Bones (7 page)

Down came a cardboard Macy’s box stuffed with papers.

On top was Selena Bass’s tax return from last year. Income of forty-eight thousand from “freelance musical consulting,” ten grand worth of “equipment and supplies” deductions.

Beneath that, he found thirteen monthly checks clipped together in a precise stack. Four thousand dollars each, written on the Global Investment Co. account of The Simon M. Vander Family Trust, address on Fifth Street in Seattle.

Same memo for every payment in block printing:
Lessons for Kelvin.

Reed said, “The kid on the Web.”

Milo said, “Nearly fifty K a year to teach Junior how to tickle the ivories.”

“One student paying all the bills, maybe he’s got serious talent, some kind of prodigy.”

“Or someone thinks he does. How about going out to the car and running Simon Vander’s name? The kid, too.”

“You bet.”

Milo resumed examining the papers in the Macy’s box. A California I.D. depicted a thin-faced, big-eyed girl with a pointy cleft chin and dirty-blond hair. Short bangs, just like the wigs. Easy fit for dress-up time?

I said, “Why would she need that if she had a license?”

He said, “Maybe she moved here without a license, got this in the interim.”

Beneath the card were receipts from a Betsey Johnson outlet in Cabazon, near Palm Springs, and a six-month-old credit card bill for five hundred dollars, recently paid off after six months of mounting interest at the typical usurious rate.

At the bottom sat a single e-mail, four months old, from engrbass345 at a Hotmail account. I read over his shoulder.

Sel, so glad you finally found a job. And a satisfying one, to boot. Be well, dear. Don’t take so long next time.
Love, mom.

Milo sighed. “Notification time.”

“Your favorite thing,” I said.

“That and drowning puppies.”

Reed charged back into the apartment, bright-eyed and waving his pad.

“Looks like Simon Vander’s a
big-
time money guy. The investment account might be in Seattle but he lives here, the Palisades. He owned a chain of supermarkets in Mexican neighborhoods, sold out two and a half years ago for a hundred and eleven million. After that, he drops off the screen except for three more hits for Kelvin, all recitals. Kid’s ten years old. Found one photo of him.”

He flashed a grainy black-and-white shot of a good-looking Asian boy.

Milo showed him the e-mail from Selena Bass’s mother.

Reed said, “Going to try her by computer?”

“If she’s local, we’ll do it in person.”

“ ‘engrbass,’ ” said Reed. “Maybe she’s an engineer. Meanwhile, should we start with the Vanders, see if they know anything about Selena’s personal life?”

Using the murdered woman’s first name. Beginning of the bond.

Milo said, “That’s what I’d do.”

Reed frowned. “Like I’m inventing the wheel.”

Five vehicles at two addresses were registered to Simon Mitchell Vander.

At Calle Maritimo in Pacific Palisades: a three-month-old Lexus GX, a one-year-old Mercedes SLK, a three-year-old Aston Martin DB7, and a five-year-old Lincoln Town Car.

At a Malibu listing on Pacific Coast Highway, a seven-year-old Volvo station wagon.

Moe Reed ran map traces. “La Costa Beach and the north end of the Palisades. Pretty darn close.”

“Maybe he likes sand between his toes,” said Milo. “Middle of the week, I’m betting on the main house. If that doesn’t pan out, we get a day at the beach.”

The drive from Venice to Pacific Palisades was a slow drip along Lincoln, not much better on Ocean Front, followed by a quick drop onto Channel Road and a blue zip up the coast. A charitable breeze whipped the ocean into cobalt meringue. Surfers and kite runners and people who liked clear lungs were out in force.

Calle Maritimo was a snaky climb above the old Getty estate. As the altitude climbed, properties enlarged, soil growing pricier by the yard. Reed drove fast, clipping past bougainvillea hedges, rock walls, charitable glimpses of ocean.

A sign warned
Dead End: No Through Traffic.
Seconds later that promise was fulfilled by ten-foot iron gates.

Hand-fashioned gates, with stout posts resembling oversized stalks of coral and curving iron rods tangled like octopus tentacles. On the other side of all that foundry work was an oval motor court paved with precise slate squares. Recently hosed slate, still beaded in spots, and ringed by razor-cut date palms. Behind the trees, a surprisingly modest house.

Single story, dun stucco, red tile roof, enclosed courtyard hiding the front door. Off to the side were the four cars listed on Vander’s reg forms. Reed punched the call box. Five rings on the intercom, then silence.

He tried again. Four more rings. A boyish-sounding male voice said, “Yes?”

“L.A. police here to talk to Mr. Simon Vander.”

“Police?”

“Yes, sir. We need to talk to Mr. Vander.”

A beat. “He’s not here.”

“Where can we find him?”

Two beats. “His last stop was Hong Kong.”

“Business trip?”

“He’s traveling. I can give him a message.”

“Who am I speaking with, sir?”

More hesitation. “Mr. Vander’s estate manager.”

“Name please?”

“Travis.”

“Could you please come out to the gate for a second, Mr. Travis?”

“Can I ask what this is—”

“Why don’t you come out and we’ll tell you.”

“Uh… hold on.”

Moments later, the courtyard door opened. A man in a navy-blue shirt, pale jeans, and a large gray knit cap squinted in our direction. The shirt was baggy and untucked, tails flapping like breakers. The jeans puddled over white sneakers. The cap was pulled down over the tops of his ears.

He walked toward us in an unsteady gait — uneven shoulders, a foot that turned outward every other step, on the verge of stumble. When he reached the gate, he studied us through iron tentacles, offered an iron-streaked view of long, gaunt face, hollow cheeks, deep-set brown eyes. A three-day stubble, mostly black, some gray, coated his face. Same for whatever cranium the cap revealed. His mouth was skewed to the left, as if set in perpetual regret. That and the rocky walk suggested some kind of neurological insult. I put him at thirty-five to forty. Young for a minor stroke, but life could be cruel.

Milo pushed his badge through the tentacles.

“Afternoon, Mr. Travis.”

“Huck. Travis Huck.”

“May we come in, Mr. Huck?”

A long-fingered hand pushed a button on a remote. The gates swung inward.

We parked in front of the nearest date palm and got out. The property was set well above its neighbors, at least five acres worth of king-of-the-mountain. Rolling lawns and beds of creeping geranium maintained a low profile. The punch line was a dead-drop bluff rimmed by an infinity pool that kissed the Pacific.

Up close, the house lost any claims to modesty. One story provided maximum ocean view, but horizontal sprawl chewed up land.

Travis Huck poked a finger under his cap, flicked moisture from behind his ear. His face was glossy. Warm day for wool. Or maybe he just perspired easily. “If there’s a message I can give to Mr.—”

“The message,” said Milo, “is that a woman named Selena Bass was found murdered and we’re talking to everyone who knew her.”

Huck blinked. His sad, crooked mouth straightened into a position of neutrality, at odds with the tension around his eyes.

He said, “Selena?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh… no.”

“You knew her.”

“She teaches music. To Kelvin. Mr. and Mrs. Vander’s son.”

“When’s the last time you saw her, Mr. Huck?”

“The last time? I don’t — like I said, she gives lessons. When he needs them.”

“To Kelvin.”

Huck blinked again. “Yes.”

“Same question, sir.”

“Pardon?”

“Last time you saw her.”

“Let me think,” said Huck. As if genuinely requesting permission. Sweat rolled down his chin, dropped to the slate. “I want to say two weeks ago…” Tugging at the cap. “No, fifteen days. Exactly fifteen.”

“You know that because…”

“Mrs. Vander and Kelvin left the day after Kelvin’s lesson. Which was fifteen days ago. Kelvin played Bartók.”

“Left for where?”

“Vacation,” said Huck. “It’s the summer.”

Reed said, “The whole family’s traveling.”

Huck nodded. “Can I ask what happened to Selena?”

Milo said, “What we can tell you at this point is it wasn’t pretty.”

No response.

“So the last time she was here was fifteen days ago exactly?”

“Yes.”

“What was her state of mind?”

“She seemed fine.” Huck’s eyes fixed on wet slate. “I let her in, saw her out. She was fine.”

Reed said, “Do you know anyone who’d want to hurt her?”

“Hurt her? She came here to teach. Like the others.”

“What others?”

“Kelvin is homeschooled. Specialists come in. Art, gymnastics, karate. A curator from the Getty’s been tutoring him in art history.”

“Kelvin doesn’t like regular school?” said Milo.

“Kelvin’s too bright for regular school.” One of Huck’s legs buckled and he braced himself on the hood of the unmarked. His forehead was soaked.

Moe Reed said, “Bright
and
a good piano player.”

“He plays classical,” said Huck, as if that settled it.

“How long has Selena Bass been teaching him?”

“She… I want to say… a year. Give or take.”

“Where did the lessons take place?” said Milo.

“Where? Right here.”

“Never at Selena’s house?”

“No, of course not.”

“Why of course not?”

“Kelvin has a busy schedule,” said Huck. “Wasting time driving would be out of the question.”

“The piano lessons weren’t on a set schedule.”

“Correct, it depended,” said Huck. “It could be once a week or every day.”

“Depended on Kelvin’s needs.”

“If he had a recital, Selena would be here more.”

“Kelvin give a lot of recitals?”

“Not too many… I still can’t believe… she was a nice person.”

“What else can you tell us about her, sir?”

“Nice,” Huck repeated. “Quiet. Pleasant, she always showed up on time.”

Moe Reed said, “She got paid well to teach Kelvin.”

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“You don’t sign checks?”

“I just take care of the house.”

“Who signs the checks?”

“Mr. Vander’s accountants.”

“Who’s that?”

“They’re in Seattle.”

Milo said, “You take care of the houses, plural.”

“Pardon?”

“There’s also a place on the beach.” Hooking a thumb toward the ocean.

“Oh, that,” said Huck. “That was Mr. Vander’s house before he got married. He doesn’t use it much.”

“He keeps a car there.”

“The old station wagon? Battery’s probably dead.”

“A pad right on the sand,” said Milo. “Pity not to use it.”

“Mr. Vander travels extensively,” said Huck.

“Part of Kelvin’s homeschooling?”

“Pardon?”

“Enrichment — seeing the world, learning about other cultures.”

“Sometimes.” Huck’s brow gleamed as if brushed with egg yolk. “This is really upsetting.”

“You liked Selena.”

“Yes, but… it’s a matter of someone you know — and then they’re…” Huck threw up his hands. “Mr. Vander needs to know about this. Kelvin and Mrs. Vander, too. They’re going to be — where can I reach you?”

Reed handed over a card.

Huck mouthed Reed’s name silently.

Milo said, “We’re trying to locate Selena’s next of kin. Any idea where we can find them?”

“No, I’m sorry,” said Huck. “Poor Kelvin… he’ll need another teacher.”

We drove back down to PCH, traveled a few minutes to La Costa Beach, where Reed hung a U-turn and parked in front of a cedar plank wall.

Forty-foot lot, a few paces from the highway. To the right of the wall was a cedar garage. A pedestrian door was dead-bolted. Milo rang the bell. No answer. He left his card wedged under the handle.

As we returned to the city, Moe Reed said, “What’d you think of Huck?”

“Different kind of fellow.”

“He sure sweated a lot. And something else… can’t put my finger on it, but… like he was too guarded. Am I off here, Lieutenant?”

“Guy was definitely antsy, kiddo. But that could just be employee nervousness — afraid to upset the boss. Wanna weigh in, Alex?”

I voiced the nerve damage theory.

Reed said, “Wearing a hat on a hot day is what caught my eye. There didn’t seem to be much hair under it. Medium-build white guy, he could be the shaved-head dude Luz Ramos saw with Selena.”

Milo thought about that. Reached for the MDT.

No criminal record on Travis Huck, and his DMV photo showed him with a full head of curly black hair. The license had been renewed three years ago. He’d listed his address as the house on Calle Maritimo.

Milo kept typing. The Internet had never met the man. “Shaving his head and being a little off ain’t exactly grounds for a warrant, but let’s keep him in mind.”

Reed said, “What about that loudmouth from the marsh, Duboff? He’s got a thing for the place like you said, Doctor. Obsessive, even. What if it has some kind of sexual significance for him so he dumps his bodies there?”

Milo said, “Serial conservationist.”

I said, “I’d keep him in mind, too, but like you said, Moe, he didn’t try to avoid attention. Just the opposite, he got right in our faces, admitted to being at the marsh right around the time Selena was dumped.”

“Couldn’t that be reverse psychology?” said Reed. “Or just plain arrogance — thinking he’s smarter than us? Like those idiots who mail messages? Or return to the scene to gloat.”

“It’s possible.”

Milo’s fingers were already dancing along the keyboard. “Well, look at this. Mr. Duboff has a record.”

Silford Duboff had been arrested seven times in ten years, every instance a confrontation at a protest march.