Bones

by Jonathan Kellerman

  She said, “This time it’s not just restlessness. You’ve got that heat in your baby blues.”

  I told her about Brackle.

  She said, “Huck helped the family, so they’re helping him?”

  “I’m grasping.”

  “No grasp, no get.” She kissed me. “Be careful.”

  When I reached the door, she said, “Be great if the baby’s thriving.”

  The reality of The Meadowlark was white stucco grayed by time and pollution, a profusion of plants in need of trim, a constant overlay of freeway flatulence.

  Security was mechanical but effective: a deadbolted iron mesh gate. I checked the roster of residents, failed to find Brackle’s name, figured him for long gone, or a sublet.

  Then a listing at the bottom caught my eye.

  Ranchero Five. One of the high-priced units.

  I was deliberating whether or not to try the direct approach when a FedEx guy came charging through the gate. I caught it before it could swing shut, made my way past the first two swimming pools, both unoccupied and leaf-littered.

  The Haciendas were a collection of two-story units tucked into the northeast corner and segregated by a low wall of cut-out cement blocks.

  The orange door to Five was nearly hidden by the broad leaves of a banana that had managed to thrive in the shade but would never bear fruit.

  I rang the bell. A female voice said, “Larry? Forget your key again?”

  I murmured something that could’ve been “Uh-huh” or “Uh-uh.”

  The door opened on a perilously thin, brown-haired, middle-aged woman wearing an oversized white jersey top and black yoga pants, and holding a cigarette. Bare feet, pink toenails, red polish for the tips of her spidery fingers. A gold chain rested on the arch of one varicose foot. A face perched on a long, graceful neck bore the aftershocks of beauty. Puckers around her wide, thin mouth gave her a capuchin look. Shadows under her eyes spoke of stories that could never be untold.

  “You’re not Larry.” Smoker’s rasp. Olfactory stew of Chanel and tobacco.

  “Mrs. Vander?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  I gave her my name and flashed the consultant’s I.D.

  “A doctor? Something happened to Larry?”

  “No. I’m here to talk to him.”

  “About what?”

  “Old friends.”

  “Well, he’s not here.” Kelly Vander began closing her door.

  I said, “When’s Mr. Brackle coming back? It’s important.”

  The door stopped moving.

  “Mrs. Vander?”

  “I heard you.” Behind her was a big bright, high-ceilinged room set up with a flat-screen and pink leather couches. A half-gallon bottle of Fresca stood on an end table. Music played. Jack Jones advising some girl to comb her hair and fix her makeup.

  Kelly Vander said, “He went out for cigarettes.”

  “No problem. I’m happy to wait outside.”

  “What kind of old friends?”

  “Travis Huck, for one.”

  “Travis,” she said.

  “You know him.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? He works for my ex-husband.”

  “Are you and Mr. Vander in regular contact?”

  “We talk.”

  “Have you spoken to him recently?”

  She shook her head. “This has something to do with Simon?”

  I said, “Did Larry help Travis get the job with Simon?”

  She sucked in smoke. “I don’t speak for Larry. For anyone. Give me your number, I’ll pass it on.”

  “I’d rather wait.”

  “Suit yourself.” The door edged inward another couple of inches.

  I said, “Simon hasn’t been heard from in two weeks. Same for Nadine and Kelvin.”

  “They’re probably traveling. They do that.”

  “Two weeks ago, they flew from Asia to San Francisco. Any idea where they might be staying?”

  “I wouldn’t know. What’s that got to do with Larry?”

  “You haven’t heard about Travis?”

  “Heard what?”

  I told her.

  “That’s insane.”

  “What is?”

  “Travis doing something like that. He loves us.”

  “Loves the entire family?”

  “Just about,” she said. “Too bad about those women, that’s really horrible. Really, really horrible. Jesus.” Tugging the neckline of her top. “I’m sure they’re okay—Simon and Kelvin. Nadine. Adorable kid, Kelvin. Plays piano like Elton John. He calls me Auntie Kelly.”

  “How often do you see them?”

  “Not often.”

  “What did you mean by ‘just about’?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You said Travis loved ‘just about’ everyone in the family.”

  “He loves everybody.” Her cigarette hand shook. Ash fell to her chest. She brushed it off, created streaks on the white jersey. “Would you do me a favor, examine the label, tell me the laundering instructions.”

  Hooking a thumb to the back of the neckline, she pulled and bent forward. Provided enough slack for a glimpse of flat chest and puckered sternum.

  I said, “Dry clean only.”

  “Figures.”

  “Travis loves everyone,” I said.

  “Who wouldn’t he love?” She flashed brown, corroded teeth. The cigarette slipped through her fingers, landed atop her left foot, scattered ashes. It had to hurt. She stared at the smoldering cylinder, as if assessing her loss.

  I bent and retrieved the cigarette. She snatched it, jammed it back in her mouth.

  “Sorry to upset you,” I said.

  “Upset? I don’t think so. Let me look at that I.D. of yours.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Kelly Vander’s pink couches were soft and yielding. Her condo had the afterthought look of temporary housing.

  The seventy-inch TV was the source of the music; a cable or satellite station playing Singers and Standards. Jack Jones had given way to Eydie Gorme blaming everything on the bossa nova.

  Kelly touched the soda bottle. “Fresca? If you want caffeine, there’s Diet Pepsi.”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  Inhaling her cigarette down to the filter, she ditched it in the kitchen sink, found a pack of Winston Lights, lit up. “Some people think diet is bad for you but I think it’s better than all that sugar. Larry should be back soon.”

  She took something off the wall and brought it to me.

  Framed, glassed newspaper ad. Full-color May Company spread, junior miss dresses and sweater ensembles on clearance. The date, thirty-one years ago.

  “This is me.” Pointing to a blond girl in a plaid jumper. Even without puckers, Kelly Vander’s mouth had a simian cast and I would’ve picked her out.

  “You modeled?”

  She sat on a pink corner. “I’m five five now, used to be an inch taller before my spine compressed. But even with that, I was too short for the big time. In the beginning all they had me doing was kiddy wear. My boobs came in late because . . . soon as I got a chest, the agency pushed me straight into juniors and that’s where I stayed. That’s how I met Simon. He was in the rag trade, repping synthetic knits for a downtown manufacturer. There was a showcase for buyers, they set up a runway at the Scottish Rite, place squeaked like a haunted house.”

  “Over in Hancock Park,” I said. “Near the Ebell.” Wondering if Kelvin Vander’s recital venue would draw a reaction.

  Kelly Vander said, “That’s the one. Karma.” She poured herself Fresca. “Sure I can’t get you any?”

  “I’m fine. What was karma?”

  “Meeting Simon. We girls were all lined up, they gave us outfits randomly. I just happened to end up with one of his company’s suits. Blue, double-breasted. Metal buttons, like a sailor. I even wore a sailor hat.” She touched her head, allowed herself a ragged brown smile. “Crappy poly, scratchy, I couldn’t wait to get out of it. Simon came up to me later. He�
��d gotten a big order, thanked me. He was a little older than me. Seemed sophisticated . . .”

  She exhaled smoke. Nicotine vapors wafted across her glass, gave the soda the look of a potion.

  “You’re a psychologist, huh? Known plenty of those. Some good ones, some not-so-good ones.”

  “That’s better than no good ones.”

  “You work for the police?”

  “I freelance.”

  “Must be interesting.”

  “It can be.”

  Big grin. “What was your most exciting case?”

  I smiled back.

  She said, “Can’t blame any of them. The psychologists who tried to help me. What I had was resistant to change. ‘Chronic eating disorder, resistant to change.’ They told me if I didn’t stop starving myself, I’d drop dead of a heart attack. That scared me, but not enough, you know? Like there’s two parts of my brain, the thinking section and the gimme section. One of the doctors who helped me said it was a matter of developing new habits. He had me do exercises—mental, I mean. Getting the thinking section to dominate. That make sense to you?”

  “It does.”

  “I’m okay now.” Running her hands over her bony body. “I could probably still keel over from what I did to myself back then, but so far, knock on mahogany.”

  “You were healthy enough to have a child.”

  “You know Simone? She looks just like me . . . I should do my teeth. It’s obvious, right? They’re all rotted from bulimia, everyone says I’d look ten years younger if I did my teeth but I’m not sure I want that.”

  “To look younger?”

  “Exactly,” she said. “Every time I see myself in the mirror and cringe it reminds me of how I got that way in the first place. What do you think? Professionally speaking. Do I need that reminder?”

  “I don’t know you well enough,” I said.

  “Ding. Good answer.” She pumped air, checked a wall clock. “Where’s Larry . . . I finally got some insights. Third rehab’s the charm.”

  “Did you meet Larry in rehab?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t speak for Larry. I own what I own and his emotional acreage is his. Speaking of which.”

  She glanced at the door.

  I’d been listening for footsteps, had heard nothing. Moments later, the panel of orange wood swung wide open and sixty-three inches of sunglassed, aloha-shirted Larry Brackle charged in swinging a greasy white bag. A carton of Winston Lights was pinioned under his arm. “Got you donuts, honey. Those crunchy maple walnut cinnam—”

  He removed his shades. “We got a guest, Kell?”

  Kelly Vander said, “You do, Larry. It’s all about you, baby doll.”

  Larry Brackle flicked ashes into a coffee cup. “You’re trying to tell me Travis is some kind of Bundy? No offense, sir, but that’s lunacy.”

  Kelly Vander said, “That’s what I told him, sweets.”

  They sat next to each other, knees pressed together, smoking in unison, making their way through the Fresca.

  I said, “The police consider him a prime suspect.”

  Brackle said, “Police thought that the first time.”

  “You know Travis’s history.”

  Hesitation. “Sure. It was in the papers.”

  “Not the local papers.”

  Silence.

  I said, “The Ferris Ravine Clarion’s pretty obscure, Mr. Brackle. Unless you know his story from some other source.”

  Brackle turned to Kelly Vander. Her face stayed blank.

  He said, “Whatever, I heard about it.”

  “Travis told you.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Did you meet him in rehab?”

  “Look, sir, I want to be a good citizen, but I don’t speak for Travis. He owns what he owns and my shit is my own. No offense.”

  I said, “Speak for yourself then. Did you know him before he took Brandeen to the hospital or after?”

  Brackle’s jaws worked. Pint-sized man but his wrists and hands were thick and sturdy. “Man, I’m hungry.” He sprang up, jogged to the kitchen, returned with a slab of pound cake on a paper plate. “Split, honey?”

  “No, it’s yours.”

  Brackle kissed her cheek. “It could be yours, too.”

  “You’re so sweet but Ms. Tummy’s full,” said Kelly Vander. “I’ll wait till dinner.”

  “You’re sure? It’s good cake.”

  “I am, sweetie.”

  “Okay. Let’s have those steaks for dinner.”

  “You can have one, Lar. Little heavy for me.”

  “I’ll cut them into thin strips.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You liked ’em that way before.”

  “Yeah, that was good, but I don’t know, I’m kind of full.”

  I said, “I’m thinking you knew Travis before he found Brandeen. He went looking for her and Brandi in order to help you out.”

  “Now, c’mon, sir, don’t be going off on some guessing game. Travis is a good man.”

  “I’m not saying he isn’t. I know he didn’t hurt Brandi.”

  Brackle’s hands became glossy white fists. “Hell, no, he didn’t. Everyone knows who hurt Brandi. Sir.”

  “Gibson DePaul.”

  “Scum. They sent him up for life and he killed another inmate and got sent to Pelican Bay. Sir.”

  “You keep tabs on him?”

  “We get that victim notification mailer they send us.”

  “ ‘Us’ meaning the two of you? Or you and your ex?”

  “I can’t say what she gets.”

  “Where is Anita?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Lost contact?”

  “Anita couldn’t change herself. Didn’t wanna try.”

  “What about the kids?”

  “I see ’em on some holidays,” said Brackle. “What’s the diff to you? Why all this curiosity about my family?”

  “Sorry. My main interest is Travis.”

  “Then you’re spinning your wheels, sir. He didn’t kill nobody. Not then, not now.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “What is?”

  “The police consider him a prime suspect but people keep showing up who consider him a saint.”

  “Like who?”

  “Debora Wallenburg.”

  Brackle and Kelly Vander looked at each other. Burst into sudden, strident laughter.

  I said, “Must’ve missed the joke.”

  Brackle said, “Saints. There ain’t no such thing, we’re always talking about that. All there is, sir, are sinners of different degrees and what we all need is to learn to forgive ourselves, not wait for some preacher to do it.”

  I said, “So both of you met Travis in rehab.”

  No answer.

  “It’s not a secret that can be kept very long.”

  “Travis is entitled to his privacy, sir.”

  “Getting help’s not something to be ashamed of, Mr. Brackle. On the contrary. He got himself together.”

  Kelly Vander said, “Okay, fine, that’s where we met him.”

  I said, “Did you recommend him to Simon as payment for rescuing Larry’s granddaughter?”

  Brackle said, “You’re a smart one. Why don’t you use that brain on something important?”

  “How long before Brandi’s murder did you meet him?”

  “Right before, okay? Six, seven months. I’d already decided to leave Anita because she refused to get better and I knew if I stayed with her, I’d be dead soon. Only thing that stopped me was the kids. Three of hers—including Brandi—and we had one together. That’s Randy. He’s in the service, over in Fallujah, got decorated.”

  “Randy’s a wonderful boy,” said Kelly, wistfully.

  Brackle said, “We got a consensus on that . . . yeah, that’s where we met Travis, the three of us trying to get straight. His treatment was being paid for by that lawyer, Wallenburg. I thought it was damn nice of her and told him so. Told him he should t
ake advantage of amazing grace and improve himself. I was using my own dough plus work disability, place cost a fortune.”