Page 19 of 2 Sisters Murder Investigations

“Oliver Maloof.” The man finally turned his eyes to me, but only for a second. I could see the resemblance to Jarrod. I’d shown the photograph to dozens of people, and Jarrod Maloof’s lopsided grin was now burned into the backs of my eyelids. “You part of the church group looking for Jarrod?”

“No.”

“Must be the Facebook people, then,” said the teen in the hoodie, laughing. His mullet was so greasy, it shone in the streetlight. He sneered at me. “Or are you with the Red Cross? Police volunteers? True-crime podcasters? Hell, you could be one of a hundred goddamn people kicking over rocks looking for Jarrod. It’s just been one nosy asshole after another stopping by here. Nobody can get any sleep! But thanks so much for coordinating. Now I can tell all of you to fuck off at once.”

“So where is he?” I asked. “You want people to stop parading through your camp? Help us out.”

“I don’t know!” The teen threw his hands up. “Nobody knows. He split. Probably hopped a train. There was a crew from further down toward the pier who were heading to Florida. Probably joined them.”

“Too manyprobablys for my liking,” Baby said. “Come on. Think hard.”

“Nobody knows where he went,” the kid repeated. “I told this loser already. All I got is the bag, and that’s goin’ to the highest bidder.”

“What bag?”

“Jarrod’s bag.” The teen gave me a brown-toothed smile. “I found it this morning. All this time we been thinkin’ Jarrod must have taken it with him wherever the hell he went. But I found it when the recycling pickers came through. Lucky me, huh?” He shuffled, making the backpack he was wearing flap against his shoulders. I felt my eyes widen; my fingers itched with the desire to reach out and grab the bag.

“Give it to me,” Oliver Maloof snapped.

“You know my price.”

“I’m not paying for something that belongs to my family!” Maloof snarled. “Jarrod might be hurt somewhere! He might be — ”

“How much do you want for it?” Baby asked. “Rhonda, give me your wallet. I only have Apple Pay.”

“Don’t give him any money,” Maloof ordered.

“Don’t do it!” someone from the camp echoed. There was a rumble of excitement around us, some warning us off, some egging us on.

“Baby, wait.” I put my hand on hers but kept my eyes on the backpack. I could see the weight of the contents inside it pulling on the straps, making shapes in the fabric. Precious answers.

“I don’t see what the big deal is. The backpack is right there. Don’t we want to find him? A little cash seems a minor sacrifice.”

I reluctantly pulled out my wallet, but I hadn’t even slid the bills all the way out before the kid with the bag snatched them from my fingers.

“Thanks, bitch!” He laughed. Then he twisted away, stuffed the notes into the pocket of his hoodie, and came out with a thin, dark object. The stabbing happened so fast, I didn’t get a good look at the shank before the teen plunged it into Oliver Maloof’s side.

CHAPTER20

FIVE JABS, LIGHTNING FAST.A prison-style shanking. Maximum damage, minimal time. The kid was turning to run almost before the shank in his fist left Oliver Maloof’s body the last time. I had blood on my shoes; the alley seemed to tilt beneath my feet as I realized what had happened. Maloof went down hard and fast, probably more out of shock than a reaction to the pain or the new holes in his rib cage. Baby tried to catch him. As red flowers blossomed on his shirt, I twisted and ran after the kid with the backpack.

It was the wrong move. I’m not out of shape, but Baby is the runner, long-legged and lithe, the natural athlete. I’m a weight lifter — I sacrifice cardio for bulk. Still, something in my brain had decided that between the two of us, she should be the one to care for the victim while I pursued the attacker. I would face the danger while she picked up the pieces.

My heart, my lungs, my joints, were all immediately on fire. I felt disastrously shaky, a machine performing a task it wasn’t designed for, a big low Cadillac plowing uphill through rocky bush terrain, engine roaring. I tried to convince myself that legs that could squat-press four hundred and fifty pounds were good for something. I kept after the kid, slowly gaining on him. I didn’t have speed, but I had power. Heads turned as I chased him down the alley and into the street. As he rounded a corner, he maintained his pace, hands flat and arms pumping, head down and leaning into the turn. I smashed into a parked car and bounced off it, making the whole vehicle rock and the alarm go off as I changed direction like a carnival bumper car.

The kid ran along a strip of restaurants, dragged a valet cart into my path. Fifty sets of keys jangled and fanned out on the concrete. I charged through the whole mess — the keys, the papers, the cart, everything — battering it all out of the way, my calves screaming, sweat pouring down my back. The row of restaurants became a bridge, then a palm-lined street, then a cramped path back down to the beach. We both hit the sand, my breath shunting out of me like hot exhaust, the backpack bouncing on the kid’s back, mere yards beyond my grasp.

When I realized where he was heading, my heart lurched into my throat. The surfers gathered around a bonfire at the edge of the dunes looked like they were participating in some ancient ceremony; flames danced on the pockmarked sand amid haunting silhouettes. The kid glanced back at me, a smug grin on his face. I knew what he was thinking. There were two ways to get me off his tail: give me the bag or destroy it. He unhooked a strap as he ran, heading right for the big fire.

I gave it all I had, seeing the photo of Jarrod Maloof in my mind, that fresh-faced teen in the football jersey. Imagining his backpack, maybe the key to finding him, consumed by the flames up ahead.

A hundred feet. Fifty. Twenty. I put on a final burst of speed.

I crashed into the teen three feet short of the fire. Surfers scattered and shouted all around us as I rolled and pinned him to the sand. I raked the backpack off him, feeling like the bonfire heat was boiling the sweat on my face. I gripped Jarrod’s backpack so tightly in my fist that my knuckles cracked. With my other hand, I knocked the shank away, then held on to the kid as if my life depended on it.

“Somebody ... call ... the ... police,” I said, gasping, to the surfers. Catching my breath seemed impossible. My lungs were squashed against the inside of my ribs, spasming with pain. “And someone ... get ... me ... water.”

Two male surfers grabbed the kicking, howling, struggling teenager who’d stabbed Oliver Maloof. A girl with long, blond beachy hair handed me a bottle of water. I took two sips, almost threw up on the sand, and promised myself that I would never, ever run again.

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