Jonathan Kellerman - Bones

I said, “Travis took a two-mile walk in the cold.”

“Travis was a walking man, sir. Filled most of his days walking.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere,” said Brackle. “But don’t go misunderstanding, there was nothing crazy to it. He just liked to walk.”

“It’s the best exercise,” said Kelly. “I used to do ten miles a day. I still do five.”

The skin around Brackle’s eyes creased. He forced himself cheerful. “Exactly, aerobic, boy wanted to be aerobic-nossir, he just liked to walk.”

I said, “How did Travis hook up with Simon?”

Kelly said, “That was years later. We hadn’t heard from him for a while, then out of the blue he called Larry to let him know he was doing better.”

“Finally got himself some help that stuck,” said Brackle.

“Where?”

“He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. He sounded good, I could tell this was different. I invited him for coffee with me and Kelly. He looked good.”

“Clear-eyed,” said Kelly. “Intelligent. That never really came out before because he was always so depressed. He said he was looking for steady employment, would do anything to make an honest buck. I knew Simon was looking for someone to manage his house. He’d been through a couple of flakes, needed someone reliable. He said sure, he’d try Travis out. It worked out great.”

I said, “Did Travis talk about what he’d been doing since the last time you saw him?”

“No, sir,” said Brackle.

“Where was he living?”

“I got the sense he’d been traveling.”

“Any idea where?”

“We didn’t get nosy with him,” said Kelly. “We were thrilled he was doing well. It worked out great for everyone. Simon thanked me for finding Travis. Travis is gentle, he’d never hurt anyone. Now I am getting kind of hungry.”

Brackle said, “Yup, dinnertime. We’d invite you to join us, sir, but we always portion for two.”

I drove back to the city. A yellow VW was parked in front of my house.

Unoccupied, cold engine, no sign of Alma Reynolds.

My remark about her mother’s pearls had scared her.

Maybe Robin had let her in.

As I climbed the stairs, a voice behind me said, “Now I’m stalking you.”

She stepped out from the side of my house, came toward me carrying a green vinyl attaché case. Brand new, tag still tied to the handle, not much different from the one Milo uses when the murder books get thick. She wore a plaid shirt, jeans, work boots. Gray hair flew in all directions. Her eyes were hot.

“Here, take it,” she said, thrusting the case. “We’re finished.”

My hands stayed at my sides.

The case touched my chest. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t tick. Take it.”

“Let’s talk.”

She snatched it away, sprang the latches. Inside were stacks of twenty-dollar bills held together by rubber bands. Atop the money, a black velvet jewelry box.

She said, “Including the damn pearl. Satisfied?”

I said, “Going for the simple life?”

“Stop being nasty. This is what you wanted, I’m giving it to you.”

“What I want is information.”

“Doesn’t this say it all?”

“It implies. Why don’t you come up and we’ll talk?”

“What? Therapy? Is there a couch ? The psych board website lists this as your office. I’d think you’d be more careful, seeing as it’s your home. What if I was a sociopath?”

“Should I be worried?”

“Oh, sure, I’m packing heat.” She laughed, flipped her pockets inside out. Placing the case on the ground, she stomped to the VW, turned her back, slapped her palms on the hood. “Is this the proper position?”

“C’mon,” I said. “Just a few minutes of your time.”

She straightened and faced me. Her eyes were wet. “Sil taught me the position. He got used to doing it automatically at protests. Sometimes, the cops hit him anyway. He was a man of principle and look where it got him. So-but hell, why should I have anything nice?”

“I’m sure his principles were strong. That made finding his cash-stash doubly shocking.”

“Look,” she said, “I’m giving it to you, every bit of it, my hands are clean. Good-bye.”

“Let’s clarify a few things and that really will be the end of it.”

“So you say.”

“The way I see it, you’re the person of principle,” I said. “And I’m not the enemy.”

Arms folded across her chest. She wiped her eyes, nudged the case with a work-booted toe.

“Oh, hell, I used to be Catholic. What’s another damn confession?”

Alma Reynolds bounced on my couch and laughed. “You’ve actually got one. If leather could talk.”

I placed the attaché case on the floor between us.

“What’s that,” she said, “the altar of eternal truth? I’m supposed to see it and buckle?”

I moved the case aside.

“No matter what you think, Sil was a man of principle. He may have taken the money but he didn’t spend it.”

“The police went over his apartment carefully. Where’d you find it?”

“What’s the difference?”

“He was murdered. Everything matters.”

“Can’t see how that does but fine, in his car, okay? In the trunk, right out in the open. Which is my point: It was nothing he was ashamed of. There’s no big mystery here. People sent in minor cash donations and rather than go to the bank all the time, Sil saved them up so he could deposit them in the marsh account.”

“The small stuff.”

“So you actually listen.”

I said, “He told you about the money?”

“No, but it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Sil controlled the account.”

“Sil created the account. He was Save the Marsh, I already explained that to you. Every penny went to maintenance.”

“Except for his salary.”

“He never gave himself a raise, we’re not exactly talking rampant materialism. Now that I’ve seen how you live, I understand why you can’t seem to get that. This place, all the Sunday supplement contempo California living. I know what this neighborhood costs, money’s your thing, but it wasn’t Sil’s. The fact that he left the case right out in the open is proof positive there’s nothing corrupt about the money.”

“How much is in there?”

“Fifteen thousand. Yes, I counted it. Who wouldn’t?”

“Including the pearl?”

She flushed. “Keep the damn pearl, it didn’t fit me anyway and it’s obviously jammed a burr up your butt. Hell, give it to your wife, if you have one.”

Thankful Robin worked in a separate building, I said, “The pearl’s yours, why shouldn’t it be?”

“Aw, gee, how tweet of you. Forget it. I’m washing my hands of the whole damn mess. Sil was right, filthy lucre does stain permanently.”

I said, “The money could very well be yours, too, unless he left a will bequeathing it to someone else.”

“Well, he didn’t,” she said. “Neither of us had wills. We made a joint decision to avoid pathetic attempts to control things from the grave.”

“Then I’d say it’s yours. You were his significant other.”

“Are you dense or just being manipulative? I don’t want it-and don’t try to tell me the cops won’t try to confiscate it. Isn’t that part of the racket? The entire so-called-war-on-drugs is nothing more than a revenue scheme.”

“The cops I work with are out to solve murders. And Detective Sturgis’s skin tones don’t go with the pearl.”

“Oh, aren’t you charming,” she said. “Probably had a soft upbringing, always got your way because you were oh so cute. This is the last time I’m going to say it: I don’t want the money and I don’t want the damn pearl. Hell if I know what got into me in the first place. So stop harassing me-tracing me to that damn jewelry store, unbelievable. You’re like one of those Homeland Security scammers.”