Jonathan Kellerman - Bones

His look of amusement recalled the jaunty, monocled fellow from Monopoly.

When he reached the gate, I showed my consulting badge.

“What’s that supposed to do?”

“Establish my bona fides.”

“I just called Sturgis.” The gate slid open. “Heard of him, but never worked with him. Must be interesting.”

“The cases can be.”

He studied me. “Sure. That’s what I meant.”

The condo was a second-floor unit toward the back, spotless, almost antiseptic. Two leather golf bags were propped in a corner. A portable bar sported good single-malt and premium gin. A dozen or so golf trophies shared a case with paperback books.

Crime novels, mostly.

Leibowitz saw me looking at them and chuckled. “You’d think busman’s holiday, right? In the real world, we got sixty, seventy percent of the bad guys. These creative types get a hundred. Want something to drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“I’m pouring Macallan 16 for myself. You sure?”

“You changed my mind.”

Leibowitz chuckled. “Flexibility, mark of a smart guy.” Removing a couple of old-fashioned glasses from the bar’s lower shelf, he held them up to the light, took them into the kitchen, washed and dried, inspected again, repeated the ritual.

Through a split in the pine trees, the kitchen window offered an oblique sliver of stunning green. Atop a rolling hill, a figure in white contemplated a putt.

Leibowitz said, “Nice view, huh? I’m like that guy in mythology, Tantalus. All the goodies just out of arm’s reach.”

I said, “ Rancho Park ’s not far.”

“You play?”

“Nope, I just know about Rancho. After O.J. got sued, he went for the public courses.”

Leibowitz laughed. “O.J. Thank God I never got near that one.”

He brought over two stiff drinks, settled in a recliner. The first half of his glass went down in small, slow sips. He finished the rest in a single swallow. “Let’s hear it for the Scots. So you want to know about Eddie Huckstadter-that’s the name he was using back then. In terms of my case, he was one of the good guys, especially given his circum-stances.”

“What circumstances were those?”

“He was a bum,” he said. “Excuse me, a ‘homeless individual who should never be judged by conventional standards.’ ” Laughing, he reached for the bar, poured himself another finger of whiskey. “Truth is, Doctor, I don’t judge. Not anymore. Once you get away from the job you start to get a different perspective. Like with Sturgis. Back when I started, you’d never get me working with someone like that. Now? He’s got the chops? Hell, who cares about his outside life.”

He studied me. “If that offends you, what can I say.”

“No offense taken. Huckstadter left the scene. How’d you find him?”

“Sheer brilliance.” More laughter. “Not quite. Hospital described him, I gave the description to patrol, a couple of our uniforms knew who he was right away from working the boulevard. Eddie was just another street guy. We picked him up the next day.”

“He hung out on Hollywood?”

“Used to panhandle outside the Chinese Theatre and farther up, near the Pantages. Wherever the tourists were, I guess. Had his hair long, a pierced nose, the whole freak thing. That’s what they were back then. Not hippies anymore. Freaks.”

“Did patrol know him from prior arrests?”

“Nope, just as a bum. He was distinctive, that crooked mouth of his plus the limp.” He screwed up his own lips. The mustache went along for the ride. “They brought him to me, I questioned him, he gave the same story he gave the nurses at the hospital, but by that time he was irrelevant anyway. The case was closed, instant guilty plea by the bad guy-some scrotum named Gibson DePaul. Gibbie.” Pronouncing the nickname with lingering contempt.

He sipped the refill. “Still, patrol goes to the trouble to follow through, I’m not going to make them feel they wasted their time. I rode cars myself. Ten years in Van Nuys, then four in West Valley before I decided to use this ”-tapping his head-“instead of this.” Doing the same for his biceps.

A brawny arm hoisted. Down went the rest of the second scotch. “I used to live in the Valley, back when my wife was alive-that’s good stuff, they age it in sherry barrels. You don’t like it?”

I drank. Savored the taste, then the burn. “I like it a lot.”

Leibowitz said, “Huckstadter’s become a serious bad guy? Sturgis told me, it almost knocked me over, I missed that completely.”

“You didn’t hear about it on the news?”

“Nah, never watch that crap, life’s too short. Got a nineteen-inch in the bedroom, when it’s on, it’s tuned to sports.”

“So Huckstadter didn’t seem violent.”

“Nope, but it’s not like we spent much time together psychoanalyzing.”

“Still, you’re surprised.”

“I’m always surprised,” said Leibowitz. “Keeps you young-what I said before, flexibility.”

“What was Eddie like back then?”

“Just another sad case, Doc. Hollywood’s always full of them. All the glamour that isn’t.”

“He’s got no adult record.”

“Meaning he was a juvey offender?”

“He spent some time at CYA but the case was reversed.”

“What kind of case?” said Leibowitz.

I described Huck’s manslaughter conviction. “The crooked mouth’s probably the result of a head injury while in custody.”

“Well,” he said, “I can see that making a guy angry.”

“Huck seem angry?”

“Nah. Just scared. Like he didn’t like being out in the daylight.”

“Drug problem?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. Dope, booze, or being crazy is what gets people living on the street. But if you’re asking did I see track marks, a raw nose, was he speed-talking or spaced out or hungover, the answer is no. No overt craziness, either. Guy was coherent, told the story logically from A to B. Most I could say about him was he looked depressed.”

“Over what?”

“I assumed over the way his life had gone. Being homeless, it’s easy to get beaten down, right? I wasn’t there to be his shrink, Doc. I took the report, when he was through, I offered him a ride wherever he wanted to go. He said no thanks, he liked to walk. Now you’re telling me he’s serious bad news. That’s disconcerting, Doc. My missing all the signs. Is there evidence he was strangling girls back then?”

“No.”

“No, or not yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Those marsh murders, they’re definitely his?”

“Circumstances seem to point that way.”

“Damn,” he said. “Who’da known? I didn’t see a sign of that. Nothing.”

I said, “Maybe there were no signs.”

“He was crafty, hid his dark impulses?”

“Yup,” I said. “That’s what I meant.”

It took until nightfall to make contact with Milo ’s mobile.

I said, “Any interesting hot-prowls?”

“Only interesting ones were closed, the rest are simple burglaries-jewelry, stereos. No panty thieves, nothing creepy. And so far, Huck’s avoided the real estate boom. He owns nothing.”

“You might not want to spend much more time at the assessor’s. Ten years ago he was homeless. Hard to see him building up enough equity.”

“Hard to see him jumping from that to estate manager.”

“Maybe the Vanders really do have tender hearts,” I said. “Or by the time they met him, he’d turned his life around.”

“Fine, but how would people like them meet someone like him?”

I thought about that. “Could’ve been through a temp job-Huck working as a waiter or a bartender at a charity function. Or just a chance encounter.”

“He fools ’em into thinking he’s reformed? We’re talking mushy heart, Alex.”