Bones Page 34
Reed said, “Lives alone, estranged from her family, maybe some secrets of her own . . . yeah, guess so.”
“Whoever killed Selena used her as a lure. The first three bodies were concealed but hers was advertised, to the point of an anonymous call pinpointing her location. I’d sure like to see Simone’s and Weir’s phone records for the time of that call. Huck’s, too. That would go a long way toward showing who’s dirty.”
“We have any grounds for phone subpoenas, Loo?”
“I’ll call John at eight.”
I said, “The bones in the box were another prompt. If you didn’t find them, no loss. If you did, another step in the game.”
“Also,” said Milo, “playing with body parts coulda been fun.”
“That, too.”
Reed said, “You’re saying Selena was basically a human flashlight, directing us to the Vanders.”
“Who have vanished,” I said. “Meanwhile, Simone hires Aaron to educate us about Huck.”
Milo said, “With Huck in our headlights, we realize the Vanders are missing, start thinking about wholesale psycho slaughter with ol’ Travis as Pol Pot. He obliges by rabbiting. Hell, even if he never gets found, suspicion doesn’t fall on Simone and Weir and she steps into a hundred thirty mil.”
“Hundred thirty-three,” said Reed. “But who’s counting. I can’t even imagine dough like that.”
I said, “I bet Simone can. Especially after Weir clued her in on the size of her father’s estate. My guess is the plan was hatched over a year ago—maybe after they murdered and dumped DeMaura Montouthe in a bondage game that went wrong. That led to finding other street women and setting up the pattern.”
Reed said, “Who’s the boss, Simone or Weir?”
“I don’t know. For Weir it’s probably all about the money. Simone wants more.”
Milo said, “A hundred thirty-three huge ones isn’t enough motive?”
“Sure it is,” I said, “but what makes things really satisfying for Simone is wiping out the competition. We’re talking the ultimate plunder.”
“The interloper who horned in on Daddy and his dough.”
“Daddy, too. For abandoning her.”
“What about Kelvin?”
“Competing heir and too damn talented,” I said. “A genius who gives concerts, meanwhile Simone can’t hold on to a job. Which brings us to the severed hands and the bodies facing east. Theoretically, they could also be misdirects—simulating a lust serial. But why choose those particular trademarks? We’ve got to be talking symbolic value.”
Reed said, “Kelvin’s golden hands.”
“I can see Simone seething about that on long, cold nights. The right hand plays the melody, she’s ending the concert.”
Reed said, “And facing east is looking at Asia, like you said.”
“If Huck’s telling the truth, Simone’s contempt has racial overtones.”
Milo said, “The G-word. Lovely gal, our Simone.”
Reed said, “If you’re right and she’s basically erasing the new family, any chance her own mother’s in on it?”
“I don’t think so. Kelly’s sad but basically passive. And she adores Huck.”
“Evil little girl,” said Milo, “palled up with a greedy lawyer.”
“Redundant,” said Reed.
“You don’t admire Ms. Wallenburg, Moses?”
“I admire her cars. How long before she starts pulling strings to spring Huck?”
“We book him on multiple 187s, forget strings, he’s remanded.” Milo peered through the smudged glass. Huck’s mouth had shut but he hadn’t shifted position.
Reed’s cell phone chirped. A check of the number brightened his face but he squelched the reaction, turned almost comically serious. “Hi . . . really? Oh, boy . . . let me write it down . . . what’s that? Sure. Afterward, yeah, good.” Blushing. “Pardon?” Glance at Milo. “Depends on what the boss says . . . um, me, too. Yeah. Bye.”
Milo said, “Let me guess. Dr. Wilkinson has nice news for us, plus she wants Indian for lunch, again.”
Reed’s blush deepened. “She got there early with her interns, they used spotlights.” The color drained from his face. “Dogs found four more bodies, Loo.”
“Who besides the Vanders?”
“Two adult Vanders plus two more sets of bones, lots of scatter, hard to say if they were turned in any direction and all the hands seem to be there. Probable females, one skull’s definitely African American, other one’s not clear. Simon and Nadine were easy to I.D. Not that much decomp, they were dumped far into the marsh but left on the banks with their clothes on, wallets and purses nearby.”
He took a breath. “Missing right hands, facing east. Plus they found chicken bones, what looks like old potato salad, coleslaw. Guess there was some picnicking going on.”
“No sign of the kid,” said Milo.
“Maybe someone had pity.”
“Or just the opposite, Moses.”
Reed winced. “Something even worse for Little Mister Golden Hands? Shit.”
“Any way his body could be in the marsh and they haven’t found it?”
“They’re still probing, it might get easier after daybreak. They also got a second cast on that shoe print Dr. Delaware described, found a few others from the same footwear—looks like a sneaker of some kind but unusual, nothing domestic, may not be in the databases. Lab promises to have an answer, either way, by the end of today.”
Clearing images of Kelvin Vander from my head, I said, “Lots of scatter could mean those other two bodies preceded the first three. No trademarks says it did start out as Simone and Weir playing bondage games, dispatching victims for fun. Once they got their rhythm, they adapted their methods for a huge financial scheme.”
Movement on the other side of the glass drew our attention. Huck had rolled so that his back faced us. He curled tighter, hugged himself.
Milo said, “What you said in the garage, Alex—maybe there’s something he can do. You were thinking civic duty.”
“If he’s innocent, he might be open to it.”
“Any point telling him about the Vanders? To gauge his reaction and give him additional motivation?”
“Not if you’re seriously considering enlisting him,” I said. “The emotional firestorm’s too risky.”
Moe Reed said, “Now we’re enlisting him?”
Milo pointed to Reed’s cell phone. “Get on the mini-horn, Moses.”
“Who’m I calling?”
“Your brother.”
CHAPTER 39
Subj: you know
8:32 a.m. PDT
From: rivrboat38@hotmail.com
To: hardbod2673@tw.com
it’s me. i know all. can keep a secret. if can afford to.
Subj: you know
8:54 a.m. PDT
From: rivrboat38@hotmail.com
To: hardbod2673@tw.com
not there? you got another hour then . . .
Subj: you know
9:49 a.m. PDT
From: hardbod2673@tw.com
To: rivrboat38@hotmail.com
where r u
9:56 a.m. PDT
From: rivrboat38
To: hardbod2673
not important. find way to send $50 thou
10:11 a.m. PDT
From: hardbod2673
To: rivrboat38
ur kidding
10:15 a.m. PDT
From: rivrboat38
To: hardbod2673
don’t hear LOL. do hear gook gook-fucker golden hands. also piano girl also whores for blame me. not nice. hmm . . . no fifty thou, 100 thou.
10:18 a.m. PDT
From: hardbod2673
To: rivrboat38
what?????
10:22 a.m. PDT
From: rivrboat38
To: hardbod2673
no big deal for you lotslotslots more $$$$ coming for you, you wont feel it. do it!!!
10:28 a.m. PDT
From: hardbod2673
To: rivrboat38
we need talk not cyber.
10:34 a.m. PDT
From: rivrboat38
To: hardbod2673
don’t think so LOL you do me like others? you and badwig. now LOL see? i know.
10:40 a.m. PDT
From: hardbod2673
To: rivrboat38
u think u know u dont. we need to meet. safe place for u. beachhouse?
10:46 a.m. PDT
From: rivrboat38
To: hardbod2673
oh sure your territory why dont you just shoot me
10:54 a.m. PDT
From: hardbod2673
To: rivrboat38
no more e trail im deleting w privacykeeper. where r u some i-cafe???
10:59 a.m. PDT
From: rivrboat38
To: hardbod2673
100. do I need to repeat myself??? Ok 100. 100!!!
11:04 a.m. PDT
From: hardbod2673
To: rivrboat38
dont be parinoid beachhouse is good for u, outside open sand, people all around what could happen?
11:08 a.m. PDT
From: rivrboat38
To: hardbod2673
leave pch gate open by 7:30 that’s p.m. tonite!!! don’t come till 7:45. leave garage door open so I see you’re not there first. or badwig. low tide is around 8. come to the tideline not later than 8:10. use big trader joes bag. paper. wrap $$$ in saran for wet. bring all of it!!!!
11:12 a.m. PDT
From: hardbod2673
To: rivrboat38
take time to get fiftyk but probly ok. if delay can i reach u same eml?
11:16 a.m. PDT
From: rivrboat38
To: hardbod2673
fifty? LOL. hundred. no excuses.
11:21 a.m. PDT
From: hardbod2673
To: rivrboat38
ur being hardass. sixty best I can do cleaning me out. not like u all hardass what’s wrong???
11:29 a.m. PDT
From: rivrboat38
To: hardbod2673
don’t like sixty. deserve more but ok i just want away what’s wrong? you ask that? LOL. MEGA LOL!!!!
12:05 p.m. PDT
From: hardbod2673
To: rivrboat38
no LOL here. i care. take care of u.
12:11 p.m. PDT
From: rivrboat38
To: hardbod2673
best take care is $$$. no more talk.
12:14 p.m. PDT
From: hardbod2673
To: rivrboat38
talk helps everything will be ok promise we still good right?
Cybersilence.
CHAPTER 40
Moe Reed explained.
Sitting behind a rough-edged, smoked-glass-slab desk, Aaron Fox listened.
Fox’s office was hermetically silent.
Milo had directed Reed to sum up the situation, maybe as part of training the younger detective.
Or, was there a chance he wanted to get the brothers talking?
No sense conjecturing; he’d never admit it.
Fox remained expressionless. When Reed finished, he said, “Murderous little bitch. I knew she was bad news but not that bad. You’re sure Huck’s up to it?”
Reed said, “We’re not, but he says yes.”
“And that’s worth something?”
“He’s what we’ve got, Aaron, and we’ll be watching, okay? She’s the one suggested the beach, it really is an open spot.”
Fox said, “It’s open all right, but what’s to stop her from paying him off, then having him followed?”
“If she does, we’ll be ready.”
Fox tamped down the collar of a white-on-white silk shirt. “Another possibility is Weir positions himself on the deck of the house with a nightscope rifle and nails the poor sucker. Shots synchronize with the incoming tide, noise wipes out the sound.”
Reed said, “We’ll be watching Weir’s office and the house. He shows up there, we reevaluate.”
Not mentioning Robin’s call to Weir’s office, claiming to be a prospective client. The secretary taking her bogus name and volunteering that Mr. Weir was in meetings all day, she’d be sure he got the message.
Fox said, “Reevaluate as in call it off?”
“Reevaluate as in reevaluate.”
“La Costa’s private sand, Moses. How’re you going to get access?”
Reed’s neck swelled. “All of a sudden you’re Dudley Downer?”
“I’m a realist, bro. Leads to longevity.”
“We got access from a neighbor. Our watch car’ll be stationed across PCH. Everything’s covered. This is the plan, Aaron. Up to you.”
Fox ran a finger around the circumference of a silver-disk desk clock. “It’s already four, what’s to say Weir hasn’t gotten there and hunkered down?”
Milo said, “We’re on it, Aaron.”
“Okay, okay . . . Malibu neighbor, huh? You guys have the right friends. Anyone I might have heard of?”
Reed said, “Someone Dr. Delaware knows.”
Fox stretched. Onyx cuff links gleamed. “Sounds like Dr. Delaware and I need to get better acquainted. Okay, I’ll go get the toys.”
After he left the room, Milo said, “Nice work space, sure beats civil service.”
Fox’s place was on San Vicente near Wilshire, the southeast corner of Beverly Hills. The décor was skinny Italian leather seating, charcoal felt walls, chrome and brass and glass and cubist lithographs. The building was a twenties duplex, one of the last carryovers from the street’s former life as a quiet residential byway. Now the structure shared space with commercial and professional buildings.
Fox’s “Workland” had once been a master bedroom. Big and bright, with a rear view of a cactus garden, soundproofed padding beneath the felt. Playland—his living quarters—was on the second story, accessed through a teak spiral staircase, probably salvaged from a yacht.
Reed said, “He probably writes the whole building off. Aaron needs his deductions.”
Fox returned with a brown suede carrying case, settled back behind the glass desk. Fishing out a black box the size of a cigarette pack, he laid it down, added what looked to be a pen, then a tiny white button attached to a cord and a pin-jack. Similar wires spaghettied from the other components. The whole kit could fit in a trouser pocket.
Fox’s mocha hands passed over the equipment, like a battle priest blessing armaments. “One-stop shopping, gentlemen.”
Milo said, “That’s all of it?”
“Plus my laptop. Feed’s programmed to interface, one keystroke and we’ve got DVDs for posterity.”
“Cute.”
“Private enterprise.”
Milo pointed to the little black box. “That’s the recorder?”
“Recorder and transmitter,” said Fox. “This here”—touching the white button—“is the camera. Don’t ask me what it cost. We’re talking high-def infrared, cuts through the dark like a knife through trans fat.” Deft fingers rolled to the pen. “Decent mike, but truthfully, not spectacular. Manufacturer claims a two-thousand-foot range, I’ve found one thousand to be closer to the truth, and sometimes it blanks out. High-tech industry’s like Congress, promises more than delivers. For best results, have your mope stay no more than ten feet from her. I’ve got another one, a little more reliable, but it’s embedded in a jeans jacket, if he gets hugged hard enough, it could be detected.”
“How much wiring of our mope do we have to do?” said Reed.
“Recorder goes in his pants pocket, we cut a hole in there, run one cable up to the pen in his shirt pocket, I substitute the button for one of his and install the video feed. Any of you guys sew?”