Bones

by Jonathan Kellerman

  No Dolores or Delores Mantooth in the system. A bit of LAPD Scrabble finally pulled up her I.D.

  DeMaura Jean Montouthe. Blond and green, five five, one forty, DOB fifty-one years ago, thirty years of low-level arrests.

  No mention of tooth anomalies but LAPD wasn’t interested in the finer points of dentition.

  Milo called Vice and had the name of her pimp within seconds.

  Jerome Lamar McReynolds. The crypt confirmed his death fourteen months ago. Heroin-cocaine overdose, COD determination based on track marks and blood work, no autopsy.

  “Guy speedballs,” said Milo, “DeMaura’s freelancing, vulnerable. Bad guy senses it, moves in.”

  “Perfect for some rich predators,” said Reed, massaging a swelling biceps.

  “The key,” said Milo, “is to turn women into prey.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Three days of not-so-happy hunting.

  Milo and Reed’s canvass of the airport stroll revealed no other prostitutes who’d encountered a knife-wielding, bald-headed john. A Vice detective named Diane Salazar had arrested DeMaura Montouthe several times and thought her family was from Alabama but wasn’t sure. No one with the surname had come up in that state’s tax rolls.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know her dentist, Diane.”

  “You bet, Milo. Her hairdresser and her personal trainer, too.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Nice girl, not too bright, never fussed when we snagged her on decoy runs. Years ago, she was actually kind of pretty.”

  “Only mug shot I’ve seen is two years old.”

  “You know,” said Salazar. “The usual.”

  No one had heard anything about DeMaura, Sheralyn Dawkins, or Big Laura Chenoweth working private parties.

  “They’da done it, they’da bragged,” said one pimp. “Big L especially, she like to challenge you, give you the eye. You not agreeing with her, she got herself a reason to go off on you.”

  “That happened to you?” said Reed.

  “What?”

  “Confrontation with Big Laura.”

  “Hell, no. That happened to me, she’da hurt.”

  “She did get hurt.”

  “Whatever. Got to go.”

  A hooker named Charvay, young, still lithe and unscarred and thinking she had a lifetime ahead of her, caressed her breasts and laughed and voiced the prevalent sentiment: “Them? With rich folk? What kind of Westside paparatz par-tey would be wanting that old skin?”

  During the ride back to the office, Milo was sullen.

  Maybe sensing it, Moe Reed drove fast. “Could be the Vanders have nothing to do with it and it’s all about Huck being a solo psycho.”

  Surveillance on the estate manager had stalled. The top-of-the-hill, dead-end placement of the Vander estate limited vantage points on Calle Maritimo. The watch from two blocks down had produced nothing: Huck never left the house.

  Milo decided to hold observation to after dark, told Reed they’d split the shift.

  Reed said, “No prob doing all of it, Loo. I really want to check this guy out.”

  “We go that way, kiddo, I’ll be partnering with the living dead.”

  “Trust me,” said Reed. “With all due respect.”

  “You don’t believe in sleep?”

  “Don’t need much. I’ll move around, no one’ll spot me. I’m good at fading into the background.”

  “Why’s that?” said Milo.

  “Second kid.”

  Most of Huck’s adult life was a blank space and one person who might be able to fill in the details was Debora Wallenburg, the lawyer who’d sprung him out of juvey jail. No sense suggesting that; attorney–client privilege meant a stone wall, at best.

  At worst, she’d alert Huck and if he was dirty, he’d split.

  With no need for my services, I took on a custody consult that didn’t look too fierce, had time for leisurely walks with Blanche, pleasant dinners with Robin.

  In the midst of that, Emily Green-Bass phoned me from Long Island.

  “I got your number from the state psychology board, Doctor. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. What can I do for you?”

  “The reason I’m calling you and not Lieutenant Sturgis is—it’s not really about Selena’s case . . .” Her voice broke. “Can’t believe I’m using that word.”

  I waited.

  She said, “I’ve already spoken with Lieutenant Sturgis, I know there’s been no progress. The reason I’m calling you . . . actually, I don’t know why I’m calling you . . . I guess I feel . . . sorry for wasting your time, Doctor.”

  “You’re not.”

  She said, “You’re just saying that because . . . sorry, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “You’ve gone through something most people can’t come close to comprehending.”

  Dead air; when she finally spoke, her voice was low and hoarse. “I guess I—guess what I’m after . . . Dr. Delaware, I keep thinking about that meeting. At the station. My boys . . . we must’ve seemed like one big crazy dysfunctional family. That’s not how it really is.”

  I said, “What happened was one hundred percent normal.”

  “Was it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve seen other people in my . . . situation.”

  “Lots of people. There’s no road map.”

  Long pause. “Thank you. I guess what I want you to see was that we’re really pretty normal—typical people—now that I’m out with that, it sounds ludicrous. Why would I need to impress you?”

  “You’re trying to get some control.”

  “Which is impossible.”

  “Still,” I said, “sometimes it’s good to try. What I saw in your sons was attachment and love. For you and Selena.”

  Sobs broke like thunder, rattling the phone’s tinny speaker. I waited as the sound diminished.

  She said, “I really don’t know what I could’ve done differently. With Selena, I mean. Maybe if Dan would’ve lived. He was such a good father. He got a brain tumor. Nothing he did caused it, he didn’t smoke, he didn’t drink, he didn’t—it just happened, the doctors said it’s just one of those things that just happens. I guess I should’ve explained it to Selena. She was so young, I thought . . .” Sucking inhalation. “She lost her father and I lost the love of my life. After that, everything kind of fell apart.”

  “I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through that.”

  Silence.

  “Ms. Green-Bass, what happened to Selena wasn’t connected to losing her father.” Maybe a lie, but who cared?

  “What was it, then?”

  “Another of those things you can’t explain.”

  “But if she hadn’t moved to L.A. . . .” Harsh laughter. “If this, if that, if only, should’ve, could’ve, would’ve—she cut me off totally.”

  I said, “One way or the other, children move away. If not geographically, psychologically.” Images of my own cross-country ride, at sixteen, flashed in my head.

  Long hyphens of desert and railyard and hamburger stands. The shake-awake of city skyline. Prospects of a new life thrilling and terrifying.

  “They do,” said Emily Green-Bass. “I suppose it’s necessary.”

  “It is. People who stay in one place are often stunted.”

  “Yes, yes—Selena was doing exactly what she wanted. She always did. Such a strong-willed child. She knew her mind and pursued it. That’s why it’s so hard to think of her as . . . overpowered. She was a little person with such a big personality, Doctor. A hundred ten pounds, it was easy to forget she was just . . . small.” Tears. “She was my baby, Doctor.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know you are—you sound like a kind man. If you learn anything, anything at all, you’ll call me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Stupid question,” she said. “I seem to have a lot of those.”

  I’d finished the consult, was writing my report when Milo ca
lled.

  “Up for fine dining?”

  Three p.m. “Kind of an off hour.”

  “Call it a snack. I’m meeting with Reed in thirty, his request.”

  “What’s up?”

  “He left the message on my machine, didn’t specify. Lad does sound a bit excited.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said. “Curry and tandooried whatever?”

  “Nope, pizza. The kid needs variety. Also, a place where his brother can’t find him.”

  “Variety” was a barn-like Pizza Palazzo on Venice near Sawtelle. Seating was picnic tables and benches. Off-hour gourmandizing meant a nearly vacant room ripe with memories of stale cheese. The exception was a pair of long-distance truckers whose big rig took up half the parking lot. Extra-large pies for extra-large men.

  Blinks and burps voiced by a bank of video games against the far wall broke the silence. Unused machines crying out for attention.

  Milo and I arrived at the same time. No sign of the black Camaro in the lot, but Moe Reed was inside, back to blazer and tie, looking ill at ease as he nursed a mug of root beer.

  “New wheels, kiddo?” said Milo.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing black, shiny, or Chevy out there.”

  “Oh,” said Reed. “That was a rental. I exchanged it.”

  “Clunker in the shop?”

  Reed colored.

  Milo said, “Here’s a guess: You’ve been renting cars so you can tail your brother. Did you at least fill out the forms so you can get reimbursed?”

  Reed shook his head.

  “Got a trust fund, kiddo?”

  “I just don’t care about stuff like that.”

  “Tsk, tsk, Uncle Milo is crestfallen—okay, how long you been following him?”

  “Um . . . since that day he dropped in on us. It didn’t get in the way of work, Loo, I promise. I used my own time. He expects me to drive garbage, so it wasn’t any big challenge, he never noticed the Camaro. But I wanted to make sure so I exchanged it yesterday.”

  “Upgrade to Ferrari?” said Milo.

  “Charcoal Caddy,” said Reed. “Smoked windows, just in case. I figured with Huck never going anywhere, maybe I should try to figure out who paid to cast suspicion. Not that I don’t think he’s our best bet. I just wanted to know who wanted us to think that. Maybe they could tell us something else.”

  He stopped and examined the table’s plank top. Fidgeted like a kid who’d just rattled off excuses to an irritated parent.

  “Makes sense,” said Milo. “Learn anything?”

  “Actually, yeah.”

  Reed had watched Fox take numerous business meetings (“At the Ivy, Grill on the Alley, Jean-Paul, that’s his thing”). Running the tags of Fox’s dining companions—a sketchy move, at best—had produced the answer.

  “New BMW 3 registered to Simone Vander, address on Breakthorne Wood. That’s up in the hills, Beverly Hills P.O. The name tracks to a thirty-one-year-old white female, no wants, warrants, or priors, and the physical stats match the woman I saw him with at Geoffrey’s.”

  “In Malibu?”

  “Yup.”

  “Lives in B.H. but dines at the beach,” said Milo. “Who is she, another ex-wife?”

  “Daughter,” said Reed. “I found her birth certificate. Born locally, Cedars-Sinai, father’s Simon Vander, mother’s Kelly. I looked Kelly up, too. Five-year-old Volvo, Sherman Oaks address with a unit number.”

  “Daddy and second wife live the high life, first wife gets an apartment.”

  Reed said, “But the daughter—Simone—has a pretty nice place. Gated, secluded, real woodsy.”

  “You drove by.”

  “This morning.”

  “Simon and Simone,” said Milo. “Cute. What’s that, Alex? Bonding, emotional identification?”

  I said, “Couple more like that, you score your own couch.”

  He turned back to Reed. “What kind of pizza do you want? I’m visualizing the XXXL deep-dish, grotesquely stuffed-crust, half-sausage, half-anchovy, half-meatballs, half-moose-head special.”

  Reed looked dismayed. “I was wasting my time?”

  “Not at all, but first we dine. Name your pie, Detective Reed.”

  “Um . . . plain cheese. Couple of slices.”

  “Go crazy, kid. I’ll have a medium sausage for myself, extra garlic and chili flakes. Go put the order in, then head over to the gum machine, get us some sugarless spearmint. Don’t want to risk undue offense to Ms. Simone.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Reed left his Cadillac at the pizza joint and we piled into Milo’s unmarked.

  Breakthorne Wood was a steep, carelessly paved road above Benedict Canyon. The curves, width, and flavor of an old bridle path; I felt right at home.

  One thing Simone Vander shared with her father was a taste for dead ends. Her property was marked by a simple iron gate flanked by used-brick posts. The same masonry faced the shake-roof cottage visible through the slats. Dark-stained pine planks graced the façade where brick hadn’t been applied. Diamond-pane windows, a hand-carved oak door, and a witch-on-a-broomstick weather vane added up to neorustic adorable.

  A tomato-colored 335i convertible was parked in the flagstone motor court. Pine needles littered the car and the ground. Huge Aleppos shadowing the property, darkening most of the roof. Beyond the branches was a patchwork of brighter green and beige: ivy-colored hills.

  Reed had been antsy during the ride over. Justifying the surveillance of his brother repeatedly though Milo never challenged him.

  “Maybe it’ll be nothing, but at least we can find out what she knows about Huck.”

  “Maybe she once lived at the house. Or she visits—even if she doesn’t come out and tell us anything about Huck or parties or whatever, maybe we can still get a feel for whether or not weird stuff went on there.”

  “At the very least, we’ll find out there’s nothing to find out and won’t have to spin any more wheels. Not that I’m saying there isn’t something hinky about Huck, I still think there is. Otherwise why would she pay to dig up dirt on him?”

  Now, facing Simone Vander’s gate-call button, the young detective jammed his hands in his pockets and chewed his cheek.

  “Go ahead, this is your time to shine,” said Milo, jabbing air with his finger.

  “Anything you want me to concentrate on?” said Reed.

  “Follow your gut,” said Milo.

  Reed frowned.

  “That’s a reward, not a punishment, Moses.”

  Reed pushed the button.

  Milo said, “You get good grades, I’ll let you spin the steering wheel. But only when the car’s in the driveway.”

  A young-sounding female voice said, “Yes?” Another female voice sang sweetly in the background.

  “Ms. Vander? Detective Reed, L.A. police.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “We’d like a few minutes of your time, ma’am. Regarding Travis Huck.”

  “Oh.” The music receded. “Okay, one sec.”

  Several minutes passed before the carved door opened. The woman in the opening was medium height, pale, stick-thin and leggy, with a gamin face under a layered mass of long black hair. She wore a white-and-pink-striped boat-neck top, white knee-length cargo pants fastened with bows at the patella, backless pink sandals with stilt heels. Gold hoop earrings large enough to be visible across the motor court caught sunlight.

  She studied us. Waved.

  Moe Reed waved back. She clicked the gate open.

  “I’m Simone. What’s going on?” Soft, melodic voice, a vibrato that made each word sound tentative. She was one of those people who look better upon close inspection. Porcelain skin, gray-blue capillary mesh at the temples, fine features, graceful posture. Her eyes were brown and round with enormous irises. Dilated pupils implied curiosity. Her brows had been artfully plucked.

  An ivory hand cradled the remote module. She smiled and looked younger.

  Moe Reed reintroduced himse
lf, identified Milo, then me. Leaving out my title. No sense complicating matters.