Bones Page 24

  Reed said, “That time frame, we know he trolls for street girls. Maybe when he can’t connect, he stalks houses, peeps windows, or worse.”

  Milo said, “Least now we know where he was ten years ago. Street guy, no Social Security number, so ten to one he was supporting himself illegally. Let’s see what Records can give us on hot-prowl burglaries back then, especially in East Hollywood and Silverlake. I’ll do it, Moses, you keep working the transport angle and taking phone tips.”

  “You got it.”

  I said, “Huck said he’d walked the baby to the hospital. If it’s true, he didn’t have a car. That could mean his home base wasn’t far from where he found her.”

  Reed said, “He stays on the boulevard for fun, crawls back to some hole up in the hills.”

  Milo said, “Could be, but forget about canvassing the boulevard. No one from ten years ago is gonna be around. The residential neighborhood could be a different story. We go back to where the baby was found, we might turn up someone who remembers Huck.”

  “Better yet,” I said. “Huck remembers and returns there to hide.”

  Milo chewed his cheek. “Home is where the heart is, huh?”

  Reed said, “Back to the old comfort zone. Might sound appealing when you’re rabbiting from la policía.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Brandi Loring’s body had been found on Apache Street, near the western edge of Silverlake, up four sloping blocks north of Sunset.

  The neighborhood was meager frame houses, some no larger than shacks, more generous structures sectioned into rentals. The spot where Travis Huck had reported finding Baby Brandeen was a cracked, buckling sidewalk on its way to being trashed by the roots of a gigantic banyan.

  An hour and a half of door-knocks up and down Apache produced quizzical looks and declarations of ignorance, mostly in Spanish. A woman named Maribella Olmos, ancient and withered but bright-eyed, remembered the incident.

  “The baby. Nice person to do that,” she said. “Brave.”

  “Did you know him, ma’am?” said Milo.

  “Wish I did. Very brave.”

  “Saving a baby.”

  “Saving, taking to the doctor,” she said. “All those gangbangers riding around, shooting? It’s better now, but back then? Hoo.”

  “The bangers were out at three in the morning?”

  “Anytime they want. Sometimes, I’m sleeping, I hear gunshots. It’s better now. Much better. You guys are doing a good job.”

  Snatching Milo’s big hand, she pressed it to wizened lips.

  One of the few times I’ve seen him caught off guard. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Maribella Olmos let go of his hand and winked. “I’d give you another one right on the lips, but I don’t want your wife getting jealous.”

  Next stop: the last known address for Brandi Loring’s mother and step-father.

  Anita and Lawrence Brackle had lived in a pink two-story prewar, divided into a quartet of apartments. No one on the block had ever heard of the family, Brandi, or the baby-saving incident.

  The rest of the afternoon was spent cruising Silverlake, showing Huck’s picture to people old enough to be of potential use.

  Blank stares and head shakes; Milo dealt with failure by stopping at a street cart for two glasses of iced tamarind soda. Other vendors had set up bins of clothing on the sidewalk. He eyed the illegal display with amusement, drank with fervor as cars bumped by on the pothole-afflicted stretch of Sunset.

  Back in the car, he said, “It was a long shot. You still wanna find Leibowitz, be my guest. I’m going back to the office, expanding the real estate search to neighboring counties, just in case Huck did manage to hitch a ride on the real estate train. Then it’s old Hollywood hot-prowls. Maybe I’ll find a severed hand.”

  “Any word on the Vanders?”

  “Not yet, and Buddy Weir keeps calling, guy’s starting to sound hysterical.”

  I said, “A lawyer who cares.”

  He snorted. “All those billable hours down the tubes.”

  Thirty seconds of Internet search brought up a Barry Leibowitz who’d come in fourth at a charity pro-am golf tournament held last year. Tres Olivos Golf Club and Leisure Life Resort in Palm Springs.

  The desert could be an affordable place for an ex-cop to retire. I pulled up a group photo. Golfing Barry Leibowitz was a white-haired, mustachioed man of the right age standing in the back row. Further Web-surfing produced a follow-up piece in the club bulletin, with capsule bios of the four top amateurs.

  Two dentists, one accountant, and “Detective Leibowitz, our law enforcement duffer. Nowadays, he captures trophies, instead of criminals.”

  I phoned Tres Olivos, used my real name and title but made up a story about calling on behalf of Western Pediatrics as the hospital searched for Mr. Leibowitz’s current mailing address.

  “The trophy he won in our recent Nine Holes For Kids tournament was returned by the post office and we’d really like to get it to him.”

  At worst, the club secretary would be cautious, verify with the hospital, learn I was on the staff but that no such award existed.

  She said, “Here you go, Doctor.”

  No desert air for Det. III (ret.) Barry Z. Leibowitz.

  He lived in a one-bedroom condo on Pico west of Beverwil. I called, got no answer, set out anyway.

  The address matched a gated complex called Hillside Manor. Not much of a development, just a hundred yards of driveway lined with sand-colored boxes that bordered the northern edge of Hillcrest Country Club’s verdant eighteen holes.

  The club was a nice fit for Leibowitz’s interests, but I couldn’t see an ex-detective making the membership fee.

  A call box to the right of the gate listed thirty residents. I entered Leibowitz’s code. A bass voice said, “Yes?”

  I started to explain who I was.

  “You’re putting me on.”

  “Not at all. I’m working with Detective Sturgis. It’s about Travis Huck—”

  “Hold on.”

  Five minutes later, the man I’d just seen pictured in the tournament photo appeared on the west side of the truncated street, wearing a gold polo shirt, black linen pants, and flip-flops. Taller and broader than the picture had suggested, Barry Leibowitz supported a wine-barrel torso on short, stumpy legs. The white hair was thin. The mustache was full and waxed.

  His look of amusement recalled the jaunty, monocled fellow from Monopoly.

  When he reached the gate, I showed my consulting badge.

  “What’s that supposed to do?”

  “Establish my bona fides.”

  “I just called Sturgis.” The gate slid open. “Heard of him, but never worked with him. Must be interesting.”

  “The cases can be.”

  He studied me. “Sure. That’s what I meant.”

  The condo was a second-floor unit toward the back, spotless, almost antiseptic. Two leather golf bags were propped in a corner. A portable bar sported good single-malt and premium gin. A dozen or so golf trophies shared a case with paperback books.

  Crime novels, mostly.

  Leibowitz saw me looking at them and chuckled. “You’d think busman’s holiday, right? In the real world, we got sixty, seventy percent of the bad guys. These creative types get a hundred. Want something to drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’m pouring Macallan 16 for myself. You sure?”

  “You changed my mind.”

  Leibowitz chuckled. “Flexibility, mark of a smart guy.” Removing a couple of old-fashioned glasses from the bar’s lower shelf, he held them up to the light, took them into the kitchen, washed and dried, inspected again, repeated the ritual.

  Through a split in the pine trees, the kitchen window offered an oblique sliver of stunning green. Atop a rolling hill, a figure in white contemplated a putt.

  Leibowitz said, “Nice view, huh? I’m like that guy in mythology, Tantalus. All the goodies just out of arm’s reach.”

&nbs
p; I said, “Rancho Park’s not far.”

  “You play?”

  “Nope, I just know about Rancho. After O.J. got sued, he went for the public courses.”

  Leibowitz laughed. “O.J. Thank God I never got near that one.”

  He brought over two stiff drinks, settled in a recliner. The first half of his glass went down in small, slow sips. He finished the rest in a single swallow. “Let’s hear it for the Scots. So you want to know about Eddie Huckstadter—that’s the name he was using back then. In terms of my case, he was one of the good guys, especially given his circum-stances.”

  “What circumstances were those?”

  “He was a bum,” he said. “Excuse me, a ‘homeless individual who should never be judged by conventional standards.’ ” Laughing, he reached for the bar, poured himself another finger of whiskey. “Truth is, Doctor, I don’t judge. Not anymore. Once you get away from the job you start to get a different perspective. Like with Sturgis. Back when I started, you’d never get me working with someone like that. Now? He’s got the chops? Hell, who cares about his outside life.”

  He studied me. “If that offends you, what can I say.”

  “No offense taken. Huckstadter left the scene. How’d you find him?”

  “Sheer brilliance.” More laughter. “Not quite. Hospital described him, I gave the description to patrol, a couple of our uniforms knew who he was right away from working the boulevard. Eddie was just another street guy. We picked him up the next day.”

  “He hung out on Hollywood?”

  “Used to panhandle outside the Chinese Theatre and farther up, near the Pantages. Wherever the tourists were, I guess. Had his hair long, a pierced nose, the whole freak thing. That’s what they were back then. Not hippies anymore. Freaks.”

  “Did patrol know him from prior arrests?”

  “Nope, just as a bum. He was distinctive, that crooked mouth of his plus the limp.” He screwed up his own lips. The mustache went along for the ride. “They brought him to me, I questioned him, he gave the same story he gave the nurses at the hospital, but by that time he was irrelevant anyway. The case was closed, instant guilty plea by the bad guy—some scrotum named Gibson DePaul. Gibbie.” Pronouncing the nickname with lingering contempt.

  He sipped the refill. “Still, patrol goes to the trouble to follow through, I’m not going to make them feel they wasted their time. I rode cars myself. Ten years in Van Nuys, then four in West Valley before I decided to use this”—tapping his head—“instead of this.” Doing the same for his biceps.

  A brawny arm hoisted. Down went the rest of the second scotch. “I used to live in the Valley, back when my wife was alive—that’s good stuff, they age it in sherry barrels. You don’t like it?”

  I drank. Savored the taste, then the burn. “I like it a lot.”

  Leibowitz said, “Huckstadter’s become a serious bad guy? Sturgis told me, it almost knocked me over, I missed that completely.”

  “You didn’t hear about it on the news?”

  “Nah, never watch that crap, life’s too short. Got a nineteen-inch in the bedroom, when it’s on, it’s tuned to sports.”

  “So Huckstadter didn’t seem violent.”

  “Nope, but it’s not like we spent much time together psychoanalyzing.”

  “Still, you’re surprised.”

  “I’m always surprised,” said Leibowitz. “Keeps you young—what I said before, flexibility.”

  “What was Eddie like back then?”

  “Just another sad case, Doc. Hollywood’s always full of them. All the glamour that isn’t.”

  “He’s got no adult record.”

  “Meaning he was a juvey offender?”

  “He spent some time at CYA but the case was reversed.”

  “What kind of case?” said Leibowitz.

  I described Huck’s manslaughter conviction. “The crooked mouth’s probably the result of a head injury while in custody.”

  “Well,” he said, “I can see that making a guy angry.”

  “Huck seem angry?”

  “Nah. Just scared. Like he didn’t like being out in the daylight.”

  “Drug problem?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. Dope, booze, or being crazy is what gets people living on the street. But if you’re asking did I see track marks, a raw nose, was he speed-talking or spaced out or hungover, the answer is no. No overt craziness, either. Guy was coherent, told the story logically from A to B. Most I could say about him was he looked depressed.”

  “Over what?”

  “I assumed over the way his life had gone. Being homeless, it’s easy to get beaten down, right? I wasn’t there to be his shrink, Doc. I took the report, when he was through, I offered him a ride wherever he wanted to go. He said no thanks, he liked to walk. Now you’re telling me he’s serious bad news. That’s disconcerting, Doc. My missing all the signs. Is there evidence he was strangling girls back then?”

  “No.”

  “No, or not yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Those marsh murders, they’re definitely his?”

  “Circumstances seem to point that way.”

  “Damn,” he said. “Who’da known? I didn’t see a sign of that. Nothing.”

  I said, “Maybe there were no signs.”

  “He was crafty, hid his dark impulses?”

  “Yup,” I said. “That’s what I meant.”

  It took until nightfall to make contact with Milo’s mobile.

  I said, “Any interesting hot-prowls?”

  “Only interesting ones were closed, the rest are simple burglaries—jewelry, stereos. No panty thieves, nothing creepy. And so far, Huck’s avoided the real estate boom. He owns nothing.”

  “You might not want to spend much more time at the assessor’s. Ten years ago he was homeless. Hard to see him building up enough equity.”

  “Hard to see him jumping from that to estate manager.”

  “Maybe the Vanders really do have tender hearts,” I said. “Or by the time they met him, he’d turned his life around.”

  “Fine, but how would people like them meet someone like him?”

  I thought about that. “Could’ve been through a temp job—Huck working as a waiter or a bartender at a charity function. Or just a chance encounter.”

  “He fools ’em into thinking he’s reformed? We’re talking mushy heart, Alex.”

  “The same kind of idealism that might lead them to donate to the marsh?”

  Silence.

  He said, “Interesting.”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t find any list of Save the Marsh contributors and Alma Reynolds claims there’s no formal fund-raising group. Billionaire bucks fund the entire operation, which seems to be rent and twenty-five grand for Duboff’s salary. I’m wondering if Duboff might’ve supplemented. As in the blond, plastic guy with the envelope that Chance Brandt saw.”

  “If that was a payoff, what was Señor Bondo getting from Duboff?”

  “Don’t know, but it’s possible Duboff saved up some extra cash, despite a low salary, and Alma got hold of it.”

  I described the huge pearl Reynolds had tried to conceal, how she’d bought it shortly after Duboff’s death, lied about its being a gift from him.

  He said, “Or she splurged on herself and was embarrassed to admit it. Being a self-denying vegan ascetic and all that.”

  “She eats fish,” I said. “Steak wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “Hypocrite?”

  “Holding something back. The minute she saw me, she tried to hide that pearl. Then she switched tactics and flaunted it, as if daring me to make a big deal out of it. But my seeing it clearly threw her. Instead of returning to work, she went home.”

  “Maybe the food didn’t agree with her—okay, yeah, you might be on to some financial shenanigans, but that doesn’t mean it’s related to the murders. And if Duboff was hiding cash, it wasn’t at his apartment. I went over the place myself. At some point I can brace ol’ Alma, but
not right now, too much going on. As in finding Mr. Huck. The airport fake-out may be stale but it works. Not a hint of where he is.”

  I said, “Maybe he’ll write.”

  “Wouldn’t that be loverly. Uncle Milo is soooo lonely.”