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  Milo said, “When did you call the department?”

  “Right at the beginning. Must’ve been . . . four, five years ago. I kept hoping she’d ask for money, at least I’d have an inkling what she was up to.” Swiveling toward Marc. “Now you’re telling me you knew all along what she was up to.”

  Marc Green squirmed. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

  “To me it was.”

  “She didn’t want you to know what she was doing. Figured you’d try to stop her.”

  “Why would I stop her?”

  Silence.

  “I wouldn’t stop her,” said Emily Green-Bass. “Now, you tell us everything you know, Marcus. Everything.”

  Marc tortured his hair.

  “Now, Marcus!”

  “It’s nothing. I’m sure—”

  “Shut up and talk, Marcus!”

  “Fine. She didn’t want you to know because the scene she was in really wasn’t her thing. She was just playing music.”

  “What are you talking about!”

  “Mom, she swore me to secrecy, I had no reason to violate—”

  “Now you do,” said Milo.

  “Okay, but it really boils down to nothing. Like I said, she was playing in clubs. And that led to parties.” Turning to his mother. “Some were situations she didn’t want you to find out about because she knew you’d freak out.”

  “What kind of situations?”

  No answer.

  Emily Green-Bass grabbed her son’s wrist and put her face close to his. “Like I’m some kind of fossil, Marc? Like I’m out of touch with reality? I like rock music. Your sister’s dead! These people need to know!”

  Marc licked his lips. “I’m not talking about the music, Mom. These were . . . specialty parties . . . swinger parties, okay? Freaks wanting background.”

  Emily Green-Bass let go of his sleeve. “My God.”

  “You wanted to know, Mom, now you know. Selena was broke, totally busted, so she checked out the classifieds in the freebie papers, found an ad for a keyboardist to play a private party. She had her Korg, her Pro Tools, all that stuff you got her for her eighteenth.”

  Milo said, “All that stuff comes with a computer, right?”

  “And a cord and plug,” said Marc. “Of course it comes with a computer.”

  “There was no computer in her apartment.”

  “Everything else was there?”

  “Appeared to be.”

  “That’s bizarre.”

  Chris Green said, “Someone did this for a Mac?”

  Marc Green said, “Or they wanted her data.”

  Milo said, “What kind of data would that be, Marc?”

  “I don’t know, I’m just saying.”

  “Saying what?”

  “Those parties . . . maybe she took notes or something about what she saw and someone wanted to maintain their privacy.”

  “Freaks,” said Emily Green-Bass. “Oh, Lord.”

  Milo said, “Tell us about the parties, Marc.”

  “All Selena said was freak parties at private homes. We didn’t get into details. Tell the truth, I didn’t want to know.”

  Emily said, “The whole truth, Marcus.”

  “That is the whole truth.”

  “You keep saying that, dammit, then you drop in new tidbits! You were always a tease, Marcus.”

  Marc gritted his teeth. “What I know is Selena played music for people having open sex in private houses. What I know is she said they wanted live music while they were fucking because they were fucking exhibitionists and fucking in front of a live fucking musician was a fucking part of the fucking high.”

  “Don’t be vulgar . . . my God, Lieutenant, what if someone got her to do . . . more than music?”

  “She never came close to implying that, Mom. Never. She was playing music, that’s all. Got paid well, was real happy.”

  Milo said, “She quote you a figure?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask.” Marc swung his chain, fingered keys. “Now that we’ve micro-analyzed Selena and violated her privacy, can you guys go and do some detecting?”

  Chris said, “Chill, bro.”

  Marc slumped.

  Milo said, “When exactly did she tell you about these parties?”

  “When I saw her the second time.”

  “Six months ago.”

  “She knew I was the only one in the family who wouldn’t judge her. Basically, she was laughing at it. Naked old people fucking and sucking and she’s playing Air Supply. Then she got the teaching job and that was even better.”

  “How’d she find that?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  Emily said, “Maybe one of those perverts went crazy.”

  “We’ll definitely check it out, ma’am,” said Milo. “She did tell you about her job with the Vander boy.”

  “She said she had a full-time job teaching a musical genius. She e-mailed me and I answered right away. I asked her to call and she did. But only once. We had one conversation. She sounded happy.” Sniffling. “I thought she’d call again. I told her I was proud of her, asked her to come home, at least for a visit. She said she’d think about it, but she never followed through.”

  Milo said, “She saved a hard copy of your e-mail, ma’am. It obviously meant a lot to her.”

  “Thank you.”

  He turned to the brothers. “You guys have no idea how she met the Vanders?”

  Chris shook his head.

  Marc said, “In music, generally it’s word of mouth—oh. You’re thinking they were freaks, heard her play at one of those screwathons and hired her? Makes sense.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The filthy rich do what they want.”

  Emily said, “Oh, my God.”

  Milo said, “Jumping to conclusions is a real bad idea. All we know about the Vanders is that they hired Selena to teach piano. But this is exactly what we need—any possible links to people in Selena’s life. So if anyone has any other ideas, please express them.”

  Marc said, “The whole rich-asshole thing makes total sense. Selena meets them at a freak show and they decide to co-opt her for—”

  “Didn’t you hear him?” said his brother. “It’s way premature to—”

  Marc wheeled on him. “Like you’ve had something to offer? Fuck off.”

  Chris’s complexion deepened to sugar-beet. “Fuck you.”

  “Stop it!” said Emily Green-Bass. “I can’t stand this, it’s like everything’s rotting.”

  CHAPTER 10

  We watched mother and sons drive away in three separate rental cars.

  Milo said, “Nothing like togetherness. Sounds like Selena was alienated from all of ’em.”

  I said, “People come to L.A. to lose themselves.”

  “You referring to me or you or everyone?”

  “If the shoe fits.”

  Back in his office, I said, “Private gigs at swinger parties could explain the sex toys. Selena started off supplying the soundtrack, evolved into a different type of entertainment.”

  “Nice-looking girl, the whole Little Miss Chaste thing could appeal to a libertine.” Smiling. “Last time I heard that word was from Sister Mary Patrick the Cruel.” He fished a panatela from a desk drawer, unwrapped it, twirled. “What do you think of Angry Brother?”

  “He’s the only one who had any kind of relationship with Selena, but a hot temper can lead all sorts of places.”

  He ran a records check on Marc. “Clean. So maybe we should trust his instincts and the Vanders were shelling fifty grand a year for more than piano lessons.”

  “With a kid who’s a prodigy, you’d think the family would hire a famous teacher, not a starving musician who’d dropped out of formal training. On the other hand, what better cover for Selena being on call?”

  “Tickle the ivories, tickle Daddy and Mommy.”

  “That would account for Travis Huck’s overactive sweat glands. Same for the stone wall Reed bumped up against when he
tried to talk to the Vanders’ accountants. And the Vanders just happen to be traveling when Selena shows up dead.”

  “Lifestyles of the rich and lustful,” he said. “Marc Green might be one of those peevish class-warfare guys, but that doesn’t make him wrong.”

  He rubbed his face. “That house, end of the road, gated, no neighbors in sight. Ideal setup for interesting soirees. Selena told Marc she dug the money. What if she got bonuses for nonmusical gigs, then she saw something that made her want out.”

  “Or she threatened someone literally.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Big secrets, big money.”

  “Yeah, that’s the recipe.”

  “On the other hand,” I said, “the truth could turn out to be much more of a downer.”

  “What?”

  “She reached her expiration date and got discarded. Which could be the link to Sheralyn Dawkins. Maybe the other Jane Does, if they also sold sex for a living.”

  “Used and tossed.”

  “The swinger scene thrives on novelty,” I said. “The big downer is getting jaded. Hiring pros worked for a while. Then Selena came along, outwardly innocent. That would kick things up a notch.”

  “Maybe inwardly and outwardly chaste,” he said. “Twenty-six and never been nothinged until she ran into the wrong crowd. Those years of playing clubs, think it’s possible?”

  “Anything’s possible,” I said. “Makes both our jobs interesting.”

  A call to the crypt revealed that Selena Bass’s autopsy was scheduled in three days. Milo’s wheedling to jump the queue produced vague maybes. Just as he hung up, Deputy Chief Henry Weinberg rang in, wanting to know when he was planning to go public on the marsh murders.

  Milo said, “Soon,” sat for a long time, listened impassively.

  When he hung up, I said, “Wild guess: Immediately’s a whole lot better than soon.”

  “Brass has the script written and proofread, ready to be recited with wooden earnestness. Goddamn pencil-pushers love press conferences because it lets them pretend they’re doing a real job.”

  I said, “At the risk of being contentious, two victims with no I.D.’s, the media could be helpful.”

  “The media’s like a penicillin shot, Alex. Pain in the ass, sometimes helpful in small doses. It’s always a double-edged sword: too much exposure, people rabbit. Lemme see if the bone ladies have pulled up anything.”

  Eleanor Hargrove was at the marsh. All the bones had been extracted and tagged, were being prepped for transport to her lab. Her guess was very little additional data would be forthcoming, though Jane Doe Three did have “some interesting dentition.”

  Milo said, “Interesting how?”

  “Two baby canines still in place and she was born without wisdom teeth. If you ever get dental records, matching would be a snap.”

  He thanked her, called Moe Reed, confirmed the young detective’s trip to San Diego tomorrow, set up a second lunch meet at Café Moghul in an hour.

  I said, “He likes Indian food?”

  “Like that matters.”

  Reed was drinking tea when we got there. Same blazer and khakis, similar shirt and tie. Hours in the sun had grilled him medium-rare. He looked worn.

  The woman in the sari brought us everything she was serving that day.

  Milo snarfed. Reed didn’t touch a thing.

  Milo said, “Don’t like Indian?”

  “Had a late breakfast.”

  “Where?”

  “IHOP.”

  “German pancakes, the applesauce?”

  “Just eggs.”

  “Kid, you gotta carbo-load for the long trek ahead.” Patting the swell of his gut. “Got anything for show-and-tell?”

  “Talked to Alma Reynolds, Duboff’s girlfriend. She sounds as whack as him, kept going on and on about the marsh being sacred even though she’s an atheist. That made me wonder about the missing hands being some kind of religious ritual, but I looked up all the major religions and not one’s got anything like that, even Wiccans and Voodoos. Reynolds confirmed she was out of town when Duboff said she was and I still can’t find anything psycho in his past. His old boss at that left-wing bookstore says he was nonviolent, carried spiders and bugs outside and let them go.”

  Milo said, “Hitler was a vegetarian.”

  The young detective’s blue eyes studied him. “That so?”

  “Der Führer und der Tofu.”

  Reed smiled. “In terms of Travis Huck, I also got a bunch of nothing. But something about him still bugs me, Loo. Nervous and evasive.”

  “Maybe because he’s protecting the Vanders.” Milo summarized what we’d learned from Marc Green.

  Reed said, “Weirdo parties. We need to learn more about these people.”

  An open door brought in a rush of traffic noise. A good-looking black man had entered the restaurant.

  Early thirties, six feet tall, closely cropped hair, athletic frame packaged neatly in a body-conscious charcoal suit. A peacock-blue silk shirt gleamed. So did black alligator loafers.

  The woman in the sari approached him. A few seconds of conversation got her to smile. The man headed for our table, gliding more than walking.

  Milo said, “Blast from the past.”

  Moe Reed shifted in his chair. His face had changed, lips folding inward, eyes tight, pale irises barely visible between half-closed lids. One hand gripped his tea glass.

  A cloud of light, grassy cologne preceded the man’s arrival. He had the clean features and poreless skin of a young Belafonte. Grinning, he held out a hand to Milo. “Congratulations, recently promoted Lieutenant Sturgis.” The suit was hand-stitched with peaked lapels and working buttonholes on the sleeves. ADF monogram on the blue shirt. The reptilian shoes looked brand new.

  Milo said, “Long time, Former Detective Fox. This is Dr. Alex Delaware, our consulting psychologist, and this is—”

  Moe Reed said, “I know him,” and turned away.

  The man stared at him for a moment. Tightened his jaw. Smiled at me. “Aaron Fox, Doctor. The world can use more psychologists.” I shook a warm, dry hand.

  Pulling up a chair from a neighboring table, Fox positioned it backward and straddled. Pouring himself tea, he sipped. “Ahh, nice and refreshing, tastes like there’s some white tea in there, maybe a nuance of jasmine.”

  Reed gazed out the window. Both his hands were curled into fists.

  Milo said, “So there’s no need to introduce you two.”

  Aaron Fox laughed. “Not unless one of us has Alzheimer’s.” He placed a palm on Reed’s beefy shoulder. “Your brain working okay, Moses? From what I can tell, mine’s still functional.”

  Reed sat there.

  Fox said, “Brain like yours, Moses, probably stay good in the foreseeable future.”

  Reed stared past him.

  Fox said, “He’s always been modest. Back when we were kids, I’d take every bit of exaggerated credit I could for the most trivial, picayune accomplishments. Marketing and promotion, right? It’s not enough to have the product, you’ve got to sell it. Little brother doesn’t believe in that. He’s smarter than me. But he’s never been one to toot his own horn.”

  Reed removed Fox’s hand and set it down with exquisite care.

  Aaron Fox said, “I’m always doing that. Embarrassing him. Older brother’s prerogative.”

  Milo said, “You guys are sibs?”

  “You didn’t know?” said Fox. “Oh, yeah, two dips into the same gene pool, but X chromosome only—same mommy, different daddies. I’ve always suspected she liked him better. He’d probably claim the opposite. That right, Moses?”

  Reed pushed away from the table and headed to the bathroom.

  Fox said, “Didn’t know I still had that effect on him.”

  He drank more tea.

  Milo indicated the food. “You like Indian?”

  “Nothing against it, Milo, but I prefer fusion cuisine. Chinois, Medi-California, Southwest sushi. Artistic mé
lange of cultures brings out the best in human creativity. Been to that new place on Montana? Wagyu beef from Japan, they massage the beasts before cutting their throats. Kind of like the department, huh?”