Jonathan Kellerman - Bones

“The same kind of idealism that might lead them to donate to the marsh?”

Silence.

He said, “Interesting.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t find any list of Save the Marsh contributors and Alma Reynolds claims there’s no formal fund-raising group. Billionaire bucks fund the entire operation, which seems to be rent and twenty-five grand for Duboff’s salary. I’m wondering if Duboff might’ve supplemented. As in the blond, plastic guy with the envelope that Chance Brandt saw.”

“If that was a payoff, what was Señor Bondo getting from Duboff?”

“Don’t know, but it’s possible Duboff saved up some extra cash, despite a low salary, and Alma got hold of it.”

I described the huge pearl Reynolds had tried to conceal, how she’d bought it shortly after Duboff’s death, lied about its being a gift from him.

He said, “Or she splurged on herself and was embarrassed to admit it. Being a self-denying vegan ascetic and all that.”

“She eats fish,” I said. “Steak wouldn’t surprise me.”

“Hypocrite?”

“Holding something back. The minute she saw me, she tried to hide that pearl. Then she switched tactics and flaunted it, as if daring me to make a big deal out of it. But my seeing it clearly threw her. Instead of returning to work, she went home.”

“Maybe the food didn’t agree with her-okay, yeah, you might be on to some financial shenanigans, but that doesn’t mean it’s related to the murders. And if Duboff was hiding cash, it wasn’t at his apartment. I went over the place myself. At some point I can brace ol’ Alma, but not right now, too much going on. As in finding Mr. Huck. The airport fake-out may be stale but it works. Not a hint of where he is.”

I said, “Maybe he’ll write.”

“Wouldn’t that be loverly. Uncle Milo is soooo lonely.”

The next morning brought no callback from Milo or Reed, and neither detective was answering the phone.

I’d woken up warmed by sunlight and thinking about Travis Huck.

Petra and Milo were right: A single act of kindness meant nothing because psychopaths are great actors, and a façade of altruism lets them pursue the cruelty they love.

Public admiration feeds the lust for control and attention. The look-at-me tango. The marsh murders reeked of exhibitionism: choosing hallowed ground for the dump site, calling the murders in, storing bones in a pretty box.

Why face four women east?

Not much had been made of that since the first day.

The only thing I could think of was geographic symbolism: Nadine Vander was Chinese American and her last sighting, before San Francisco, had been Taiwan.

Simon had flown in from Hong Kong.

Was all of this really revolving around the family?

Or were the Vanders just the crowning glory of a bloody orgy?

Destroy the rich and powerful and inherit their souls… if that was the motive, why not flaunt their bodies? But the only victim on display was Selena, an outwardly shy young woman who’d entertained at literal orgies before graduating to pain games.

However I tossed it around, the killings kept coming back to a sexual serial. And maybe the link to the Vanders was another young woman.

Had Nadine been Huck’s target all along, as Reed had suggested? Lady of the manor, viewed from afar with lust and longing? Her husband and son, collateral damage?

Maybe Travis Huck was capable of all that, but his ten-year-old act of mercy hadn’t been attention-seeking. Just the opposite, he’d fled the moment Brandeen Loring’s health was confirmed.

Or maybe even back then Huck had dark secrets he didn’t want exposed.

Raised by an alcoholic mother, locked up and abused until his rescue at eighteen. His life until the second rescue, by the Vanders, remained a mystery.

A lot could happen during a decade and a half on the streets.

I spent another hour on it, ended up addled and popping Advil to kill a massive headache. Shifting to robot-work, I cleared billing, straightened my office. Took a run and wound down by walking Blanche for fifteen minutes and stretching and showering.

I told Robin I needed to drive.

She wasn’t surprised.

No sign of Alma Reynolds’s yellow VW on Fourteenth Street. I phoned the doctor where she worked.

Out sick.

For all I knew, Milo had found the time to reel her in and she was sitting in a West L.A. interview room.

I tried him again. Still no answer.

Moe Reed’s guess about Huck staying in his comfort zone made sense, and I wondered if the same applied to Alma when it came to buying jewelry. Looking up shops in Santa Monica, I found two that specialized in pearls.

The first turned out to be false advertising-a booth in an antiques barn that specialized in costume gems. The second, Le Nacre, on Montana, featured gray velvet cases of strands and solitaires, including the larger South Sea “marvels.”

I studied tray after tray of gleaming orbs. White, black, gray, greenish, bluish, gold. No prices on display.

In a center case, I spotted a pendant that could’ve been the twin of Alma Reynolds’s guilty pleasure.

The saleswoman, fortyish, frosted blond and fox-faced, wore a black Lycra-laced suit that screamed Torture At The Gym. She let me browse before gliding my way and pointing to the pendant. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Beautiful and huge,” I said.

“That’s what you get with South Sea -size and quality. This one’s a full seventeen millimeters. They can go as high as twenty, but you rarely see seventeens with such excellent luster, shape, and nacre-that’s the thickness of the outer layer. This one’s a solid millimeter. Good shape and smooth. It’s our last one.”

“You had several?”

“We had two. They came in from Australia and the other one sold just a few days ago. Trust me, this one will also move fast. Quality always does.”

“Lucky woman,” I said. “Birthday or guilt gift?”

She smiled. “Which is your situation?”

“Birthday. But give me enough time and I’m sure there’ll be guilt.”

She giggled. “I’m sure you’re right. No, actually, a woman bought it for herself. Said her mother had always worn pearls, it was time to treat herself to something nice.”

“This is more than nice. May I look at it?”

“Oh, absolutely.” As she unlocked the case, I received a mini-course on pearl grading and culture. “What’s your wife’s skin tone-is it your wife?”

Why quibble. “It is. She’s got Spanish and Italian blood. There’s some rose in her complexion but it’s mostly olive.”

“I can tell that you love her,” she said. “When a man can describe a woman that easily, he’s got deep feelings for her. Rose with mostly olive means this would work perfectly for her. The pinkish ones are even more valuable than the creams. We had one of those a few months ago, a sixteen, went out the door the same day it arrived. But pink doesn’t work for everyone. Olive ladies do better with cream. I’m sure she’ll adore it.”

“How much?”

She flipped a tiny tag, examined a code. “Lucky for you, we bought well, so six thousand four hundred, including the chain, which is eighteen-karat and handcrafted in Italy and has these adorable little diamond chips spaced perfectly. I’d definitely advise leaving it with the chain, they’re a perfect match, we make sure of that.”

I said, “People take them off? What would you do with a loose pearl?”

“Exactly, but people get ideas. The lady who bought the other one wanted only the pearl, said she had her own chain. I figured she meant something antique, from her mother. Then she pulls out a cheap, plated thing, real junk.” She stuck out her tongue. “Saving a few bucks. It hurt me to see the pearl displayed that way, but people can be strange. She sure was.”