Jonathan Kellerman - Bones

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.”