Bones (18 page)

I said, “How long has the family been living down there?”

“They moved to San Diego right after Sheralyn’s father got out of the military. His civilian job was school district custodial manager, he died twelve years ago. Sheralyn was born in San Diego, did a couple years of high school, dropped out. Her mom never heard of Travis Huck, and the six-pack with Huck’s picture didn’t jog her memory.”

Milo said, “Why should life be easy?”

“She did tell me one thing that might be interesting. When Devon couldn’t hear. Sheralyn had a thing for pain. Not causing it, experiencing it. Mom said when she was a teenager, she’d cut herself on the arms, pull her eyelashes out, once in a while she’d burn herself with cigarettes. Sometimes she’d come home from being with boys and have bruises on her neck and arms. Mom threatened to take her to a psychiatrist. Sheralyn yelled at her to mind her own damn business, ran out of the house, stayed away for a few days. What boiled things over was Sheralyn getting pregnant when she was sixteen and refusing to say who the father was. She was already into dope, so the parents worried about a drug baby. When Devon was born healthy they tried to get Sheralyn to let them adopt him. Sheralyn went ballistic, took the baby and left. No contact for three years, then Sheralyn shows up without warning, stays for a couple days, things seem to be going okay. All of a sudden, she sneaks out in the middle of the night, leaves Devon behind.”

“Into pain,” said Milo.

“And being squeezed around the neck,” said Reed. “That would make her an easy mark for a sadist, right? They start off playing the choking game for what she thinks is money and fun, he turns on the pressure, she’s caught off guard. Make sense, Doc?”

“Makes perfect sense,” I said. “It could also be our link to Selena. The parties she played at got extreme and she joined in.”

Reed said, “Thinking she was in control, but she got flipped.”

Milo said, “Sheralyn’s story also reminds me of Selena’s. Bad feelings between daughter and mother, leaving home.”

Reed said, “So what now?”

“Got a call from the chief,” said Milo. “Caitlin Frostig.”

Reed slumped. “Am I in some sort of shit?”

“No, you’re fine. He wanted to know how we were doing on the marsh murders. I gave him the honest answer and he pretended to be understanding and patient. Then he brought up Frostig.”

“Checking up on me,” said Reed.

“His Fierceness takes a personal interest in the troops.”

“Did he make like I’m supposed to be doing something on Caitlin? Because I did everything I could think of.”

“He wanted to make sure you
ignore
Caitlin until we close the marsh murders. That was before Duboff. I’m sure it goes double now.”

“Okay… any hint about a task force, Loo?”

“Why, you want one?”

“Hell, no,” said Reed. “I was just wondering, another body and all that. I’m green, haven’t exactly burned up the record books—”

Milo’s hand clapped Reed’s shoulder. “It’s a
whodunit,
kiddo. Meaning no one burns up anything, we simmer slowly and hope something cooks. No one with half a brain — and the Sun King has at least that — expects resolution by the fourth commercial break.”

“Okay,” said Reed. “He actually mentioned Caitlin by name?”

“First and last.”

“He probably got a call. Her father works for a big-time tech guy.”

I said, “Caitlin’s your missing person?”

Reed nodded. “College girl, left work thirteen months ago, hasn’t been seen since. Cold as frozen fish sticks and they hand it to me, my second case. If I pissed someone off and it’s punishment, I can’t figure out who or how.”

Milo said, “You solved your first one. That’s batting five hundred.”

“Unfortunately, this ain’t baseball.” Reed tightened the knot of his tie. “So when can we talk to Huck?”

Pools of water spread beneath Simon Vander’s Aston Martin, Lincoln Town Car, and Mercedes. Moisture blackened the slate motor court.

Reed said, “Car wash day, either they have a service or Huck does it himself. Lexus is gone, maybe he’s out gassing it. Or the car wash dude is.”

He pushed the call-box button. No answer from the house. Same for two more attempts.

Milo looked up the Vanders’ landline and punched it, got voice mail, kept his voice even as he left a message for Travis Huck to get in touch. Cordial as an invitation to a poker game.

We loitered near the octopus gates. Twenty minutes in, the mail-man drove up and dropped ad circulars and bulk mail into a slot on one of the gateposts.

Reed went up to him. “Know these people?”

The carrier shook his head. “Never see anyone around.” His fingers brushed the gate. “I have packages, I just leave ’em here, no one signs.”

“Private, huh?”

“Rich,” said the mailman. “These kind of people keep you at a distance.”

“What kind of packages?”

“Wine, fruit packages, gourmet food. The good life, right?” Hoisting his bag, he trudged down the road.

Milo waited, descended Calle Maritimo himself, far enough to disappear around a bend. He returned a few minutes later. “Nothing plus nothing, time to boogie. Leave your bona fides, Moses.”

Reed dropped one card onto the mail pile, wedged another between the gate and the post. “Think Huck might’ve rabbited?”

“There’s always that chance.”

We drove to PCH. The sun was custard, the ocean a melting jigsaw puzzle of green and blue. No Lexus in front of the Vander beach house, no more success with the bell push there.

Moe Reed tapped the high wooden fence that blocked off the beach. “What’s next, a moat?”

“That’s what money buys,” said Milo.

We cruised up and down the highway, scoped every filling station until Broad Beach for a sign of the Lexus. Gas in the Palisades was nearing five bucks a gallon for high-octane. That didn’t stop motorists from lining up for a petrochemical IV. Huck wasn’t one of them.

Milo said, “Let’s get back, call the crypt, get a time line on Duboff’s autopsy, see if they’ve done a prelim, anything useful on the visual. Then we need to work on confirming that Jane Three is DeMaura Montouthe. Victim I.D. isn’t likely to be a big deal on this one, but we can’t afford to screw up and get it wrong. That working girl said De-Maura was from Alabama, but it could be Arkansas, anywhere down south. Hell, it could be Arizona or Albania. If we can locate some next of kin, maybe we’ll get lucky and DeMaura talked to someone about an especially creepy john.”

“Like the guy Big Laura escaped from.”

“Like him,” said Milo. “In a perfect world.”

Back at the station, a civilian clerk I’d never seen before said, “I’ve been trying to call you, Lieutenant.”

“Never got any message,” said Milo.

“Well, I
did
try.”

“Which number did you use?”

The clerk read off a number. The final digit was off by two.

“Well, that’s what I was
given,
” said the clerk, without remorse. “Anyway, someone came in to see you, went upstairs, is still there. So no big deal.”

James Robert “Bob” Hernandez was a blue-eyed, muscular six-footer with slicked-back brass-colored hair and a four-inch Vandyke of matching hue. He wore jeans with rolled-up cuffs, weathered motorcycle boots, and a plaid shirt with short sleeves folded up high. Tattoos the color of swimming pool water ran from thick wrists to corded biceps. Tweety Bird, Popeye, smooching cherubs. On his right arm, devotion to
Kathy
was proclaimed calligraphically. Pro jobs, not prison art. Hernandez’s record was minor. Drunk driving, traffic warrants, failures to appear.

After running him through the databases, Milo returned to the interview room and sat back down. During the brief break, I’d waited with Hernandez, the two of us talking about sports.

Moe Reed was out processing the pretty wooden box Hernandez had brought for show-and-tell. Phoning the crypt first and getting authorization to carry the box personally to Dr. Hargrove’s lab.

“Human bones,” said Milo.

“That’s what they look like to me,” said Bob Hernandez. “I mean, I’m not a scientist, but I looked them up on the Internet and they match human fingers. Enough for three complete hands.”

“Doing research, huh?”

“Didn’t want to waste your time, sir.”

“We appreciate that. So go over again how you found them.”

“Didn’t find ’em,
bought
’em,” said Hernandez. “I mean not them, specifically. A whole bunch of stuff. Unclaimed storage, they have auctions, people not paying their monthlies. Like you guys do with confiscated cars.” Hernandez smiled. “Lost an El Camino that way.”

“What else was in the bin?”

“Garbage bags full of crap. Bicycle I thought might be worth something, turned out to be crap, some old board games, newspapers. I tossed it all except the box. Because the box was nice wood. Later I found out what was inside. I’m pretty sure they’re finger bones ’cause they don’t look like anything else. So I called Pacific Division and they sent me to Detective Reed and he said to come here. So here I am.”

“Was the box wrapped?”

“Yeah, in one of the garbage bags. Turned out to be Brazilian rose-wood, which is rare, endangered. Would’ve been better to find jewelry or coins.”

“How long ago was this, Mr. Hernandez?”

“Two weeks. I tried to find something else they could’ve been, some other animal, but from what I can tell they’re human. So I didn’t put ’em up on eBay, that would be wrong.”

“eBay accept that kind of thing?”

“I never got that far,” said Hernandez. “Didn’t even try. Probably coulda sold ’em, but then I heard about those murders. On TV.” Peering at Milo. “Four women, and that marsh is pretty close to the storage unit. I know this is three, not four, it probably doesn’t mean anything, but I just thought I should come forward.”

“You did the right thing, Mr. Hernandez. Where’s the facility?”

“Pacific Public Storage, Culver Boulevard just before it intersects with Jefferson.”

“You live in Alhambra.”

“Sure do.”

“Bit of a drive to the auction.”

“Not compared with other places I been,” said Hernandez. “Did one in San Luis Obispo.” Yellow smile. “Heck, I’d drive to Lodi you tell me there’s bargains.”

“Auctions are your main job.”

“Nope, I’m trained as a landscaper, looking for work.”

“Been looking for a while?”

“Too long.” Hernandez sat back and laughed. “My brothers said it would be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Personal questions. ‘Come forward, be a good citizen, Bobby, but you’re gonna be looked at like a suspect because that’s what the job’s like. We don’t trust nobody.’ ”

“Your brothers are on the job.”

“Gene’s Covina PD, Craig’s South Pasadena. Dad’s a retired firefighter. Even Mom’s into it, West Covina dispatcher.”

Milo smiled. “You’re the nonconformist.”

“No offense, Lieutenant, but you couldn’t pay me enough to be cooped up in a car or an office. Give me a backhoe and five acres and I’m sailing. Speaking of which, I’d better get going. Job interview out in Canoga Park. They’re moving big palms and I know how to do that.”

Milo took his information, thanked him again, shook his hand.

At the door, Hernandez said, “One more thing, sir. It’s not the main reason I came in but I’ve got a court date on my warrants, so if you’re of a mind to put in a good word…”

“Your lawyer told you to come forward?”

“No, it was my idea. But he thought it might help. So did my brothers. You can call either of them, they’ll vouch for me. If I’m outta line, just tell me, and it never came up.”

“Who’s your lawyer?”

“Some fresh-out-of-school PD, that’s what bugs me,” said Hernandez. “Mason Soto, he’s more into stopping the war in Eye-Rack.”

Milo copied down Soto’s name and number. “I’ll tell him you’ve been a big help to LAPD, Bob.”

Hernandez beamed. “Thank you, sir, appreciate it deeply — those bones, at first I thought they might be from one of those anatomical models. You know, what doctors learn from? But there’s no holes drilled through them, like you would do if you were stringing them together. So they’re just loose bones.”

Short, hard tug at the Vandyke. “Can’t see any reason for a mentally healthy person to want something like that.”

Pacific Public Storage was a city block of beige bunkers hemmed by twenty-foot chain link. Flagrantly orange ten-foot signage promised special deals. The company’s logo was a stack of suitcases.

We drove past and clocked the drive to the marsh before circling back. Six minutes each way, at moderate speed.

Perched above the entry to the facility’s parking lot was a security camera. A Quonset hut served as the office. One man worked the desk, young, chubby, bored. His orange polo shirt bore the logo. His I.D. badge said
Philip.
A biography of Thomas Jefferson was unfolded face-down on the counter. Passionate sports talk blared from a radio.

Milo eyed the book. “History buff?”

“School. Can I help you?”

“Police.”

The badge made Philip blink.

Milo said, “Some contraband was found in one of your units. Number fourteen fifty-five.”

“Contraband? Like dope?”

“Let’s just say something illegal. What can you tell me about that bin?”

Philip leafed through a ledger. “One four five five… that one’s vacant.”

“We know that, Mr.…”

“Phil Stillway.”

“The contraband in question was obtained when the contents were auctioned off two weeks ago, Mr. Stillway.”

“I’ve only been here a week.”

Milo tapped the ledger. “Could you please check who rented the unit?”

“It’s not in here, in here is just the occupied units.”

“Occupied? You’ve got tenants living here?”

Philip gaped. “No, sir, I meant material. Belongings. No one lives here, that’s against regulations.”

Milo winked and grinned.

“Oh,” said Philip, “you were joking.”

“Who rented fourteen fifty-five and when?”