Jonathan Kellerman - Bones

“On the other hand,” I said, “the truth could turn out to be much more of a downer.”

“What?”

“She reached her expiration date and got discarded. Which could be the link to Sheralyn Dawkins. Maybe the other Jane Does, if they also sold sex for a living.”

“Used and tossed.”

“The swinger scene thrives on novelty,” I said. “The big downer is getting jaded. Hiring pros worked for a while. Then Selena came along, outwardly innocent. That would kick things up a notch.”

“Maybe inwardly and outwardly chaste,” he said. “Twenty-six and never been nothinged until she ran into the wrong crowd. Those years of playing clubs, think it’s possible?”

“Anything’s possible,” I said. “Makes both our jobs interesting.”

A call to the crypt revealed that Selena Bass’s autopsy was scheduled in three days. Milo ’s wheedling to jump the queue produced vague maybes. Just as he hung up, Deputy Chief Henry Weinberg rang in, wanting to know when he was planning to go public on the marsh murders.

Milo said, “Soon,” sat for a long time, listened impassively.

When he hung up, I said, “Wild guess: Immediately’s a whole lot better than soon.”

“Brass has the script written and proofread, ready to be recited with wooden earnestness. Goddamn pencil-pushers love press conferences because it lets them pretend they’re doing a real job.”

I said, “At the risk of being contentious, two victims with no I.D.’s, the media could be helpful.”

“The media’s like a penicillin shot, Alex. Pain in the ass, sometimes helpful in small doses. It’s always a double-edged sword: too much exposure, people rabbit. Lemme see if the bone ladies have pulled up anything.”

Eleanor Hargrove was at the marsh. All the bones had been extracted and tagged, were being prepped for transport to her lab. Her guess was very little additional data would be forthcoming, though Jane Doe Three did have “some interesting dentition.”

Milo said, “Interesting how?”

“Two baby canines still in place and she was born without wisdom teeth. If you ever get dental records, matching would be a snap.”

He thanked her, called Moe Reed, confirmed the young detective’s trip to San Diego tomorrow, set up a second lunch meet at Café Moghul in an hour.

I said, “He likes Indian food?”

“Like that matters.”

Reed was drinking tea when we got there. Same blazer and khakis, similar shirt and tie. Hours in the sun had grilled him medium-rare. He looked worn.

The woman in the sari brought us everything she was serving that day.

Milo snarfed. Reed didn’t touch a thing.

Milo said, “Don’t like Indian?”

“Had a late breakfast.”

“Where?”

“IHOP.”

“German pancakes, the applesauce?”

“Just eggs.”

“Kid, you gotta carbo-load for the long trek ahead.” Patting the swell of his gut. “Got anything for show-and-tell?”

“Talked to Alma Reynolds, Duboff’s girlfriend. She sounds as whack as him, kept going on and on about the marsh being sacred even though she’s an atheist. That made me wonder about the missing hands being some kind of religious ritual, but I looked up all the major religions and not one’s got anything like that, even Wiccans and Voodoos. Reynolds confirmed she was out of town when Duboff said she was and I still can’t find anything psycho in his past. His old boss at that left-wing bookstore says he was nonviolent, carried spiders and bugs outside and let them go.”

Milo said, “Hitler was a vegetarian.”

The young detective’s blue eyes studied him. “That so?”

“Der Führer und der Tofu.”

Reed smiled. “In terms of Travis Huck, I also got a bunch of nothing. But something about him still bugs me, Loo. Nervous and evasive.”

“Maybe because he’s protecting the Vanders.” Milo summarized what we’d learned from Marc Green.

Reed said, “Weirdo parties. We need to learn more about these people.”

An open door brought in a rush of traffic noise. A good-looking black man had entered the restaurant.

Early thirties, six feet tall, closely cropped hair, athletic frame packaged neatly in a body-conscious charcoal suit. A peacock-blue silk shirt gleamed. So did black alligator loafers.

The woman in the sari approached him. A few seconds of conversation got her to smile. The man headed for our table, gliding more than walking.

Milo said, “Blast from the past.”

Moe Reed shifted in his chair. His face had changed, lips folding inward, eyes tight, pale irises barely visible between half-closed lids. One hand gripped his tea glass.

A cloud of light, grassy cologne preceded the man’s arrival. He had the clean features and poreless skin of a young Belafonte. Grinning, he held out a hand to Milo. “Congratulations, recently promoted Lieutenant Sturgis.” The suit was hand-stitched with peaked lapels and working buttonholes on the sleeves. ADF monogram on the blue shirt. The reptilian shoes looked brand new.

Milo said, “Long time, Former Detective Fox. This is Dr. Alex Delaware, our consulting psychologist, and this is-”

Moe Reed said, “I know him,” and turned away.

The man stared at him for a moment. Tightened his jaw. Smiled at me. “Aaron Fox, Doctor. The world can use more psychologists.” I shook a warm, dry hand.

Pulling up a chair from a neighboring table, Fox positioned it backward and straddled. Pouring himself tea, he sipped. “Ahh, nice and refreshing, tastes like there’s some white tea in there, maybe a nuance of jasmine.”

Reed gazed out the window. Both his hands were curled into fists.

Milo said, “So there’s no need to introduce you two.”

Aaron Fox laughed. “Not unless one of us has Alzheimer’s.” He placed a palm on Reed’s beefy shoulder. “Your brain working okay, Moses? From what I can tell, mine’s still functional.”

Reed sat there.

Fox said, “Brain like yours, Moses, probably stay good in the foreseeable future.”

Reed stared past him.

Fox said, “He’s always been modest. Back when we were kids, I’d take every bit of exaggerated credit I could for the most trivial, picayune accomplishments. Marketing and promotion, right? It’s not enough to have the product, you’ve got to sell it. Little brother doesn’t believe in that. He’s smarter than me. But he’s never been one to toot his own horn.”

Reed removed Fox’s hand and set it down with exquisite care.

Aaron Fox said, “I’m always doing that. Embarrassing him. Older brother’s prerogative.”

Milo said, “You guys are sibs?”

“You didn’t know?” said Fox. “Oh, yeah, two dips into the same gene pool, but X chromosome only-same mommy, different daddies. I’ve always suspected she liked him better. He’d probably claim the opposite. That right, Moses?”

Reed pushed away from the table and headed to the bathroom.

Fox said, “Didn’t know I still had that effect on him.”

He drank more tea.

Milo indicated the food. “You like Indian?”

“Nothing against it, Milo, but I prefer fusion cuisine. Chinois, Medi-California, Southwest sushi. Artistic mélange of cultures brings out the best in human creativity. Been to that new place on Montana? Wagyu beef from Japan, they massage the beasts before cutting their throats. Kind of like the department, huh?”

Milo smiled. “How long you been out of the job, Aaron?”

“Centuries,” said Fox. “To be precise, three years this September. Maybe I should throw a party.”

“Looks like private enterprise agrees with you.”

“I don’t argue with it so it’s got no reason to dis agree with me.” Touching a silk sleeve. “Yeah, it’s great, Milo. Rewards for initiative and achievement, lots of freedom, the only bosses are the people who write the checks and they’re entitled to make demands.”