Bones (32 page)

I said, “Who did he trust, Alma?”

“No one. Sil wasn’t a trusting person. I’m the only one he confided in and even then, he could be guarded.”

“About what?”

“He was moody, could close up like a turtle, just be unreachable. But that doesn’t mean he sold out. That damn bunch of mud was everything to him. Besides, what would anyone pay him off for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, neither do I. Good-bye.”

I popped the case, took out the jewel box, pressed it in her hand.

She shook her head violently but didn’t push it away.

“Depending on how things shake out, I may be able to get you the money, as well.”

“I don’t wa — why the hell are you doing this? Who the hell
are
you?”

“Just another guy with a soft upbringing.”

She studied me. “If I was wrong about that, sorry, but it doesn’t change facts on the ground. You’re a government agent.”

“Nothing to apologize for. I’ve been pressuring you.”

“Yes, you have.” Her hand closed around the box. “It’s been hell, I need to get through it.”

As I walked her out, she studied each room we passed. When we got to the VW, she said, “The only possible thing Sil could’ve been… no, that doesn’t make sense. That wouldn’t be worth fifteen thousand stinking dollars.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“There’s another way into the marsh. Clear on the opposite end of the official entry, on the west side. It was intended as the original entry, but too many plants grew there and Sil insisted it not be touched. If it was up to him, the entire place would be off limits to visitors.”

“Where on the west side?”

“Dead center, it’s overgrown, impossible to see from the street, but if you push your way through, there’s a gate. Sil kept it padlocked. He liked to go there — his secret place. Sometimes he took
me
there.” Blushing. “It’s beautiful, huge willows, high reeds, little brackish sub-ponds where tadpoles and frogs colonize. Lots of birds because it’s closer to the ocean.”

“How often did Sil go there?”

“I don’t know. He only took me three, four times, always at night. We’d spread a blanket, be looking up at the stars, and he’d say, ‘This is a billion-dollar view, if people only knew.’ But that was rhetoric. Who’d pay fifteen thousand for a picnic spot? And why would that put Sil in danger?” She shook her head. “You’re chasing your tail.”

“Thanks, anyway.”

“For letting my mind run wild?”

“It’s called creativity,” I said. “Lord knows, we could use more.”

I sped to the marsh and searched for the secret entry.

The preserve’s western border was a dense block of eucalyptus and willows, a good twenty feet thick, fenced by four-foot-high metal pickets designed to look like wood. It took me three passes to spot the notch in the trees. Several yards of branches in my face before the second fence came into view.

Cedar stakes, padlocked, as Alma Reynolds had said. But only three feet high and climbing over was no big deal. Once on the other side, I endured another green gauntlet, holding back limb after limb as I treaded on uneven, leaf-strewn dirt.

Slow going, as I checked for evidence of human intrusion.

Ten yards in, I found it. Shoe prints, mostly blurred, but one crisp impression — a man-sized foot ringed by dots.

Foliage whispered above still water. Cattails shimmered as a great blue heron, huge, serpent-necked, with the dead-eyed mien of a prey-seeking pterodactyl, rose awkwardly, flapping its way to the ocean. By the time it disappeared, it had achieved grace.

Several seconds of silence passed before something scurried.

I kneeled and got close to the shoe prints. The dots seemed unusual but I was no expert. I took pictures with my cell phone, thought about what to do next.

All I could see up ahead was more green: trees tall enough to obscure the sky and shade the ground black.

Maybe this place
was
nothing more than a secret garden.

Fifteen thousand worth of clandestine picnic spot?

Not as absurd as it sounded. In places like L.A. and New York nothing stokes lust quicker than the threat of rejection. It’s why the manufacturers of velvet ropes will never go out of business. Why costumed fools wait for hours on early-morning sidewalks, sweet-talking bouncers and risking junior-high humiliation in order to score over-priced drinks and brain-damaging dance track.

In places like L.A. some people fill their BlackBerrys — and their heads — with two lists: the places I go, the places I shun.

The part of the marsh I avoid because everyone goes there and it’s so yesterday.

But there’s this special spot, baby, way more gorgeous…

Chance Brandt remembered the blond man who’d paid off Sil Duboff from a fund-raiser. An affair populated by people who cared about the ocean or pretended to.

No reason to doubt Mr. Bondo’s intentions; maybe the money would boil down to nothing more than a rich man’s chump-change payoff for private nights beneath the stars.

But then why had Duboff been lured to his death?

Gutted and dumped, another body in the marsh. The public side.

I stood there, not sure if this beautiful place was malignant.

I’d print the shoe-print photos, e-mail them to Milo. For what it was worth.

The next morning at eight, his recorded voice was a drowsy greeting.

“Reed managed to follow Wallenburg but it didn’t lead anywhere. We’re lunching at noon tomorrow, the usual. If you have any sudden insights, I will save room for dessert.”

“Get the photos?”

“Shoes,” he said. “Probably Duboff’s, but I’ll send them to someone who knows about that.”

This time, Reed kept pace with Milo, forking food into his mouth like a combine.

Career development.

When I sat, he put down his fork. “Wallenburg lives in a gated part of the Palisades, off Mandeville Canyon. Closest I could get was outside the gates. I thought I might be on to something when she was still home at eleven. Then a rental Chevy followed by a Hertz van pulls up to the guardhouse and soon after the van leaves with two guys instead of one. Fifteen minutes later, Wallenburg drives out in the Chevy. I’m thinking she got herself a cover car, this is going to be interesting. She heads for Mar Vista, parks in front of a house that is definitely below her tax bracket, I’m thinking the bastard’s crib
finally.
She uses her own key to get in, comes out ten minutes, drives away. Now I’ve got a choice. Knock on the door or keep tailing her.”

He loosened his tie. “I go for the knock. No one answers. I try the back, same deal, drapes are drawn. Now I’m wondering if Wallenburg spotted me and played me, maybe it’s just a rental property she owns and she’s off to his real crib.”

Milo said, “It was the right choice, kiddo.”

“If you say so.”

I said, “You’re sure Huck doesn’t live in the house?”

“Next-door neighbor says a family named Adams lives there, good people, quiet. I showed Huck’s picture — with and without hair. No one recognized him.”

He traced a four-sided figure on the table. “Welcome to Square One.”

I said, “The Adams Family.”

“How ’bout that. Another time, I might be thinking it’s funny.”

“Any idea what size family?”

“I didn’t ask. Why?”

“If a woman and a girl around ten live there, it could be Brandeen Loring, the baby Huck saved, and her grandmother, Anita Brackle. And Huck could still be a guest, despite what the neighbors say. No big deal sneaking him in after dark. He keeps a low profile, who’s going to know he’s there?”

Milo said, “What gets you from Point A to Anita harboring a fugitive?”

“It’s a theory and a minor one, at that. But in some circles, Huck’s a really popular guy.” I recounted my talk with Larry Brackle and Kelly Vander.

Reed said, “Wife number one, huh? That clears up how Huck got the job with Simon but not much else. You yourself said Huck wasn’t Anita’s favorite person, it was Larry who took him in.”

“But Anita changed her mind about him. Conversion sometimes leads to the strongest faith.”

Milo said, “Have to be more than strong to take him in with a kid in the house.”

“A kid he’s viewed as saving,” I said. “For all we know, Huck’s had regular contact with Brandeen — like that Chinese proverb, save someone and they’re your responsibility forever. That’s also probably a big part of Debora Wallenburg’s motivation.”

Reed said, “Everyone saving everyone. Meanwhile, we’ve got bodies. You really see Huck inspiring that kind of devotion?”

“Kelly and Larry are convinced he’s a saint.”

“Typical psychopath,” said Milo. “Guy’s ready to run for office.”

Reed scratched his crew cut. Resumed eating.

I said, “Even if Ms. Adams isn’t Anita, she could be someone else Huck knows from rehab. Misery loving company can lead to some pretty tight bonds. If Wallenburg wasn’t playing you, she went there for a reason. The drapes could’ve been
drawn
for a reason.”

Milo said, “If Huck’s got a network of rehab buddies, there could be safe houses all over the city.”

Reed said, “Hero—” Something made him turn toward the restaurant’s front door. He clenched his knife.

Aaron Fox walked toward us. Custom-tailored as ever, in a black, raw-silk suit, sea-green shirt, yellow pocket square.

Nothing jaunty in his step.

Reed got up and faced him. “Bad time, we’re busy.”

“No doubt, bro. But not too busy for me.”

Fox sank down next to his brother’s empty seat. His eyes were sharp but pink rimmed the sclera. He’d shaved carelessly, sported nicks and bumps in the tight, dark shadows below his jawline.

Milo said, “Long night, Aaron?”

“Lots of long nights. I could get screwed for talking to you,” said Fox. “Might as well be monetary and not legal.”

Reed said, “Got yourself in a bit of a professional fix?”

Fox frowned. “Is it my breath, bro? Yeah, it’s a fix. Little conundrums are part of the job, but this is different. May I?” He reached for a water glass, drank greedily, poured another and finished that. Reaching for the
chapati,
he broke off a piece, ground it between finger and thumb. Repeated. Within seconds, he’d created a pile of bread crumbs.

Moe Reed feigned boredom as Fox smoothed the pile. Fox wiped his hand on a napkin. Plucked his pocket square and arranged it in three points. “When Simone Vander hired me to research Huck, she said it was her idea, period, I didn’t have her permission to contact any of her father’s business associates. I told her that’s not how I usually work, she wants library science, she could do it herself.”

Reed said, “Your mission, should you choose to accept it…”

“Give it a rest, Moses.” Fox turned to Milo. “Simone said hiring me was more than wanting to know about Huck. She promised a much bigger job — rooting out a financial conspiracy against her dad. By his minions — her word. When I asked why, she said despite being a good businessman, he got taken advantage of all the time, a deep-pockets thing.”

Milo said, “Which minions in particular bothered her?”

“Every one of Daddy’s lawyers, accountants, and financial managers. She viewed them as leeches, falling over themselves to rack up billable hours. The lawyers, in particular, she thought were shady.”

“Alston Weir,” said Milo.

“Weir plus all his associates. She told me she wouldn’t be surprised if the entire firm was in cahoots to loot the estate, maybe even with Huck.”

“That sounds paranoid.”

“A bit, but with mega-rich folk, you never know, the incentives are always there. I’ve seen plenty of predatory employees.”

Reed said, “Did she suspect Huck of any specific financial screwiness?”

Fox shook his head. “With him it was more his creepy personality, worming his way into the family. Kissing Kelvin’s ass, in particular. She claimed he spoiled the kid. Then, when Selena showed up dead, she got downright terrified and called me.”

Reed said, “So far I’m not hearing much that’s new.”

“What’s new, Moses, is she lied to me. Starting with there being another job. Finishing with her deadbeating me. She hasn’t paid a penny of her bill, shut me out completely — no e-mail replies, no return of my phone calls.
My
bad, I didn’t take a retainer, figured it for a quickie. Which it was and we’re not talking a mega-bill. Still, I like to be paid.”

“So now we’re your collection agency?”

Milo said, “How much are we talking about, Aaron?”

“Four grand, give or take.”

“For Internet research. Not bad.”

“The results of which I passed on to you guys. Then again, maybe you would have found it on your own.”

Milo said, “We’re grateful, Aaron. Is there a punch line approaching the horizon?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Fox. “She annoyed me, which can be a
real
bad idea. My philosophy is go after every single penny. Really bulldog it, you can’t have word getting out you’re a pussy. So I go after her, starting with a records check. That turned up some interesting stuff: bunch of drug busts when she was eighteen to twenty-two, meth and weed, Daddy’s lawyers got her off with probation.”

“Anything since?”

“Not officially, but wait there’s more, folks. She lied about more than the big job, lying seems to be her M.O. When I met her, she spun me stories about being a singer, a ballerina, a financial analyst for a hedge fund.”

Reed said, “With us, it was just teacher.”

I said, “Remedial teacher.”

Fox said, “That, too. Supposedly, she just loves the tots. But her real love is ‘the ballet.’ ”

Milo wiped his lips. “Tiny dancer, huh?”

“She claimed to have been in the
company
of the New York Ballet until she hurt her foot and lost a promising career. The
company
never heard of her.”

He permitted himself a smile. “So much for my reading people. So now my adrenals are buzzing and I start watching her house, check out her garbage.”

Milo said, “Fun part of the job.”