Bones Page 25

  CHAPTER 30

  The next morning brought no callback from Milo or Reed, and neither detective was answering the phone.

  I’d woken up warmed by sunlight and thinking about Travis Huck.

  Petra and Milo were right: A single act of kindness meant nothing because psychopaths are great actors, and a façade of altruism lets them pursue the cruelty they love.

  Public admiration feeds the lust for control and attention. The look-at-me tango. The marsh murders reeked of exhibitionism: choosing hallowed ground for the dump site, calling the murders in, storing bones in a pretty box.

  Why face four women east?

  Not much had been made of that since the first day.

  The only thing I could think of was geographic symbolism: Nadine Vander was Chinese American and her last sighting, before San Francisco, had been Taiwan.

  Simon had flown in from Hong Kong.

  Was all of this really revolving around the family?

  Or were the Vanders just the crowning glory of a bloody orgy?

  Destroy the rich and powerful and inherit their souls . . . if that was the motive, why not flaunt their bodies? But the only victim on display was Selena, an outwardly shy young woman who’d entertained at literal orgies before graduating to pain games.

  However I tossed it around, the killings kept coming back to a sexual serial. And maybe the link to the Vanders was another young woman.

  Had Nadine been Huck’s target all along, as Reed had suggested? Lady of the manor, viewed from afar with lust and longing? Her husband and son, collateral damage?

  Maybe Travis Huck was capable of all that, but his ten-year-old act of mercy hadn’t been attention-seeking. Just the opposite, he’d fled the moment Brandeen Loring’s health was confirmed.

  Or maybe even back then Huck had dark secrets he didn’t want exposed.

  Raised by an alcoholic mother, locked up and abused until his rescue at eighteen. His life until the second rescue, by the Vanders, remained a mystery.

  A lot could happen during a decade and a half on the streets.

  I spent another hour on it, ended up addled and popping Advil to kill a massive headache. Shifting to robot-work, I cleared billing, straightened my office. Took a run and wound down by walking Blanche for fifteen minutes and stretching and showering.

  I told Robin I needed to drive.

  She wasn’t surprised.

  No sign of Alma Reynolds’s yellow VW on Fourteenth Street. I phoned the doctor where she worked.

  Out sick.

  For all I knew, Milo had found the time to reel her in and she was sitting in a West L.A. interview room.

  I tried him again. Still no answer.

  Moe Reed’s guess about Huck staying in his comfort zone made sense, and I wondered if the same applied to Alma when it came to buying jewelry. Looking up shops in Santa Monica, I found two that specialized in pearls.

  The first turned out to be false advertising—a booth in an antiques barn that specialized in costume gems. The second, Le Nacre, on Montana, featured gray velvet cases of strands and solitaires, including the larger South Sea “marvels.”

  I studied tray after tray of gleaming orbs. White, black, gray, greenish, bluish, gold. No prices on display.

  In a center case, I spotted a pendant that could’ve been the twin of Alma Reynolds’s guilty pleasure.

  The saleswoman, fortyish, frosted blond and fox-faced, wore a black Lycra-laced suit that screamed Torture At The Gym. She let me browse before gliding my way and pointing to the pendant. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Beautiful and huge,” I said.

  “That’s what you get with South Sea—size and quality. This one’s a full seventeen millimeters. They can go as high as twenty, but you rarely see seventeens with such excellent luster, shape, and nacre—that’s the thickness of the outer layer. This one’s a solid millimeter. Good shape and smooth. It’s our last one.”

  “You had several?”

  “We had two. They came in from Australia and the other one sold just a few days ago. Trust me, this one will also move fast. Quality always does.”

  “Lucky woman,” I said. “Birthday or guilt gift?”

  She smiled. “Which is your situation?”

  “Birthday. But give me enough time and I’m sure there’ll be guilt.”

  She giggled. “I’m sure you’re right. No, actually, a woman bought it for herself. Said her mother had always worn pearls, it was time to treat herself to something nice.”

  “This is more than nice. May I look at it?”

  “Oh, absolutely.” As she unlocked the case, I received a mini-course on pearl grading and culture. “What’s your wife’s skin tone—is it your wife?”

  Why quibble. “It is. She’s got Spanish and Italian blood. There’s some rose in her complexion but it’s mostly olive.”

  “I can tell that you love her,” she said. “When a man can describe a woman that easily, he’s got deep feelings for her. Rose with mostly olive means this would work perfectly for her. The pinkish ones are even more valuable than the creams. We had one of those a few months ago, a sixteen, went out the door the same day it arrived. But pink doesn’t work for everyone. Olive ladies do better with cream. I’m sure she’ll adore it.”

  “How much?”

  She flipped a tiny tag, examined a code. “Lucky for you, we bought well, so six thousand four hundred, including the chain, which is eighteen-karat and handcrafted in Italy and has these adorable little diamond chips spaced perfectly. I’d definitely advise leaving it with the chain, they’re a perfect match, we make sure of that.”

  I said, “People take them off? What would you do with a loose pearl?”

  “Exactly, but people get ideas. The lady who bought the other one wanted only the pearl, said she had her own chain. I figured she meant something antique, from her mother. Then she pulls out a cheap, plated thing, real junk.” She stuck out her tongue. “Saving a few bucks. It hurt me to see the pearl displayed that way, but people can be strange. She sure was.”

  “Had her own ideas.”

  “Not the type you’d think would appreciate something of this quality.” She touched the chain. “So does your wife get to be ecstatically happy before you go do something naughty?”

  “Any flexibility on price?”

  “Hmm,” she said. “For you I could take off ten percent.”

  “Make it twenty and you’ve got a deal.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Fifteen’s the best I can do. When you consider what a large diamond costs, it’s an incredible bargain.”

  “I don’t really know much about pearls—”

  “But I do and trust me, it’s worth it. Seventeen off’s the absolute rock bottom. You’re lucky it’s me and not my husband. At that price, there’s barely any profit and when Leonard comes in and finds out what I did for you, he won’t be happy.” Touching my wrist with warm, smooth fingertips. “And guilt gifts for him are no picnic.”

  Robin’s big brown eyes expanded like kaleidoscope disks. “What did you do?”

  “Impulse buy.”

  “I’ll say—it’s gorgeous, baby, but way too big for me.”

  “Looks fine to me.”

  “When would I wear it?”

  “We’ll find an occasion.”

  “Really, Alex, I can’t.”

  “Wear it once. You don’t like it, back it goes.”

  “You are something.” Several moments in front of the mirror later: “I love you.”

  “Fits your skin tone perfectly.”

  “It’s so wrong for me . . . huge.”

  “You got it, flaunt it.”

  She sighed. “Darn.”

  “You really don’t like it?”

  “Not that kind of darn,” she said. “Darn if I’m not going to make it work.”

  A long dinner at the Bel-Air, wine, and lovemaking K.O.’d me hard enough for a decent night’s sleep. But memories of the pearl against Robin’s chest
brought me fully awake. Now the necklace was displayed on our bedroom dresser and when I peeked out the kitchen window, her studio light glowed.

  I tried Milo again, finally connected to his cell, asked if he’d reached Alma Reynolds.

  Instead of answering, he said, “Just got a call from my crime scene buddies. Travis Huck’s room in the mansion was clean, but they found blood in his bathroom drain. Type AB. We’ve got no typing on Huck, so theoretically it could be his. But you know how rare AB is, what’s the chance of two people turning up with it?”

  “Who’s the first?”

  “Simon Vander. Medical examiner called Simone and got confirmation. Daddy was always getting hit on to donate. Reed also talked to Simone and she’s going to give a DNA sample, see if that can be linked. She’s freaking out, pretty much over the edge. Wouldn’t surprise me if Aaron Fox shows up, offering to help us poor dumb yokels. Mean-while, I’ve got a call in to His Holiness. This should be enough to name Huck a flat-out suspect, get a full-court press on the search.”

  “No blood anywhere except the drain,” I said. “Sink and shower?”

  “Just the sink, Alex. Which is totally consistent with the bad stuff happening elsewhere, Huck spotting a stain on his clothes and deciding to wash it off. He was careful to scrub the sink itself. In fact, the level of clean in his room is just as suspicious as if luminol had turned the place purple. The place was gone over. What the bastard didn’t figure on is our taking the plumbing apart.”

  “Is that routine procedure for the techies?”

  “It is when I tell them to do it. I’m thinking the Vanders were lured to S.F., he picked ’em up at the airport, did them somewhere in Northern or Central California, buried the bodies, drove back to L.A. and kept up the loyal-employee façade.”

  “All those forests up the coast.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  I said, “A lust thing for Nadine would explain facing the bodies east. Look to the Orient.” His breath quickened.

  “What?”

  “I’m getting that feeling, Alex—stuff coming together. Listen, I gotta keep all my lines open in case Zeus calls from Olympus. If you want to help, see if you can come up with a hypothesis as to where Huck’s hiding.”

  Travis Huck as Prime Suspect made the six o’clock news and the papers.

  A renewed rush of sightings kept Milo and Moe Reed and two other detectives busy for the next forty-eight hours.

  Nothing panned out.

  I tried to work up a guess as to where Huck might be burrowed, looked at maps, drew blanks.

  After two days of looking at her pearl, Robin locked it in the safe.

  I drove to Alma Reynolds’s apartment, spotted her VW, knocked on her door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Alex Delaware.”

  “You are stalking me. Go away.”

  “Six thousand bucks for a pearl,” I said. “Mom would be proud.”

  The sound she emitted could’ve been rage or fear.

  Silence said she hadn’t taken the bait.

  I sat parked up the block for nearly an hour. Just as I was about to give up, she hurried out of her building, got in the yellow Bug.

  I followed her to a Washington Mutual on Santa Monica Boulevard. She stayed in the bank for another forty-two minutes, then drove to the ophthalmologist’s office building but, after a brief pause, kept going, headed back to Pico, stopped at a Korean barbecue on Centinela.

  Glass window in front, easy to follow the action.

  I waited until her order arrived.

  Massive plate of ribs, mug of beer.

  I said, “Celebrating?”

  She gasped and sputtered and for a second I thought it was Heimlich time.

  Chewing furiously, she swallowed. Her teeth ground. “Go away.”

  “Just because the pearl’s in a safe-deposit box doesn’t mean you can keep it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Mom might be proud of your taste in googaws, but would she approve of the financing?”

  “Get the hell out of here.”

  “You put up with Duboff for years, see yourself as his rightful heir, and I take no issue with that. The problem is how he got the money. Even if it can’t be linked to a crime, the IRS is sure to be interested.”

  She lifted a rib, and for a second I thought she’d use it as a weapon.

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “It’s not about you,” I said. “It’s about four other women.” I touched the rib. “Bones.”

  She turned a bad color. Shot up and ran to the bathroom.

  Five minutes, ten, fifteen.

  I went back, found both lavs empty. A rear door led to an alley that stank of garbage. By the time I’d returned to the front of the restaurant, the VW was gone.

  CHAPTER 31

  I parked three blocks from Alma Reynolds’s building, walked back to her corner, and watched from behind an old, dusty coral tree.

  Mr. Covert Operations. When I wasn’t feeling ridiculous, my mind raced.

  Forty minutes later Reynolds hadn’t returned, and I figured I’d screwed up and caused her to run. I was sure she’d financed the pearl with payoff money Duboff had left behind.

  Envelope passed in the parking lot. Donation or bribe?

  Either way, nothing indicated a link to Duboff’s murder.

  I returned to the Seville. Drove a block before Milo called.

  “Huck lawyered up.”

  “You got him.”

  “Not exactly.”

  Debora Wallenburg’s law firm took up the top two floors of an ice cube on Wilshire, five blocks east of the ocean. Names crowded the door; Wallenburg was ranked second.

  She was fifty or so, green-eyed and apple-cheeked, with a sturdy body packed into a gray cashmere suit. Platinum rings, diamond earrings, and a triple string of pearls bounced light in interesting ways. The pearls were pinkish silver, graduated in size; my slightly educated guess was ten to fifteen millimeters.

  Good-looking woman, with the confidence to keep her feathered hair the same color as the suit. She’d deflected Milo’s invitation to the station, insisted her office would be preferable.

  Now she sat behind a leather-topped desk, listening to someone on the phone named Lester. Tiffany gilt-bronze pieces livened the desk’s surface, including an elaborate lamp with a glass shade crimped to look like paper. The rear wall was devoted to a Mary Cassatt mother-and-child pastel, the perfect image of tenderness. The absence of family photos or anything kid-related turned great art into a prop.

  Milo and Reed and I stood like supplicants while Wallenburg laughed at something Lester said. The décor was a thousand square feet of over-the-top: arterial red brocade walls, layer-cake moldings, copper-foil ceiling, teal-and-lavender Aubusson rug over teak planks. The fourteenth-story view was charcoal street, aluminum water, rust-colored talons of coastline scratching at the ocean.

  I tried to figure out if the Vanders’ house could be seen. Decided I was overreaching.

  Wallenburg said, “You’re kidding, Les,” and turned in a way that directed my eyes to a side wall bearing Ivy League degrees and bar association awards.

  She said, “Okay, thanks, Les,” hung up. “Sit, if you’d like, gentlemen.”

  We arranged ourselves in front of the desk. Milo said, “Thanks for meeting with us, Ms. Wallenburg.”

  “Thanks for making the dangerous trek all the way from the wilds of West L.A.” Wallenburg smiled frostily, glanced at her watch.

  Milo said, “If you know where Travis Huck is—”

  “Before we get into that, Lieutenant, I’m going on record: You’re wrong about Travis. Couldn’t be more mistaken. What evidence do you have to justify naming him a suspect?”

  “With all due respect, ma’am, I need to be asking the questions.”

  “With all due respect, Lieutenant, I need to prevent a second gross miscarriage of justice. Step One in that process is clarifying what yo
u think you know that justifies ruining my client’s life. Again.”

  “What’s Step Two?”

  “That depends on how One shapes up.”

  “Ms. Wallenburg, I understand your point of view, but disclosure will take place if and when Mr. Huck is charged with a crime.”