Jonathan Kellerman - Bones

“Yeah.”

“And you told him…”

“Everything’s cool.”

“You made no mention whatsoever of the hissing call.”

“I thought it was bogus,” said Chance. “Ethan or Ben, Sean, whatever.” Peering at us as he dropped the names. Trying to figure out who’d given him away.

Reed said, “What time did this hissy call come in?”

“Um… um, um-like um nine thirty.”

“Like articulate,” said Steve Brandt. His wife looked ready to cry.

Reed said, “Can you give a more precise estimate?”

Chance said, “It was like… oh, yeah, before I looked at my watch and it was like nine twenty something, so it was after that.”

“Nine thirty or so.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“Jesus,” said Steve Brandt, “it’s not rocket science.”

Chance’s shoulders bunched. His mother had gnawed her lip scarlet.

His father said, “I think it’s obvious math isn’t his strong suit, that’s how we ended up in this mess in the first place. The indignity of an algebra test that required minimum effort to pass.”

Chance chewed his lip. More genetics? Or would living with Steve Brandt drive anyone to it?

Brandt loosened his tie. “We’re still trying to figure out if he has a strong suit.”

His wife gasped.

“Get real, Suze. If he hadn’t cheated in the first place, we’d never be talking to the cops.” To us: “Maybe as long as you’re here we should set up some tough love for my son. One of those programs you put youthful offenders into? Working at the morgue, getting in touch with reality?”

Susan Brandt got up and hurried out on elegant, bronze legs. Chance’s eyes were fixed on his father’s florid face.

Brandt said, “You bet I’m pissed, kiddo. Work’s piling up and I have to come home in the middle of the day for this. And you’re playing tennis?”

“Mom said I should get some exer-”

Brandt waved the boy silent. To Milo: “Do you still run those morgue tours?”

“I’m not sure, sir. From what I recall they were for juvenile drunk drivers and such.”

“So, once again, he skates completely.”

Chance’s lips moved.

“What did you just say?” his father demanded.

Silence.

Milo said, “Mr. Brandt, we understand that you’re frustrated with whatever acting-out Chance has done in the past. But from our perspective, he’s being cooperative. If all he did was talk about what he perceived to be a gag call, there’s nothing to ‘skate’ on. If he’s somehow involved in this homicide, a tour of the morgue won’t cut it.”

Some of the color left Steve Brandt’s face. “Of course he’s not involved. I’m just trying to prevent any more… complications.”

Chance said, “I’m complications?”

His father smirked. “Oh, you don’t want me to answer that.”

The boy’s turn to flush. “Do your thing, dude-hook me up to one of those fucking lie detectors-”

“Shut your stupid, foul mouth and don’t use that snotty, stupid tone-”

Chance shot to his feet, fists balled. “Don’t call me that! Don’t fucking call me that!”

Steve Brandt’s hands slapped brocade. He panted.

Chance’s respiration rate raced ahead of his father’s.

Milo stepped between them. “Everyone calm down right now. Chance, sit down-over there, where your mom was. Mr. Brandt, let us do our job.”

“I wasn’t aware I was doing anything but-”

“This is a homicide case, sir-lots of long days for us. We need to make sure that after we leave we won’t be called back on a domestic violence complaint.”

“Ridiculous-have I ever hit you, Chance? Ever?”

No answer.

“Have I?”

Chance smiled. Shrugged.

His father cursed. “Serpent’s tooth.”

Chance was still on his feet. Milo said, “Sit.” The boy obeyed.

“Son, I want a quick answer to this: How soon after the call did Mr. Duboff appear?”

“Right after. Seconds.”

That fit Duboff’s story. Either he’d dumped Selena Bass himself or the killer had watched Duboff clear out before venturing forward.

Or the killer had gotten lucky and just missed Duboff.

Either way, the murder had been called in soon after the dump.

Someone wanting Selena Bass found. And identified quickly.

Burying three other bodies that he’d concealed, but growing confident and progressing to boasting?

Claiming the marsh as his turf. Duboff or someone like him?

Moe Reed said, “Who’d you tell about the hissing call?”

“Just… Sarabeth-who’d she rat me out to?”

“What’s Sarabeth’s last name?”

Steve Brandt said, “Oster. As in malls and shopping centers.” When none of us responded: “They’re big-time, live in Brentwood Park. Sarabeth’s their only child. She comes across sweet and innocent but she’s the one gave him the answers to that goddamn algebra test, so I’d take anything she says with a pillar of salt.”

Chance growled.

His father said, “Ooh. I’m shaking.”

Steve Brandt walked us out to a faux-cobblestone motor court, used a clicker to hold his front gate open.

“So he’s clear?”

“So far, sir.”

“Trust me, Officers, he’s too dumb to kill anyone.”

Smiling with sour satisfaction, he walked back to the heat and light of his home.

Moe Reed’s call to Tom L. Rumley, headmaster of the Windward Academy, achieved a promise to “ascertain all the relevant information” about the call to Chance Brandt at an “expedited rate.” The trade-off: no police visit to the school at the present time, because “it’s hiatus time and we’re entertaining visitors from Dubai.”

Reed put Rumley on hold. “Lieutenant?”

Milo said, “Most likely it will boil down to a blab chain, so give him a chance to make good. Either of you hungry?”

We returned to the marsh and picked up the Seville. As Reed followed us to West L.A., Milo said, “What do you think?”

“About the case or Reed?”

“Both.”

“He seems thoughtful, eager to learn. Plenty to learn about this case.”

“Four bodies.”

“That kind of appetite,” I said, “no reason to stop at four.”

“I can always count on you for good cheer.”

Café Moghul, on Santa Monica Boulevard, blocks from the station, serves as Milo ’s second office.

The bespectacled, saried woman who runs the place beamed, the way she always does when Milo steps through her door. Besides the gargantuan tips, she regards him as a human rottweiler. Reed’s obvious cop presence following close behind brought her to the verge of ecstasy.

“Lobster,” she announced, seating us at Milo ’s rear table, humming and smiling and filling glasses with cloved iced tea. “I’ll bring fresh platters. Everything.”

Milo said, “Everything’s a good concept,” as he removed his jacket and tossed it on a nearby chair. Reed took off his blazer, draped it neatly. His white shirt was short-sleeved. His biceps filled most of the sleeves.

The food parade began.

Reed said, “You must tip great.”

Milo said, “Boy. Why does everything in this world have to be about money?”

Sometimes Milo talks shop over food. Other times, he views eating as a sacrament, not to be disrupted by worldly matters.

This afternoon was a Holy Day. Moe Reed watched him bolt and chew and swallow and wipe his face. Caught on quickly and bent over his own plate like a convict.

Heaps of lobster, rice, lentils, spiced eggplant, spinach with paneer cheese vanished quickly as the young detective out-ate Milo. His frame was thick but hard as teak.