Jonathan Kellerman - Bones

I phoned Hollywood Division and asked for Detective Leibowitz. The clerk had never heard of him and neither had the desk officer.

“Detective Connor, then.”

“She’s out.”

I tried Petra ’s cell. She said, “Barry Leibowitz, he left shortly after I came on. And don’t be making any causal connection there. Barry was in his sixties.”

I laughed. “Any idea where I can find him?”

“Sorry, no. Can I ask why?”

I told her about Travis Huck rescuing the baby.

She said, “Your bad guy did something good? Ted Bundy worked a suicide hotline.”

Milo said, “Doesn’t mean a goddamn thing. BTK was president of his church.”

Moe Reed said, “That’s what I figured when she called, Doc. I was going to let you know, but I got swamped, going over bus and train records and checking out car rental contracts.”

Milo said, “So there’s no doubt the boyfriend killed the baby’s mom.”

I said, “That’s what Detective Leibowitz told Dr. Rothman.”

“Leibowitz… don’t know him.”

“He retired right after Petra came to Hollywood. I was going to look for him, but if you think it’s a waste of time, I won’t.”

“What would be the point?”

“If Leibowitz managed to find Huck and interview him, it might give us some insight into Huck’s personality.”

“The insight I’d like is what Huck was doing walking a dark, deserted street at three in the morning in Silverlake, but sure, go ahead.”

Reed said, “That time frame, we know he trolls for street girls. Maybe when he can’t connect, he stalks houses, peeps windows, or worse.”

Milo said, “Least now we know where he was ten years ago. Street guy, no Social Security number, so ten to one he was supporting himself illegally. Let’s see what Records can give us on hot-prowl burglaries back then, especially in East Hollywood and Silverlake. I’ll do it, Moses, you keep working the transport angle and taking phone tips.”

“You got it.”

I said, “Huck said he’d walked the baby to the hospital. If it’s true, he didn’t have a car. That could mean his home base wasn’t far from where he found her.”

Reed said, “He stays on the boulevard for fun, crawls back to some hole up in the hills.”

Milo said, “Could be, but forget about canvassing the boulevard. No one from ten years ago is gonna be around. The residential neighborhood could be a different story. We go back to where the baby was found, we might turn up someone who remembers Huck.”

“Better yet,” I said. “Huck remembers and returns there to hide.”

Milo chewed his cheek. “Home is where the heart is, huh?”

Reed said, “Back to the old comfort zone. Might sound appealing when you’re rabbiting from la policía.”

Brandi Loring’s body had been found on Apache Street, near the western edge of Silverlake, up four sloping blocks north of Sunset.

The neighborhood was meager frame houses, some no larger than shacks, more generous structures sectioned into rentals. The spot where Travis Huck had reported finding Baby Brandeen was a cracked, buckling sidewalk on its way to being trashed by the roots of a gigantic banyan.

An hour and a half of door-knocks up and down Apache produced quizzical looks and declarations of ignorance, mostly in Spanish. A woman named Maribella Olmos, ancient and withered but bright-eyed, remembered the incident.

“The baby. Nice person to do that,” she said. “Brave.”

“Did you know him, ma’am?” said Milo.

“Wish I did. Very brave.”

“Saving a baby.”

“Saving, taking to the doctor,” she said. “All those gangbangers riding around, shooting? It’s better now, but back then? Hoo.”

“The bangers were out at three in the morning?”

“Anytime they want. Sometimes, I’m sleeping, I hear gunshots. It’s better now. Much better. You guys are doing a good job.”

Snatching Milo ’s big hand, she pressed it to wizened lips.

One of the few times I’ve seen him caught off guard. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Maribella Olmos let go of his hand and winked. “I’d give you another one right on the lips, but I don’t want your wife getting jealous.”

Next stop: the last known address for Brandi Loring’s mother and step-father.

Anita and Lawrence Brackle had lived in a pink two-story prewar, divided into a quartet of apartments. No one on the block had ever heard of the family, Brandi, or the baby-saving incident.

The rest of the afternoon was spent cruising Silverlake, showing Huck’s picture to people old enough to be of potential use.

Blank stares and head shakes; Milo dealt with failure by stopping at a street cart for two glasses of iced tamarind soda. Other vendors had set up bins of clothing on the sidewalk. He eyed the illegal display with amusement, drank with fervor as cars bumped by on the pothole-afflicted stretch of Sunset.

Back in the car, he said, “It was a long shot. You still wanna find Leibowitz, be my guest. I’m going back to the office, expanding the real estate search to neighboring counties, just in case Huck did manage to hitch a ride on the real estate train. Then it’s old Hollywood hot-prowls. Maybe I’ll find a severed hand.”

“Any word on the Vanders?”

“Not yet, and Buddy Weir keeps calling, guy’s starting to sound hysterical.”

I said, “A lawyer who cares.”

He snorted. “All those billable hours down the tubes.”

Thirty seconds of Internet search brought up a Barry Leibowitz who’d come in fourth at a charity pro-am golf tournament held last year. Tres Olivos Golf Club and Leisure Life Resort in Palm Springs.

The desert could be an affordable place for an ex-cop to retire. I pulled up a group photo. Golfing Barry Leibowitz was a white-haired, mustachioed man of the right age standing in the back row. Further Web-surfing produced a follow-up piece in the club bulletin, with capsule bios of the four top amateurs.

Two dentists, one accountant, and “Detective Leibowitz, our law enforcement duffer. Nowadays, he captures trophies, instead of criminals.”

I phoned Tres Olivos, used my real name and title but made up a story about calling on behalf of Western Pediatrics as the hospital searched for Mr. Leibowitz’s current mailing address.

“The trophy he won in our recent Nine Holes For Kids tournament was returned by the post office and we’d really like to get it to him.”

At worst, the club secretary would be cautious, verify with the hospital, learn I was on the staff but that no such award existed.

She said, “Here you go, Doctor.”

No desert air for Det. III (ret.) Barry Z. Leibowitz.

He lived in a one-bedroom condo on Pico west of Beverwil. I called, got no answer, set out anyway.

The address matched a gated complex called Hillside Manor. Not much of a development, just a hundred yards of driveway lined with sand-colored boxes that bordered the northern edge of Hillcrest Country Club’s verdant eighteen holes.

The club was a nice fit for Leibowitz’s interests, but I couldn’t see an ex-detective making the membership fee.

A call box to the right of the gate listed thirty residents. I entered Leibowitz’s code. A bass voice said, “Yes?”

I started to explain who I was.

“You’re putting me on.”

“Not at all. I’m working with Detective Sturgis. It’s about Travis Huck-”

“Hold on.”

Five minutes later, the man I’d just seen pictured in the tournament photo appeared on the west side of the truncated street, wearing a gold polo shirt, black linen pants, and flip-flops. Taller and broader than the picture had suggested, Barry Leibowitz supported a wine-barrel torso on short, stumpy legs. The white hair was thin. The mustache was full and waxed.