Jonathan Kellerman - Bones

“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.”

He stopped and examined the table’s plank top. Fidgeted like a kid who’d just rattled off excuses to an irritated parent.

“Makes sense,” said Milo. “Learn anything?”

“Actually, yeah.”

Reed had watched Fox take numerous business meetings (“At the Ivy, Grill on the Alley, Jean-Paul, that’s his thing”). Running the tags of Fox’s dining companions-a sketchy move, at best-had produced the answer.

“New BMW 3 registered to Simone Vander, address on Breakthorne Wood. That’s up in the hills, Beverly Hills P.O. The name tracks to a thirty-one-year-old white female, no wants, warrants, or priors, and the physical stats match the woman I saw him with at Geoffrey’s.”

“In Malibu?”

“Yup.”

“Lives in B.H. but dines at the beach,” said Milo. “Who is she, another ex-wife?”

“Daughter,” said Reed. “I found her birth certificate. Born locally, Cedars-Sinai, father’s Simon Vander, mother’s Kelly. I looked Kelly up, too. Five-year-old Volvo, Sherman Oaks address with a unit number.”

“Daddy and second wife live the high life, first wife gets an apartment.”

Reed said, “But the daughter-Simone-has a pretty nice place. Gated, secluded, real woodsy.”

“You drove by.”

“This morning.”

“Simon and Simone,” said Milo. “Cute. What’s that, Alex? Bonding, emotional identification?”

I said, “Couple more like that, you score your own couch.”

He turned back to Reed. “What kind of pizza do you want? I’m visualizing the XXXL deep-dish, grotesquely stuffed-crust, half-sausage, half-anchovy, half-meatballs, half-moose-head special.”

Reed looked dismayed. “I was wasting my time?”

“Not at all, but first we dine. Name your pie, Detective Reed.”

“Um… plain cheese. Couple of slices.”

“Go crazy, kid. I’ll have a medium sausage for myself, extra garlic and chili flakes. Go put the order in, then head over to the gum machine, get us some sugarless spearmint. Don’t want to risk undue offense to Ms. Simone.”

Reed left his Cadillac at the pizza joint and we piled into Milo ’s unmarked.

Breakthorne Wood was a steep, carelessly paved road above Benedict Canyon. The curves, width, and flavor of an old bridle path; I felt right at home.

One thing Simone Vander shared with her father was a taste for dead ends. Her property was marked by a simple iron gate flanked by used-brick posts. The same masonry faced the shake-roof cottage visible through the slats. Dark-stained pine planks graced the façade where brick hadn’t been applied. Diamond-pane windows, a hand-carved oak door, and a witch-on-a-broomstick weather vane added up to neorustic adorable.

A tomato-colored 335i convertible was parked in the flagstone motor court. Pine needles littered the car and the ground. Huge Aleppos shadowing the property, darkening most of the roof. Beyond the branches was a patchwork of brighter green and beige: ivy-colored hills.

Reed had been antsy during the ride over. Justifying the surveillance of his brother repeatedly though Milo never challenged him.

“Maybe it’ll be nothing, but at least we can find out what she knows about Huck.”

“Maybe she once lived at the house. Or she visits-even if she doesn’t come out and tell us anything about Huck or parties or whatever, maybe we can still get a feel for whether or not weird stuff went on there.”

“At the very least, we’ll find out there’s nothing to find out and won’t have to spin any more wheels. Not that I’m saying there isn’t something hinky about Huck, I still think there is. Otherwise why would she pay to dig up dirt on him?”

Now, facing Simone Vander’s gate-call button, the young detective jammed his hands in his pockets and chewed his cheek.

“Go ahead, this is your time to shine,” said Milo, jabbing air with his finger.

“Anything you want me to concentrate on?” said Reed.

“Follow your gut,” said Milo.

Reed frowned.

“That’s a reward, not a punishment, Moses.”

Reed pushed the button.

Milo said, “You get good grades, I’ll let you spin the steering wheel. But only when the car’s in the driveway.”

A young-sounding female voice said, “Yes?” Another female voice sang sweetly in the background.

“Ms. Vander? Detective Reed, L.A. police.”

“Is something wrong?”

“We’d like a few minutes of your time, ma’am. Regarding Travis Huck.”

“Oh.” The music receded. “Okay, one sec.”

Several minutes passed before the carved door opened. The woman in the opening was medium height, pale, stick-thin and leggy, with a gamin face under a layered mass of long black hair. She wore a white-and-pink-striped boat-neck top, white knee-length cargo pants fastened with bows at the patella, backless pink sandals with stilt heels. Gold hoop earrings large enough to be visible across the motor court caught sunlight.

She studied us. Waved.

Moe Reed waved back. She clicked the gate open.

“I’m Simone. What’s going on?” Soft, melodic voice, a vibrato that made each word sound tentative. She was one of those people who look better upon close inspection. Porcelain skin, gray-blue capillary mesh at the temples, fine features, graceful posture. Her eyes were brown and round with enormous irises. Dilated pupils implied curiosity. Her brows had been artfully plucked.

An ivory hand cradled the remote module. She smiled and looked younger.