he’d been at certain locations on certain days.”

I’d fallen for that one.

Brogan wiped at his eyes. I looked over. He’d lost interest in what I was doing and was gripping the steering wheel, staring ahead, tears brimming in his eyes.

“I was looking at the girlfriend, the psychologist. That’s how deep I was into Troy and Daisy and their lives. I’d signed up for Daisy’s nutrition program, and I’d bought Alex Brindle’s fucking books. I read her dissertation on serial killers. Then I thought, What if it isn’t burglaries that Troy’s route matches? ” he said. “ What if it’s murders? I knew Troy Hansen was a murderer. I wanted the world to see him that way.”

I shook my head. Brogan didn’t notice.

“So I dug around at work and found a bunch of open assignments. No-hoper cases,” he said. “I took my time. Looked at each case carefully. Made sure it was a no-hoper. I chose cases where it was pretty damn clear the victims would never be found. Where they’d obviously jumped off a bridge or gotten lost in the wilderness and been eaten by coyotes or whatever the fuck.” He gave a sad smirk. “Jarrod Maloof back there? Jesus. I had no idea he was still alive. All the signs pointed to suicide. He’d been talking wacked-out conspiracy theories for months. Saying he was going to jump off Santa Monica Pier and let the tide take him out. I was sure that’s what he’d done.”

“How did you get their personal items?”

“I visited the families. Conducted more interviews. Took an item each time.”

“You assembled the box,” I said, alternately watching the road ahead of us and watching Brogan’s speed on the speedometer. Waiting for my opportunity. “Then you went to plant it at Troy’s house while he was out. But Daisy came home unexpectedly.”

He nodded, sucking in a long, deep breath.

“She found you in her home,” I said.

“She broke her routine,” Brogan said. “I turned around and she was just ... there. In the kitchen. I’d been washing my hands after burying the box. She was staring at me. I hadn’t even heard her come in.”

“So you killed her,” I said.

“She came at me first.” Brogan’s eyes were now dry. “She was a strong woman. Vicious. Athletic. All I was trying to do was subdue her.”

“Martin Rosco,” I said. “Did you send him after me to try to get me to drop the case?”

“That was a stupid move.” Brogan shook his head. “Rosco had always been unreliable. But Troy hiring a PI was a complication I didn’t need.”

“I’d just love to know why you’re bothering to tell me all this,” I said. “Is it because you’re hoping I’m going to come over to your side, help you plead out to manslaughter for what you did to Daisy?”

He didn’t answer.

“Or is it because you’re trying to make yourself feel better about what you’re about to do?” I looked at the scrubland around us. “Because I gotta tell you, Brogan, your heartfelt explanation of what you did? It’s got a little less coldness to it than some of the murder confessions I’ve heard in my time.”

He looked at me.

“But,” I went on, “if you think all that is gonna stop me from killing you to save my own life ... you’re dead wrong.”

I put my rolled-up sock in my mouth. The sour taste of my own foot sweat made me wince. I tugged my seat belt tight and bit down hard on the sock.

“What the hell are you doing?” Brogan asked.

I reached over, grabbed the steering wheel, and yanked it toward me. The car swerved. Brogan did exactly what I’d expected him to — he slammed on the brakes. The tires bit into the road and the vehicle flipped.