Jonathan Kellerman - Bones

“Nice,” said Milo. “Long as you produce.”

“So far, so good,” said Fox.

Moe Reed returned. Edged his chair away from Fox’s and sat down.

Milo said, “Why’m I thinking you’re not here by accident, Aaron? Or for the food?”

“Definitely not the food,” said Fox. “Had a late breakfast. Hotel Bel-Air with a prospective client.”

“Apricot crêpes, that sauce they have?”

“Nice, but too messy for a first date, Milo. Just eggs-shirred with chives.”

Reed muttered, “Call the Food Network.”

Fox said, “You’re right, bro, no more small talk. Nothing small about my intentions, I’m here about Selena Bass.”

“What about her?” said Milo.

“Got a suspect for you and asking nothing in return.”

Reed snorted.

Milo said, “Who?”

“Guy named Travis Huck.”

Reed said, “We’ve already run him through, no history.”

Fox grinned. “No history under that name.”

“He’s got an alias?” said Milo.

“Been known to happen,” said Fox. “Aka Edward Travis Huckstadter.” Taking his time spelling the last name. “No one’s going to write that down?”

“What’s he running from, Aaron?”

“What else? His past.”

Aaron Fox put down his tea and reached into an inner suit pocket. A wad of newspaper clippings dropped on the table in front of Milo. Great tailoring had hidden the bulge.

Milo said, “Why don’t you summarize for us civil servants?”

“Pleasure. Edward Travis Huckstadter grew up in Ferris Ravine, one of those scrubby ranch towns inland from San Diego. Daddy, unknown, Mommy, a crazy drunk. When young Eddie was fourteen he got into a shoving match with a classmate and the other kid died. Eddie got convicted of murder, spent some time in juvey lockup, then got shunted around the foster care system. That’s some psych ological history, Doc.”

“Fourteen,” said Moe Reed. “He’s thirty-seven. We’re talking clean record for twenty-three years-”

“No arrests doesn’t mean no bad behavior, Moses. The relevant point is he killed one human being and now he’s associated with a homicide victim. On top of that, his whereabouts since he turned eighteen are a big blank. No Social Security card or tax returns until three years ago when he started working for a megabucks fellow named Simon Vander under the alias. Obviously, he lied to get the gig because I don’t see Megabucks hiring some mope with a felony record. You guys met him. You’re telling me he didn’t set off any alarm bells?”

Milo said, “How do you know we met him?”

“I pick up things.”

“You meet Huck yourself, Aaron?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure yet, but I’ve been watching him for the last twenty-four hours.”

“Why?”

“After your case hit the news, someone hired me to do so.”

“Selena hasn’t been in the news.”

“Not on TV,” said Fox. “Or the Times. But the Evening Outlook ran a paragraph. Want me to get you a copy?”

“No, thanks. You pick up anything watching him?”

“So far all he’s done is shop for groceries, but he’s got a mopey walk and a weird crooked smile.”

Reed said, “You don’t like his looks. There’s evidence for you.” Huck had been his choice for Prime Suspect but something else was at work here.

Fox patted the newspaper clippings. “He killed someone at a tender age.”

“Twenty-three years ago.”

“You have anyone better?”

Reed didn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought. I’m serving up a serious lead. What you do with it is your own business.”

Milo said, “Juvey records are sealed. How’d you find all this out?”

Fox smiled.

Reed said, “That’s real helpful.”

Fox’s gold-brown eyes flashed. Shooting a cuff, he glanced at a blue-faced Patek Philippe.

Milo said, “Sounds like you’re pretty invested in Huck being our bad guy.”

Aaron Fox took a nanosecond to decide upon an emotion. Settled for placid. “Not invested, just aware of the facts.”

“Who hired you to research the guy?”

“I wish I could tell you.”

Reed said, “We’re supposed to ask for a warrant based on twenty-three-year-old information obtained illegally from an informant too chickenshit to come forward.”

Both brothers’ bodies tilted like lances.

Regressed, for an instant, to feuding children.

Fox broke the stare first, smiling and shrugging. “Moses, however Detective Sturgis deigns to utilize the data with which I am gifting him is not my concern.” He stood. “I’ve done my civic duty. Have a nice rest-of-the-day, gents.”

Reed said, “Your brain’s so functional, you’ll recall the statutes on obstruction.”

Fox smoothed a silk shirt collar. “Little bro, you get like that and I know you’re blowing more smoke than one of those clunkers you insist on driving.” To Milo: “Word has it there are other victims in the marsh. And that a press conference is on the horizon. It was me at the podium, I’d like a few factoids when those pesky questions start flying.”

Milo flicked the clippings with a big, square thumbnail. “We’ll be sure to pore over every word, Aaron. You tell us who hired you to scope out Huck and why, we might give them some credibility.”

“Their credibility isn’t in question,” said Fox. “Only issue is whether you decide to follow through.” Peeling a twenty from an alligator billfold, he let it float to the table.

Milo said, “Not necessary.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” said Fox. “I always pay my own way.”

Snapping a quick salute, he left the restaurant.

Moe Reed remained canted forward.

Milo said, “Your brother, huh?”

Reed nodded. “Vice has nothing on Sheralyn Dawkins but I’d better run over to the LAX stroll, see if I can learn something before I drive to San Diego.”

Erupting from his chair, he charged out before Milo could answer.

Milo said, “Ah, the joys of family life.”

I said, “Huck’s also from the San Diego area.”

“Funny thing about that. But why give Fox the satisfaction?”

We examined the clippings in Milo ’s office. Three articles from The Ferris Ravine Clarion spaced a month apart, written by Cora A. Brown, the paper’s publisher and editor in chief. One piece covered the tragedy. Two follow-ups added nothing.

The facts were as Aaron Fox had summarized: On a hot May afternoon, eighth-grader Eddie Huckstadter, considered a shy child and loner by his teachers, had finally responded to months of bullying by an outsized ninth-grader named Jeffrey Chenure. During the schoolyard confrontation, the much smaller Eddie had shoved his quarterback antagonist in the chest. Jeff Chenure stumbled backward, caught his balance, charged at Eddie, fists flailing. Before a blow could land, he cried out, fell flat on his back, lifeless.

Milo said, “Sounds like an accident or at the worst, self-defense. I’m surprised Huck served any juvey time.”

I ruffled the clippings. “This is what Fox wanted you to see. Maybe there’s more.”

The Internet brought up nothing on Eddie Huckstadter, nor did the name appear in any criminal data banks.

Milo said, “No surprise, there. If Fox had found any more dirt, he’d have gifted me with it.” He stood. “All that tea, gotta take a detour.”

During his absence, I phoned The Ferris Ravine Clarion, expecting a disconnected number. A female voice answered, “Clarion.”

I gave her a capsule I.D., asked for her name.

“Cora Brown, I’m the editor, publisher, opinion-editorial columnist, classified ad clerk. And I take out the trash. L.A. Police? Why?”