Page 18 of 2 Sisters Murder Investigations

“How many messages are there?” she asked.

“Dozens? Hundreds? They keep coming in,” I said.

As though to illustrate my point, my phone began buzzing on the table. Caller ID saidUnknown number.

“We’re already in too deep, Baby,” I said. “Our agency is at stake here. This is ourthing. This is ourpartnership. When we decided to work together we ... we really came together as sisters, you and me. You know? And all of that’s threatened now. If we don’t solve this before the police do, we’re going to look like idiots. Like we have no instincts. Like we can’t tell a client from a killer. The agency could fold over this, okay? And if it folds, what the hell are you and I going to do?”

The words tumbled out of my mouth. I braced for an angry reaction but kept going.

“Look, Baby. We can’t walk away from this now. Backing out would make us look like we’re the kind of investigators who bow to public pressure. We’re not. We’re truth finders.”

Baby sighed.

“The world is angry at us because we’re on Team Troy,” I said. “Let’s show them that we made the right decision.”

“I never agreed to be on Team Troy,” Baby grumbled. But she sent a lightning-fast text, pocketed her phone, and grabbed her coffee.

“All right, sis,” she said. “Quick, to the Mystery Machine. Before I change my mind.”

CHAPTER19

SANTA MONICA ROLLS WITHthe 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 theactualevening 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.

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