Bones

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Reed showed her a San Diego mug shot.

  “Yeah, Sheri, the limp,” she said. “Good for business.”

  “The limp?”

  “There’s guys be liking it,” said the hooker. “Maybe I should get myself a dee-fect.”

  Duchesne was open about his “new business plan.”

  “Lately I’ve been using Craigslist to set up appointments.”

  Milo said, “Being business-like I’m sure you keep all the e-mails and phone numbers?”

  Duchesne flashed ragged canines and black gaps. “Like I said, lately, just a few weeks.”

  “How do you fill vacant slots?”

  Hesitation. “I supplement the old-fashioned way.”

  Milo said, “Sidewalk displays.”

  Duchesne fingered an empty tooth socket. “I like to think of it as real-time marketing.” On top of his drug arrests, he’d been busted five times for procuring, considered jail time and fines “corporate overhead.”

  Milo said, “Joys of the business world.”

  “Got a degree in business administration, Lieutenant. University of Utah, graduated twenty-one years ago and worked for IBM, and that’s the truth. Call them to verify.”

  “I believe you, Joe Otto. Tell me about Sheralyn.”

  “You really think it’s her?”

  “Can’t be sure, but she fits the body we found.”

  Duchesne nodded. “The leg. I met her last winter—February, I think. Maybe January—no, February. She just got into town, was hanging around, cold, lonely. I took her in ’cause no one else did.”

  “Why not?”

  “The leg situation. Poor thing had trouble being on her feet for stretches of time, cut down on her productivity. I got her all kinds of different shoes. Insoles, inserts, gel pads, you name it. Nothing really helped, but she wouldn’t give up. Hard worker, nice girl.”

  “You liked her.”

  “Nice girl,” Duchesne repeated. “Not the sharpest scimitar in the scabbard, but she had . . . personal warmth. I took her in to be kind, but the leg ended up working out okay.”

  “How so?”

  “A certain consumer segment was attracted to it.”

  “Guys who like limps,” said Milo.

  “Guys who like vulnerability.”

  “Anyone ever take advantage of her vulnerability, Joe Otto?”

  “No, sir,” said Duchesne. “That’s what I’m here for.” Puffing a sunken chest and curling a scrawny fist, the embodiment of pretentiousness.

  Watching the screen, Moe Reed shook his head.

  Milo said, “No one ever got rough with her, Joe Otto?”

  “Never.”

  “You’re sure of that.”

  “Lieutenant, she only worked for me a month and it was a smooth month.”

  “What did she tell you about herself?”

  “Just up from Oceanside. Military maneuvers, heh heh. Military police decided to crack down on fun, made her situation tense. Doesn’t seem fair, right? We send those young boys over to fight for our liberties and they can’t even enjoy a few moments of shore leave?”

  “So she came up to L.A.”

  “Greener pastures,” said Duchesne.

  “She talk much about her life in Oceanside?”

  “She said she had a kid and her mother was taking care of it.”

  “In Oceanside?”

  “She didn’t specify. Didn’t say if it was a boy or a girl and I didn’t pry.” Duchesne’s runny eyes tightened. “Keeping it business-like, you know?”

  Milo nodded. “Give me something to work with, Joe Otto.”

  “That’s it—oh, yeah, she said she’d been married to a navy man but he abandoned her early on. Can’t tell you if any of it’s true, but I don’t see the point of lying about details like that.” Duchesne wiggled a loose canine. “Lieutenant, if it’s her you found, I’m feeling wistful. Here I was thinking she abandoned me. I should’ve known she wouldn’t.”

  “She just up and left?”

  “Here one day, gone the next,” said Duchesne. “Last time I saw her, she was happy. I come back and she’s gone, her stuff’s gone, no note, no forwarding.” Frown. “Truth be told, I was baffled.”

  “Why wouldn’t she abandon you?”

  “Because I treated her better than anyone she’d ever known. Still . . .”

  “What?” said Milo.

  “With girls, you can never tell. Could I trouble you for a Coke?”

  “Sure.”

  Moe Reed got up. Moments later, he was back in the side room and Duchesne was guzzling from a twelve-ounce can.

  “Joe Otto, what do you think drew Sheralyn away from you?”

  “That’s what I kept asking, Lieutenant. Maybe something to do with her kid, her mother. But I didn’t have any numbers to follow up on.”

  “Could be a better gig came along.”

  Duchesne’s mouth shut tight.

  “That possible, Joe Otto?”

  “Better like what?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I’m a fair man and she was happy.”

  Milo watched him drink soda.

  Duchesne put the can down, belched. “I took her in when no one else did.”

  “Do you have any idea who’d want to hurt her?”

  “I’m sure there’s plenty of people who’d want to hurt her. The world being what it is. Can I specify? Unfortunately not. When she worked for me there were no problems.”

  “She have any regulars?”

  Slow head shake. “Those take time to cultivate. Truth be told, she worked for me maybe . . . twenty nights.”

  “During that time where’d she live?”

  “With me.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Various places,” said Duchesne. “I prefer not to be tied down.”

  “Motels.”

  “And such.”

  Milo pressed him for names. Duchesne hesitated, ran off a few, asked for another Coke. After he’d drained it, Milo slid a six-pack photo display across the table. Half a dozen shaved-head white men arranged in two rows, Travis Huck in the bottom right-hand position.

  “One of these guys did it?” said Duchesne.

  “Recognize any of them?”

  Duchesne studied the images, one by one. Spending the same glassy-eyed ten seconds on each. Shaking his head. “Sorry.”

  “Do you recall any other cueballs on Sheralyn’s customer list?”

  “Cueballs.” Duchesne was amused. “Nope, sorry again.”

  “Joe Otto,” said Milo. “You liked her, you were the one took her in. Now someone’s done her up really badly.”

  “I know, I know . . . truth be told, Sheralyn’s professional activity was always after dark and I had other employees operating simultaneously.”

  “You never saw her johns.”

  “Not . . . always,” said Duchesne. “There was a problem, I’d get beeped.” He pushed out his thorax again. “And there was none.”

  His left leg began bouncing. Stopped.

  Milo said, “Joe Otto, something’s at the back of your mind right now. Maybe something to do with a bald guy?”

  Duchesne’s eyes sparked with alarm. “You’re a psychic, friend?”

  “I know when someone’s troubled.”

  “Why would I be troubled?”

  “Because you cared about Sheralyn, know she wouldn’t just leave you, meaning someone snatched her and maybe that same person left her lying around like trash.”

  Duchesne’s spider fingers squeezed the empty can, tried to crush it, ended up inflicting a minor dent. He placed it to the side, worked the tooth socket some more.

  “Joe Otto?”

  “There was a guy. But not with Sheralyn, before Sheralyn.”

  “Another girl.”

  Nod. “I got beeped because he got freaky. Like you said, cueball, she’s all breathing hard and telling me to look out for a skinhead. Time I got to the room, he was gone.”

  “This girl ge
t hurt?”

  “Minor bruise. She was a big girl, could take care of herself.”

  “What was the guy’s freak, Joe Otto?”

  “Wanted to tie her up, we get that all the time, say no. When she said no, this one pulled a knife. Not a normal knife, looked like a medical thing. That’s what she called it.”

  “A scalpel.”

  “He tried to shake her up by showing how it could slice paper.” Miming an upward thrust.

  “She got bruised but not cut?” said Milo.

  “Thank God,” said Duchesne. “She got that weird feeling, went to run out of the room. He went after her, made a reach for her. Hit her with the hand, thank God times ten not the knife. Caught her here.” Rubbing his temple. “Got her with his knuckles, you could see the marks, the next day she was all swollen. Dark, big dark bruise. Even on her skin you could see it.”

  “Dark girl,” said Milo.

  “Big beautiful sister.”

  “Name?”

  “We called her Big Laura.”

  “DMV called her . . .”

  “Don’t know,” said Duchesne. “Big Laura was all we needed.”

  “Tall.”

  “And big. Two tons of fun.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  Long pause. “Don’t know, Lieutenant.”

  “Another fly-by-night, Joe Otto?”

  Duchesne pressed his palms together piously. “These people have unstable lives.”

  Milo questioned him through a third Coke and two Hershey bars, inquired about white prostitutes of advanced age.

  Duchesne said, “Not on my payroll, I’m all about soul. Can I go?”

  “Sure, thanks. Stay in touch if you learn something.”

  “Believe it, Lieutenant. This kind of thing isn’t good for business.”

  Moe Reed and I entered the vacated interview room.

  “Big girl named Laura,” said Milo.

  Reed said, “Fits Jane Number Two. Interesting that two victims were in Duchesne’s stable.”

  “You smell something on him?”

  Reed thought. “Hard to say. He didn’t have to come in, let alone tell us anything. Unless you think he’s cagey enough to be playing us.”

  I said, “Maybe someone smelled his weakness. Figured out whose girls could be exploited.”

  “Beta dog,” said Milo. “Makes sense. My guess is Duchesne told us what he knows. You did good finding him, Moses. Time to get back to the stroll and dig some more. I’ll take on finding Sheralyn’s next of kin. In a perfect world, one of us will learn something that turned her into a victim. At the least, we can get a cheek scrape from her mom or her kid, match it to the bones. Not that I’m expecting Jane One to be anyone other than her.”

  “What about Big Laura?”

  “I’ll see what the moniker pulls up. In terms of Jane Three, she’s probably been dead the longest and memories on the street are short. But maybe an older white woman will stand out in someone’s mind.”

  “If she’s from the area, we could have a bad guy concentrating geographically for a while,” said Reed. “Then he wants a new level of thrill and shifts from pros to Selena. Her apartment’s not that far from the airport. Or the marsh, for that matter.”

  I said, “Psychosocially, Selena’s a big leap from the others. There could be transitional victims.”

  “Such as?” said Milo.

  “Nonprostitutes perceived as lower class.”

  “Working his way up the social ladder.”

  Reed said, “The dog didn’t find anything else in the marsh, but the K-9 search was limited to the east bank.”

  “Cheerful thought,” said Milo. “With a normal dump we could get warrants, no problem, bring in the backhoe. Instead, we’re stuck with hallowed ground.”

  I said, “Maybe the killer sees it that way, too.”

  As Milo extracted a cigarillo from his pocket, Reed’s pale eyebrows rose. “Don’t worry, kiddo, I’ll keep your air clean . . . in terms of going through the hassle of getting permission to dig up other areas of the marsh, let’s clear up the bodies we already have first. Time to hit the streets.”

  As we headed for the door, Moe Reed said, “Too bad Duchesne didn’t recognize Huck.”

  “Idiot claims he never sees the johns unless there’s a problem, and I believe him,” said Milo. “He wasn’t much use to Big Laura when she did get into trouble with that skinhead. Some business model.”

  “Bald man with a scalpel,” said Reed. “You’d need more than that to cut off a hand, right, Doctor?”

  I said, “Wrong kind of doctor, but yes. A limb saw would work fine.”

  “Any kind of saw, sharp enough,” said Milo. “Goddamn Chinese cleaver would do it if he’s strong and coordinated.”

  Reed said, “Maybe we’re talking about someone with medical training.”

  “Twenty years ago,” said Milo, “I’d be looking that way. Nowadays, the Internet, anyone can get anything anytime.”

  “Freedom,” said Reed.

  “Nothing else worth living for, kiddo, but it’s a tricky concept.” Unwrapping the cigar, he jammed it into the side of his mouth. “Gonna light up, kid. Fair warning.”

  We walked Reed outside, crossed the street to the staff lot. His drive was a shiny black Camaro.

  Milo said, “That’s no clunker.”

  “Pardon?”

  “What your brother said.”

  “He thinks he knows everything,” said Reed. He got in, revved loud, drove off, tires squealing.

  CHAPTER 13

  Milo and I walked south on Butler Avenue. The cold glare of government architecture gave way to postwar bungalows and apartment buildings and the sky grew bluer, as if in sympathy.

  He said, “Any new thoughts about Huck? Or anything else?”

  “Now we’ve got two bald-guy sightings—the date Luz Ramos saw with Selena, along with Mr. Scalpel—so I like him a whole lot better. But at this point, short of watching him, I don’t see what you can do.”

  “Too early to invite him for a chat?” he said.

  “With crimes this calculated, he’s likely to lawyer up. I’d want ammunition before I shoot.”

  Half a block later, he said: “That Camaro that Reed just peeled out in was either borrowed or a rental. AutoTrack says his drive of record is indeed a clunker. ’Seventy-nine Dodge Colt hatchback, bought used ten years ago. Before that, he sported around in a ’73 Datsun wagon.”

  “Doing deep background on the staff?” I said.

  “Perish the thought.” Since the arrest of a corrupt private eye and several cops for trafficking in official data, the rules forbade traces on anyone but suspects.

  I said, “What got you curious about Reed’s wheels?”

  “It seemed to be an issue between him and Fox.”

  “One of many.”

  “Exactly. Last thing I need is personal drama impinging on the investigation.” Small smile. “Such as it is.”

  “What does Fox drive?”

  “Brand-new Porsche C4S.”

  “Tortoise and hare,” I said.

  He lit up, blew smoke rings at the heavens. Aiming for casual but cherries in his jaw said he was faking.

  I said, “Fox and Reed bother you.”

  “I asked around. Fox’s dad was a Southwest patrolman named Darius Fox, murdered on the job thirty years ago. Before my time but I know the case. Everyone knows it because it’s used during training. As in What Can Go Wrong.”

  I said, “Domestic call or traffic stop?”

  He removed the cigar. “You read tea leaves, too?”

  “Just playing the odds.”

  “Routine early-morning stop, Caddy with a broken taillight, Thirty-seventh just west of Hoover. Car came up stolen, but not before Darius and his partner made a bonehead goof. Instead of running the tags first, the partner did it while Darius went over to check out the driver. We’re talking way before MDTs, everything was called in over the radio, records weren’t computerize
d, it could take time. All the more reason to be careful.”