Bones

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Ma’am, at this point, we’re not even close to a suspect. That’s why anything you did see is important.”

  “A suspect . . . so she’s . . . ”

  “Afraid so,” said Reed.

  “Oh, no.” Her eyes watered. “That’s very sad, such a young one . . . oh, my . . . I wish I could tell you more.”

  Milo said, “You’re doing great. Could I please have your full name for the records? As well as a contact number?”

  “Luz Elena Ramos—is it dangerous to stay here?”

  “There’s no reason to think that.”

  “Wow,” said Luz. “This is a little scary. I’d better be careful.”

  “I’m sure you’re fine, Ms. Ramos, but careful’s always good.”

  “When you showed up, I guess I knew something happened. I work in a hospital for eight years, know what bad news looks like.”

  Selena Bass’s four hundred square feet of space couldn’t shrug off its automotive origins.

  Cracked cement floors had been painted bronze and lacquered but oil blotches peeked through the gloss and a faint petro-reek lingered. A dropped ceiling of whitewashed drywall panels compressed the room. The same material was used for the walls, tacked haphazardly to the underlying lath. Tape seams were visible, nailheads erupted like prom-night acne.

  “High-end construction,” said Milo.

  Reed said, “Maybe the piano wasn’t bringing in the bucks.”

  We gloved up, stood in the doorway, took in the entire space. No obvious signs of violence or disorder.

  Milo said, “We’ll call in the techies, but I’m not seeing this as the operating room.” He stepped in and we followed.

  A right angle of black Masonite cabinets sectioned off a tiny, corner kitchenette. Space-saver refrigerator, microwave, two-burner electric cooktop. In the fridge: bottled water, condiments, a rotten nectarine, limp celery, a single carton of take-out Chinese in a generic carton.

  Moe Reed checked his gloved hands, inspected the box. Sweet-and-sour chicken, tinted Caltrans orange. He tilted the box. “Gelled stiff. Got to be at least a week old.”

  A queen mattress sat on the floor, sheathed by a brown batik throw and piled with too many overstuffed madras pillows. Milo peeled back a corner of the throw. Lavender sheets, clean, unruffled. He sniffed. Shook his head.

  “What, sir?” said Reed.

  “No smells—no detergent, body odor, perfume, zilch. Like it was changed but not slept in.”

  He moved on to an almost-birch nightstand, containing lightweight sweats, a white flannel nightgown, a cheap digital alarm clock, a comb.

  Milo peered at the comb. “No hair I can see but maybe the tweezer squad’ll find something. Speaking of which, Detective Reed.”

  Reed phoned the criminalists and Milo continued his circuit of the room. He checked out a tall, yellow plastic garbage can. Empty. Additional pillows strewn randomly supplied extra seating. Plumped and firm, as if they’d never borne weight.

  Storage came by way of a three-drawer plywood dresser and a six-foot steel closet painted olive drab. To the left of the closet was a lav barely wide enough for one person to stand in. Nylon curtain instead of a door, fiberglass shower, Home Depot sink and commode. A flimsy medicine cabinet sat on the floor.

  Everything spotless and dry. The cabinet was empty.

  The exception to all the bare-bones aesthetic was a wall devoted to a pair of electric keyboards, an amp, a mixing board, a twenty-inch flat-screen monitor on a black stand, two black folding chairs, and several waist-high stacks of sheet music.

  Reed examined the music. “Classical . . . more classical . . . some indie rock . . . more classical.”

  Milo said, “No stereo, no CDs.”

  Reed said, “There’s probably an iPod somewhere.”

  “Then where’s the computer that makes all the other gizmos operative?”

  Reed frowned. “Someone cleaned up.”

  The two of them went through the dresser and the metal closet. Jeans, T-shirts, jackets, underwear in small sizes. Tennis shoes, boots, black high-heeled sandals, red pumps, white pumps. One end of the hanging rack in the closet bore half a dozen dresses in optimistic colors.

  No discs, laptops, anything related to computers.

  Reed kneeled in front of the dresser, slid open the bottom drawer. “Whoa.”

  Inside was a leather bustier, two sets of fishnets, three pairs of orange-trimmed black crotchless panties, a trio of cheap black wigs, three enormous purple dildos.

  Each of the hairpieces was shoulder-length with short bangs. A blue vinyl sewing box held bottles of white face makeup, black eyeliner, tubes of lipstick the color of an old bruise. When Reed pulled it out, a small, black leather riding crop rolled forward.

  Milo said, “Dominatrix in her spare time? Maybe her real pad’s someplace else and she used this dump for partying.”

  Reed seemed transfixed by the garments. “Maybe she also gave her music lessons here, Lieutenant.”

  “Doubtful, no real piano, no instruction books.” Milo shut the drawer, took in the room. “If this was her main crib, she led a pretty bare life, even accounting for a cleanup. Five minutes inside and I’m ready to gulp some Prozac.”

  He returned to the metal closet, ran his hand over the top shelf. “Well, looky here.”

  Down came a cardboard Macy’s box stuffed with papers.

  On top was Selena Bass’s tax return from last year. Income of forty-eight thousand from “freelance musical consulting,” ten grand worth of “equipment and supplies” deductions.

  Beneath that, he found thirteen monthly checks clipped together in a precise stack. Four thousand dollars each, written on the Global Investment Co. account of The Simon M. Vander Family Trust, address on Fifth Street in Seattle.

  Same memo for every payment in block printing: Lessons for Kelvin.

  Reed said, “The kid on the Web.”

  Milo said, “Nearly fifty K a year to teach Junior how to tickle the ivories.”

  “One student paying all the bills, maybe he’s got serious talent, some kind of prodigy.”

  “Or someone thinks he does. How about going out to the car and running Simon Vander’s name? The kid, too.”

  “You bet.”

  Milo resumed examining the papers in the Macy’s box. A California I.D. depicted a thin-faced, big-eyed girl with a pointy cleft chin and dirty-blond hair. Short bangs, just like the wigs. Easy fit for dress-up time?

  I said, “Why would she need that if she had a license?”

  He said, “Maybe she moved here without a license, got this in the interim.”

  Beneath the card were receipts from a Betsey Johnson outlet in Cabazon, near Palm Springs, and a six-month-old credit card bill for five hundred dollars, recently paid off after six months of mounting interest at the typical usurious rate.

  At the bottom sat a single e-mail, four months old, from engrbass345 at a Hotmail account. I read over his shoulder.

  Sel, so glad you finally found a job. And a satisfying one, to boot. Be well, dear. Don’t take so long next time.

  Love, mom.

  Milo sighed. “Notification time.”

  “Your favorite thing,” I said.

  “That and drowning puppies.”

  Reed charged back into the apartment, bright-eyed and waving his pad.

  “Looks like Simon Vander’s a big-time money guy. The investment account might be in Seattle but he lives here, the Palisades. He owned a chain of supermarkets in Mexican neighborhoods, sold out two and a half years ago for a hundred and eleven million. After that, he drops off the screen except for three more hits for Kelvin, all recitals. Kid’s ten years old. Found one photo of him.”

  He flashed a grainy black-and-white shot of a good-looking Asian boy.

  Milo showed him the e-mail from Selena Bass’s mother.

  Reed said, “Going to try her by computer?”

  “If she’s local, we’ll do it in person.”

  “
‘engrbass,’ ” said Reed. “Maybe she’s an engineer. Meanwhile, should we start with the Vanders, see if they know anything about Selena’s personal life?”

  Using the murdered woman’s first name. Beginning of the bond.

  Milo said, “That’s what I’d do.”

  Reed frowned. “Like I’m inventing the wheel.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Five vehicles at two addresses were registered to Simon Mitchell Vander.

  At Calle Maritimo in Pacific Palisades: a three-month-old Lexus GX, a one-year-old Mercedes SLK, a three-year-old Aston Martin DB7, and a five-year-old Lincoln Town Car.

  At a Malibu listing on Pacific Coast Highway, a seven-year-old Volvo station wagon.

  Moe Reed ran map traces. “La Costa Beach and the north end of the Palisades. Pretty darn close.”

  “Maybe he likes sand between his toes,” said Milo. “Middle of the week, I’m betting on the main house. If that doesn’t pan out, we get a day at the beach.”

  The drive from Venice to Pacific Palisades was a slow drip along Lincoln, not much better on Ocean Front, followed by a quick drop onto Channel Road and a blue zip up the coast. A charitable breeze whipped the ocean into cobalt meringue. Surfers and kite runners and people who liked clear lungs were out in force.

  Calle Maritimo was a snaky climb above the old Getty estate. As the altitude climbed, properties enlarged, soil growing pricier by the yard. Reed drove fast, clipping past bougainvillea hedges, rock walls, charitable glimpses of ocean.

  A sign warned Dead End: No Through Traffic. Seconds later that promise was fulfilled by ten-foot iron gates.

  Hand-fashioned gates, with stout posts resembling oversized stalks of coral and curving iron rods tangled like octopus tentacles. On the other side of all that foundry work was an oval motor court paved with precise slate squares. Recently hosed slate, still beaded in spots, and ringed by razor-cut date palms. Behind the trees, a surprisingly modest house.

  Single story, dun stucco, red tile roof, enclosed courtyard hiding the front door. Off to the side were the four cars listed on Vander’s reg forms. Reed punched the call box. Five rings on the intercom, then silence.

  He tried again. Four more rings. A boyish-sounding male voice said, “Yes?”

  “L.A. police here to talk to Mr. Simon Vander.”

  “Police?”

  “Yes, sir. We need to talk to Mr. Vander.”

  A beat. “He’s not here.”

  “Where can we find him?”

  Two beats. “His last stop was Hong Kong.”

  “Business trip?”

  “He’s traveling. I can give him a message.”

  “Who am I speaking with, sir?”

  More hesitation. “Mr. Vander’s estate manager.”

  “Name please?”

  “Travis.”

  “Could you please come out to the gate for a second, Mr. Travis?”

  “Can I ask what this is—”

  “Why don’t you come out and we’ll tell you.”

  “Uh . . . hold on.”

  Moments later, the courtyard door opened. A man in a navy-blue shirt, pale jeans, and a large gray knit cap squinted in our direction. The shirt was baggy and untucked, tails flapping like breakers. The jeans puddled over white sneakers. The cap was pulled down over the tops of his ears.

  He walked toward us in an unsteady gait—uneven shoulders, a foot that turned outward every other step, on the verge of stumble. When he reached the gate, he studied us through iron tentacles, offered an iron-streaked view of long, gaunt face, hollow cheeks, deep-set brown eyes. A three-day stubble, mostly black, some gray, coated his face. Same for whatever cranium the cap revealed. His mouth was skewed to the left, as if set in perpetual regret. That and the rocky walk suggested some kind of neurological insult. I put him at thirty-five to forty. Young for a minor stroke, but life could be cruel.

  Milo pushed his badge through the tentacles.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Travis.”

  “Huck. Travis Huck.”

  “May we come in, Mr. Huck?”

  A long-fingered hand pushed a button on a remote. The gates swung inward.

  We parked in front of the nearest date palm and got out. The property was set well above its neighbors, at least five acres worth of king-of-the-mountain. Rolling lawns and beds of creeping geranium maintained a low profile. The punch line was a dead-drop bluff rimmed by an infinity pool that kissed the Pacific.

  Up close, the house lost any claims to modesty. One story provided maximum ocean view, but horizontal sprawl chewed up land.

  Travis Huck poked a finger under his cap, flicked moisture from behind his ear. His face was glossy. Warm day for wool. Or maybe he just perspired easily. “If there’s a message I can give to Mr.—”

  “The message,” said Milo, “is that a woman named Selena Bass was found murdered and we’re talking to everyone who knew her.”

  Huck blinked. His sad, crooked mouth straightened into a position of neutrality, at odds with the tension around his eyes.

  He said, “Selena?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh . . . no.”

  “You knew her.”

  “She teaches music. To Kelvin. Mr. and Mrs. Vander’s son.”

  “When’s the last time you saw her, Mr. Huck?”

  “The last time? I don’t—like I said, she gives lessons. When he needs them.”

  “To Kelvin.”

  Huck blinked again. “Yes.”

  “Same question, sir.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Last time you saw her.”

  “Let me think,” said Huck. As if genuinely requesting permission. Sweat rolled down his chin, dropped to the slate. “I want to say two weeks ago . . .” Tugging at the cap. “No, fifteen days. Exactly fifteen.”

  “You know that because . . .”

  “Mrs. Vander and Kelvin left the day after Kelvin’s lesson. Which was fifteen days ago. Kelvin played Bartók.”

  “Left for where?”

  “Vacation,” said Huck. “It’s the summer.”

  Reed said, “The whole family’s traveling.”

  Huck nodded. “Can I ask what happened to Selena?”

  Milo said, “What we can tell you at this point is it wasn’t pretty.”

  No response.

  “So the last time she was here was fifteen days ago exactly?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was her state of mind?”

  “She seemed fine.” Huck’s eyes fixed on wet slate. “I let her in, saw her out. She was fine.”

  Reed said, “Do you know anyone who’d want to hurt her?”

  “Hurt her? She came here to teach. Like the others.”

  “What others?”

  “Kelvin is homeschooled. Specialists come in. Art, gymnastics, karate. A curator from the Getty’s been tutoring him in art history.”

  “Kelvin doesn’t like regular school?” said Milo.

  “Kelvin’s too bright for regular school.” One of Huck’s legs buckled and he braced himself on the hood of the unmarked. His forehead was soaked.

  Moe Reed said, “Bright and a good piano player.”

  “He plays classical,” said Huck, as if that settled it.

  “How long has Selena Bass been teaching him?”

  “She . . . I want to say . . . a year. Give or take.”

  “Where did the lessons take place?” said Milo.

  “Where? Right here.”

  “Never at Selena’s house?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Why of course not?”

  “Kelvin has a busy schedule,” said Huck. “Wasting time driving would be out of the question.”

  “The piano lessons weren’t on a set schedule.”

  “Correct, it depended,” said Huck. “It could be once a week or every day.”

  “Depended on Kelvin’s needs.”

  “If he had a recital, Selena would be here more.”

  “Kelvin give a lot of r
ecitals?”