Bones

by Jonathan Kellerman

  A deep back wound had pierced Duboff’s left lung, the blow driven with enough force to crack a rib. The follow-up was an ear-to-ear throat slash, with Duboff lying facedown.

  “Bad guy probably lifted him by the head,” said Milo. “Reached around and bam.”

  Sneak attack in the dark, it needn’t have taken more than seconds. Alma Reynolds had sat in the car for nearly half an hour, ample time to clean the scene.

  By calling out Duboff’s name, she’d announced her presence to the killer. Subsequent speech had pinpointed her location and he’d charged her.

  Assaulting a potential witness but making no effort to finish her off.

  Too intent on making his escape.

  He’d expected a one-on-one meeting, but Duboff, ever the contrarian, had brought along Alma Reynolds, put her in mortal danger.

  Milo said, “You still all right, ma’am? From your injuries?”

  The question offended her.

  “As I told you the first time, there are no injuries. Except to my ego.” She pushed herself upright, suppressed a wince.

  “Bastard,” she said, leaving the interview room stiffly “I’m going to miss him incredibly.”

  Milo and I moved to his office. I said, “Duboff was a misanthropic crank, but he trusted someone enough to meet in the dark. Alma Reynolds knew he was lying when he said he didn’t know who’d phoned. The lure was solving the murders.”

  “Pretty flimsy,” he said. “Why would he fall for that?”

  “Dedicated activist shows up the cops and keeps the sacred grounds pristine?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Being at the marsh after dark didn’t scare him. Alma said he dropped in regularly—including the night Selena was found when he missed the dump by a narrow margin.”

  “Maybe too narrow, Alex.”

  “He was part of it?”

  “Like you said before, two guys would make the job easier. And talk about someone with an intense attachment to the marsh. Plus the guy’s weird. We considered him in the beginning, dropped him off the screen when we couldn’t find any felony record or links to Huck. Maybe that was a big-time goof.”

  “He showed up to talk to his confederate?” I said. “Then why take Reynolds along?”

  “He thought it would be a brief chat, like he told Reynolds. Got surprised.”

  “Be interesting if Huck’s name shows up on any Save the Marsh mailing lists.”

  “Be interesting to know where the hell Huck was last night. Which was the point of sitting on my commodious butt watching the shrubbery. No sign of him leaving or entering the house, but that means squat. He coulda made his move before I arrived, returned after I left to take the call on Duboff.”

  “When did the call come in?”

  “Right after midnight. But that was well past Duboff’s murder. Ol’ Alma wasn’t wearing a watch but she knows they left the restaurant shortly after nine, guesses she got blindsided at ten thirty or so. Which would put Duboff getting gutted at ten or so. She lay there, out of it, for another half hour, finally got up and looked for Duboff, which was stupid, but adrenaline can do all sorts of things to your judgment. After she found him, she ran back out to the street, screaming. No one around to hear, like you said, it’s a ghost town at night. So she got back in Duboff’s car, drove to Pacific Division, and reported the murder. Pacific has her logged in at eleven thirty-two. They put her in a room, took her statement, dispatched a car to the marsh, confirmed the body, and phoned Reed. He was in Solana Beach, called me. I was taking a bladder break, saw the message, called back, cowboyed to the marsh. Leaving Huck plenty of time and opportunity to return home.”

  He rubbed his face. “I’m losing it, Alex. Shoulda driven up to the Vander house, leaned on the gate bell. If Huck wasn’t there, maybe someone else was—a maid, whatever, and I’d know.”

  “You got called to a murder scene, you went.”

  “Guy was dead, what was the rush?” Cursing. “Yeah, it was the logical response. Aka utter lack of creative thinking.”

  “Unseemly,” I said.

  “What is?”

  “Self-flagellation from the man of granite.”

  “Right,” he said, “I’m thinking sandstone.”

  CHAPTER 19

  An expedited search warrant of Silford Duboff’s apartment produced nothing of value. The only surprise was philosophical: dog-eared copies of the complete works of Ayn Rand hidden under Duboff’s mattress, like pornography.

  “No knives, guns, garottes, sex toys, weird body fluids, incriminating notes,” said Milo. “No computer, either, but Reynolds says he never had one. Damn fridge had fruits, veggies, whole-grain everything. Rah rah for the healthy lifestyle.”

  Moe Reed returned from Fallbrook with cheek scrapes of Sheralyn Dawkins’s mother and the dead woman’s stunned fifteen-year-old son. The mother worked as a housekeeper on a rich man’s avocado ranch. Devon Dawkins was an honor student, did farm chores during his spare time.

  Reed said, “Nice lady, the way she described Sheralyn’s leg break matches Jane One to a T. She wouldn’t talk in front of Devon, but after she sent him out she poured it out. Sheralyn was a problem since high school. Low self-esteem, drugs, alcohol, bad men.”

  Milo said, “Same story Big Laura’s mommy told us. Any bad men in particular?”

  “She meant Sheralyn’s teen years, but even back then she didn’t know any names. That was the problem, Sheralyn kept her private life private, wouldn’t give an inch to Mom. The two of them hadn’t been in contact for years. I got the feeling Mom had been happy with the arrangement, wanted a shot at raising Devon properly. Really nice kid, it was tough giving him the bad news.”

  I said, “How long has the family been living down there?”

  “They moved to San Diego right after Sheralyn’s father got out of the military. His civilian job was school district custodial manager, he died twelve years ago. Sheralyn was born in San Diego, did a couple years of high school, dropped out. Her mom never heard of Travis Huck, and the six-pack with Huck’s picture didn’t jog her memory.”

  Milo said, “Why should life be easy?”

  “She did tell me one thing that might be interesting. When Devon couldn’t hear. Sheralyn had a thing for pain. Not causing it, experiencing it. Mom said when she was a teenager, she’d cut herself on the arms, pull her eyelashes out, once in a while she’d burn herself with cigarettes. Sometimes she’d come home from being with boys and have bruises on her neck and arms. Mom threatened to take her to a psychiatrist. Sheralyn yelled at her to mind her own damn business, ran out of the house, stayed away for a few days. What boiled things over was Sheralyn getting pregnant when she was sixteen and refusing to say who the father was. She was already into dope, so the parents worried about a drug baby. When Devon was born healthy they tried to get Sheralyn to let them adopt him. Sheralyn went ballistic, took the baby and left. No contact for three years, then Sheralyn shows up without warning, stays for a couple days, things seem to be going okay. All of a sudden, she sneaks out in the middle of the night, leaves Devon behind.”

  “Into pain,” said Milo.

  “And being squeezed around the neck,” said Reed. “That would make her an easy mark for a sadist, right? They start off playing the choking game for what she thinks is money and fun, he turns on the pressure, she’s caught off guard. Make sense, Doc?”

  “Makes perfect sense,” I said. “It could also be our link to Selena. The parties she played at got extreme and she joined in.”

  Reed said, “Thinking she was in control, but she got flipped.”

  Milo said, “Sheralyn’s story also reminds me of Selena’s. Bad feelings between daughter and mother, leaving home.”

  Reed said, “So what now?”

  “Got a call from the chief,” said Milo. “Caitlin Frostig.”

  Reed slumped. “Am I in some sort of shit?”

  “No, you’re fine. He wanted to know how we were doing on the marsh murders. I gave hi
m the honest answer and he pretended to be understanding and patient. Then he brought up Frostig.”

  “Checking up on me,” said Reed.

  “His Fierceness takes a personal interest in the troops.”

  “Did he make like I’m supposed to be doing something on Caitlin? Because I did everything I could think of.”

  “He wanted to make sure you ignore Caitlin until we close the marsh murders. That was before Duboff. I’m sure it goes double now.”

  “Okay . . . any hint about a task force, Loo?”

  “Why, you want one?”

  “Hell, no,” said Reed. “I was just wondering, another body and all that. I’m green, haven’t exactly burned up the record books—”

  Milo’s hand clapped Reed’s shoulder. “It’s a whodunit, kiddo. Meaning no one burns up anything, we simmer slowly and hope something cooks. No one with half a brain—and the Sun King has at least that—expects resolution by the fourth commercial break.”

  “Okay,” said Reed. “He actually mentioned Caitlin by name?”

  “First and last.”

  “He probably got a call. Her father works for a big-time tech guy.”

  I said, “Caitlin’s your missing person?”

  Reed nodded. “College girl, left work thirteen months ago, hasn’t been seen since. Cold as frozen fish sticks and they hand it to me, my second case. If I pissed someone off and it’s punishment, I can’t figure out who or how.”

  Milo said, “You solved your first one. That’s batting five hundred.”

  “Unfortunately, this ain’t baseball.” Reed tightened the knot of his tie. “So when can we talk to Huck?”

  Pools of water spread beneath Simon Vander’s Aston Martin, Lincoln Town Car, and Mercedes. Moisture blackened the slate motor court.

  Reed said, “Car wash day, either they have a service or Huck does it himself. Lexus is gone, maybe he’s out gassing it. Or the car wash dude is.”

  He pushed the call-box button. No answer from the house. Same for two more attempts.

  Milo looked up the Vanders’ landline and punched it, got voice mail, kept his voice even as he left a message for Travis Huck to get in touch. Cordial as an invitation to a poker game.

  We loitered near the octopus gates. Twenty minutes in, the mail-man drove up and dropped ad circulars and bulk mail into a slot on one of the gateposts.

  Reed went up to him. “Know these people?”

  The carrier shook his head. “Never see anyone around.” His fingers brushed the gate. “I have packages, I just leave ’em here, no one signs.”

  “Private, huh?”

  “Rich,” said the mailman. “These kind of people keep you at a distance.”

  “What kind of packages?”

  “Wine, fruit packages, gourmet food. The good life, right?” Hoisting his bag, he trudged down the road.

  Milo waited, descended Calle Maritimo himself, far enough to disappear around a bend. He returned a few minutes later. “Nothing plus nothing, time to boogie. Leave your bona fides, Moses.”

  Reed dropped one card onto the mail pile, wedged another between the gate and the post. “Think Huck might’ve rabbited?”

  “There’s always that chance.”

  We drove to PCH. The sun was custard, the ocean a melting jigsaw puzzle of green and blue. No Lexus in front of the Vander beach house, no more success with the bell push there.

  Moe Reed tapped the high wooden fence that blocked off the beach. “What’s next, a moat?”

  “That’s what money buys,” said Milo.

  We cruised up and down the highway, scoped every filling station until Broad Beach for a sign of the Lexus. Gas in the Palisades was nearing five bucks a gallon for high-octane. That didn’t stop motorists from lining up for a petrochemical IV. Huck wasn’t one of them.

  Milo said, “Let’s get back, call the crypt, get a time line on Duboff’s autopsy, see if they’ve done a prelim, anything useful on the visual. Then we need to work on confirming that Jane Three is DeMaura Montouthe. Victim I.D. isn’t likely to be a big deal on this one, but we can’t afford to screw up and get it wrong. That working girl said De-Maura was from Alabama, but it could be Arkansas, anywhere down south. Hell, it could be Arizona or Albania. If we can locate some next of kin, maybe we’ll get lucky and DeMaura talked to someone about an especially creepy john.”

  “Like the guy Big Laura escaped from.”

  “Like him,” said Milo. “In a perfect world.”

  Back at the station, a civilian clerk I’d never seen before said, “I’ve been trying to call you, Lieutenant.”

  “Never got any message,” said Milo.

  “Well, I did try.”

  “Which number did you use?”

  The clerk read off a number. The final digit was off by two.

  “Well, that’s what I was given,” said the clerk, without remorse. “Anyway, someone came in to see you, went upstairs, is still there. So no big deal.”

  James Robert “Bob” Hernandez was a blue-eyed, muscular six-footer with slicked-back brass-colored hair and a four-inch Vandyke of matching hue. He wore jeans with rolled-up cuffs, weathered motorcycle boots, and a plaid shirt with short sleeves folded up high. Tattoos the color of swimming pool water ran from thick wrists to corded biceps. Tweety Bird, Popeye, smooching cherubs. On his right arm, devotion to Kathy was proclaimed calligraphically. Pro jobs, not prison art. Hernandez’s record was minor. Drunk driving, traffic warrants, failures to appear.

  After running him through the databases, Milo returned to the interview room and sat back down. During the brief break, I’d waited with Hernandez, the two of us talking about sports.

  Moe Reed was out processing the pretty wooden box Hernandez had brought for show-and-tell. Phoning the crypt first and getting authorization to carry the box personally to Dr. Hargrove’s lab.

  “Human bones,” said Milo.

  “That’s what they look like to me,” said Bob Hernandez. “I mean, I’m not a scientist, but I looked them up on the Internet and they match human fingers. Enough for three complete hands.”

  “Doing research, huh?”

  “Didn’t want to waste your time, sir.”

  “We appreciate that. So go over again how you found them.”

  “Didn’t find ’em, bought ’em,” said Hernandez. “I mean not them, specifically. A whole bunch of stuff. Unclaimed storage, they have auctions, people not paying their monthlies. Like you guys do with confiscated cars.” Hernandez smiled. “Lost an El Camino that way.”

  “What else was in the bin?”

  “Garbage bags full of crap. Bicycle I thought might be worth something, turned out to be crap, some old board games, newspapers. I tossed it all except the box. Because the box was nice wood. Later I found out what was inside. I’m pretty sure they’re finger bones ’cause they don’t look like anything else. So I called Pacific Division and they sent me to Detective Reed and he said to come here. So here I am.”

  “Was the box wrapped?”

  “Yeah, in one of the garbage bags. Turned out to be Brazilian rose-wood, which is rare, endangered. Would’ve been better to find jewelry or coins.”

  “How long ago was this, Mr. Hernandez?”

  “Two weeks. I tried to find something else they could’ve been, some other animal, but from what I can tell they’re human. So I didn’t put ’em up on eBay, that would be wrong.”

  “eBay accept that kind of thing?”

  “I never got that far,” said Hernandez. “Didn’t even try. Probably coulda sold ’em, but then I heard about those murders. On TV.” Peering at Milo. “Four women, and that marsh is pretty close to the storage unit. I know this is three, not four, it probably doesn’t mean anything, but I just thought I should come forward.”

  “You did the right thing, Mr. Hernandez. Where’s the facility?”

  “Pacific Public Storage, Culver Boulevard just before it intersects with Jefferson.”

  “You live in Alhambra.”

>   “Sure do.”

  “Bit of a drive to the auction.”

  “Not compared with other places I been,” said Hernandez. “Did one in San Luis Obispo.” Yellow smile. “Heck, I’d drive to Lodi you tell me there’s bargains.”

  “Auctions are your main job.”

  “Nope, I’m trained as a landscaper, looking for work.”