Bones

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Rookies?” I said.

  “On the contrary, Darius had eight years, the partner six, nearly all of it worked with Fox. Maybe that was part of it—comfortable marriage, taking too much for granted. It was close to shift’s end, maybe they were eager to sign out, got sloppy. Whatever the reason, Darius walks up to the Caddy, raps the window, down it comes, a gun sticks out and . . .” Cupping his hands, he clapped three times.

  The noise assaulted the afternoon. An old woman tending her flowers looked over. Milo’s grin caused her to grip her pruning shears as we walked on.

  “Direct hit, point-blank,” he said. “Darius left a widow and a tyke. Aaron was three. The partner called in the Officer Down, got behind his door, started shooting. He managed to score a hit on the Caddy’s rear but couldn’t prevent it from driving off. He ran over to help Darius but Darius was gone before he hit the ground. Big citywide sweep for the car, everyone checking out hospitals, doctors, on the off chance the partner wounded someone. Nada, and two weeks later the Caddy shows up in a junkyard near the Wilmington docks. Windows busted out, seats ripped, bumpers removed, no prints, no nothing. Darius got a bagpipe funeral and the partner got investigated, reprimanded, and demoted. Soon after, he quit the force. What I hear is he worked construction for a while, got injured, lived off disability for five more years then died of liver disease.”

  “Driven to drink?”

  “Or maybe he had a problem before, don’t know, Alex.” Inhaling deeply, he burned through half an inch of cigar. “Seven months after Darius Fox’s funeral, partner marries the widow in Vegas. Two months after that, she gives birth to a kid.”

  He dropped the cigar, ground it into the sidewalk. Picked it up and carried it at his side. “Figure out the punch line, Dr. Wizard?”

  “Partner was Moe Reed’s daddy.”

  “Guy named John ‘Jack’ Reed. People do say he tried hard to be a good father to both boys.”

  I said, “Few years later, he’s gone, too.”

  “And Momma marries twice again. She just buried number four.”

  “Talk about baggage.”

  “A planeload, amigo. Let’s hope it doesn’t ground us.”

  Back in his office, he found half a dozen new tip messages, began the callbacks, sat up straight when he connected to the fifth.

  He said, “That’s great, ma’am, really appreciate your taking the time, now if you’d be so kind as to give me your—”

  Dial tone.

  He held the phone at arm’s length. “Must be my breath.”

  Pressing redial, he got no ring. Tried again, same result.

  I said, “Someone worth listening to.”

  “Someone refusing to identify herself wanting me to know that one of the Jane Does in the marsh might be someone named Lurlene Chenoweth aka Big Laura.”

  He traced the caller’s number, dead-ended at a prepaid cell.

  I said, “A female tipster with a prepaid might mean a pro from the area. Word travels fast, the girls know Duchesne visited, they’re making associations.”

  Typing in Lurlene Chenoweth’s name brought up a scowling, ebony moon-face crowned by a cumulus of orange hair. Thirty-three years old, five nine, two seventy, no scars or tattoos. Four solicitation arrests, one cocaine possession, two drunk and disorderlies, three misdemeanor batteries, all bar fights pled down.

  He said, “Big and scrappy.”

  “She managed to avoid Skinhead’s knife because she moved to the door quickly. Maybe something about him tipped her off early in the encounter and she was careful.”

  “An obvious weirdo? Too bad he found her later.” Swinging his feet onto the desk, he loosed the laces of his desert boots, flexed his toes. “Two of Duchesne’s girls die. What if that boils down to some stupid turf war between pimps and Skinhead was just hired help?”

  “If that was it,” I said, “why’s Duchesne still operating? He’s not exactly an imposing figure. And how would Selena fit in?”

  “Three street girls and a piano teacher. You’re making a point.”

  “A piano teacher who played swinger parties.”

  “Like you said, rich folk moving from stale to fresh.”

  “Rich folk with secrets could explain hiring Travis Huck.”

  “He’s also into the scene?”

  “Or just a guy with a past.”

  “Tormented soul finally finds a legit job—with an ocean view. Yeah, that could inspire loyalty. ‘Estate Manager’ is rich-folk talk for gopher, right? Huck’s basically a procurer, gets sent out to bring back the goodies.”

  I said, “Flowers, catering, victim of the evening.”

  His laughter was metallic. “Joe Otto has no idea how small-time he is.”

  Big Laura’s mother lived in a beautifully kept house in the Crenshaw District. Tall, like her daughter, Beatrix Chenoweth was as skinny as a walking stick.

  She wore a mint-green blouse, wide-legged black trousers, and ballet slippers. Her living room was Delft blue trimmed in white, set up with floral couches and no-nonsense chairs and hung with prints of impressionist masterpieces.

  Her reaction to our presence was dry-eyed resignation.

  “I knew it . . .”

  “Ma’am, we can’t be sure—”

  “I’m sure, Lieutenant. How many girls are that size? And have taken that path?”

  Milo didn’t answer.

  Beatrix Chenoweth said, “I’ve got four daughters. Two are school-teachers like myself and the baby’s a flight attendant for Southwest. Lurlene was the third. She took every bit of fight out of me.”

  “Ma’am,” said Milo. “I’m not here to tell you something definitely happened to Lurlene and I really hope it didn’t. But if you don’t mind giving me a cheek scraping we can find out—”

  “Oh, something happened, all right, Lieutenant. I’ve been dreading this moment for an entire year. Because that’s how long it’s been since I heard from Lurlene. And no matter what happened, she always called. Always. It would start off like a genuine conversation. ‘How’re you doing, Mommy.’ But by the end it was always the same. She needed money. Money was the reason she went that way in the first place. More accurately, something that cost a lot of money.”

  Her voice had climbed but her face was impassive. “It started in high school, Lieutenant. Someone gave her amphetamines to lose weight. It didn’t work, she never lost a pound. But that didn’t stop her from getting addicted and that was the beginning of the end.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  “Lurlene was my only heavy one. Took after her father. The rest of us girls never had problems in that area. In fact my second did some fashion modeling.”

  I said, “Must’ve been hard for Lurlene.”

  Her head dropped, as if suddenly too heavy. “Everything was hard for Lurlene. She was the smartest of the four, but the weight ruined her life. Being ridiculed.”

  She began crying silently. Milo found his stash of tissues and gave her one.

  “Thank you . . . I didn’t realize until later what a burden it was for her. All those arguments over too much butter on the bread . . . she was an eleven-pound baby. None of my others topped eight.”

  Milo said, “She started with amphetamines.”

  “Started, yes,” said Beatrix Chenoweth. “In terms of what else she got into, I don’t know, you can probably tell me more than I can tell you.”

  Milo didn’t answer.

  “I want to know, Lieutenant.”

  “From what I can tell from her arrests, cocaine and alcohol were issues, ma’am.”

  “Alcohol, yes, I knew that. Lurlene got arrested once for being drunk.”

  Twice; Milo didn’t correct her. “Did she get in contact with you after she got arrested?”

  “You mean to help her with bail? No, she told me afterward.”

  “Someone else paid her bail.”

  “She said she’d paid it herself, Lieutenant. That was the point of the call. Bragging. I asked her how she
got the money and she laughed and we got into a . . . discussion. I suppose I knew how she was supporting herself. I suppose I chose to pretend I didn’t.”

  She cleared her throat.

  Milo said, “Can I get you some water, ma’am?”

  “No, thank you.” Touching her neck. “It’s not thirst that’s caught in here.”

  “Ma’am, what can you tell us about Lurlene’s friends?”

  “Not a thing,” said Beatrix Chenoweth. “She didn’t expose me to her personal life and as I said, I didn’t want to know. Does that sound uncaring, Lieutenant?”

  “Of course not—”

  “It wasn’t. It was . . . an adaptation. I’ve got three other daughters and five grandchildren who need my attention. I can’t . . . couldn’t . . .” Her head bowed again. “Every single counselor we spoke to said Lurlene would have to bear the consequences of her own actions.”

  I said, “Were there a lot of counselors?”

  “Oh, yes. First from the schools. Then we went to a clinic our HMO recommended. Nice Indian man. Dr. Singh. He said the exact same thing. Lurlene had to want to change. He suggested Horace and I have a few sessions, to learn how to cope. We did. It was helpful. Then he died. Horace, I mean. A stroke. A month later, when I tried to contact Dr. Singh, he’d moved back to India.” Frowning. “Apparently, he was some sort of intern.”

  Milo said, “Is there anything you can tell us about who Lurlene associated with?”

  “Not since she took that path.”

  “How old was she when she—”

  “Sixteen. She dropped out of school, ran away, called when she needed money . . . she was a fighter, Lieutenant. You’d think she could’ve fought the damn drugs.”

  “It can be really hard, ma’am.”

  “I know, I know.” Beatrix Chenoweth’s long, bony fingers gathered black trouser fabric. “When I say fighter, I mean it literally, Lieutenant. Lurlene bucked authority for the sake of it. It got so her father had to leave the house to cool off. One time she hit her baby sister so hard, Charmayne’s head just about spun around and she had pain for days. It got to the point where—God help me for saying this—we were thankful Lurlene stopped coming by.”

  “I can understand that, ma’am.”

  “Now someone hurt her.” She stood, smoothed her pants. “I’m going to go off by myself for a while and then I’ll call Lurlene’s sisters and they’ll have to figure out what to say to their children. That’s their responsibility, all I want to do is have fun with my grandkids . . . would you please see yourselves out?”

  CHAPTER 14

  So much for Duchesne as a factor,” said Moe Reed as we waited for the woman to return from the bathroom.

  He and Milo and I sat in an orange plastic booth in a chicken-and-pancakes joint on Aviation near Century. The restaurant smelled of burnt feathers and hot fat. Jumbo-jet thunder shook the room at random intervals, thrumming cloudy glass and Z-Brick and threatening to shake asbestos loose from the goose-bump ceiling.

  Three coffee cups in front of us, untouched brown surfaces skimmed with rainbow oil slick. The woman had ordered extra-sweet, extra-crisp thighs and wings, a double plate of cinnamon waffles, and a jumbo orange soda. She’d finished one plate of chicken, asked for another, made her way through most of the breading before needing “a woman break.”

  Her name was Sondra Cindy Jackson and she called herself Sin. Twenty-three-year-old black female, pretty face, wounded eyes, huge blue talon-nails, half of them inlaid with rhinestones. Her teeth were straight but her left incisor was a gold cap. A complex cornrow tested the boundaries of string theory.

  She was the eighteenth prostitute Moe Reed had talked to in two days of canvassing the airport hot zone, and the first who was sure she knew the identity of Jane Doe Three.

  Built like a dancer, her appetite was astonishing. So far she’d flirted, shoveled food down her gullet, played coy.

  Reed was antsy. Milo emitted an odd Buddhic calm.

  Over the same forty-eight hours, he’d contended with a continuing trickle of worthless tips, learned nothing more about Big Laura Chenoweth, failed to locate Sheralyn Dawkins’s family anywhere in San Diego, Orange, or L.A. County. That kind of fun often erodes his patience but sometimes it works the other way.

  Reed eyed the ladies’ room. Our booth was positioned so Sin couldn’t leave without passing directly in front of us.

  “When she gets back, I’ll press her.”

  Milo said, “Sure. Or you can let it play out a bit longer.”

  The young detective had switched from jacket and tie to a gray polo shirt bisected by a wide red stripe, fresh blue jeans, snowy white Nikes. His eyes were clear, his ruddy face shaved glossy. Side-of-beef pectorals and massive shoulders strained the shirt.

  Aiming to blend in, but he might as well have worn the uniform.

  Sondra Cindy Jackson had known what he was right away. Sixty dollars and the promise of dinner had induced her to get into the Camaro.

  Milo said, “Be sure to put in for reimbursement.”

  Reed said, “Eventually.”

  “I’m back!” came the cheery announcement.

  Sin’s pink velvet bra and white lace hot pants showed off her skin tone. Slender girl except for breasts enhanced to cartoon proportions. Somehow, she’d found the money.

  “Welcome back,” said Milo. “Bon appétit.”

  She flashed a gold smile, slid into the booth, got to work on the second plate of chicken.

  Four swallows later, she said, “Y’all are so quiet.”

  “Waiting for you,” said Reed.

  “To do what?” Batting her lashes.

  Reed blinked.

  Milo said, “To take the lead.”

  “About . . . oh, yeah, Mantooth.”

  Reed said, “Mantooth?”

  “That’s her name, ’Tective Reed.”

  “Mantooth.”

  “Yup.”

  Reed opened his pad. “That a first name?”

  “Last name,” said Sin. “Dolores Mantooth but we jes’ called her Mantooth because it was a good one for her.” Wink wink.

  Reed stared at her.

  “Tooth. Chew. Like that song?” said Sin. “We chewin’ on it . . . what? Y’all don’t listen to the blues?”

  Milo said, “Musta missed that one.”

  “ ‘We chewin’ on it all day long.’ ”

  I said, “Bonnie Raitt.”

  “Yeah,” said Sin. “Nice dirty song. That was Mantooth. She had a mouth.”

  Reed said, “Mouth as in . . .”

  Sin said, “Huh?”

  Milo said, “Who was her pimp?”

  “Jerome.”

  “Jerome who?”

  “Jerome Jerome,” said Sin. “I’m not kidding, same first name and last name. I’m not claiming that’s what his momma called him but that’s what he was called. Jerome Jerome. Don’t go asking for him. Dead.”

  “How’d he get dead?”

  “O.D.” Lifting a wing, she held it daintily between two fingers, nibbled voraciously to the bone.

  “When?” said Reed.

  Shrug. “I just heard he was dead.”

  “From an O.D.”

  “What else?”

  “You assumed he O.D.’d.”

  Sin’s look was full of pity. “ ’Tective Reed, ’Tective Reed. Jerome was bagging all day, then he got dead. That sound to you like old age?”

  Milo said, “Dolores never worked for Joe Otto Duchesne.”

  “No way. Joe Otto works black, never looks back.”

  “Tell us about Dolores.”

  Sin waved a chicken bone. “Old. White. Ugly.”

  “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “Hmm . . . a year ago?”

  “How old is old?”

  “A hundred,” said Sin, laughing. “Maybe a hundred fifty, she looked real used.”

  Peach-flavored ice cream disappeared between her lips. No new information made the reverse trip. Re
ed gave her his card and she looked at it as if it were an exotic insect.

  After she left the restaurant, we walked to the parking lot and watched her sway south on Aviation. Reed’s Camaro had no computer so Milo had brought a newer Chevy sedan from the staff lot that was fully equipped.