Bones

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Some. Banger snatches her, it wouldn’t be much of a drive from there to here. So sure, we could be talking about a convenient dump site. But those other bodies . . .”

  “They could also be vics from Bass’s neighborhood.”

  “A gang-hit thing?”

  “Or,” said Milo, “a creepo thing. He watches them, stalks them, grabs them.”

  Reed frowned. “Stranger-on-stranger.”

  A bellowed “Hey!” made the three of us turn.

  A scrawny, bowlegged, bearded man in a white T-shirt, high green cargo shorts, and flip-flops strode toward us, pumping his arms.

  Same fellow who’d snarled the surly remark about humans three months ago.

  “Hey,” he repeated.

  No one answered.

  “What’s going on?”

  Moe Reed said, “You are . . .”

  “Silford Duboff, Save the Marsh. This is my place. I’m here to keep an eye on all proceedings.”

  “Your place,” said Reed.

  “No one else cares.”

  Reed extended a hand. Duboff took it reluctantly, as if fearing contamination. “What’s going on?”

  “What’s going on, sir, is early this morning we removed the body of a young woman who was murdered and left on the banks of the marsh. While processing the scene, we found at least three other bodies.”

  Silford Duboff blanched. “Processing? You’re digging?”

  “Nothing extensive—”

  “Out of the question.” Duboff noticed the flag marking Selena Bass’s dump site. “What’s that doing here?”

  “That’s where we found the first victim, sir. And as I said, three other women. All dead.”

  Duboff rubbed his beard. “This is a disaster.”

  Reed removed his sunglasses. Baby-blue eyes had narrowed. “I’d call four dead bodies a disaster.”

  “You said at least three more. Are you implying there could be more?”

  “Three’s what we’ve got so far, Mr. Duboff.”

  “Oh, crap—where are the others? I need to look.”

  Duboff started to head for the flag. Milo’s big arm held him back.

  “What?” Duboff demanded.

  “No access yet, sir.”

  “That’s absolutely unacceptable.”

  Milo showed teeth. “Sir, it’s eminently acceptable.”

  Duboff said, “What’s the reason?”

  “Police personnel are working the scene.”

  “What do you mean working?”

  “Examining particulars.”

  Duboff yanked on his beard. “This is a protected site, you just can’t have cops parking their grubby—”

  “Forensic anthropologists, sir.”

  “Anthro—they’re excavating? I absolutely must talk to them, right now!”

  “We appreciate your concern, Mr. Duboff. But these people are specialists and they respect every site.”

  “This isn’t just a site, it’s a—”

  “Beautiful place,” said Milo. “The only thing that will be removed is evidence.”

  “That’s outrageous.”

  “So is homicide, sir.”

  “This is worse,” said Duboff.

  “Worse than four bodies?” said Reed.

  “I’m not . . . I appreciate the fact that people have died. But when push comes to shove, all humans do is alter the balance—your murders are perfect proof.”

  “Of what?”

  “We keep murdering the earth, then we wonder why life’s so brutal.”

  I said, “Sounds like you don’t have much use for people.”

  Duboff stared at me. Not a hint of recognition. “As a matter of fact, I’m a card-carrying misanthrope but I don’t kill anything that breathes oxygen.” Pointing to his flip-flops. “Organic rubber.” He eyed the white flag. “What I’m saying is we need to ensure that this rare pocket of tranquility remains that way.”

  “Seems to me,” said Reed, “that it’s already been disturbed.”

  “Then let’s not make matters worse. I must have a talk with those ditchdiggers.”

  Reed looked at Milo.

  Milo said, “After you answer a few questions.”

  He loomed over Duboff, began peppering the increasingly flustered man with a mix of relevant and seemingly random questions. Eventually zeroing in on Duboff’s whereabouts during the past twenty-four hours.

  Duboff said, “You suspect me?”

  “Sir, these are the questions we need to—”

  “Who cares where I was last night? But fine, I’ve got nothing to hide, nothing. I was home. Reading.” Jutting his chin. “Enjoying Utne Reader, if you must know.”

  “You live alone?” said Milo.

  Duboff smiled. “Yes, but often a friend stays over. A bright, altruistic, sensuous woman who just happens to be in Sebastopol at the Green Fiber Music Festival. When did your murder take place?”

  “We’re still determining that, sir.”

  Duboff said, “It had to be after eight o’clock because I stopped by the marsh at eight and trust me, there were no bodies.”

  “How long were you here?”

  “Briefly, to check for trash. After that, I bought a sandwich at the all-night market on Culver. Greens and tempeh, if you must know. Then I dropped over at my office to see how our volunteer was doing.” He huffed. “Rich brat, got assigned to us for a community service punishment. He was doing fine, so I left him and drove to Santa Monica and ate my sandwich on Ocean Front. Then I returned to the office at ten oh five to make sure the brat had locked up. Which was fortunate, because he hadn’t. By ten thirty, I was with my Utne.”

  “Find any trash at the marsh?” said Milo.

  “Not this time . . . oh, yes, Alma—my companion—was due to call me from Sebastopol at eleven fifteen. And she did.”

  “Your volunteer,” said Moe Reed. “What’s he being punished for?”

  “Something to do with school,” said Duboff. “I didn’t ask, couldn’t care less. He’s no asset but he doesn’t cause problems.”

  “Alma,” said Reed, taking out his pad. “Last name, please.”

  Duboff’s eyes bugged. “Why would you want to talk to her?”

  “Routine—”

  “Unbelievable. I’m here to safeguard the marsh and you storm-troop me?”

  Reed said, “That’s a little harsh, sir.”

  “Is it? I think not.”

  Milo said, “Alma what?”

  “Good God—fine, fine, Reynolds, Alma Reynolds.” He recited a phone number. “Satisfied? Now you must let me through.”

  We followed Duboff’s race-walk to the anthropologists’ work site. Moe Reed caught up, asked Duboff if the name Selena Bass was familiar.

  “The only bass I know and care about are the striped ones. Grievously overfished because of American flesh-lust.”

  I said, “People,” wondering if he’d finally remember me.

  He said, “That song is absolute nonsense. Barbra had it completely wrong.”

  Dr. Hargrove’s team had removed a few small brown fragments and placed them on a blue tarp laid out on the bank. All three women were back in the water, heads close to the surface, sifting, peering.

  Duboff said, “What is that?”

  Reed said, “Human bones.”

  Duboff cupped his hand and called to the scientists: “Be careful, you!”

  The women looked up.

  Milo said, “This gentleman safeguards the marsh.”

  Duboff said, “Don’t make it sound trivial.”

  “This gentleman safeguards the marsh importantly.”

  Dr. Hargrove said, “Sir, we’re being extremely careful, making sure not to upset anything.”

  “Your very presence means the marsh has been upset.”

  Hargrove, Liz Wilkinson, and the freckled scientist stared.

  Duboff took another look at the bones.

  Milo said, “Sir, we need to clear out, let them do their job. Speaking
of which, do you have one, Mr. Duboff?”

  “What are you implying?”

  Milo didn’t answer.

  “I most definitely did. Worked at the Midnight Run bookstore.”

  “They closed down last year.”

  “Ergo ‘did,’ ” said Duboff. “Over the years, I made some investments, can afford to take my time looking. And no wisecracks about oil and gas stocks, okay? I don’t own any.”

  “Boy,” said Milo, “must be hard on the shoulders.”

  “What is?”

  “Carrying around a chip the size of a redwood.”

  Duboff’s mouth dropped open.

  Taking hold of his arm, Milo said, “Nice meeting you, sir,” and guided him back to the street.

  Reed and I watched the two of them walk to Duboff’s dusty Jetta.

  Duboff shook a finger at Milo. Milo remained impassive. Duboff got in the car, still ranting. Drove off.

  Milo returned, scissoring his hand to mimic moving jaws.

  Reed said, “Weird and hostile, but I guess if he was guilty he’d have tried to be friendly. One part of his story is definitely true—stopping by the office after nine and talking to the volunteer. The kid’s name is Chance Brandt, and he’s part of how we found out about Selena in the first place—what I was about to tell you before Numb Nuts interrupted us.”

  “Tell away.”

  Reed looked at his watch. “Better yet, how about we meet the kid face-to-face, I can fill you in along the way? All I’ve had is phone contact with his father, want to make sure I get the facts right. I’ve got an appointment at their house in thirty, going to be tight unless we start out now.”

  “You drive, we’ll ride along, Detective Reed.”

  Milo sat shotgun in Reed’s blue-black Crown Victoria. I got in back.

  “Moe short for Moses?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ah.”

  “You’re thinking about a baby floating in the reeds, the whole marsh thing?”

  “It did occur to me.”

  Reed laughed. “Back when I was born, my mother was kinda biblical.” A beat later: “Moses never got to see the Promised Land.”

  Milo said, “Tell me about the Brandt kid.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Good-looking kid, insolent eyes.

  Chance Brandt sprawled on an oversized brocade sofa in the oversized great room of an oversized Mediterranean mansion on Old Oak Road in Brentwood. The house smelled of take-out pizza and expensive perfume.

  Chance wore tennis clothes. So did his mother, a stunning, long-legged blonde with sea-green eyes and obviously dominant chromosomes. Some of her frosted lipstick had caked and her mouth was pale. She wanted to hold her son’s hand but didn’t dare.

  Sitting on the boy’s other side was Dad: dark, beefy, huge-chinned, bald, still in blue dress shirt and gold Hermès tie.

  Enraged attorney, always a joy to behold.

  “Unbelievable. Now this.” Steve Brandt glared at his son as if Oedipus had materialized.

  The boy said nothing.

  Brandt said, “I do wills and estates, can’t help you here, Chance.”

  Susan Brandt said, “I’m sure there’s nothing to help.”

  Her husband aimed venomous eyes her way. She gnawed her lower lip rosy, folded her arms.

  Moe Reed said, “Chance, tell us what happened.”

  Steve Brandt snorted. “Without benefit of counsel? I think not.”

  “Sir, if all he did was take a phone call, there’s no need for counsel.”

  Chance smiled.

  His father flushed. “Something’s funny, genius?”

  Susan Brandt’s breath caught, as if snagged on barbed wire. Green eyes moistened.

  Milo said, “As Detective Reed explained, we’re investigating a homicide. If Chance is involved, he absolutely does need legal advice and we want him to have it as soon as possible. But we have no indication of that. Certainly, it’s your prerogative to request a lawyer in any circumstance, and if that’s the route you take, we’ll have this conversation at the police station, in an interview room with videotaping, paperwork, et cetera.”

  “You’re threatening me,” said Steve Brandt. His smile was unpleasant.

  “Absolutely not, sir. It’s simply what we’d need to do. At this point, Chance isn’t being looked at as anything other than a witness. To a phone call, at that. So I really don’t see why you wouldn’t want to cooperate fully.”

  Chance’s eyes shifted to us. No more smugness, just confusion.

  Steve Brandt folded his arms across his chest.

  Milo said, “Okay, sir, please make sure Chance is here tomorrow at seven a.m. when we send a squad car for him. Or, if the paper clears sooner, it could be tonight.”

  He started to rise.

  Steve Brandt said, “Hold on. Let me talk to my son in private. Then I’ll inform you which way we’re going with this . . . mess. Fair enough?”

  Milo sat back down. “We work hard to be fair.”

  One hundred fifty-eight seconds later, father and son returned to the room, walking four feet apart.

  Father said, “He’ll tell you everything. But could you please let me know how things got to this point? So I’ll know he’s being straight with me.”

  Son stared at a window with a view of a black-bottomed pool.

  Moe Reed looked at Milo. Milo nodded.

  Reed said, “At eleven-thirty p.m. we received a call about a dead person in the Bird Marsh. The caller heard about it from someone who heard about it from Chance.”

  “How do you know that?” said Steve Brandt.

  “Our caller said someone had phoned the marsh volunteer office earlier that evening, talked to Chance, told him to look for a body. Chance thought it was a joke. Our caller took it seriously.”

  “Who’s the caller?”

  “We’re checking that out.”

  The boy’s posture remained slack but sweat had popped on his forehead.

  “Thirdhand gossip?” said Susan Brandt. “That doesn’t sound like much.”

  Her husband glared. She began fooling with a French-tipped thumbnail.

  Steve Brandt said, “Kids blabbing and fantasizing, that’s the sum total?”

  “Might’ve been,” said Reed, “except we did find a body. And mode of death was homicide.” Swiveling toward Chance. “We need to know exactly what happened.”

  The boy didn’t speak. His father placed a hand on his shoulder, thick fingers digging into white pique, nothing tender about the gesture. Chance squirmed out of his grip.

  “Tell them what you know and let’s finish with this.”

  “Like you said, someone called,” said the boy.

  Reed said, “Who?”

  “Some asshole with a weird voice.”

  “Language, Chance,” said Susan Brandt, in a defeated voice.

  Moe Reed said, “Weird how?”

  “Um . . . like hissy.”

  “Hissy?”

  “Whispery. Like one of those grinder movies. Some death-bot, whatever.”

  “Someone disguising their voice by hissing.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you imitate this person, let us know what it sounded like?”

  Chance laughed.

  “Do it,” said his father.

  “I’m not in Drama, Dad.”

  “You’ve caused plenty of drama in this family.”

  Shrug. “Whatever.”

  “Do it.”

  The boy’s lips formed an “F.” Steve Brandt’s knuckles whitened.

  Milo said, “Someone hissed at you, Chance. What did they say?”

  “Like . . . uh . . . there’s something down in the marsh. Something dead.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Male or female?”