Jonathan Kellerman - Bones

I thought about Huck, rootless, haunted. The cameo performance as a superhero.

Saving a baby.

Debora Wallenburg’s initial act of kindness had created a longterm bond between her and Huck. What if the same was true for Huck and Brandi Loring’s family?

No Internet hits popped up for Anita and Lawrence Brackle but Larry Brackle appeared on a three-year-old police blotter from the Daily News. Arrestee, age forty-three, a Van Nuys DUI bust.

No follow-up on that but an image scan brought up a two-year-old photo of Brackle celebrating the “Turkey Tenpin Fest of the Meadowlark Association Bowling Club” at a Canoga Park alley.

A dozen beaming keglers. Brackle had earned front-row center because size mattered. Even compared with the slight women flanking him, he was a small man-skinny, wiry, with black hair slicked back and sideburns reaching to his jawline.

I plugged in Meadowlark Association and came up with the home-owners’ group at a condo development in Sherman Oaks.

Eighty-nine “deluxe” units on three acres north of Ventura Boulevard, just east of the 101 freeway. Prices ranged from mid-six-figures for a one-bedroom “Hacienda Suite” to nearly a million for “3 Br. 2 Ba. Rancheros.”

High-def photos showcased white, red-roofed modules softened by ferns, palms, banana plants, and rubber trees. “Gracious path-ways for strolling,” three pools, two with “whirlpool soaking spas,” as well as a screening room, a gym “with sumptuous steamroom and sauna.”

Nice upgrade from the Silverlake rental Brackle and his family had called home a decade ago.

I checked the names of the other bowlers. None of the women was Anita Brackle. Maybe she had no use for tenpins. Or Larry’s drinking had continued, driving her away.

Along with Baby Brandeen?

I searched Brackle’s face for signs of dissolution, saw only a skinny little bespectacled man happy to be among his peers.

Copying down The Meadowlark address, I told Robin I’d be stepping out.

She said, “This time it’s not just restlessness. You’ve got that heat in your baby blues.”

I told her about Brackle.

She said, “Huck helped the family, so they’re helping him?”

“I’m grasping.”

“No grasp, no get.” She kissed me. “Be careful.”

When I reached the door, she said, “Be great if the baby’s thriving.”

The reality of The Meadowlark was white stucco grayed by time and pollution, a profusion of plants in need of trim, a constant overlay of freeway flatulence.

Security was mechanical but effective: a deadbolted iron mesh gate. I checked the roster of residents, failed to find Brackle’s name, figured him for long gone, or a sublet.

Then a listing at the bottom caught my eye.

Ranchero Five. One of the high-priced units.

I was deliberating whether or not to try the direct approach when a FedEx guy came charging through the gate. I caught it before it could swing shut, made my way past the first two swimming pools, both unoccupied and leaf-littered.

The Haciendas were a collection of two-story units tucked into the northeast corner and segregated by a low wall of cut-out cement blocks.

The orange door to Five was nearly hidden by the broad leaves of a banana that had managed to thrive in the shade but would never bear fruit.

I rang the bell. A female voice said, “Larry? Forget your key again?”

I murmured something that could’ve been “Uh-huh” or “Uh-uh.”

The door opened on a perilously thin, brown-haired, middle-aged woman wearing an oversized white jersey top and black yoga pants, and holding a cigarette. Bare feet, pink toenails, red polish for the tips of her spidery fingers. A gold chain rested on the arch of one varicose foot. A face perched on a long, graceful neck bore the aftershocks of beauty. Puckers around her wide, thin mouth gave her a capuchin look. Shadows under her eyes spoke of stories that could never be untold.

“You’re not Larry.” Smoker’s rasp. Olfactory stew of Chanel and tobacco.

“Mrs. Vander?”

“Who’s asking?”

I gave her my name and flashed the consultant’s I.D.

“A doctor? Something happened to Larry?”

“No. I’m here to talk to him.”

“About what?”

“Old friends.”

“Well, he’s not here.” Kelly Vander began closing her door.

I said, “When’s Mr. Brackle coming back? It’s important.”

The door stopped moving.

“Mrs. Vander?”

“I heard you.” Behind her was a big bright, high-ceilinged room set up with a flat-screen and pink leather couches. A half-gallon bottle of Fresca stood on an end table. Music played. Jack Jones advising some girl to comb her hair and fix her makeup.

Kelly Vander said, “He went out for cigarettes.”

“No problem. I’m happy to wait outside.”

“What kind of old friends?”

“Travis Huck, for one.”

“Travis,” she said.

“You know him.”

“Why wouldn’t I? He works for my ex-husband.”

“Are you and Mr. Vander in regular contact?”

“We talk.”

“Have you spoken to him recently?”

She shook her head. “This has something to do with Simon?”

I said, “Did Larry help Travis get the job with Simon?”

She sucked in smoke. “I don’t speak for Larry. For anyone. Give me your number, I’ll pass it on.”

“I’d rather wait.”

“Suit yourself.” The door edged inward another couple of inches.

I said, “Simon hasn’t been heard from in two weeks. Same for Nadine and Kelvin.”

“They’re probably traveling. They do that.”

“Two weeks ago, they flew from Asia to San Francisco. Any idea where they might be staying?”

“I wouldn’t know. What’s that got to do with Larry?”

“You haven’t heard about Travis?”

“Heard what?”

I told her.

“That’s insane.”

“What is?”

“Travis doing something like that. He loves us.”

“Loves the entire family?”

“Just about,” she said. “Too bad about those women, that’s really horrible. Really, really horrible. Jesus.” Tugging the neckline of her top. “I’m sure they’re okay-Simon and Kelvin. Nadine. Adorable kid, Kelvin. Plays piano like Elton John. He calls me Auntie Kelly.”

“How often do you see them?”

“Not often.”

“What did you mean by ‘just about’?”

“Sorry?”

“You said Travis loved ‘just about’ everyone in the family.”

“He loves everybody.” Her cigarette hand shook. Ash fell to her chest. She brushed it off, created streaks on the white jersey. “Would you do me a favor, examine the label, tell me the laundering instructions.”

Hooking a thumb to the back of the neckline, she pulled and bent forward. Provided enough slack for a glimpse of flat chest and puckered sternum.

I said, “Dry clean only.”

“Figures.”

“Travis loves everyone,” I said.

“Who wouldn’t he love?” She flashed brown, corroded teeth. The cigarette slipped through her fingers, landed atop her left foot, scattered ashes. It had to hurt. She stared at the smoldering cylinder, as if assessing her loss.

I bent and retrieved the cigarette. She snatched it, jammed it back in her mouth.

“Sorry to upset you,” I said.

“Upset? I don’t think so. Let me look at that I.D. of yours.”

Kelly Vander’s pink couches were soft and yielding. Her condo had the afterthought look of temporary housing.

The seventy-inch TV was the source of the music; a cable or satellite station playing Singers and Standards. Jack Jones had given way to Eydie Gorme blaming everything on the bossa nova.