Bones (14 page)

Built like a dancer, her appetite was astonishing. So far she’d flirted, shoveled food down her gullet, played coy.

Reed was antsy. Milo emitted an odd Buddhic calm.

Over the same forty-eight hours, he’d contended with a continuing trickle of worthless tips, learned nothing more about Big Laura Chenoweth, failed to locate Sheralyn Dawkins’s family anywhere in San Diego, Orange, or L.A. County. That kind of fun often erodes his patience but sometimes it works the other way.

Reed eyed the ladies’ room. Our booth was positioned so Sin couldn’t leave without passing directly in front of us.

“When she gets back, I’ll press her.”

Milo said, “Sure. Or you can let it play out a bit longer.”

The young detective had switched from jacket and tie to a gray polo shirt bisected by a wide red stripe, fresh blue jeans, snowy white Nikes. His eyes were clear, his ruddy face shaved glossy. Side-of-beef pectorals and massive shoulders strained the shirt.

Aiming to blend in, but he might as well have worn the uniform.

Sondra Cindy Jackson had known what he was right away. Sixty dollars and the promise of dinner had induced her to get into the Camaro.

Milo said, “Be sure to put in for reimbursement.”

Reed said, “Eventually.”

“I’m back!” came the cheery announcement.

Sin’s pink velvet bra and white lace hot pants showed off her skin tone. Slender girl except for breasts enhanced to cartoon proportions. Somehow, she’d found the money.

“Welcome back,” said Milo. “Bon appétit.”

She flashed a gold smile, slid into the booth, got to work on the second plate of chicken.

Four swallows later, she said, “Y’all are so quiet.”

“Waiting for you,” said Reed.

“To do what?” Batting her lashes.

Reed blinked.

Milo said, “To take the lead.”

“About… oh, yeah, Mantooth.”

Reed said, “Mantooth?”

“That’s her name, ’Tective Reed.”

“Mantooth.”

“Yup.”

Reed opened his pad. “That a first name?”

“Last name,” said Sin. “Dolores Mantooth but we jes’ called her Mantooth because it was a good one for her.” Wink wink.

Reed stared at her.

“Tooth. Chew. Like that song?” said Sin. “We chewin’ on it… what? Y’all don’t listen to the blues?”

Milo said, “Musta missed that one.”

“ ‘We chewin’ on it all day long.’ ”

I said, “Bonnie Raitt.”

“Yeah,” said Sin. “Nice dirty song. That was Mantooth. She had a mouth.”

Reed said, “Mouth as in…”

Sin said, “Huh?”

Milo said, “Who was her pimp?”

“Jerome.”

“Jerome who?”

“Jerome Jerome,” said Sin. “I’m not kidding, same first name and last name. I’m not claiming that’s what his momma called him but that’s what he was called. Jerome Jerome. Don’t go asking for him. Dead.”

“How’d he get dead?”

“O.D.” Lifting a wing, she held it daintily between two fingers, nibbled voraciously to the bone.

“When?” said Reed.

Shrug. “I just heard he was dead.”

“From an O.D.”

“What else?”

“You assumed he O.D.’d.”

Sin’s look was full of pity. “ ’Tective Reed, ’Tective Reed. Jerome was bagging all day, then he got dead. That sound to you like old age?”

Milo said, “Dolores never worked for Joe Otto Duchesne.”

“No way. Joe Otto works black, never looks back.”

“Tell us about Dolores.”

Sin waved a chicken bone. “Old. White. Ugly.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“Hmm… a year ago?”

“How old is old?”

“A hundred,” said Sin, laughing. “Maybe a hundred fifty, she looked real
used.
”

Peach-flavored ice cream disappeared between her lips. No new information made the reverse trip. Reed gave her his card and she looked at it as if it were an exotic insect.

After she left the restaurant, we walked to the parking lot and watched her sway south on Aviation. Reed’s Camaro had no computer so Milo had brought a newer Chevy sedan from the staff lot that was fully equipped.

No Dolores or Delores Mantooth in the system. A bit of LAPD Scrabble finally pulled up her I.D.

DeMaura Jean Montouthe.
Blond and green, five five, one forty, DOB fifty-one years ago, thirty years of low-level arrests.

No mention of tooth anomalies but LAPD wasn’t interested in the finer points of dentition.

Milo called Vice and had the name of her pimp within seconds.

Jerome Lamar McReynolds. The crypt confirmed his death fourteen months ago. Heroin-cocaine overdose, COD determination based on track marks and blood work, no autopsy.

“Guy speedballs,” said Milo, “DeMaura’s freelancing, vulnerable. Bad guy senses it, moves in.”

“Perfect for some rich predators,” said Reed, massaging a swelling biceps.

“The key,” said Milo, “is to turn women into prey.”

Three days of not-so-happy hunting.

Milo and Reed’s canvass of the airport stroll revealed no other prostitutes who’d encountered a knife-wielding, bald-headed john. A Vice detective named Diane Salazar had arrested DeMaura Montouthe several times and thought her family was from Alabama but wasn’t sure. No one with the surname had come up in that state’s tax rolls.

“You wouldn’t happen to know her dentist, Diane.”

“You bet, Milo. Her hairdresser and her personal trainer, too.”

“What was she like?”

“Nice girl, not too bright, never fussed when we snagged her on decoy runs. Years ago, she was actually kind of pretty.”

“Only mug shot I’ve seen is two years old.”

“You know,” said Salazar. “The usual.”

No one had heard anything about DeMaura, Sheralyn Dawkins, or Big Laura Chenoweth working private parties.

“They’da done it, they’da bragged,” said one pimp. “Big L especially, she like to challenge you, give you the eye. You not agreeing with her, she got herself a reason to go off on you.”

“That happened to you?” said Reed.

“What?”

“Confrontation with Big Laura.”

“Hell, no. That happened to me, she’da hurt.”

“She did get hurt.”

“Whatever. Got to go.”

A hooker named Charvay, young, still lithe and unscarred and thinking she had a lifetime ahead of her, caressed her breasts and laughed and voiced the prevalent sentiment: “Them? With rich folk? What kind of Westside papa
ratz
par
-tey
would be wanting
that
old skin?”

During the ride back to the office, Milo was sullen.

Maybe sensing it, Moe Reed drove fast. “Could be the Vanders have nothing to do with it and it’s all about Huck being a solo psycho.”

Surveillance on the estate manager had stalled. The top-of-the-hill, dead-end placement of the Vander estate limited vantage points on Calle Maritimo. The watch from two blocks down had produced nothing: Huck never left the house.

Milo decided to hold observation to after dark, told Reed they’d split the shift.

Reed said, “No prob doing all of it, Loo. I really want to check this guy out.”

“We go that way, kiddo, I’ll be partnering with the living dead.”

“Trust me,” said Reed. “With all due respect.”

“You don’t believe in sleep?”

“Don’t need much. I’ll move around, no one’ll spot me. I’m good at fading into the background.”

“Why’s that?” said Milo.

“Second kid.”

Most of Huck’s adult life was a blank space and one person who might be able to fill in the details was Debora Wallenburg, the lawyer who’d sprung him out of juvey jail. No sense suggesting that; attorney–client privilege meant a stone wall, at best.

At worst, she’d alert Huck and if he was dirty, he’d split.

With no need for my services, I took on a custody consult that didn’t look too fierce, had time for leisurely walks with Blanche, pleasant dinners with Robin.

In the midst of that, Emily Green-Bass phoned me from Long Island.

“I got your number from the state psychology board, Doctor. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. What can I do for you?”

“The reason I’m calling you and not Lieutenant Sturgis is — it’s not really about Selena’s case…” Her voice broke. “Can’t believe I’m using that word.”

I waited.

She said, “I’ve already spoken with Lieutenant Sturgis, I know there’s been no progress. The reason I’m calling
you…
actually, I don’t
know
why I’m calling you… I guess I feel… sorry for wasting your time, Doctor.”

“You’re not.”

She said, “You’re just saying that because… sorry, I don’t know
what
I’m doing.”

“You’ve gone through something most people can’t come close to comprehending.”

Dead air; when she finally spoke, her voice was low and hoarse. “I guess I — guess what I’m after… Dr. Delaware, I keep thinking about that meeting. At the station. My boys… we must’ve seemed like one big crazy dysfunctional family. That’s not how it really is.”

I said, “What happened was one hundred percent normal.”

“Was it?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve seen other people in my… situation.”

“Lots of people. There’s no road map.”

Long pause. “Thank you. I guess what I want you to see was that we’re really pretty normal — typical people — now that I’m out with that, it sounds ludicrous. Why would I need to impress you?”

“You’re trying to get some control.”

“Which is impossible.”

“Still,” I said, “sometimes it’s good to try. What I saw in your sons was attachment and love. For you and Selena.”

Sobs broke like thunder, rattling the phone’s tinny speaker. I waited as the sound diminished.

She said, “I really don’t know what I could’ve done differently. With Selena, I mean. Maybe if Dan would’ve lived. He was such a good father. He got a brain tumor. Nothing he did caused it, he didn’t smoke, he didn’t drink, he didn’t — it just happened, the doctors said it’s just one of those things that just
happens.
I guess I should’ve explained it to Selena. She was so young, I thought…” Sucking inhalation. “
She
lost her father and
I
lost the love of my life. After that, everything kind of fell apart.”

“I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through that.”

Silence.

“Ms. Green-Bass, what happened to Selena wasn’t connected to losing her father.” Maybe a lie, but who cared?

“What was it, then?”

“Another of those things you can’t explain.”

“But if she hadn’t moved to L.A.…” Harsh laughter. “If
this,
if
that,
if
only, should’ve, could’ve, would’ve
— she cut me off totally.”

I said, “One way or the other, children move away. If not geographically, psychologically.” Images of my own cross-country ride, at sixteen, flashed in my head.

Long hyphens of desert and railyard and hamburger stands. The shake-awake of city skyline. Prospects of a new life thrilling and terrifying.

“They do,” said Emily Green-Bass. “I suppose it’s necessary.”

“It is. People who stay in one place are often stunted.”

“Yes, yes — Selena was doing exactly what she wanted. She always did. Such a strong-willed child. She knew her mind and pursued it. That’s why it’s so hard to think of her as… overpowered. She was a little person with such a big personality, Doctor. A hundred ten pounds, it was easy to forget she was just… small.” Tears. “She was my
baby,
Doctor.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know you are — you sound like a kind man. If you learn anything, anything at all, you’ll call me?”

“Of course.”

“Stupid question,” she said. “I seem to have a lot of those.”

I’d finished the consult, was writing my report when Milo called.

“Up for fine dining?”

Three p.m. “Kind of an off hour.”

“Call it a snack. I’m meeting with Reed in thirty, his request.”

“What’s up?”

“He left the message on my machine, didn’t specify. Lad does sound a bit excited.”

“I’ll be there,” I said. “Curry and tandooried whatever?”

“Nope, pizza. The kid needs variety. Also, a place where his brother can’t find him.”

“Variety” was a barn-like Pizza Palazzo on Venice near Sawtelle. Seating was picnic tables and benches. Off-hour gourmandizing meant a nearly vacant room ripe with memories of stale cheese. The exception was a pair of long-distance truckers whose big rig took up half the parking lot. Extra-large pies for extra-large men.

Blinks and burps voiced by a bank of video games against the far wall broke the silence. Unused machines crying out for attention.

Milo and I arrived at the same time. No sign of the black Camaro in the lot, but Moe Reed was inside, back to blazer and tie, looking ill at ease as he nursed a mug of root beer.

“New wheels, kiddo?” said Milo.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing black, shiny, or Chevy out there.”

“Oh,” said Reed. “That was a rental. I exchanged it.”

“Clunker in the shop?”

Reed colored.

Milo said, “Here’s a guess: You’ve been renting cars so you can tail your brother. Did you at least fill out the forms so you can get reimbursed?”

Reed shook his head.

“Got a trust fund, kiddo?”

“I just don’t care about stuff like that.”

“Tsk, tsk, Uncle Milo is crestfallen — okay, how long you been following him?”

“Um… since that day he dropped in on us. It didn’t get in the way of work, Loo, I promise. I used my own time. He expects me to drive garbage, so it wasn’t any big challenge, he never noticed the Camaro. But I wanted to make sure so I exchanged it yesterday.”

“Upgrade to Ferrari?” said Milo.

“Charcoal Caddy,” said Reed. “Smoked windows, just in case. I figured with Huck never going anywhere, maybe I should try to figure out who paid to cast suspicion. Not that I don’t think he’s our best bet. I just wanted to know who wanted
us
to think that. Maybe they could tell us something else.”