Fox’s grin took on wattage. “But oh so educational. What I learn is she lives on air, I’m talking diet soda and Special K—and not much cereal, at that. She also goes through a helluva lot of prescription decongestants and Ritalin. Now I’m thinking back to those meth busts. She just switched to legal speed.”
I said, “Ritalin could fit with the specialed fantasy. If she had learning disabilities, herself, maybe she fantasizes about a power role. The drug’s also effective in weight control, if you don’t mind the risks. Same for the decongestants. And she did have a role model for her eating disorder.”
“Who?”
I glanced at Milo. He nodded. I described Kelly Vander’s struggle with anorexia.
“Like mother, like daughter,” said Fox. “When I met her I didn’t think much of it. Skeletal is half the girls on the Westside. Yeah, sure, that all makes sense.”
Reed said, “So she’s an undernourished skank. What does it have to do with Huck?”
“I’m setting the stage, Moses. She’s a liar and a possible addict, which says personality problems, right? Which could explain what else I found in her garbage can: framed photo of her dad, her stepmom, and her brother all cut up, the glass all smashed.”
He raised the water glass, as if toasting. “She trashed her family, guys. Literally.”
I said, “Black ties for Dad and son, red gown for Mom?”
“That’s the one.”
“It was sitting on her coffee table. She called our attention to it. ‘That’s my brother, Kelvin. He’s brilliant.’ ”
“Well, now he’s brilliant and defaced,” said Fox. “Literally. Sweet little countenance sliced up into confetti, like someone took a razor to it. To top it off, the damn thing was wrapped in toilet paper. Don’t want to spoil your appetite, but not clean toilet paper. There’s your glamorous side of the job.”
Milo said, “The picture was a prop for our benefit. One happy family.”
Reed said, “Now she doesn’t need it anymore. Because . . . aw, Jesus. The Vanders haven’t been heard from in two weeks.”
Fox reached for another chapati. “But wait, there’s more. Call in now and you get the Ginzu knife and the automatic veeblefetzer. Given the real bad feeling I was getting from the little deadbeating bitch, I decided to keep shadowing her. First day, she did more of the usual rich-girl shit. Shopping, massage, more shopping. Which is weirdly carefree for someone who claims to be worried about her family. Second day starts off the same way. Neiman Marcus, little walk up Two Rodeo, she checks out the jewelry at Tiffany, Judith Ripka, buys sunglasses at Porsche Design. Then she drives two blocks—because she’s an L.A. girl—to an office building on Wilshire and Canon. Lobby directory says it’s the law firm Daddy uses. Same guys she bad-mouthed to me and she’s visiting them. I sit across the street and wait for her to leave. When she does, it’s not in her Beemer. She’s a passenger in a Mercedes, some guy’s at the wheel. They make a beeline to the Peninsula, Simone’s pal tips the doorman big enough to leave the car in front. Two hours later, the two of them come out with that goofy, no-longer-horny look. Meanwhile, I’ve run the tags on the Mercedes—don’t ask me how, okay?”
Milo said, “Perish the thought.”
Fox said, “Comes back to Alston Weir, Attorney-at-Mischief. Such a greedy scumbag, she wouldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him. Meanwhile he’s her lunch-hour fuck-buddy.”
Reed said, “Is Weir bald?”
“You think, Moses? Is there any other good reason to saddle himself with a big old mess of phony, piss-yellow fake-o hair? I’m talking Halloween, guys. Blond dust mop. What I find weird is the guy knows how to dress. Zegna suit, Ricci tie, Magli shoes. Threads like that and he blows it with a bad rug. Go figure.”
“Maybe he’s got an exaggerated self-image,” said Milo.
“Meaning?”
“Thinks he’s cuter than he really is, ’cause of all the Bondo in his face.”
Fox frowned. “Yeah, that, too. So you know all this? I just blew off a client for nothing?”
No answer.
“Oh, that’s just great. You guys sit there and let me spin my wheels.” To his brother: “Having fun, Moses?”
Reed smiled. But no irony, no resentment. Maybe even something resembling brotherly affection.
“What?” Fox demanded.
“We knew a little, Aaron. You just made it a lot.”
The four of us left the restaurant. Fox and Reed walked side by side, seemed on the verge of conversation. But neither brother initiated.
Milo said, “Did you happen to hold on to Simone’s garbage, Aaron?”
“Lucky for you, I’m a bit of a pat rack, Milo. Moses can verify. His side of the room looked like some ashram, mine was beaucoup toys.”
Reed said, “Beaucoup junk.”
Fox said, “Shall I have it picked up or would you like me to deliver?”
“We’ll come to you, Aaron. And thanks.”
“Figured I had to, the girl’s bad news. Any way to keep my part quiet?”
“We’ll do our best.”
Fox fooled with his pocket square and eyed his Porsche. “Meaning no.”
Milo said, “You know how it goes, Aaron. Depends where it leads. Meanwhile, do us another favor and hold off on trying to collect your bill from Simone.”
“For how long?”
“Until it’s no longer an issue.”
“Meaning never.”
“Meaning until it’s no longer an issue.”
“Now,” said Fox, “you’re sounding like a lieutenant.”
Pulling Alston “Buddy” Weir’s driver’s license took seconds. Forty-five years old, blond and blue, beta-carotene tan coating a heavy face that alternated between too-tight and losing the battle with gravity.
The bored, insolent expression of a man with better things to do than pose for the clerk. No one had questioned the biological authenticity of the Jan-and-Dean wig.
No criminal record, but a bar association complaint, still pending, had been filed two years ago over misappropriation of funds.
Locating Chance Brandt ate up over an hour.
We finally found the boy at the Westwood house of a friend named Bjorn Loftus.
Parents on vacation, gussied-up SUVs in the driveway, earsplitting music and marijuana fumes blowing through the doorway as Bjorn gaped.
He jabbered improbable lies until Milo told him to bring Chance out now. Both boys staggered out moments later.
Chance smirked. “Again?”
Reed said, “Recognize this guy?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“Who?”
“Dude I saw giving the envelope to Duboff-jackoff.” Bobbing his head and waiting for laughter that never came. “Mister look at me I’m all . . .” Chance’s eyes clouded as he groped for a punch line.
“Sign your name to the photo,” said Milo.
Chance’s scrawl was unsteady. Reed had him repeat it.
Bjorn Loftus let out a dope giggle. “Now you’re gonna have to testify, dude.”
Chance said, “No way,” and looked to us for confirmation.
Milo said, “We’ll be in touch.”
“Hear that, dude? You’re gonna get touched, dude.”
Chance said, “Not unless they’re gay, dude,” and lurched back inside.
Bjorn said, “Dude.”
Milo studied the signed photo. “My head feels like it’s gonna split open. Time for Advil and a sit-down on what we know and what we don’t.”
I said, “My house is ten minutes away and I’ve got an ice pack for that neck.”
“I said head, not neck.”
“I was talking whiplash, from getting jerked around.”
He and Reed laughed. “Yeah, let’s boogie over to the White House. He’s got a nice place, Moses. Cute dog, too. Maybe she can make sense of all this.”
I said, “There’s additional incentive. Fifteen thousand worth.”
CHAPTER 36
&nb
sp; Reed and Milo sat on the leather couch. No one bounced.
Blanche nestled in Milo’s lap. She smiled; he didn’t notice.
All eyes on the money.
Reed said, “When did Reynolds bring that to you?”
“Yesterday,” I said. “I was about to tell you when Aaron came in.”
Milo said, “Fifteen grand ain’t picnic pay. Maybe it’s time for the anthropologists. Death dogs, too.” Blanche’s ears perked. “No offense.”
Reed said, “Weir and Simone have been paying Duboff for access to the west side for something nasty? He finds out what their bribes are for and gets killed?”
“I doubt he knew, he’d have been screaming,” I said. “But they couldn’t risk his finding out.”
“Guy has free rein to the marsh, if anyone’s going to find it, he is. What if he did find out, then tried to make some extra dough?”
Milo said, “Leaning on a serial killer for more dough is pretty stupid. A nighttime meet, no less. I think the lure was just what Duboff was told: I’ve got something to make you a hero. And the caller had credibility because he knew about the secret part of the marsh.”
Reed thought. “That makes sense, Loo. Duboff brought Reynolds because he wasn’t expecting trouble. Guy started thinking he was the marsh god. But no matter what Aaron found, it doesn’t let Huck off.”
“Well put, Detective Reed. Okay, I’m gonna try to get some speed on that shoe-print analysis.”
“Huck’s the one who rabbited, Loo. More I think about it, more I like the idea of all of them being in on it.”
“Three Nasty Musketeers? Then why would Simone hire Aaron to focus on Huck?”
“She and Weir used Huck but planned on ditching him all along.”
“Weakest link,” said Milo. “Criminal history, drug issues, frequents hookers. Yeah, that fits.”
I said, “Killing hookers makes me wonder if they tailored the murders to Huck because he’s a longtime john.”
“That blood in his drain could be real, or a plant,” said Reed. “But either way, he still smells dirty.”
“Which leads us to another issue,” said Milo. “If he’s expendable, giving him a chance to split is a real bad idea.”
Reed stared at him. “They didn’t and we’re chasing down a dead man?”
“Or Huck’s a lone psycho killer and Simone just happens to be an angry girl with a penchant for lying.”
Reed said, “Cutting up her family? Ripping off her brother’s face. Doc?”
I said, “It’s off-the-scale rage and the family is missing.”
Milo said, “Okay, let’s assume for the moment that Simone, Weir, and Huck did collude. The obvious motive would be getting rid of the Vanders.”
Reed said, “Hundred million worth of motive? Hell yeah.”
“Then how do the women in the marsh figure in?”
I said, “Like we said before, misdirects. If the Vanders were found murdered with no prior context, attention would’ve shot straight to the money. Meaning an unwelcome focus on Simone as sole survivor. But with Huck nailed as a lust murderer first, the Vanders could be seen as collateral damage—victims of a psychopath’s final rampage. That fits the staging of the crimes: concealing the other bodies but making sure Selena was found, so she could lead us to the Vanders.”
“That storage unit,” said Reed. “Board games. We are being played.”
Milo said, “Those bones being acid-washed and prepped means the other women were killed at leisure, maybe warehoused somewhere, then dumped sequentially.”
Reed said, “For all we know, they were on dry ice in the unit.”
I said, “One question: the evil bald guy. Huck or Weir minus his wig?”
Milo said, “You have any feelings on that?”
“Could go either way. But two guys who just happen to be skinned could be part of setting up Huck.”
“Like Nguyen said, Alex, it’s not that rare of a look. But the more I think about it, the more Huck’s shaping up at least a partial patsy. If Huck murdered a bunch of people and was smart enough to leave no trace, why would he rabbit and make himself an obvious suspect?”
I said, “Maybe fear overcame good sense. Or he caught on that Weir and Simone had plans to end his future. With that much money at stake, he had to know he’d never be an equal partner.”
Reed said, “Yeah, thirty-three million is a bit high for wet work. But he goes along with it anyway because killing is his thing.”
“Or Simone seduced him.”
“Another kind of three-way?”
“Why not?” I said. “But, Huck finally figured out he was expendable and ran. Maybe he somehow learned about Aaron’s investigation. Or he just got nervous when your investigation took on steam.”
Milo said, “Simone heaps it on to Aaron: Huck’s big-time weird, she’s always been afraid of him. Huck doesn’t help himself by actually being weird.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if his corpse shows up at a strategic moment—apparent suicide, accompanied by a nice, neat confession note and a tipoff to where the Vanders are buried. A whole bunch of cases close simultaneously and Simone’s one of the richest girls in L.A.”
Milo rubbed his face. “Hundred million. Wars have been fought over less.”
Reed said, “If Huck pulled a real rabbit, Weir and Simone have to be freaking out.”
I said, “Maybe that’s why Simone hacked up the picture.”
Milo said, “Low frustration tolerance.”
“If that’s the case, she and Weir are working on Plan B right now. Get rid of any evidence that incriminates them, gussy up the case against Huck.” My head tightened. “That’s why Duboff had to die. He could link Weir to the marsh.”
Reed said, “Oh, man. These people are from another planet.”
Milo said, “We forgot something. If Huck was dead, Wallenburg wouldn’t be shielding him.”
I said, “Maybe she thinks he’s alive. Anyone can send a text message.”
“So who’s the Adams family she just visited? Creepy and kooky folk Wallenburg just happens to know? Boot up your computer, Alex.”
Reed was faster than Milo on the keyboard and he knew the access codes. Within seconds, he’d pulled up county records.
Anita Brackle née Loring had given marriage a third shot two years ago.
Civil ceremony in Van Nuys court. The lucky groom, Wilfred Eugene Adams, black male, sixty-two years old, home address in Mar Vista.
His name pulled up three DUIs, the final conviction six years previous.
Reed said, “Probably another rehab romance.”
Milo said, “RDate-dot-com, there’s a business opportunity for you. Okay, let’s check it out.”
“We’re holding off on the dogs and the anthropologists?”
“Not at all. Call Dr. Wilkinson.” Tiny smile. “While you’re at it, she can also check out the western edge of the marsh.”
Reed’s jaw dropped.
Milo said, “Goes with the job, kiddo.”
“What does?”
“Long periods of futility livened by moments of chagrin.”
Reed made the call as Milo and I waited in the unmarked. As he headed for us, he looked defeated.
Milo said, “Maybe she turned him down for a second date.”
The young detective got in back.
“Everything okay, Moses?”
“Not in, left a message.”
“Something on your mind?”
“Text messaging, I should’ve thought of that.”
“What, ’cause you’re the techno-generation and I’m the poster boy for horse and plow and just gave up on my Betamax?”
“What’s that?”
“A brand of buggy whip.”
A Dodge van sat in the driveway of Wilfred and Anita Loring Brackle Adams’s bungalow. If Wilfred was home, he wasn’t advertising the fact. Anita’s voice was a gritty drill bit that threatened to pierce the locked door from behind.
“You go awa
y.”
“Ma’am—”
“I will not open my door and you can’t force me to open it.”
Fourth time she’d recited the mantra.
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