Jonathan Kellerman - Bones

“Lured him with a promise to help him solve the other murders.”

The hand on her chest shifted and I spotted a glint of gold. She moved her fingers back into position. “Yes.”

“Do you think it could’ve been someone who knew Sil well enough to push his buttons?”

“Such as?”

“A friend, even an acquaintance who understood his attachment to the marsh.”

“His friend was me,” she said. “Same for acquaintance.”

“Limited social circle.”

“By choice. People can be so tiresome.”

“What about someone who knew him indirectly-through his work?”

“That’s a possibility, but he never mentioned a name.”

“We can’t seem to find a membership roster for Save the Marsh.”

“That’s because it’s not a real group. In the beginning-after Sil rescued the marsh from the B.S. boys, Billionaire Scum-a board was established. But that was just rich people trying to feel virtuous. No meetings were ever held. For all practical purposes, STM was Sil.”

“Who paid the bills?”

“Said nine-figure scumbags. I told Sil it was risky, once he got too dependent on them they’d have complete control, like dope pushers. But he said he wanted to take them for every dollar they’d give, worry about consequences later.”

Her lower lip shook and her hand wavered for a second before returning to her chest. Just long enough to reveal a huge pearl on a chain.

She picked up a taco, nibbled, put it down. “I’d like to be alone, if you don’t mind.”

“Bear with me, please. What was Sil’s salary?”

“It was a stipend,” she said. “So the B.S. boys could avoid payroll taxes. Twenty-five thousand. Sil said anyone could live on that if they simplified.”

Her hand fanned out over the pearl.

“Pretty,” I said.

Her neck turned red. “Sil gave it to me for my birthday. I hated it, told him I’d never wear it, too ostentatious. Now I wear it.”

I nodded.

She said, “Don’t pretend you understand, because you don’t. People like Sil and myself are more than intelligent enough to play by the rules and live fat and sassy like every other urban droid. I’ve got master’s degrees in two subjects and Sil had a B.A. in physics.”

She leaned forward, as if offering a secret.

“We chose to embrace the core. But even Sil could be romantic. For our last anniversary, he wanted me to have something nice. Even idealists need some beauty in their lives.”

“I agree.”

“I told him I didn’t want it, demanded he return it. He refused. We sparred. He outlasted me. Now I’m glad he did.”

Her eyes traveled to the restaurant’s wall of windows. “That your car? The green whatever it is.”

“ Seville.”

“A Cadillac,” she said. “ Seville -nothing Spanish about it, what possesses corporate liars?”

“Sales.”

“You’re driving an egregious gas guzzler. What’s your excuse?”

“We’ve been together over twenty years and I don’t have the heart to trade her in for someone younger and prettier.”

The hand dropped and her chest arched. Flaunting the necklace.

The pearl was outsized, creamy, unblemished. Too heavy for the chain, which looked flimsy, maybe plated.

I said, “So the billionaires paid all the bills and Sil ran the show. Did anyone else donate?”

“Sure, people would send checks in from time to time, but Sil called it petty cash. Without the B.S. Brothers, he’d have been out of luck. May I finish my lunch in peace? I really don’t want to think about this anymore.”

I thanked her and headed for the door.

She said, “You’re not conservation-minded, but at least you’re loyal.”

The eye doctor’s receptionist said, “You couldn’t find her?”

“I found her, thanks for directing me. She seems pretty down.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“I’d probably be worse… maybe that humongous pearl will cheer her up.”

“I doubt it,” she said. “But it is something. She bought it for herself yesterday. We were all surprised.”

“Not Alma ’s style?”

“Not hardly.”

“Grief changes people,” I said.

“Guess so… what else can I do for you?”

“Nothing.” I turned heel.

“Then why’d you-”

“Just wanted to thank you for cooperating.”

Before she could process the lie, I was gone.

I drove a block west of the strip mall where Alma Reynolds lunched, circled a few times before scoring a parking spot with an unobtrusive view of Cocina de Cabo.

Reynolds left fifteen minutes later, walked back to work on foot, taking long slow steps, looking grim. I trailed her as slowly as I could, stopped half a block from the medical building.

She bypassed the front entrance, walked down the ramp to the sublot.

I didn’t have to wait long before a dented, old yellow VW Bug putt-putted up the ramp. Reynolds slanted forward as if urging the little car faster. Dark smoke belched from the exhaust. Tsk tsk.

She headed straight for a pea-green apartment building on Fourteenth Street, just north of Pico. The numbers matched the home address Reed had given me. The place was ill maintained, half hidden by shaggy palms, the stucco molting.

The less glamorous side of Santa Monica. Even here, membership had its privileges: resident permit parking only. I hung back.

Alma Reynolds struggled a bit to wedge the Bug into a tiny space, bumped cars on both ends without apparent remorse. Slamming the door hard enough to vibrate the VW, she entered her building.

I stationed myself in front of a hydrant, listened to music. Thirty-five minutes later, I decided Reynolds was in for the day and drove home.

On the way, I tried Milo again, left a message. Just as I reached Westwood Village, my cell beeped.

“Hi, Doc, it’s Louise from your service. A Dr. Rothman just called.”

“Nathalie Rothman?”

“She didn’t give a first name, said call as soon as you had a chance. Something about a Mr. Travis.”

I hadn’t spoken with Nathalie Rothman in years.

She said, “I’m tied up with patients, Alex, but if you want we can talk later.”

“You know Travis Huck?”

“Know? That’s a bit-sorry, Alex, hold on…” After several moments of dead air: “One of the residents just had a baby and we’re hellishly short-staffed and the moment I’m free I need to leave. I can spare you the time it takes me to wolf down dinner-say six?”

“You don’t want to give me a hint?”

“Too complicated. Does six work?”

“I’ll call you at the stroke.”

“No, let’s do it in person. Jarrod, my oldest, has a basketball game at seven, I promised him I’d absolutely attend this one. Are you still in the Glen?”

“I am. This is a lot of intrigue, Nathalie.”

“Right up your alley, no? I’ll meet you anywhere near Jarrod’s school.”

“Where’s the school?”

“ Brentwood,” she said. “ Windward Academy -how about a Thai place I like? Bundy off Olympic. Pad Palace. Know it?”

“I’ll find it.”

“Quality, low-fat grub,” she said. “I get takeout there. Way too often.”

Another strip mall; maybe one day real estate would be too expensive to make them viable.

Pad Palace made the most of what it was: a storefront with a limited design budget. Screens and pine tables aimed for elegant simplicity. Walls were painted in variants of honeydew green. Slender, shy young Asian women waited on loud, cheerful Anglo hipsters.

The menu was vegetarian with eggs, vegan on request. Lots of virtue making the rounds in L.A. I half expected Alma Reynolds to bop in. Or maybe she’d always been into the pound of fish-flesh.