Jonathan Kellerman - Bones

Kelly touched the soda bottle. “Fresca? If you want caffeine, there’s Diet Pepsi.”

“Nothing, thanks.”

Inhaling her cigarette down to the filter, she ditched it in the kitchen sink, found a pack of Winston Lights, lit up. “Some people think diet is bad for you but I think it’s better than all that sugar. Larry should be back soon.”

She took something off the wall and brought it to me.

Framed, glassed newspaper ad. Full-color May Company spread, junior miss dresses and sweater ensembles on clearance. The date, thirty-one years ago.

“This is me.” Pointing to a blond girl in a plaid jumper. Even without puckers, Kelly Vander’s mouth had a simian cast and I would’ve picked her out.

“You modeled?”

She sat on a pink corner. “I’m five five now, used to be an inch taller before my spine compressed. But even with that, I was too short for the big time. In the beginning all they had me doing was kiddy wear. My boobs came in late because… soon as I got a chest, the agency pushed me straight into juniors and that’s where I stayed. That’s how I met Simon. He was in the rag trade, repping synthetic knits for a downtown manufacturer. There was a showcase for buyers, they set up a runway at the Scottish Rite, place squeaked like a haunted house.”

“Over in Hancock Park,” I said. “Near the Ebell.” Wondering if Kelvin Vander’s recital venue would draw a reaction.

Kelly Vander said, “That’s the one. Karma.” She poured herself Fresca. “Sure I can’t get you any?”

“I’m fine. What was karma?”

“Meeting Simon. We girls were all lined up, they gave us outfits randomly. I just happened to end up with one of his company’s suits. Blue, double-breasted. Metal buttons, like a sailor. I even wore a sailor hat.” She touched her head, allowed herself a ragged brown smile. “Crappy poly, scratchy, I couldn’t wait to get out of it. Simon came up to me later. He’d gotten a big order, thanked me. He was a little older than me. Seemed sophisticated…”

She exhaled smoke. Nicotine vapors wafted across her glass, gave the soda the look of a potion.

“You’re a psychologist, huh? Known plenty of those. Some good ones, some not-so-good ones.”

“That’s better than no good ones.”

“You work for the police?”

“I freelance.”

“Must be interesting.”

“It can be.”

Big grin. “What was your most exciting case?”

I smiled back.

She said, “Can’t blame any of them. The psychologists who tried to help me. What I had was resistant to change. ‘Chronic eating disorder, resistant to change.’ They told me if I didn’t stop starving myself, I’d drop dead of a heart attack. That scared me, but not enough, you know? Like there’s two parts of my brain, the thinking section and the gimme section. One of the doctors who helped me said it was a matter of developing new habits. He had me do exercises-mental, I mean. Getting the thinking section to dominate. That make sense to you?”

“It does.”

“I’m okay now.” Running her hands over her bony body. “I could probably still keel over from what I did to myself back then, but so far, knock on mahogany.”

“You were healthy enough to have a child.”

“You know Simone? She looks just like me… I should do my teeth. It’s obvious, right? They’re all rotted from bulimia, everyone says I’d look ten years younger if I did my teeth but I’m not sure I want that.”

“To look younger?”

“Exactly,” she said. “Every time I see myself in the mirror and cringe it reminds me of how I got that way in the first place. What do you think? Professionally speaking. Do I need that reminder?”

“I don’t know you well enough,” I said.

“Ding. Good answer.” She pumped air, checked a wall clock. “Where’s Larry… I finally got some insights. Third rehab’s the charm.”

“Did you meet Larry in rehab?”

She shook her head. “I don’t speak for Larry. I own what I own and his emotional acreage is his. Speaking of which.”

She glanced at the door.

I’d been listening for footsteps, had heard nothing. Moments later, the panel of orange wood swung wide open and sixty-three inches of sunglassed, aloha-shirted Larry Brackle charged in swinging a greasy white bag. A carton of Winston Lights was pinioned under his arm. “Got you donuts, honey. Those crunchy maple walnut cinnam-”

He removed his shades. “We got a guest, Kell?”

Kelly Vander said, “You do, Larry. It’s all about you, baby doll.”

Larry Brackle flicked ashes into a coffee cup. “You’re trying to tell me Travis is some kind of Bundy? No offense, sir, but that’s lunacy.”

Kelly Vander said, “That’s what I told him, sweets.”

They sat next to each other, knees pressed together, smoking in unison, making their way through the Fresca.

I said, “The police consider him a prime suspect.”

Brackle said, “Police thought that the first time.”

“You know Travis’s history.”

Hesitation. “Sure. It was in the papers.”

“Not the local papers.”

Silence.

I said, “ The Ferris Ravine Clarion ’s pretty obscure, Mr. Brackle. Unless you know his story from some other source.”

Brackle turned to Kelly Vander. Her face stayed blank.

He said, “Whatever, I heard about it.”

“Travis told you.”

“Whatever.”

“Did you meet him in rehab?”

“Look, sir, I want to be a good citizen, but I don’t speak for Travis. He owns what he owns and my shit is my own. No offense.”

I said, “Speak for yourself then. Did you know him before he took Brandeen to the hospital or after?”

Brackle’s jaws worked. Pint-sized man but his wrists and hands were thick and sturdy. “Man, I’m hungry.” He sprang up, jogged to the kitchen, returned with a slab of pound cake on a paper plate. “ Split, honey?”

“No, it’s yours.”

Brackle kissed her cheek. “It could be yours, too.”

“You’re so sweet but Ms. Tummy’s full,” said Kelly Vander. “I’ll wait till dinner.”

“You’re sure? It’s good cake.”

“I am, sweetie.”

“Okay. Let’s have those steaks for dinner.”

“You can have one, Lar. Little heavy for me.”

“I’ll cut them into thin strips.”

“We’ll see.”

“You liked ’em that way before.”

“Yeah, that was good, but I don’t know, I’m kind of full.”

I said, “I’m thinking you knew Travis before he found Brandeen. He went looking for her and Brandi in order to help you out.”

“Now, c’mon, sir, don’t be going off on some guessing game. Travis is a good man.”

“I’m not saying he isn’t. I know he didn’t hurt Brandi.”

Brackle’s hands became glossy white fists. “Hell, no, he didn’t. Everyone knows who hurt Brandi. Sir.”

“Gibson DePaul.”

“Scum. They sent him up for life and he killed another inmate and got sent to Pelican Bay. Sir.”

“You keep tabs on him?”

“We get that victim notification mailer they send us.”

“ ‘Us’ meaning the two of you? Or you and your ex?”

“I can’t say what she gets.”

“Where is Anita?”

“You tell me.”

“Lost contact?”

“Anita couldn’t change herself. Didn’t wanna try.”

“What about the kids?”

“I see ’em on some holidays,” said Brackle. “What’s the diff to you? Why all this curiosity about my family?”

“Sorry. My main interest is Travis.”

“Then you’re spinning your wheels, sir. He didn’t kill nobody. Not then, not now.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“What is?”