Bones

CHAPTER 35

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.”

Fox’s grin took on wattage. “But oh so educational. What I learn is she lives on air, I’m talking diet soda and Special K-and not much cereal, at that. She also goes through a helluva lot of prescription decongestants and Ritalin. Now I’m thinking back to those meth busts. She just switched to legal speed.”

I said, “Ritalin could fit with the specialed fantasy. If she had learning disabilities, herself, maybe she fantasizes about a power role. The drug’s also effective in weight control, if you don’t mind the risks. Same for the decongestants. And she did have a role model for her eating disorder.”

“Who?”

I glanced at Milo. He nodded. I described Kelly Vander’s struggle with anorexia.

“Like mother, like daughter,” said Fox. “When I met her I didn’t think much of it. Skeletal is half the girls on the Westside. Yeah, sure, that all makes sense.”

Reed said, “So she’s an undernourished skank. What does it have to do with Huck?”

“I’m setting the stage, Moses. She’s a liar and a possible addict, which says personality problems, right? Which could explain what else I found in her garbage can: framed photo of her dad, her stepmom, and her brother all cut up, the glass all smashed.”

He raised the water glass, as if toasting. “She trashed her family, guys. Literally.”

I said, “Black ties for Dad and son, red gown for Mom?”

“That’s the one.”

“It was sitting on her coffee table. She called our attention to it. ‘That’s my brother, Kelvin. He’s brilliant.’ ”

“Well, now he’s brilliant and defaced,” said Fox. “Literally. Sweet little countenance sliced up into confetti, like someone took a razor to it. To top it off, the damn thing was wrapped in toilet paper. Don’t want to spoil your appetite, but not clean toilet paper. There’s your glamorous side of the job.”

Milo said, “The picture was a prop for our benefit. One happy family.”

Reed said, “Now she doesn’t need it anymore. Because… aw, Jesus. The Vanders haven’t been heard from in two weeks.”

Fox reached for another chapati. “But wait, there’s more. Call in now and you get the Ginzu knife and the automatic veeblefetzer. Given the real bad feeling I was getting from the little deadbeating bitch, I decided to keep shadowing her. First day, she did more of the usual rich-girl shit. Shopping, massage, more shopping. Which is weirdly carefree for someone who claims to be worried about her family. Second day starts off the same way. Neiman Marcus, little walk up Two Rodeo, she checks out the jewelry at Tiffany, Judith Ripka, buys sunglasses at Porsche Design. Then she drives two blocks-because she’s an L.A. girl-to an office building on Wilshire and Canon. Lobby directory says it’s the law firm Daddy uses. Same guys she bad-mouthed to me and she’s visiting them. I sit across the street and wait for her to leave. When she does, it’s not in her Beemer. She’s a passenger in a Mercedes, some guy’s at the wheel. They make a beeline to the Peninsula, Simone’s pal tips the doorman big enough to leave the car in front. Two hours later, the two of them come out with that goofy, no-longer-horny look. Meanwhile, I’ve run the tags on the Mercedes-don’t ask me how, okay?”

Milo said, “Perish the thought.”

Fox said, “Comes back to Alston Weir, Attorney-at-Mischief. Such a greedy scumbag, she wouldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him. Meanwhile he’s her lunch-hour fuck-buddy.”

Reed said, “Is Weir bald?”

“You think, Moses? Is there any other good reason to saddle himself with a big old mess of phony, piss-yellow fake-o hair? I’m talking Halloween, guys. Blond dust mop. What I find weird is the guy knows how to dress. Zegna suit, Ricci tie, Magli shoes. Threads like that and he blows it with a bad rug. Go figure.”

“Maybe he’s got an exaggerated self-image,” said Milo.

“Meaning?”

“Thinks he’s cuter than he really is, ’cause of all the Bondo in his face.”

Fox frowned. “Yeah, that, too. So you know all this? I just blew off a client for nothing?”

No answer.

“Oh, that’s just great. You guys sit there and let me spin my wheels.” To his brother: “Having fun, Moses?”

Reed smiled. But no irony, no resentment. Maybe even something resembling brotherly affection.

“What?” Fox demanded.

“We knew a little, Aaron. You just made it a lot.”

The four of us left the restaurant. Fox and Reed walked side by side, seemed on the verge of conversation. But neither brother initiated.

Milo said, “Did you happen to hold on to Simone’s garbage, Aaron?”

“Lucky for you, I’m a bit of a pat rack, Milo. Moses can verify. His side of the room looked like some ashram, mine was beaucoup toys.”

Reed said, “Beaucoup junk.”

Fox said, “Shall I have it picked up or would you like me to deliver?”

“We’ll come to you, Aaron. And thanks.”

“Figured I had to, the girl’s bad news. Any way to keep my part quiet?”

“We’ll do our best.”

Fox fooled with his pocket square and eyed his Porsche. “Meaning no.”

Milo said, “You know how it goes, Aaron. Depends where it leads. Meanwhile, do us another favor and hold off on trying to collect your bill from Simone.”

“For how long?”

“Until it’s no longer an issue.”

“Meaning never.”

“Meaning until it’s no longer an issue.”

“Now,” said Fox, “you’re sounding like a lieutenant.”

Pulling Alston “Buddy” Weir’s driver’s license took seconds. Forty-five years old, blond and blue, beta-carotene tan coating a heavy face that alternated between too-tight and losing the battle with gravity.

The bored, insolent expression of a man with better things to do than pose for the clerk. No one had questioned the biological authenticity of the Jan-and-Dean wig.

No criminal record, but a bar association complaint, still pending, had been filed two years ago over misappropriation of funds.

Locating Chance Brandt ate up over an hour.

We finally found the boy at the Westwood house of a friend named Bjorn Loftus.

Parents on vacation, gussied-up SUVs in the driveway, earsplitting music and marijuana fumes blowing through the doorway as Bjorn gaped.

He jabbered improbable lies until Milo told him to bring Chance out now. Both boys staggered out moments later.

Chance smirked. “Again?”

Reed said, “Recognize this guy?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Who?”

“Dude I saw giving the envelope to Duboff-jackoff.” Bobbing his head and waiting for laughter that never came. “Mister look at me I’m all…” Chance’s eyes clouded as he groped for a punch line.

“Sign your name to the photo,” said Milo.

Chance’s scrawl was unsteady. Reed had him repeat it.

Bjorn Loftus let out a dope giggle. “Now you’re gonna have to testify, dude.”

Chance said, “No way,” and looked to us for confirmation.

Milo said, “We’ll be in touch.”

“Hear that, dude? You’re gonna get touched, dude.”

Chance said, “Not unless they’re gay, dude,” and lurched back inside.

Bjorn said, “Dude.”

Milo studied the signed photo. “My head feels like it’s gonna split open. Time for Advil and a sit-down on what we know and what we don’t.”

I said, “My house is ten minutes away and I’ve got an ice pack for that neck.”

“I said head, not neck.”

“I was talking whiplash, from getting jerked around.”

He and Reed laughed. “Yeah, let’s boogie over to the White House. He’s got a nice place, Moses. Cute dog, too. Maybe she can make sense of all this.”

I said, “There’s additional incentive. Fifteen thousand worth.”