Page 30 of 2 Sisters Murder Investigations

“This isn’t a movie. As far as we know, all Troy has on him is his wallet and maybe a phone. He can’t use his credit cards without being tracked. Even if Mexico is the plan eventually, it isn’t the plan today. Today he needs shelter. He needs help. He needs ... ” I trailed off, thinking. Troy’s words from the other day floated back to me.

I have one buddy, a guy from work.

“I know where he’s going.” I swung the wheel.

CHAPTER31

BABY AND I SATin the Chevy and watched the wire-fenced parking lot of the Public Utilities Commission hub just north of Skid Row in downtown Los Angeles. Of the twenty-seven vehicles in the lot, sixteen were regular cars and eleven were pickups, vans, or trucks. Of those eleven, only one was rigged with a foldout ladder and a huge spool of electrical wire. We figured that one belonged to George, Troy Hansen’s work buddy.

A guy left the building and crossed the parking lot, and as soon as I laid eyes on him, I knew it was George — I recognized the big, bearded Black guy from the photo in Troy’s living room. He had Troy Hansen’s same uncomfortable, stooped walk and downcast eyes, plus weirdly delicate hands that looked silky soft even from a distance. He and Troy were kindred spirits. I watched him get in the truck with the ladder, and Baby snorted in the seat beside me.

“That’s him,” she said. “Dude moves like a kicked dog.”

I started the car and followed the pickup at a good distance. The bearded guy was talking on the phone the whole time, driving edgy and distracted, not noticing when the light turned green, not remembering to signal. He pulled into a mall parking lot, and I had to shunt the Chevy into an unofficial space against a wall so we could get out and keep up with him.

He walked into a Walmart. Baby and I followed the guy into the store full of visual clutter — shelf stackers wearing blue vests, heavy with lanyards; bright lights; hundreds of bikes on racks; a big inflatable monkey nodding over the toy section. We stood near the women’s clothing section and watched George rake T-shirts and pants off the stands in the men’s section.

“Clothes for Troy,” Baby said.

We followed George to the sporting goods section. The big man snatched a backpack off a shelf without even stopping.

He headed for the gun counter, and I noticed a movement behind him. Dave Summerly was marching down the party-supply aisle, his eyes on his phone. I realized with stomach-churning clarity that Summerly had had the same idea we had and was probably following directions given to him by a police team tracking Troy’s pal.

“Oh, jeez.” Baby spotted Summerly at the same time I did. She didn’t say anything. Neither did I. We moved in tandem, a machine with interlocking parts. Baby rushed forward to intercept Summerly while I sprinted toward the gun counter and grabbed George’s arm. He jerked it away hard and whirled around to look at me.

“If you really want to help Troy, you’ll leave this store with me right now,” I hissed.

CHAPTER32

THE BIG GUY EYEDmy tattoos and pink hair, then left his collected items on the gun section’s counter and followed me without hesitation. Maybe Troy had told him about me. Or maybe George had decided I was a trustworthy member of the weirdo club. I’ve always dressed and styled myself for me exclusively, but in my previous time as a defense lawyer, I’d found that my visible tattoos opened as many doors as they closed, particularly in my work with young criminals.

As we traversed the sea of checkouts, I told George to switch off his phone, and he did. I looked back across the store and glimpsed Baby and Dave talking animatedly, him trying to push forward, her trying to convince him to stay put.

I walked Troy’s friend to a far corner of the store. “Where is he?” I said to the big guy. Despite his size, he backed away, and I suddenly realized how young he was. Mid-twenties at most.

“I don’t know where Troy is.” George shook his head, his eyes on the ground. “I haven’t seen him since — ”

“Nope,” I snapped. “Don’t play dumb. We don’t have a lot of time. I need to get my hands on Troy and convince the police assigned to watch him that he hasn’t run off. Otherwise they’ll order a BOLO and the world will hear about it, and it won’t be pretty.”

“I just — ”

“You were buying clothes for him just now,” I said. “Supplies. He called you at work and told you what to buy for him. Where to meet him.”

The big, bearded guy just kept shaking his head. Then, without warning, he burst into tears. I was stunned. His exterior — the heavy brow, dark beard, shoulders as wide as a refrigerator — had spoken of an inner stoicism that wasn’t actually there. I was in the presence of a big kid pushed right to the edge.

“Listen.” I put my hand on his arm and watched him wipe tears away with the back of his hairy hand. “I’m Team Troy. Okay? I’m here because I want to help him too.”

He looked at me, his eyes huge and wet.

“I’m his private investigator.” I put my hand out. “Rhonda Bird.”

“George Crawley. Troy and I work the callouts together.”

“You’re okay, George.” I rubbed his arm. The urge to console the upset, overgrown boy was hitting all my newly formed mother triggers, raw and ragged since Baby came into my life. “You’re all right, buddy.”

“Troy didn’t do this,” he whispered. Nearby shoppers were trying, though not very hard, to avoid staring at us. “He didn’t kill Daisy. I’m his best friend. Iknowthe guy. He’s innocent.”

George drew a huge breath. “This is all Daisy,” he said. “The escape. The box. Everything.”

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