Jonathan Kellerman - Bones

He turned to me: “In terms of Duboff getting gutted by another marsh hugger, maybe, but making our way through the eco-crowd is low priority.”

I said, “I’ll see what I can find.”

Reed said, “Might as well join the department, Doc.”

Milo said, “He’s my friend. Watch your mouth.”

Save the Marsh: A Citizens’ Committee was headquartered in a beige frame bungalow in Playa Del Rey, where that district turns into a cute little village of cafés and shops.

Two miles from the marsh, closer yet to Pacific Storage.

The building was shuttered. No cars sat in the three-space lot.

No ad hoc memorial to Duboff-no evidence at all he’d been murdered.

I walked across the street to an eatery called Chez Dauphin. White wood, blue shutters, screen porch, a handful of snackers. I ordered a roll and coffee, finished half before asking the Gallic proprietress if she knew who to contact at the bungalow.

She said, “Non, m’sieur, I have never seen anyone there.”

I began phoning the people on the Save the Marsh board.

The voice-mail message at Chaparral Stevens’s jewelry business was soundtracked by bird squawks, trickling water, and wind chimes. Stevens’s voice was low-pitched and sultry, her speech slightly halting. The “tantric ecstasy” she claimed due to “my six-month spiritual retreat at the Monteverde Cloud Forest Reserve in breathtaking Coth-ta Ree-ca” came across like cannabis languor.

The secretary at the U.’s Ophthalmology Center told me Dr. Tomas Friedkin hadn’t been heard from in years.

“At least, I’ve never seen him. In fact-I hope I’m wrong-I think he passed away.”

“Oh, too bad,” I said.

“Are you a colleague?”

“A student.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, hold on and let me check.”

Several beats later: “Yes, I’m sorry, he passed last year. One of his other students-Dr. Eisenberg-says the funeral took place on a boat. Ash-scattering, you know?”

“Dr. F. loved nature.”

“We all should be like that, right? Go back where we came from, and stop making a big mess.”

“Dr. F. was involved with the Bird Marsh.”

“How nice. I love birds.”

Professor Lionel Mergsamer was on full-year sabbatical at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, England.

Everyone taking downtime. When was the last time I’d bothered? I tried the studio owned by the progressive billionaires, got exactly what I expected: long stretches on hold, an eventual hang-up.

An absentee board of directors implied ceremonial titles, meaning running the organization was left to anyone willing to shoulder the responsibility.

Meaning Silford Duboff.

Who else would know about the group… the volunteer kid who’d taken the killer’s call… Chance Brandt.

No listing for the Brentwood residence but Steven A. Brandt’s law office was in the book. Recalling his hostility, I figured him for a stonewall or a tantrum and called the Windward School. Fudging my police status and asking firmly to speak to Headmaster Rumley, I cajoled a secretary into forking over Master Brandt’s cell number.

“Yeah?”

I told him who I was.

He said, “Yeah?”

“Chance, who did you see at the office besides Mr. Duboff?”

“Yeah?”

Female giggles and hip-hop bass thrum.

I repeated the question.

“That place…” His words slurred. His girlfriend remained appreciative.

“What about it, Chance?”

“Yeah?”

Male laughter bottomed the girl’s squeals.

“Who’d you see, Chance?”

“Yea-”

“Okay, we’ll talk at the police station.”

“Nobody, okay?”

“No one except Duboff.”

“It’s his thing. Marsh Man. ” Rising volume on the background hilarity. “Like he fucks it. All that mud.”

Using the present tense; Duboff’s murder hadn’t hit the news. I thought of telling him about it, hung up instead.

Not to protect the kid’s delicate sensibilities. Afraid he’d have none.

Moe Reed burst into Café Moghul, wrestler’s body canted forward, shoulders lowered. Aggressive surge, but smiling, as if charging toward victory.

First time I’d ever seen him happy.

Milo swallowed his tandoori chicken and wiped his mouth. “At least someone’s having a good day.”

He’d spent the night in a futile search for street girls who knew Travis Huck. The morning had been office-bound, filled with endless phone discussions, with an escalating series of higher-ups, of whether or not to go public with Travis Huck’s identity.

The debate had reached the chief’s office and the answer had just come down from the mount: Given Huck’s history of judicial abuse, wait for more evidence.

Unless a new victim showed up. “Nothing like body-count politics.”

I’d just finished telling him about Chance Brandt’s bad attitude.

He said, “Generation N, for numb.”

Reed sat down and waved his notepad. “Two hookers.”

Milo put his fork down. “And the question is: ‘What weekly perk comes with a congressional office?’ ”

Reed smiled. “Found ’em on the Strip, Loo. Forty bucks is what they charged Huck. They’re both sure it was him, down to the crooked mouth. And guess what? He wasn’t wearing a hat and he is totally skinned.”

He flipped the pad open. “Charmaine L’Duvalier, real name’s Corinne Dugworth, and Tammy Lynn Adams, that appears to be her righteous I.D. They both work Sunset, mostly between La Cienega and Fairfax. Huck picked Charmaine up right at Fairfax a month or so ago, Tammy Lynn hooked up with him two blocks west. She thinks it could be as recent as six weeks ago. Both times Huck was cruising at three, four a.m. in a Lexus SUV. Color and style match Vander’s, guy gets to use the boss’s wheels for recreation.”

“Any unusual sexual habits?”

“They both recall him as super-quiet. Adams admitted he spooked her.”

“Admitted?”

“These girls like to pretend they’re street-hard, nothing scares them. I pushed her a little and she said, yeah, he kind of spooked her.”

“In what way?”

“Being so quiet. Like he wasn’t even pretending to make it friendly the way a lot of the johns do. Like he’d been paying for it for a long time and it was just another quickie business deal.”

“As opposed to her,” said Milo. “All the romance in her heart.”

“What I’m seeing,” said Reed, “is these girls need to feel in charge, so they come on tough. Makes a lot of johns nervous. Not Huck, sounds like he was totally at ease: Here’s the dough, deliver the goods.”

I said, “What did he pay for?”

“Oral sex.”

“Anything aggressive?” said Milo. “Grabbing their hair, talking in a hostile manner?”

“Nope,” said Reed. “I think he spooked both of them, but only Adams admitted it. She’s been on the streets for five years, says she has a good sense for which guys are off. And Huck impressed her as one of them.”

“But she took him on anyway.”

“First impression he looked well groomed, was driving nice wheels. It was only after she got in that he started to get to her.”

“By being quiet and business-like.”

“Zero talk,” said Reed. “Not making any sort of conversation.”

“You get callback numbers for these girls?”

“Prepaid cells, for what they’re worth. In terms of addresses, neither of them have driver’s licenses and both claim to be looking for permanent residence.”

“Ah, the glamorous life,” said Milo.

“Yeah, it’s b.s. but it’s all I could get, Loo. Both of ’em did agree to ask around about Huck. It sounds naive, thinking they’ll cooperate, but maybe my asking about him kicked up the fear level. He tries to hook up with either of them again, I’m betting they’ll let me know.”