Bones Page 18

  “The patients get regular dentists?”

  “When the workload permits, we try to make it as much like a private practice as possible. For DeMaura that was easy because all she needed were cleanings—oh, yes, and one replaced amalgam right at the beginning.”

  “Why would she need to be a regular just for cleanings?”

  “She had some tendency to build up plaque, but nothing extreme.” She played with the chart. “Dr. Chan had been seeing her twice a year but I put her on every three months. To keep tabs on her, not just dentally, for overall health. I felt the only way she’d get regular medical care was if I referred her.”

  “She trusted you.”

  “I took the time to listen. Truth is, I enjoyed talking to her. She could be funny. Unfortunately, she stopped coming in . . .” Flipping a page. “. . . fifteen months ago. When did she die?”

  “Possibly around then.”

  “I should’ve known something was up, she was always so dependable. But the phone number she left was inactive and I had no way to contact her.”

  “I found it surprising that she’d held on to her teeth.”

  “She had super-long roots, lots of room for error,” said Faye Martin. “She’d been told that by another dentist, years ago, and it became a point of pride for her. So did her name. ‘Montouthe, it’s karma, Doc, I’m the Chomper Queen.’ And she didn’t have too many points of pride, healthwise.”

  “What physical problems did she have?”

  “You name it,” said Faye Martin. “Arthritis, bursitis, acute bouts of pancreatitis, liver issues, at least one episode of Hep A I’m aware of, the usual STDs. She wasn’t HIV-positive, at least she’d avoided that. Not that it matters anymore.”

  “Where’d you refer her for those issues?”

  “The Marina Free Clinic. I called over there once to find out if she’d followed through. She only came in to get her prescriptions, no follow-up.”

  I said, “No one she trusted there.”

  Faye Martin’s long-lashed brown eyes locked in to mine. Her cheeks were pink. “Guess I practiced your profession without a license.”

  “Good thing. You’re the first person we’ve found who knows anything about her. We haven’t been able to turn up any relatives or friends.”

  “That’s because she had no friends. Or so she claimed. She said she didn’t like people, was happiest just walking around by herself. She called herself a lonely bad girl. Disowned by family back when she still lived in Canada.”

  “Where in Canada?”

  “Alberta.”

  I laughed. “We were told Alabama.”

  “Hey, an A’s an A,” said Faye Martin.

  “Why was she disowned?”

  “They were farmers, religious fundamentalists. DeMaura really didn’t give out the details. She came in to have her teeth cleaned, would talk and I’d listen. That happens here more than you think.” She brushed hair from her face. “I didn’t get much psych training in dental school, sure could use some.”

  “Is there anything in the chart that could help us know her better?”

  “The official record’s just teeth and gums, anything else DeMaura told me stayed in Vegas. But I’ll make you a copy. If your forensic odontologist has time, he or she can make the official match. If not, send me what you’ve got and I’ll do it.”

  “Appreciate it. What stayed in Vegas?”

  “What she did for a living. She wanted me to know right at the out-set that she was a ‘bad girl.’ Made love only for money—that’s not the terminology she used. But I don’t want to imply that was a big part of our conversations. For the most part, it was just silly chat. She’d come in, kind of goofy, start laughing about some joke she heard on the street, try to retell it, mangle it, and we’d both crack up. For a moment I’d forget what—who she was—and it would be like hanging with a friend, chick-talk. But her last visit, fifteen months ago, was different. First of all, she looked better. Nice makeup, not the crazy stuff she wore for work. Decent clothes and her hair was clean and combed out. Nothing could erase all those years of hard living, but that day I caught a glimpse of what she might’ve looked like if things had turned out differently.”

  I said, “The only picture I’ve seen was a mug shot.”

  Faye Martin frowned. “One thing I know is facial structure and DeMaura’s was well proportioned and symmetrical. She had the under-pinnings of a good-looking woman, Dr. Delaware. That day, it shone through. I told her how pretty she looked, asked if she was going somewhere special. She claimed she had a date with her boyfriend. That surprised me, she’d never talked about men except as customers.”

  “She claimed. You had your doubts?”

  “Even with her teeth and fixed up, DeMaura was far from ravishing. And the man she described was younger and good-looking.”

  “How much younger?”

  “She didn’t specify but she called him a kid. ‘Gorgeous kid, I could be his momma but he likes ’em mature.’ Honestly, I thought she was making it up. Or, at the least, exaggerating. After I finished doing her teeth and my assistant left the room, she started talking about the sexual side of their relationship and for the first time I saw a hint of . . . I guess it would have to be arousal. As if she could still feel. So maybe this guy, whoever he was—if he existed—maybe he turned her on. Though I also wondered if DeMaura had been the victim of some cruel joke. Misconstruing one of her business relationships as personal.”

  “Crush on a client,” I said.

  “What she told me next made it the wrong type of client. She said he liked to hurt her. And that she liked to be hurt.”

  “Hurt how?”

  “I didn’t ask. The prurient details didn’t interest me, just the opposite—to be truthful, I was repulsed. I did warn her to be careful but she said they were just playing games.”

  “She used that word?”

  “Yes, games. Then she placed her hands around her neck and stuck out her tongue and wobbled her head. As if she was being strangled.”

  Dark eyes narrowed. “Is that how she died?”

  “There’s evidence of strangulation, but all that was left of her were bones.”

  “My God,” she said. “It wasn’t her fantasy, it happened.”

  “What else did she say about this boyfriend?”

  “Let me think back.” Massaging the smooth space between shaped eyebrows. “She said . . . now I’m sorry that I didn’t press for details . . . okay, she said she liked rubbing his head, he was her good-luck charm. It was one of the games they played, she’d rub his head and he’d do what he wanted—her words, he does what he wants, whatever he wants. She said she loved his head, how smooth it was. ‘Like a baby’s ass.’ So I guess he was bald.” Frowning. “I gave her a new toothbrush and a pick and some Colgate Total.”

  She sprang up. “Let me copy this for you.”

  I said, “This has been helpful. You’ve got nothing to regret.”

  She turned, smiled. “At least someone has psych training.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Assistant District Attorney John Nguyen rubbed a baseball.

  Pristine Dodger ball decorated with lots of signatures. Three other orbs in plastic cases shared shelf space with law books and case folders. Nguyen was senior enough to get a corner-view office on the seventeenth floor of the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center. Foltz had been the first woman lawyer on the West Coast. I wondered what she’d think of the soulless, twenty-story fridge that bore her name.

  The vista was downtown rooftops and chrome-cold parking lots; square footage was minimal. Milo and Moe Reed and I crowded Nguyen’s city-issue desk, leaving no room for dancing.

  “That’s it?” said Nguyen, massaging a tightly laced seam. “A possible victim has a possible john but he’s just as likely to be an imaginary boyfriend without hair?”

  Reed said, “Plus there’s Big Laura Chenoweth escaping from a homicidal skinhead, and Selena Bass getting into a car with a
baldie.”

  “Both stories were obtained from recollective third-person accounts, making it hearsay twice removed. Don’t you guys follow pop culture? Bald is the new lush.” Nguyen touched his own thick, black brush cut. “Sorry, no one will give you paper with that.”

  Milo said, “C’mon, John, it’s more than that. Travis Huck’s shown clear signs of evasion.”

  “Not being home when you drop in is evasive? Plus, he was wearing a hat, you can’t be sure he’s a cueball.”

  “What was visible beneath the hat was clearly skinned.”

  “What if he skins around the sides and on top there’s a shaving brush? Like the freak in that movie David Lynch did years ago . . . you know the one I’m talking about.”

  Silence.

  Nguyen said, “Eraserhead. Hell, what if you yank off the hat and out pops a one-foot Afro? You’re relying on some dinkyshit physical description that’s worth less than flea-spit. But I won’t stop you, go judge-fishing. I just can’t put in a good word with anyone, way too anemic.”

  His eyes dropped to Travis Huck’s most recent DMV photo. “Here he’s got surplus locks. But let’s say he shaved his dome. You’d have to prove it happened during a time frame that matches him to the dude seen with Selena. No, even farther back—to Montouthe. Which was what, two years ago?”

  “Fifteen months,” said Milo.

  Nguyen played with the baseball some more. “I’m sure your instincts are right about this guy, but what you’ve got is feeble. Let’s stretch and say you dig up enough so Mr. Huck becomes a viable suspect. We’ve still got a problem getting into the house. It’s not his residence, belongs to his employer. Who is not a suspect.”

  Moe Reed said, “Not yet.”

  Nguyen rolled the baseball between his fingertips. “Is there something you want to tell me? As in the full picture?”

  Milo recounted the swinger parties Selena Bass had described to her brother, her subsequent hiring as Kelvin Vander’s piano teacher. The fact that the Vander family had left town.

  “Okay, she advanced from bad girl to Bach,” said Nguyen. “So what?”

  Reed said, “Or Bach was a cover to get her over to the house at regular intervals.”

  “Kinky rich people,” said Nguyen. “Boy, that’s a novelty in Holly-weird. Same question, guys: Who says ‘swinger parties’ is anything more than good, clean, adulterous fun? You’ve got absolutely no connection to the S and M stuff two of your hookers allegedly engaged in. And, frankly, your other hooker . . . Chenoweth, doesn’t sound like she’d let anyone tie her up. Just the opposite.”

  “There was a riding crop in Selena’s—”

  “So she liked horses. Girls do.” Nguyen swiveled in his chair, placed the baseball on a plastic stand, placed the box over it with loving care. “I know I’m being an asshole but you’ll get worse from the other side, so better to proceed with caution.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Get better evidence.”

  I said, “If the Vanders gave permission to search, would it extend to Huck’s quarters?”

  Nguyen leaned back. “Interesting question . . . might depend on the nature of Huck’s arrangement with the Vanders. Is his room a stipulated component of his salary? If so, it would be a legally contracted domicile, no different from any rented or leased space, and only the resident can grant permission.”

  “If the resident is still in residence.”

  Nguyen smiled. “You could’ve been a lawyer, Doc. Yes, if he’s vacated and the Vanders grant permission, you’re in. And if there was no formal agreement vis-à-vis the job and he just moved in, I suppose a case could be made that he’s a guest. How long’s he been there?”

  “Three years,” said Reed.

  “Nope, no way that’s a guest. One more thing to be aware of: Even if you get someone to sign a warrant for the room, Huck’s belongings won’t fall under its provisions unless he’s abandoned them. And you can’t play fast and loose with that, they need to be obvious discards. It’s exactly the kind of privacy issue the courts get picky about . . . though the exterior surfaces of permanent furniture previously owned by the Vanders might be . . . it’s possible you can swab the furniture.”

  He scratched his head. “To be honest, I don’t have a clue without doing some depth research. It’s not the kind of thing that comes up.” Smiling. “You could make case law but lose your bad guy.”

  Milo said, “If we get permission from the Vanders and see something creepy in plain sight—”

  Nguyen covered his ears.

  “What?” said Milo.

  “That game might work on a brain-dead bar-murder mope. Plain sight, indeed. Huck hasn’t answered your phone calls, so he’s clearly opposed to cooperating. Who’s going to believe he’d leave evidence around?”

  “Stupid criminals,” said Moe Reed. “Without them, the job’s as funny as a heart attack.”

  Milo shot him a sharp look that took on amusement. Turned back to Nguyen. “Detective Reed makes a good point, John. What if Huck thinks he’s all fortressed up and gets cocky? We get in somehow, use the element of surprise, there’s no telling.”

  “If he’s even there, Milo. Two days running, none of you have seen him coming or going and that Lexus is gone. You’re the detectives. Doesn’t that smell of bunny hop?”

  “Running for president of the Pessimist Club, John?”

  “I thought of it,” said Nguyen, “but they’re too giddy a bunch.”

  Moe Reed said, “He can’t have it both ways. Guy rabbits with intention never to return, what he leaves behind is abandoned, right?”

  Nguyen studied the young detective. “LAPD’s growing them sophisticated, huh? Yeah, you’d be okay if it’s indisputably obvious that he moved out permanently. And believe me, that’s going to be challenged, they’ll claim it was a vacation with expectation of privacy.”

  “Vacation from us?” said Reed. “That indicates guilt.”

  “Vacation from work, boredom, whatever he feels like getting away from, Detective Reed. The point is the Founding Fathers wanted people to be able to enjoy Yosemite without returning home and finding their house subjected to a police state ransack. And for this particular suspect a rabbit can be construed as something other than guilt. He was railroaded as a kid. What better justification for avoiding the cops?”

  Reed’s lips turned down. He ran a finger under his collar.

  “Listen,” said Nguyen, “you get permission from the Vanders, there’s some latitude. But make sure it’s in writing. At the least, you’ll be able to go in, get a feel for the place, make contact with other people—maid, a gardener, whatever, see if they can incriminate Huck.”

  Milo said, “So far there’s been no sign of any staff other than Huck.”

  Reed said, “But the place is huge, there’s got to be someone.”

  Nguyen stood. “Always a pleasure, guys. Got a meeting.”

  As we reached the city parking lot, Reed got a call.

  “Liz Wilkinson,” he said, clicking off. Blushing. “Doctor Wilkinson. She wants to talk about the hand bones.”

  “Crypt’s a ten-minute ride,” said Milo. “Go for it.”

  “She’s back at the marsh, studying those aerial photographs the chopper took this morning.”

  Reed had initiated the aerial scan.

  “Anything from that?” said Milo.

  Reed shook his head. Hurrying to his Crown Vic, he drove off fast.

  We continued to Milo’s unmarked. “Mind being the wheelman, Alex? Got some calls to make.”

  “Isn’t that against regs?”

  “Hell, yeah. I need something to cheer me up.”

  I directed the big, ungainly car westward as he called the forty-lawyer Beverly Hills firm that handled all of Simon Vander’s legal interests. The first attorney who stonewalled was named Sarah Lichter but when Milo kept pushing her secretary, the fact emerged that Ms. Lichter had represented Mr. Vander on “a business matter some years ago,” but Mr. Va
nder’s primary attorney for “the majority of business matters” was Mr. Alston B. Weir.

  Weir’s secretary was amiable but no more helpful, referring him to Weir’s paralegal, who put him on hold. He switched the phone to speaker, yawned, stretched, studied downtown streets.

  The unmarked’s alignment was way off, forcing me to wrestle the wheel. My appreciation for Milo’s job performance kicked up a notch.

  A cheerful, syrupy voice said, “Buddy Weir. How can I help the police?”