Bones (6 page)

“Trust me, Officers, he’s too dumb to kill anyone.”

Smiling with sour satisfaction, he walked back to the heat and light of his home.

Moe Reed’s call to Tom L. Rumley, headmaster of the Windward Academy, achieved a promise to “ascertain all the relevant information” about the call to Chance Brandt at an “expedited rate.” The trade-off: no police visit to the school at the present time, because “it’s hiatus time and we’re entertaining visitors from Dubai.”

Reed put Rumley on hold. “Lieutenant?”

Milo said, “Most likely it will boil down to a blab chain, so give him a chance to make good. Either of you hungry?”

We returned to the marsh and picked up the Seville. As Reed followed us to West L.A., Milo said, “What do you think?”

“About the case or Reed?”

“Both.”

“He seems thoughtful, eager to learn. Plenty to learn about this case.”

“Four bodies.”

“That kind of appetite,” I said, “no reason to stop at four.”

“I can always count on you for good cheer.”

Café Moghul, on Santa Monica Boulevard, blocks from the station, serves as Milo’s second office.

The bespectacled, saried woman who runs the place beamed, the way she always does when Milo steps through her door. Besides the gargantuan tips, she regards him as a human rottweiler. Reed’s obvious cop presence following close behind brought her to the verge of ecstasy.

“Lobster,” she announced, seating us at Milo’s rear table, humming and smiling and filling glasses with cloved iced tea. “I’ll bring fresh platters. Everything.”

Milo said, “Everything’s a good concept,” as he removed his jacket and tossed it on a nearby chair. Reed took off his blazer, draped it neatly. His white shirt was short-sleeved. His biceps filled most of the sleeves.

The food parade began.

Reed said, “You must tip great.”

Milo said, “Boy. Why does everything in this world have to be about money?”

Sometimes Milo talks shop over food. Other times, he views eating as a sacrament, not to be disrupted by worldly matters.

This afternoon was a Holy Day. Moe Reed watched him bolt and chew and swallow and wipe his face. Caught on quickly and bent over his own plate like a convict.

Heaps of lobster, rice, lentils, spiced eggplant, spinach with
paneer
cheese vanished quickly as the young detective out-ate Milo. His frame was thick but hard as teak.

Just as the bespectacled woman brought rice pudding, his cell beeped.

“Reed…” Eyebrows so pale they fought for recognition arched steeply. “Yes, sir… hold on while I get something to write on.” Reaching behind, he retrieved his pad, printed neatly. “Thank you, sir. No, not at this time, sir.”

Click. “Headmaster Rumley says he traced the gossip stream completely. The Brandt kid told Sarabeth Oster, who also thought it was hilarious. She told a girl named Ali Light and Ali told
her
boyfriend, Justin Coopersmith, and
he
thought it was so darn funny, he passed it along to his older brother, a Duke sophomore named Lance, home for the summer. Lance Coopersmith seems to be more moral than the others, he’s the one who called us. Said he felt it was his duty.”

“Should be easy enough to verify.”

Reed nodded. “I asked for a trace this morning. Came in on the non-emergency, so it takes longer than a 911 and there’s no audio. Want me to check now?”

“Go for it.”

Moments later: “Verizon cell phone registered to Lance Allan Coopersmith, address in Pacific Palisades. Any sense following up?”

“Not for the time being,” said Milo. “Gonna be a long day, have some lobster.”

Pulling out his own phone, he requested a warrant on Selena Bass’s apartment.

I left the Seville in the Westside lot, returned to the back of Reed’s unmarked for the twenty-minute drive to Indiana Avenue. Milo used the time to follow up on the warrant request.

Granted telephonically, with paper to follow.

“You run her beyond DMV?” he asked Reed.

“Yup. Nothing on the bad-guy sites. I was planning to Google her today.”

Milo logged on to Reed’s Mobile Dispatch Terminal and got on the Internet. “Nice talking straight to God… here we go — two hits… one’s an exact copy of the other… looks like she’s a piano teacher — introducing a student at a recital… named… Kelvin Vander.”

An image search pulled up nothing.

Reed said, “Piano teacher isn’t exactly high risk.”

Milo said, “Nothing like a sad song to kick off the week.”

“What about all those other bodies, Lieutenant?”

“Let’s see what the bone pickers come up with. Meanwhile, we work with what we’ve got.”

I tossed in my thoughts about someone with a thing for the marsh.

Milo said, “Could be.”

Reed said nothing.

Selena Bass’s converted garage was a double, set behind a white stucco, one-story duplex.

The front unit, blanketed by banana plants and mock orange, was occupied by the owner-landlady, an ancient eminence in a wheelchair named Anuta Rosenfield. A cheerful Filipina caretaker ushered us into a diminutive front room muffled by pink velvet drapes and crowded with houseplants and porcelain figurines on precarious stands.

“She will be a
hundred
this January!”

The old woman didn’t stir. Her eyes were open but clouded, her lap too flimsy to support one of her bisque dolls.

Milo said, “That’s wonderful,” and stooped close to the wheelchair. “Ma’am, could we have a key to Ms. Bass’s apartment?”

The caretaker said, “She’s deaf, can’t see, either. Ask me all the questions.” Pointing to her chest. “Luz.”

“Luz, could we—”

“Of course, guys!” Out of her uniform pocket came the key.

“Appreciate it.”

“Is she okay — Selena?”

“You know her?”

“I don’t really know her, but sometimes I
see
her. Mostly when I leave. Sometimes she’s leaving, too.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“Hmm… now that you mention it, not for a while. And you know what, I haven’t seen lights on in her place for… the last few days, at least.” Deep breath. “And now
you
guys are here. Oh, boy.”

“A few days,” said Reed.

“Maybe four,” said Luz. “Could be five, I don’t keep count.”

“What’s she like?”

“Never talked to her, we just smile and say hi. She seemed nice. Pretty girl, skinny — no hips, the way they are now.”

Milo said, “What time do you usually leave work?”

“Seven p.m.”

“Someone else takes over the night shift.”

“Mrs. Rosenfield’s daughter comes home at seven. Elizabeth, she’s a nurse at Saint John’s.” Whispering conspiratorially: “Seventy-one but she still likes to work the neonatal ICU — little babies. That’s how I met her. I’m an LVN, also did the NICU. I like the babies, but I like this better.”

She patted her charge’s shoulder. “Mrs. R. is a very nice person.” A sweet smile tangoed across the old woman’s lips. Someone had powdered her face, blued her eyelids, manicured her nails. The air in the room was close and heavy. Roses and wintergreen.

Milo said, “What else can you tell us about Selena Bass?”

“Hmm,” said Luz. “Like I said, nice… maybe a little shy. Like maybe she doesn’t want to have a long conversation? I never heard Elizabeth complain about her and Elizabeth complains.”

“What’s Elizabeth’s full name?”

“Elizabeth Mayer. She’s a widow, just like her mommy.” Downturn of eyes. “We all three have that in common.”

“Ah,” said Milo. “Sorry for your loss.”

“It was a long time ago.”

Mrs. Rosenfield smiled again. Hard to know what that meant.

Reed said, “Who lives in the other unit?”

“A man from France who’s almost never here. A professor, French, I think. Mostly, he’s in France. He’s in France now.”

“Name?”

Head shake. “Sorry, you’d have to ask Elizabeth. I don’t see him five times in two years. Nice-looking man, long hair — like that actor, the skinny one… Johnny Depp.”

Milo said, “Sounds like things are pretty quiet around here.”

“
Very
quiet.”

“Ever see Selena with a friend?”

“A friend, no. Once, I saw a guy,” said Luz. “Waiting out by the curb for Selena and she got into his car.”

“What kind of car?”

“Sorry, I didn’t see.”

“Could you describe him?”

“He had his back to me and it was dark.”

“Tall, short?” said Reed.

“Medium — oh, one thing — I’m pretty sure he had no hair — shaved, like those basketball players do. Light bounced off his head.”

“Was he a white man?” said Reed.

“Well,” said Luz, “not black, that’s for sure. Although I guess he could’ve been a
light
black guy. I’m sorry, it was just his back, I guess he could’ve been anything. Did he do something to Selena?”

“Ma’am, at this point, we’re not even close to a suspect. That’s why anything you did see is important.”

“A suspect… so she’s… ”

“Afraid so,” said Reed.

“Oh, no.” Her eyes watered. “That’s very sad, such a young one… oh, my… I
wish
I could tell you more.”

Milo said, “You’re doing great. Could I please have your full name for the records? As well as a contact number?”

“Luz Elena Ramos — is it dangerous to stay here?”

“There’s no reason to think that.”

“Wow,” said Luz. “This is a little scary. I’d better be careful.”

“I’m sure you’re fine, Ms. Ramos, but careful’s always good.”

“When you showed up, I guess I knew something happened. I work in a hospital for eight years, know what bad news looks like.”

Selena Bass’s four hundred square feet of space couldn’t shrug off its automotive origins.

Cracked cement floors had been painted bronze and lacquered but oil blotches peeked through the gloss and a faint petro-reek lingered. A dropped ceiling of whitewashed drywall panels compressed the room. The same material was used for the walls, tacked haphazardly to the underlying lath. Tape seams were visible, nailheads erupted like prom-night acne.

“High-end construction,” said Milo.

Reed said, “Maybe the piano wasn’t bringing in the bucks.”

We gloved up, stood in the doorway, took in the entire space. No obvious signs of violence or disorder.

Milo said, “We’ll call in the techies, but I’m not seeing this as the operating room.” He stepped in and we followed.

A right angle of black Masonite cabinets sectioned off a tiny, corner kitchenette. Space-saver refrigerator, microwave, two-burner electric cooktop. In the fridge: bottled water, condiments, a rotten nectarine, limp celery, a single carton of take-out Chinese in a generic carton.

Moe Reed checked his gloved hands, inspected the box. Sweet-and-sour chicken, tinted Caltrans orange. He tilted the box. “Gelled stiff. Got to be at least a week old.”

A queen mattress sat on the floor, sheathed by a brown batik throw and piled with too many overstuffed madras pillows. Milo peeled back a corner of the throw. Lavender sheets, clean, unruffled. He sniffed. Shook his head.

“What, sir?” said Reed.

“No smells — no detergent, body odor, perfume, zilch. Like it was changed but not slept in.”

He moved on to an almost-birch nightstand, containing lightweight sweats, a white flannel nightgown, a cheap digital alarm clock, a comb.

Milo peered at the comb. “No hair I can see but maybe the tweezer squad’ll find something. Speaking of which, Detective Reed.”

Reed phoned the criminalists and Milo continued his circuit of the room. He checked out a tall, yellow plastic garbage can. Empty. Additional pillows strewn randomly supplied extra seating. Plumped and firm, as if they’d never borne weight.

Storage came by way of a three-drawer plywood dresser and a six-foot steel closet painted olive drab. To the left of the closet was a lav barely wide enough for one person to stand in. Nylon curtain instead of a door, fiberglass shower, Home Depot sink and commode. A flimsy medicine cabinet sat on the floor.

Everything spotless and dry. The cabinet was empty.

The exception to all the bare-bones aesthetic was a wall devoted to a pair of electric keyboards, an amp, a mixing board, a twenty-inch flat-screen monitor on a black stand, two black folding chairs, and several waist-high stacks of sheet music.

Reed examined the music. “Classical… more classical… some indie rock…
more
classical.”

Milo said, “No stereo, no CDs.”

Reed said, “There’s probably an iPod somewhere.”

“Then where’s the computer that makes all the other gizmos operative?”

Reed frowned. “Someone cleaned up.”

The two of them went through the dresser and the metal closet. Jeans, T-shirts, jackets, underwear in small sizes. Tennis shoes, boots, black high-heeled sandals, red pumps, white pumps. One end of the hanging rack in the closet bore half a dozen dresses in optimistic colors.

No discs, laptops, anything related to computers.

Reed kneeled in front of the dresser, slid open the bottom drawer. “Whoa.”

Inside was a leather bustier, two sets of fishnets, three pairs of orange-trimmed black crotchless panties, a trio of cheap black wigs, three enormous purple dildos.

Each of the hairpieces was shoulder-length with short bangs. A blue vinyl sewing box held bottles of white face makeup, black eyeliner, tubes of lipstick the color of an old bruise. When Reed pulled it out, a small, black leather riding crop rolled forward.

Milo said, “Dominatrix in her spare time? Maybe her real pad’s someplace else and she used this dump for partying.”

Reed seemed transfixed by the garments. “Maybe she also gave her music lessons here, Lieutenant.”

“Doubtful, no real piano, no instruction books.” Milo shut the drawer, took in the room. “If this
was
her main crib, she led a pretty bare life, even accounting for a cleanup. Five minutes inside and I’m ready to gulp some Prozac.”

He returned to the metal closet, ran his hand over the top shelf. “Well, looky here.”