Bones

by Jonathan Kellerman

  The crimson silk sitting room gleamed like blood under a Swarovski chandelier. The fixture’s long gold chain was wrapped in aqua satin, suspended from a twenty-foot coffered, gilded ceiling. Mullioned windows framed velvet acreage. Massive stone fireplaces graced both ends of the room. Renoir over one, Matisse over the other. Both paintings looked real.

  We’d waited at the Brentwood Park gatehouse for several minutes before being allowed entry.

  “I’m so proud of Sarabeth,” said Hayley Oster. She wore a plum-colored Juicy Couture velour sweat suit. Hot day, but the manse was as chilly as a supermarket deli case. Her daughter’s matching size 0 Juicy was moss green.

  Oster, as in malls and shopping centers.

  Milo said, “We’re proud, too, ma’am.” His smile caused Sarabeth to press closer to her mother.

  Hayley Oster said, “You’re sure I can’t get you something to drink? It was extremely gracious of you to come down here and spare us a trip to the police station.”

  “No, thanks, ma’am. We appreciate your calling.”

  “It was the least I could do, Lieutenant. After Sarabeth became embroiled in that to-do with Chance Brandt at school, we made it clear that things had to change. Right, honey?”

  Smiling at her daughter, but an elbow delivered a prod.

  Sarabeth looked down and nodded.

  Hayley Oster said, “The way my husband and I see it, Lieutenant, privilege is a blessing that should not be abused. Neither of us come from wealthy families and scarcely a day goes by that we don’t thank our lucky stars for how far we’ve come. Harvey and I believe blessings should be repaid in kind. We do not tolerate poor character. Which is why we’ve always had reservations about Sarabeth associating with Chance.”

  The girl appeared ready to argue. Thought better of it.

  “I know you think I’m being harsh, baby, but one day you’ll see I’m right. Chance is unsubstantial. All looks, nothing beneath the veneer. Worse, he lacks moral fiber. In a sense, that makes me even prouder of Sarabeth. Though she found herself in the company of amorality, she chose to think independently.”

  The girl’s eyes rolled.

  Milo said, “Why don’t you tell us about it, Sarabeth?”

  “It’s just what I said to Mom.”

  “Tell them,” said Hayley Oster. “They need to hear it directly from you.”

  Sarabeth inhaled and shook out her hair. “Okay . . . okay. Someone called last night. Over at Sean’s house.”

  “Sean who?” said Reed.

  “Capelli.”

  Hayley said, “Another shallow young man. That school seems to breed them.”

  Milo said, “Someone phoned Sean?”

  “Uh-uh,” said Sarabeth. “Called Chance. We were at Sean’s.”

  “Just hanging.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Tell us about the call.”

  “He said he was a cop—one of you guys. Asked if anyone else came into the office when Chance was there. Chance kept pranking, saying ‘Yeah’ over and over. He thought it was funny.”

  “The call?”

  The girl didn’t answer.

  Another elbow prod made her say, “Ouch.”

  “Poor darling,” said Hayley Oster, through tight jaws. “Let’s get this over with, posthaste, Sarabeth.”

  “He lied,” said Sarabeth. “Chance. ’Cause there was someone who did come in.”

  “To the office.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who?”

  “He just said that he knew him but he wasn’t going to tell because he’d have to be pulled in by the cops again and his dad would get all up in his buttho—”

  “Sara!”

  “Whatever,” said the girl.

  “Whatever, indeed, young lady. Use language in a way that advertises your virtues.”

  Shrug.

  Milo said, “Chance told you he lied to avoid getting involved.”

  “Yeah—yes.”

  Hayley Oster smirked. “Looks like that backfired.”

  We found the boy at the Riviera Tennis Club, playing singles with his mother. She nearly dropped her racket when we walked across the court.

  “Now what?”

  “We missed you,” said Milo. “Your son, in particular.”

  “Oh shit,” said Chance.

  “Indeed.”

  The information came quickly, Chance sweating under full sun, wiseguy pretensions erased from his Polo-ad visage.

  Not someone he knew, someone he recognized.

  Milo said, “From a party.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whose?”

  “Theirs.” Hooking a thumb at Susan Brandt.

  She said, “What are you talking about? When’s the last time we threw a party, your dad hates them.”

  “Not that,” whined her son. “One of those fund-raisers—the boring shit you make me go to.”

  “Which boring shit in particular?” said Milo.

  Chance pushed yellow hair out of his eyes. “One of ’em, dunno.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that, son.”

  “Whatever . . .”

  “For God’s sake,” said Susan Brandt, “just tell them what they need and we’ll finally be free of this.”

  Chance bounced a tennis ball.

  His mother sighed. Switched her racket to her left hand and slapped him hard across the face with her right. Perspiration sprayed. Finger marks rouged the boy’s cheek.

  He had six inches and fifty pounds on her. Seemed to expand as his hands became fists.

  She said, “You keep screwing around and I’ll do it again.”

  Milo said, “There’s no need for that, ma’am. Let’s keep everything friendly.”

  “Do you have children, Lieutenant?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then you don’t know anything.”

  “I’m sure I don’t. Even so—”

  Chance said, “A guy, okay? It was that Malibu thing, the lame bull-shit thing where everyone wore Hawaiian shirts and pretended to be a surfer.”

  Susan Brandt said, “That one.” To us: “He’s referring to a Coastal Alliance benefit we attended last year—last fall. Despite what he says, we generally don’t make him go to any of our charitable events, but that one, it was an outdoor barbecue, casual dress, other people brought their kids. It was supposed to be a family affair, rock music and hot dogs.” To her son: “You eat, you dance, you go home. Is that so bad?”

  Chance rubbed his face.

  His mother said, “We didn’t know anyone there, only reason we went was Steve’s firm donated and the senior partners were in Aspen, needed someone to attend.”

  “I saw the dude drinking beer.”

  Milo said, “Where did this party take place?”

  “At the Seth Club,” said Susan Brandt.

  “Describe this person, Chance.”

  “Old.” Smile. “Like Dad. Blond hair, bullshit hair.”

  “Dyed?”

  “Yeah. Some old tool trying to look like a surfer. Bigtime Bondo job on the face.”

  “Bondo?” said his mother.

  “It’s putty used to patch cars,” said Moe Reed.

  Chance patted his cheek. The finger marks had begun to welt.

  Milo said, “The guy had plastic surgery.”

  The boy snickered. “Ya think?”

  “Chance,” warned his mother.

  The boy’s eyes heated. “What, you’re gonna hit me again? In front of the cops? I could get you busted for child abuse, right?”

  Milo said, “Easy now.”

  “You never hit me before, why you want to go do that?”

  “Because . . .” Susan Brandt wrung her hands. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t know what to—”

  “Right, it’s for my own good.”

  She touched his arm. He shrugged her away ferociously.

  Reed ushered her a few feet away. Eye-to-eye with Chance, Milo said, “Blond, tucked, what else?”

&n
bsp; “Nothing.”

  “How old?”

  “Like Dad.”

  “Middle age.”

  “Guy was a total tool—fucked-up hair.”

  “Fucked up, how?”

  “Shaggy, moussed up. Retro-bullshit like . . . Billy Idol. All that shit in his face, like whoa, it’s True Value Hardware.”

  “Tell us about this guy and Duboff.”

  “He showed up.”

  “How many times?”

  “Once.”

  “When?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Was it close to when you started volunteering or toward the end?”

  The boy thought. “Start.”

  “So three, four weeks ago.”

  “Right at the start.”

  “So this guy comes in to see Duboff. Go on.”

  “Not in, out. The parking lot,” said Chance. “I’m inside, bored fuckless, look out the window, there’s two of them.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Talking. I didn’t hear what they were saying, didn’t give a fuck. That’s why I didn’t say the whole thing to you when you called.”

  “When this guy and Duboff were talking, did it look friendly?”

  Mental exercise strained the boy’s eyes. “Dude gave Duboff something. Duboff looked happy.”

  “What’d he give him?”

  “Envelope.”

  “What color?”

  “Dunno—white. Yeah, white.”

  “Big or small?”

  “A regular envelope.”

  “And Duboff looked happy.”

  “He shook dude’s hand.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Dude drives off.”

  “In what?”

  “Mercedes.”

  “Color?”

  “Black? Gray?” said the boy. “Who the fuck remembers?” Staring defiantly and calling to his mother: “C’mon, Susie. Give it your best shot.”

  Susan Brandt wept.

  Milo said, “We’re going to show you some pictures, Chance.”

  As we drove away from the country club, Reed said, “One day, there’s going to be a domestic violence call to their house.”

  Milo said, “Good bet . . . unfortunately, what the kid had to say boils down to nada. Blond guy who drives a Mercedes and who the kid swears ain’t Huck.”

  I said, “Unless the guy was paying Duboff off for something.”

  “Like what?” said Reed. “Swimming privileges in the marsh?”

  Milo laughed. “Congrats, Detective Reed.”

  “On what?”

  “Bitter sarcasm, you have now achieved optimal workplace adjustment. My bet is the guy was making a donation to the herons and gulls. Chance saw him at an ocean benefit, we’re talking eco-sensitivity.”

  “Water guy,” said Reed.

  “Meanwhile, we drown.”

  CHAPTER 25

  A flurry of message slips crowded Milo’s desktop.

  Three halfhearted media follow-ups on the marsh murders, two deputy chiefs requesting confirmation that Milo had gotten the message about no BOLO on Travis Huck.

  He played target practice with his wastebasket, kept reading. “All right, here’s a keeper. Mr. Alston ‘Buddy’ Weir, and another one, Selena’s brother Marc, up in Oakland.”

  “Brother probably wants follow-up.”

  “Grab yourself a phone in the main room and find out.”

  After Reed left, Milo called Weir, switched to speaker. “So we can share the misery.”

  The usual paralegal answered, but Weir came on quickly. “Lieutenant, thanks for getting back to me.” Weir’s smooth voice sounded higher, tighter.

  “What’s up, sir?”

  “I’m getting concerned. Simon hasn’t responded to my calls or my e-mails and when I phoned the Peninsula in Hong Kong, they informed me he checked out last week. I immediately got in touch with Ron Balter at Global, but he had no idea where Simon was. I got him to go through Simon’s recent purchases and we found that Simon indeed flew back to the States. But he hasn’t used his credit cards since.”

  “Back to L.A.?”

  “No, San Francisco.”

  “Is that unusual for Mr. Vander?”

  “Not really,” said Weir. “Simon and Nadine love San Francisco, go for art fairs, that kind of thing. They generally stay at the Ritz, but there’s no record of either of them checking in.”

  “Does Mr. Vander generally keep such a low profile?”

  “He’s a low-key person, no question about that. But he’s generally good about responding to calls. And he always uses credit cards, carries very little cash. That’s not all, Lieutenant. I tried to reach Nadine in Taiwan, was told by her family that she and Kelvin left around the same time Simon flew out of Hong Kong.”

  “Did her family say why?”

  “No,” said Weir, “but there’s something of a language gap.”

  “So it could be a family vacation—wanting to be together.”

  “Yes, of course. But the credit cards, Lieutenant. Both Simon and Nadine charge everything. I phoned Simone to see if she knew anything about this. She didn’t and she grew extremely upset . . . about Travis Huck.”

  “She thinks Huck’s harmed her family?”

  “She doesn’t know what to think, Lieutenant.”

  “Would Huck know their whereabouts in San Francisco?”

  “I really can’t say. After I spoke with Simone, I felt I should do something, so I went over to the house and looked around. It does appear as if Huck’s jumped ship. His room is empty, everything’s been cleared out. I suppose that could be construed as guilt over something . . . I just don’t know.”

  Milo mouthed a silent Shit. Rubbed his face. “How thoroughly did you search?”

  “I opened some drawers, looked around. He’s gone.”

  “You went by yourself?”

  “No, with Simone. I felt that as a close family member, given exigent circumstances, she’d have a right to enter the premises. In fact, I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before, when you asked me for entry. What’s your feeling about Huck clearing out?”

  “Hard to say, sir.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” said Weir, “that he got spooked after being questioned by you people. But still, if there’s nothing to worry about, why flee? Or maybe he simply up and quit, the typical California thing.”

  “Flaky.”

  “Seems to come with the weather, Lieutenant.”

  Milo said, “When can we do our own walk-through?”

  “Say when and I’ll have someone from the office meet you there.”

  “How about in an hour?”

  “An hour? I didn’t realize . . . there are meetings all day . . . let me see here—more meetings until noon tomorrow. How about eleven a.m. tomorrow? I’ll send Sandra, my best paralegal.”

  “Have you checked the beach house?”

  “Simone and I had a brief look and it seemed to us no one had been there for a while. I’ll make sure Sandra has keys to the beach house as well.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’m sure the family’s fine,” said Weir. “There’s absolutely no reason for them not to be.”

  Milo phoned a source at Homeland Security and verified Simon, Nadine, and Kelvin Vander’s flight schedules. All three had traveled first-class on Singapore Airlines, with Simon entering SFO a day before his wife and son.

  The next call was to the Seattle money managers, where he cajoled a cagey Ronald W. Balter, Certified Financial Planner, and confirmed that nothing beyond airfare had been billed to the Vanders’ credit cards.

  “Do they have a place in Northern California?”