Jonathan Kellerman - Bones

“ Alma,” I said, “I’m just trying to figure out what happened at the marsh.”

“Tracing me. That crack about my mother -you actually found that jewelry store?”

“Lots of motivation, Alma.”

“Well, bully for you-if you must know, I didn’t go in there intending to buy anything expensive. Just a trinket, something to remind me of Sil. Why the hell not? I was grieving.” She sniffed. “He’s so damn gone … you try filling hollow hours.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Like hell you are. You’re toying with me right now.”

“What I’m trying to do is figure out who murdered the man you loved. And a whole bunch of other people.”

“Who says it’s the same person? And even if it is, talking about the money isn’t going to accomplish anything. It’s what I said, small donations.”

“Fifteen thousand worth,” I said.

“It adds up.” Less confidence in her voice.

“Are the bills of different denominations?”

No answer.

“It’s easy enough to check.”

“Twenties, okay?” she said. “It’s all in twenties.”

“Kind of a coincidence.”

“So at some point Sil changed it into twenties… to make the count easier.”

“If he went to the bank to change bills, why not simply deposit the money?”

She shot to her feet. “My hands are clean. Forget all that Catholic crap, I was never into self-flagellation.”

I said, “Sil was seen taking an envelope from a man.”

“What?”

“In the parking lot behind his office.”

“Seen by who?”

“A witness.”

“Who?”

“I can’t say.”

She smirked. “One of those ‘anonymous sources’? Like the government always happens to find?”

“A witness with no motive to lie.”

“So you say.”

“It may not have been ominous, but it happened, Alma.”

“Someone delivered a donation in person. Big deal.”

I described the man with the blond hair and the reconstructed face.

She said, “Sounds like your typical L.A. guy.”

“You have no idea who he is.”

“Why would I? Good-bye, and don’t spend it all in one place.”

I said, “One more thing.”

“With you people there’s always one more thing.”

“Us people as in…”

“Representatives of the state.”

I said, “Everything’s political.”

“You’d better believe it.”

“Does that include the knife in Sil’s gut?”

Her arms turned rigid. “Oh, you’re a beaut. Coming across all sensitive but there’s a cruel streak you bring out at will.”

“I’m trying to get to the truth. I thought we might share that goal.”

“Truth is bullshit. Truth changes with context.”

“Context is exactly what I’m looking for, Alma. If you want to canonize Sil, fine. But if you can open your mind long enough to consider an alternative, we might actually find out who murdered him.”

If she’d walked out, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

She stood there. “What alternative?”

“Consider the possibility that Sil was paid off. Nothing illegal, maybe just to bend the rules. I think whoever paid him also lured him-someone who knew the marsh and believed Sil had to be silenced.”

“Rich bastards,” she said. “Everything is political.”

“Any rich bastards in particular?”

“How about those movie crooks for a start? Money corrupts and they have obscene amounts of money. They funded STM but I’ll bet they’ve never stopped lusting for the land. Sil took their money but he despised them.”

“Would Sil have gone out in the middle of the night for one of their lackeys?”

Silence.

I said, “Who did he trust, Alma?”

“No one. Sil wasn’t a trusting person. I’m the only one he confided in and even then, he could be guarded.”

“About what?”

“He was moody, could close up like a turtle, just be unreachable. But that doesn’t mean he sold out. That damn bunch of mud was everything to him. Besides, what would anyone pay him off for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, neither do I. Good-bye.”

I popped the case, took out the jewel box, pressed it in her hand.

She shook her head violently but didn’t push it away.

“Depending on how things shake out, I may be able to get you the money, as well.”

“I don’t wa-why the hell are you doing this? Who the hell are you?”

“Just another guy with a soft upbringing.”

She studied me. “If I was wrong about that, sorry, but it doesn’t change facts on the ground. You’re a government agent.”

“Nothing to apologize for. I’ve been pressuring you.”

“Yes, you have.” Her hand closed around the box. “It’s been hell, I need to get through it.”

As I walked her out, she studied each room we passed. When we got to the VW, she said, “The only possible thing Sil could’ve been… no, that doesn’t make sense. That wouldn’t be worth fifteen thousand stinking dollars.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“There’s another way into the marsh. Clear on the opposite end of the official entry, on the west side. It was intended as the original entry, but too many plants grew there and Sil insisted it not be touched. If it was up to him, the entire place would be off limits to visitors.”

“Where on the west side?”

“Dead center, it’s overgrown, impossible to see from the street, but if you push your way through, there’s a gate. Sil kept it padlocked. He liked to go there-his secret place. Sometimes he took me there.” Blushing. “It’s beautiful, huge willows, high reeds, little brackish sub-ponds where tadpoles and frogs colonize. Lots of birds because it’s closer to the ocean.”

“How often did Sil go there?”

“I don’t know. He only took me three, four times, always at night. We’d spread a blanket, be looking up at the stars, and he’d say, ‘This is a billion-dollar view, if people only knew.’ But that was rhetoric. Who’d pay fifteen thousand for a picnic spot? And why would that put Sil in danger?” She shook her head. “You’re chasing your tail.”

“Thanks, anyway.”

“For letting my mind run wild?”

“It’s called creativity,” I said. “Lord knows, we could use more.”

I sped to the marsh and searched for the secret entry.

The preserve’s western border was a dense block of eucalyptus and willows, a good twenty feet thick, fenced by four-foot-high metal pickets designed to look like wood. It took me three passes to spot the notch in the trees. Several yards of branches in my face before the second fence came into view.

Cedar stakes, padlocked, as Alma Reynolds had said. But only three feet high and climbing over was no big deal. Once on the other side, I endured another green gauntlet, holding back limb after limb as I treaded on uneven, leaf-strewn dirt.

Slow going, as I checked for evidence of human intrusion.

Ten yards in, I found it. Shoe prints, mostly blurred, but one crisp impression-a man-sized foot ringed by dots.

Foliage whispered above still water. Cattails shimmered as a great blue heron, huge, serpent-necked, with the dead-eyed mien of a prey-seeking pterodactyl, rose awkwardly, flapping its way to the ocean. By the time it disappeared, it had achieved grace.

Several seconds of silence passed before something scurried.

I kneeled and got close to the shoe prints. The dots seemed unusual but I was no expert. I took pictures with my cell phone, thought about what to do next.

All I could see up ahead was more green: trees tall enough to obscure the sky and shade the ground black.

Maybe this place was nothing more than a secret garden.