Jonathan Kellerman - Bones

“A scalpel.”

“He tried to shake her up by showing how it could slice paper.” Miming an upward thrust.

“She got bruised but not cut?” said Milo.

“Thank God,” said Duchesne. “She got that weird feeling, went to run out of the room. He went after her, made a reach for her. Hit her with the hand, thank God times ten not the knife. Caught her here.” Rubbing his temple. “Got her with his knuckles, you could see the marks, the next day she was all swollen. Dark, big dark bruise. Even on her skin you could see it.”

“Dark girl,” said Milo.

“Big beautiful sister.”

“Name?”

“We called her Big Laura.”

“DMV called her…”

“Don’t know,” said Duchesne. “Big Laura was all we needed.”

“Tall.”

“And big. Two tons of fun.”

“Where can I find her?”

Long pause. “Don’t know, Lieutenant.”

“Another fly-by-night, Joe Otto?”

Duchesne pressed his palms together piously. “These people have unstable lives.”

Milo questioned him through a third Coke and two Hershey bars, inquired about white prostitutes of advanced age.

Duchesne said, “Not on my pay roll, I’m all about soul. Can I go?”

“Sure, thanks. Stay in touch if you learn something.”

“Believe it, Lieutenant. This kind of thing isn’t good for business.”

Moe Reed and I entered the vacated interview room.

“Big girl named Laura,” said Milo.

Reed said, “Fits Jane Number Two. Interesting that two victims were in Duchesne’s stable.”

“You smell something on him?”

Reed thought. “Hard to say. He didn’t have to come in, let alone tell us anything. Unless you think he’s cagey enough to be playing us.”

I said, “Maybe someone smelled his weakness. Figured out whose girls could be exploited.”

“Beta dog,” said Milo. “Makes sense. My guess is Duchesne told us what he knows. You did good finding him, Moses. Time to get back to the stroll and dig some more. I’ll take on finding Sheralyn’s next of kin. In a perfect world, one of us will learn something that turned her into a victim. At the least, we can get a cheek scrape from her mom or her kid, match it to the bones. Not that I’m expecting Jane One to be anyone other than her.”

“What about Big Laura?”

“I’ll see what the moniker pulls up. In terms of Jane Three, she’s probably been dead the longest and memories on the street are short. But maybe an older white woman will stand out in someone’s mind.”

“If she’s from the area, we could have a bad guy concentrating geographically for a while,” said Reed. “Then he wants a new level of thrill and shifts from pros to Selena. Her apartment’s not that far from the airport. Or the marsh, for that matter.”

I said, “Psychosocially, Selena’s a big leap from the others. There could be transitional victims.”

“Such as?” said Milo.

“Nonprostitutes perceived as lower class.”

“Working his way up the social ladder.”

Reed said, “The dog didn’t find anything else in the marsh, but the K-9 search was limited to the east bank.”

“Cheerful thought,” said Milo. “With a normal dump we could get warrants, no problem, bring in the backhoe. Instead, we’re stuck with hallowed ground.”

I said, “Maybe the killer sees it that way, too.”

As Milo extracted a cigarillo from his pocket, Reed’s pale eyebrows rose. “Don’t worry, kiddo, I’ll keep your air clean… in terms of going through the hassle of getting permission to dig up other areas of the marsh, let’s clear up the bodies we already have first. Time to hit the streets.”

As we headed for the door, Moe Reed said, “Too bad Duchesne didn’t recognize Huck.”

“Idiot claims he never sees the johns unless there’s a problem, and I believe him,” said Milo. “He wasn’t much use to Big Laura when she did get into trouble with that skinhead. Some business model.”

“Bald man with a scalpel,” said Reed. “You’d need more than that to cut off a hand, right, Doctor?”

I said, “Wrong kind of doctor, but yes. A limb saw would work fine.”

“Any kind of saw, sharp enough,” said Milo. “Goddamn Chinese cleaver would do it if he’s strong and coordinated.”

Reed said, “Maybe we’re talking about someone with medical training.”

“Twenty years ago,” said Milo, “I’d be looking that way. Nowadays, the Internet, anyone can get anything anytime.”

“Freedom,” said Reed.

“Nothing else worth living for, kiddo, but it’s a tricky concept.” Unwrapping the cigar, he jammed it into the side of his mouth. “Gonna light up, kid. Fair warning.”

We walked Reed outside, crossed the street to the staff lot. His drive was a shiny black Camaro.

Milo said, “That’s no clunker.”

“Pardon?”

“What your brother said.”

“He thinks he knows everything,” said Reed. He got in, revved loud, drove off, tires squealing.

Milo and I walked south on Butler Avenue. The cold glare of government architecture gave way to postwar bungalows and apartment buildings and the sky grew bluer, as if in sympathy.

He said, “Any new thoughts about Huck? Or anything else?”

“Now we’ve got two bald-guy sightings-the date Luz Ramos saw with Selena, along with Mr. Scalpel-so I like him a whole lot better. But at this point, short of watching him, I don’t see what you can do.”

“Too early to invite him for a chat?” he said.

“With crimes this calculated, he’s likely to lawyer up. I’d want ammunition before I shoot.”

Half a block later, he said: “That Camaro that Reed just peeled out in was either borrowed or a rental. AutoTrack says his drive of record is indeed a clunker. ’Seventy-nine Dodge Colt hatchback, bought used ten years ago. Before that, he sported around in a ’73 Datsun wagon.”

“Doing deep background on the staff?” I said.

“Perish the thought.” Since the arrest of a corrupt private eye and several cops for trafficking in official data, the rules forbade traces on anyone but suspects.

I said, “What got you curious about Reed’s wheels?”

“It seemed to be an issue between him and Fox.”

“One of many.”

“Exactly. Last thing I need is personal drama impinging on the investigation.” Small smile. “Such as it is.”

“What does Fox drive?”

“Brand-new Porsche C4S.”

“Tortoise and hare,” I said.

He lit up, blew smoke rings at the heavens. Aiming for casual but cherries in his jaw said he was faking.

I said, “Fox and Reed bother you.”

“I asked around. Fox’s dad was a Southwest patrolman named Darius Fox, murdered on the job thirty years ago. Before my time but I know the case. Everyone knows it because it’s used during training. As in What Can Go Wrong.”

I said, “Domestic call or traffic stop?”

He removed the cigar. “You read tea leaves, too?”

“Just playing the odds.”

“Routine early-morning stop, Caddy with a broken taillight, Thirty-seventh just west of Hoover. Car came up stolen, but not before Darius and his partner made a bonehead goof. Instead of running the tags first, the partner did it while Darius went over to check out the driver. We’re talking way before MDTs, everything was called in over the radio, records weren’t computerized, it could take time. All the more reason to be careful.”

“Rookies?” I said.

“On the contrary, Darius had eight years, the partner six, nearly all of it worked with Fox. Maybe that was part of it-comfortable marriage, taking too much for granted. It was close to shift’s end, maybe they were eager to sign out, got sloppy. Whatever the reason, Darius walks up to the Caddy, raps the window, down it comes, a gun sticks out and…” Cupping his hands, he clapped three times.