Bones

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Don’t know, don’t want to know,” she said. “I wash my hands of all of it.”

  No one answered at Save the Marsh.

  The group’s board of directors listed the progressive billionaires who’d tried to build on the land, in addition to Silford Duboff, a woman named Chaparral Stevens, and two men: Tomas Friedkin, M.D., and Lionel Mergsamer, Ph.D.

  Chaparral Stevens was a Sierra Madre–based jewelry designer, Dr. Friedkin was a ninety-year-old ophthalmologist, emeritus at the U.’s med school. Professor Mergsamer was a Stanford astronomer.

  Not a likely bunch, criminal-wise, but I printed their names.

  I looked for fund-raisers held for the marsh, found three Westside cocktail parties, no listed guests.

  Backing away from the trees, I thought about the forest: Why had Silford Duboff been lured to his death?

  Dispatching him didn’t fit with the thrill-seeking aspect of a sexual psychopath. The only motive that made sense was he’d known too much—knowledge that came about innocently or otherwise.

  More bones beneath the muck? Aerial photos had revealed nothing, but the earth had a way of swallowing and digesting death.

  Or Alma Reynolds was right and Duboff’s desire to play savior—to undo his childhood trauma—had led him to walk into a trap.

  That felt analytically pat, but I turned it over and came up with nothing further. A soft rap on my office door snapped the tape loop.

  “You look engrossed,” said Robin.

  “No, I’m finished.”

  “If you’re not, I can cook.”

  I got up and we walked to the kitchen.

  She said, “Co-Op-E-Ration, just like on Sesame Street. Want to be Bert or Ernie?”

  “Maybe Oscar.”

  “That kind of day, huh?”

  Blanche waddled in and smiled.

  I said, “She can set the table.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Head, arms, and legs in Missouri,” said Moe Reed. “Head, hands, and feet in New Jersey. Three hands and feet only in . . .” He scanned his notes. “Washington State, West Virginia, and Ohio.”

  Milo said, “Nothing with just hands.”

  “Nope. And no acid wash. Plus, in three cases, they have a good idea who it is but don’t have enough evidence to bring charges.”

  We were in a Westside interview room at the end of another draggy day. Milo’s follow-up call to Buddy Weir had evoked a “still working on it” message from the attorney’s paralegal. Plainclothes surveillance of the house on Calle Maritimo had revealed no movement, other than the entry of a gardener’s crew.

  None of the groundsmen had any idea if Huck was inside the house, and when Milo convinced one of them to ring the front door-bell, no one answered.

  Huck continued to refuse telephonic invitations to talk with the police.

  Reed said, “The one in Jersey, they’re sure is a mob deal. Victim was I.D.’d by a surgical scar on the back.”

  “Some goombah with disk problems. Anything else?”

  Reed shook his head.

  I said, “Any of the amputations spare only one hand?”

  “Nope.”

  “Because chopping was used to hinder the investigation. Our case has nothing to do with that. Our hands are symbolic.”

  “Of what?” said Milo.

  “I’m good with questions, not answers,” I said. “But maybe something to do with Selena’s piano playing?”

  “People play piano with both hands, Alex.”

  “The right hand plays the melody.”

  Both their expressions said thanks, but no thanks.

  “An alternative,” I said, “is someone’s trying to make the killings appear bizarre.”

  “Psychosexual fake-out?” said Milo. “To hide what?”

  “I keep coming back to Selena. She really stands out from the others. What if this is all about her and the other women were prep?”

  Milo said, “Over a year of prep? What made Selena so important?”

  “Something she knew turned her into a threat. Something serious enough to take her computer. Same reason Duboff got killed.”

  “Long-term planning is usually about money.”

  Reed said, “And the Vanders have big money—it keeps coming back to them. And Huck, who works for them.”

  Milo said, “If you’re right about the other women, digging up background on them isn’t a good use of our time.”

  I said, “The killer had to connect with them somehow, so it could still bear fruit.”

  Reed said, “I’ve been up and down the airport stroll and no one remembers Huck.”

  “It’s a transitory population. And people have short memories for all sorts of reasons.”

  Milo got up, paced, pulled out a panatela. Moe Reed relaxed when the cigar dropped back into a pocket. “A guy goes for hookers, who says he limits himself to one neighborhood?”

  “Another stroll?” said Reed.

  “Huck lives in the Palisades,” I said. “For pure fun, he could stay on the Westside. But when he’s trawling for victims, he travels to where he’s less likely to be recognized.”

  “Maybe somewhere closer to his kill-crib,” said Reed. “Which could be relatively close to the Vander house. Not that I’ve found anything in the assessor’s files or anywhere else.”

  Milo said, “The airport, the marsh—that storage facility—they’re all pretty close together. So the crib could be in that vicinity.”

  Reed said, “To find a rental we have to go public, hope someone tips.”

  “It may come to that, Moses, but not yet. Let’s stick with the second-stroll angle. If we can find other working girls Huck frequented, learn he’s into rough sex, maybe even put his hands around someone’s neck, it sets up cause for a warrant.”

  “I could do Lincoln Boulevard farther north.”

  “Good idea. That doesn’t pan out, we move on to the Strip. In fact, we don’t wait. Tonight, you do Lincoln then Sunset from Doheny to Fairfax. I’ll take Sunset East to Rampart, then Downtown. I’ll re-fax Huck’s license to Vice, maybe someone’s memory’ll be jogged.”

  “What about surveillance of the house?”

  “We continue to leave that to patrol. Huck doesn’t show his face soon, I guess I’ll have to talk to the brass about a press conference. In addition to the deep-burrow risk, we’ve really got nothing on the guy and he’s already been the victim of official injustice. Can’t you just hear the defense attorney’s opening statement?”

  He turned to me: “In terms of Duboff getting gutted by another marsh hugger, maybe, but making our way through the eco-crowd is low priority.”

  I said, “I’ll see what I can find.”

  Reed said, “Might as well join the department, Doc.”

  Milo said, “He’s my friend. Watch your mouth.”

  Save the Marsh: A Citizens’ Committee was headquartered in a beige frame bungalow in Playa Del Rey, where that district turns into a cute little village of cafés and shops.

  Two miles from the marsh, closer yet to Pacific Storage.

  The building was shuttered. No cars sat in the three-space lot.

  No ad hoc memorial to Duboff—no evidence at all he’d been murdered.

  I walked across the street to an eatery called Chez Dauphin. White wood, blue shutters, screen porch, a handful of snackers. I ordered a roll and coffee, finished half before asking the Gallic proprietress if she knew who to contact at the bungalow.

  She said, “Non, m’sieur, I have never seen anyone there.”

  I began phoning the people on the Save the Marsh board.

  The voice-mail message at Chaparral Stevens’s jewelry business was soundtracked by bird squawks, trickling water, and wind chimes. Stevens’s voice was low-pitched and sultry, her speech slightly halting. The “tantric ecstasy” she claimed due to “my six-month spiritual retreat at the Monteverde Cloud Forest Reserve in breathtaking Coth-ta Ree-ca” came across like cannabis languor.

  The secretary
at the U.’s Ophthalmology Center told me Dr. Tomas Friedkin hadn’t been heard from in years.

  “At least, I’ve never seen him. In fact—I hope I’m wrong—I think he passed away.”

  “Oh, too bad,” I said.

  “Are you a colleague?”

  “A student.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, hold on and let me check.”

  Several beats later: “Yes, I’m sorry, he passed last year. One of his other students—Dr. Eisenberg—says the funeral took place on a boat. Ash-scattering, you know?”

  “Dr. F. loved nature.”

  “We all should be like that, right? Go back where we came from, and stop making a big mess.”

  “Dr. F. was involved with the Bird Marsh.”

  “How nice. I love birds.”

  Professor Lionel Mergsamer was on full-year sabbatical at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, England.

  Everyone taking downtime. When was the last time I’d bothered? I tried the studio owned by the progressive billionaires, got exactly what I expected: long stretches on hold, an eventual hang-up.

  An absentee board of directors implied ceremonial titles, meaning running the organization was left to anyone willing to shoulder the responsibility.

  Meaning Silford Duboff.

  Who else would know about the group . . . the volunteer kid who’d taken the killer’s call . . . Chance Brandt.

  No listing for the Brentwood residence but Steven A. Brandt’s law office was in the book. Recalling his hostility, I figured him for a stonewall or a tantrum and called the Windward School. Fudging my police status and asking firmly to speak to Headmaster Rumley, I cajoled a secretary into forking over Master Brandt’s cell number.

  “Yeah?”

  I told him who I was.

  He said, “Yeah?”

  “Chance, who did you see at the office besides Mr. Duboff?”

  “Yeah?”

  Female giggles and hip-hop bass thrum.

  I repeated the question.

  “That place . . .” His words slurred. His girlfriend remained appreciative.

  “What about it, Chance?”

  “Yeah?”

  Male laughter bottomed the girl’s squeals.

  “Who’d you see, Chance?”

  “Yea—”

  “Okay, we’ll talk at the police station.”

  “Nobody, okay?”

  “No one except Duboff.”

  “It’s his thing. Marsh Man.” Rising volume on the background hilarity. “Like he fucks it. All that mud.”

  Using the present tense; Duboff’s murder hadn’t hit the news. I thought of telling him about it, hung up instead.

  Not to protect the kid’s delicate sensibilities. Afraid he’d have none.

  CHAPTER 24

  Moe Reed burst into Café Moghul, wrestler’s body canted forward, shoulders lowered. Aggressive surge, but smiling, as if charging toward victory.

  First time I’d ever seen him happy.

  Milo swallowed his tandoori chicken and wiped his mouth. “At least someone’s having a good day.”

  He’d spent the night in a futile search for street girls who knew Travis Huck. The morning had been office-bound, filled with endless phone discussions, with an escalating series of higher-ups, of whether or not to go public with Travis Huck’s identity.

  The debate had reached the chief’s office and the answer had just come down from the mount: Given Huck’s history of judicial abuse, wait for more evidence.

  Unless a new victim showed up. “Nothing like body-count politics.”

  I’d just finished telling him about Chance Brandt’s bad attitude.

  He said, “Generation N, for numb.”

  Reed sat down and waved his notepad. “Two hookers.”

  Milo put his fork down. “And the question is: ‘What weekly perk comes with a congressional office?’ ”

  Reed smiled. “Found ’em on the Strip, Loo. Forty bucks is what they charged Huck. They’re both sure it was him, down to the crooked mouth. And guess what? He wasn’t wearing a hat and he is totally skinned.”

  He flipped the pad open. “Charmaine L’Duvalier, real name’s Corinne Dugworth, and Tammy Lynn Adams, that appears to be her righteous I.D. They both work Sunset, mostly between La Cienega and Fairfax. Huck picked Charmaine up right at Fairfax a month or so ago, Tammy Lynn hooked up with him two blocks west. She thinks it could be as recent as six weeks ago. Both times Huck was cruising at three, four a.m. in a Lexus SUV. Color and style match Vander’s, guy gets to use the boss’s wheels for recreation.”

  “Any unusual sexual habits?”

  “They both recall him as super-quiet. Adams admitted he spooked her.”

  “Admitted?”

  “These girls like to pretend they’re street-hard, nothing scares them. I pushed her a little and she said, yeah, he kind of spooked her.”

  “In what way?”

  “Being so quiet. Like he wasn’t even pretending to make it friendly the way a lot of the johns do. Like he’d been paying for it for a long time and it was just another quickie business deal.”

  “As opposed to her,” said Milo. “All the romance in her heart.”

  “What I’m seeing,” said Reed, “is these girls need to feel in charge, so they come on tough. Makes a lot of johns nervous. Not Huck, sounds like he was totally at ease: Here’s the dough, deliver the goods.”

  I said, “What did he pay for?”

  “Oral sex.”

  “Anything aggressive?” said Milo. “Grabbing their hair, talking in a hostile manner?”

  “Nope,” said Reed. “I think he spooked both of them, but only Adams admitted it. She’s been on the streets for five years, says she has a good sense for which guys are off. And Huck impressed her as one of them.”

  “But she took him on anyway.”

  “First impression he looked well groomed, was driving nice wheels. It was only after she got in that he started to get to her.”

  “By being quiet and business-like.”

  “Zero talk,” said Reed. “Not making any sort of conversation.”

  “You get callback numbers for these girls?”

  “Prepaid cells, for what they’re worth. In terms of addresses, neither of them have driver’s licenses and both claim to be looking for permanent residence.”

  “Ah, the glamorous life,” said Milo.

  “Yeah, it’s b.s. but it’s all I could get, Loo. Both of ’em did agree to ask around about Huck. It sounds naive, thinking they’ll cooperate, but maybe my asking about him kicked up the fear level. He tries to hook up with either of them again, I’m betting they’ll let me know.”

  He spotted the woman in the sari, asked for iced tea.

  She said, “No food?”

  “No, thanks, just tea.”

  She walked off, shaking her head.

  Milo said, “Excellent work, Detective Reed. Too bad I didn’t know an hour ago.” He summarized the debate about going to the press. “Not that I’m sure it would make a difference. Brass is really edgy about the whole thing falling apart due to lack of evidence, Huck suing the city.”

  Reed said, “They really think he’d have the balls to do that?”

  “Best defense is a good offense, kiddo. We shine the spotlight on him without enough juice, he’s in the driver’s seat. Can’t you just see him up on the stand, some lawyer guiding him through everything he went through in juvey?”

  “What if he’s named as a person of interest, not a suspect?”

  Milo said, “That might buy us time, but Downtown isn’t ready for it.” His phone jangled Brahms. “Sturgis. Who? What about? Oh. Yeah, yeah, sure, give me the number.”

  He got to his feet. “Let’s go.”

  “What’s up, Loo?”

  “Renewed faith in the flower of our youth.”

  The woman in the sari watched us leave, Reed’s tea in hand. As we exited, she drank it.

  The girl was barely five feet tall, seventeen, hard-
bodied and glossy-tan, with luxuriant red hair, light freckles, and cornflower eyes.

  Younger version of her mother. The two of them sat holding hands, a pair of pixies perched on a massive royal-blue damask couch.