Bones

A queen mattress sat on the floor, sheathed by a brown batik throw and piled with too many overstuffed madras pillows. Milo peeled back a corner of the throw. Lavender sheets, clean, unruffled. He sniffed. Shook his head.

“What, sir?” said Reed.

“No smells-no detergent, body odor, perfume, zilch. Like it was changed but not slept in.”

He moved on to an almost-birch nightstand, containing lightweight sweats, a white flannel nightgown, a cheap digital alarm clock, a comb.

Milo peered at the comb. “No hair I can see but maybe the tweezer squad’ll find something. Speaking of which, Detective Reed.”

Reed phoned the criminalists and Milo continued his circuit of the room. He checked out a tall, yellow plastic garbage can. Empty. Additional pillows strewn randomly supplied extra seating. Plumped and firm, as if they’d never borne weight.

Storage came by way of a three-drawer plywood dresser and a six-foot steel closet painted olive drab. To the left of the closet was a lav barely wide enough for one person to stand in. Nylon curtain instead of a door, fiberglass shower, Home Depot sink and commode. A flimsy medicine cabinet sat on the floor.

Everything spotless and dry. The cabinet was empty.

The exception to all the bare-bones aesthetic was a wall devoted to a pair of electric keyboards, an amp, a mixing board, a twenty-inch flat-screen monitor on a black stand, two black folding chairs, and several waist-high stacks of sheet music.

Reed examined the music. “Classical… more classical… some indie rock… more classical.”

Milo said, “No stereo, no CDs.”

Reed said, “There’s probably an iPod somewhere.”

“Then where’s the computer that makes all the other gizmos operative?”

Reed frowned. “Someone cleaned up.”

The two of them went through the dresser and the metal closet. Jeans, T-shirts, jackets, underwear in small sizes. Tennis shoes, boots, black high-heeled sandals, red pumps, white pumps. One end of the hanging rack in the closet bore half a dozen dresses in optimistic colors.

No discs, laptops, anything related to computers.

Reed kneeled in front of the dresser, slid open the bottom drawer. “Whoa.”

Inside was a leather bustier, two sets of fishnets, three pairs of orange-trimmed black crotchless panties, a trio of cheap black wigs, three enormous purple dildos.

Each of the hairpieces was shoulder-length with short bangs. A blue vinyl sewing box held bottles of white face makeup, black eyeliner, tubes of lipstick the color of an old bruise. When Reed pulled it out, a small, black leather riding crop rolled forward.

Milo said, “Dominatrix in her spare time? Maybe her real pad’s someplace else and she used this dump for partying.”

Reed seemed transfixed by the garments. “Maybe she also gave her music lessons here, Lieutenant.”

“Doubtful, no real piano, no instruction books.” Milo shut the drawer, took in the room. “If this was her main crib, she led a pretty bare life, even accounting for a cleanup. Five minutes inside and I’m ready to gulp some Prozac.”

He returned to the metal closet, ran his hand over the top shelf. “Well, looky here.”

Down came a cardboard Macy’s box stuffed with papers.

On top was Selena Bass’s tax return from last year. Income of forty-eight thousand from “freelance musical consulting,” ten grand worth of “equipment and supplies” deductions.

Beneath that, he found thirteen monthly checks clipped together in a precise stack. Four thousand dollars each, written on the Global Investment Co. account of The Simon M. Vander Family Trust, address on Fifth Street in Seattle.

Same memo for every payment in block printing: Lessons for Kelvin.

Reed said, “The kid on the Web.”

Milo said, “Nearly fifty K a year to teach Junior how to tickle the ivories.”

“One student paying all the bills, maybe he’s got serious talent, some kind of prodigy.”

“Or someone thinks he does. How about going out to the car and running Simon Vander’s name? The kid, too.”

“You bet.”

Milo resumed examining the papers in the Macy’s box. A California I.D. depicted a thin-faced, big-eyed girl with a pointy cleft chin and dirty-blond hair. Short bangs, just like the wigs. Easy fit for dress-up time?

I said, “Why would she need that if she had a license?”

He said, “Maybe she moved here without a license, got this in the interim.”

Beneath the card were receipts from a Betsey Johnson outlet in Cabazon, near Palm Springs, and a six-month- old credit card bill for five hundred dollars, recently paid off after six months of mounting interest at the typical usurious rate.

At the bottom sat a single e-mail, four months old, from engrbass345 at a Hotmail account. I read over his shoulder.

Sel, so glad you finally found a job. And a satisfying one, to boot. Be well, dear. Don’t take so long next time.

Love, mom.

Milo sighed. “Notification time.”

“Your favorite thing,” I said.

“That and drowning puppies.”

Reed charged back into the apartment, bright-eyed and waving his pad.

“Looks like Simon Vander’s a big-time money guy. The investment account might be in Seattle but he lives here, the Palisades. He owned a chain of supermarkets in Mexican neighborhoods, sold out two and a half years ago for a hundred and eleven million. After that, he drops off the screen except for three more hits for Kelvin, all recitals. Kid’s ten years old. Found one photo of him.”

He flashed a grainy black-and-white shot of a good-looking Asian boy.

Milo showed him the e-mail from Selena Bass’s mother.

Reed said, “Going to try her by computer?”

“If she’s local, we’ll do it in person.”

“ ‘engrbass,’ ” said Reed. “Maybe she’s an engineer. Meanwhile, should we start with the Vanders, see if they know anything about Selena’s personal life?”

Using the murdered woman’s first name. Beginning of the bond.

Milo said, “That’s what I’d do.”

Reed frowned. “Like I’m inventing the wheel.”

CHAPTER 7

Five vehicles at two addresses were registered to Simon Mitchell Vander.

At Calle Maritimo in Pacific Palisades: a three-month-old Lexus GX, a one-year-old Mercedes SLK, a three- year-old Aston Martin DB7, and a five-year-old Lincoln Town Car.

At a Malibu listing on Pacific Coast Highway, a seven-year-old Volvo station wagon.

Moe Reed ran map traces. “ La Costa Beach and the north end of the Palisades. Pretty darn close.”

“Maybe he likes sand between his toes,” said Milo. “Middle of the week, I’m betting on the main house. If that doesn’t pan out, we get a day at the beach.”