Bones

The drive from Venice to Pacific Palisades was a slow drip along Lincoln, not much better on Ocean Front, followed by a quick drop onto Channel Road and a blue zip up the coast. A charitable breeze whipped the ocean into cobalt meringue. Surfers and kite runners and people who liked clear lungs were out in force.

Calle Maritimo was a snaky climb above the old Getty estate. As the altitude climbed, properties enlarged, soil growing pricier by the yard. Reed drove fast, clipping past bougainvillea hedges, rock walls, charitable glimpses of ocean.

A sign warned Dead End: No Through Traffic. Seconds later that promise was fulfilled by ten-foot iron gates.

Hand-fashioned gates, with stout posts resembling oversized stalks of coral and curving iron rods tangled like octopus tentacles. On the other side of all that foundry work was an oval motor court paved with precise slate squares. Recently hosed slate, still beaded in spots, and ringed by razor-cut date palms. Behind the trees, a surprisingly modest house.

Single story, dun stucco, red tile roof, enclosed courtyard hiding the front door. Off to the side were the four cars listed on Vander’s reg forms. Reed punched the call box. Five rings on the intercom, then silence.

He tried again. Four more rings. A boyish-sounding male voice said, “Yes?”

“ L.A. police here to talk to Mr. Simon Vander.”

“Police?”

“Yes, sir. We need to talk to Mr. Vander.”

A beat. “He’s not here.”

“Where can we find him?”

Two beats. “His last stop was Hong Kong.”

“Business trip?”

“He’s traveling. I can give him a message.”

“Who am I speaking with, sir?”

More hesitation. “Mr. Vander’s estate manager.”

“Name please?”

“Travis.”

“Could you please come out to the gate for a second, Mr. Travis?”

“Can I ask what this is-”

“Why don’t you come out and we’ll tell you.”

“Uh… hold on.”

Moments later, the courtyard door opened. A man in a navy-blue shirt, pale jeans, and a large gray knit cap squinted in our direction. The shirt was baggy and untucked, tails flapping like breakers. The jeans puddled over white sneakers. The cap was pulled down over the tops of his ears.

He walked toward us in an unsteady gait-uneven shoulders, a foot that turned outward every other step, on the verge of stumble. When he reached the gate, he studied us through iron tentacles, offered an iron-streaked view of long, gaunt face, hollow cheeks, deep-set brown eyes. A three-day stubble, mostly black, some gray, coated his face. Same for whatever cranium the cap revealed. His mouth was skewed to the left, as if set in perpetual regret. That and the rocky walk suggested some kind of neurological insult. I put him at thirty-five to forty. Young for a minor stroke, but life could be cruel.

Milo pushed his badge through the tentacles.

“Afternoon, Mr. Travis.”

“Huck. Travis Huck.”

“May we come in, Mr. Huck?”

A long-fingered hand pushed a button on a remote. The gates swung inward.

We parked in front of the nearest date palm and got out. The property was set well above its neighbors, at least five acres worth of king-of-the-mountain. Rolling lawns and beds of creeping geranium maintained a low profile. The punch line was a dead-drop bluff rimmed by an infinity pool that kissed the Pacific.

Up close, the house lost any claims to modesty. One story provided maximum ocean view, but horizontal sprawl chewed up land.

Travis Huck poked a finger under his cap, flicked moisture from behind his ear. His face was glossy. Warm day for wool. Or maybe he just perspired easily. “If there’s a message I can give to Mr.-”

“The message,” said Milo, “is that a woman named Selena Bass was found murdered and we’re talking to everyone who knew her.”

Huck blinked. His sad, crooked mouth straightened into a position of neutrality, at odds with the tension around his eyes.

He said, “Selena?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh… no.”

“You knew her.”

“She teaches music. To Kelvin. Mr. and Mrs. Vander’s son.”

“When’s the last time you saw her, Mr. Huck?”

“The last time? I don’t-like I said, she gives lessons. When he needs them.”

“To Kelvin.”

Huck blinked again. “Yes.”

“Same question, sir.”

“Pardon?”

“Last time you saw her.”

“Let me think,” said Huck. As if genuinely requesting permission. Sweat rolled down his chin, dropped to the slate. “I want to say two weeks ago…” Tugging at the cap. “No, fifteen days. Exactly fifteen.”

“You know that because…”

“Mrs. Vander and Kelvin left the day after Kelvin’s lesson. Which was fifteen days ago. Kelvin played Bartok.”

“Left for where?”

“Vacation,” said Huck. “It’s the summer.”

Reed said, “The whole family’s traveling.”

Huck nodded. “Can I ask what happened to Selena?”

Milo said, “What we can tell you at this point is it wasn’t pretty.”

No response.

“So the last time she was here was fifteen days ago exactly?”

“Yes.”

“What was her state of mind?”

“She seemed fine.” Huck’s eyes fixed on wet slate. “I let her in, saw her out. She was fine.”

Reed said, “Do you know anyone who’d want to hurt her?”

“Hurt her? She came here to teach. Like the others.”

“What others?”

“Kelvin is homeschooled. Specialists come in. Art, gymnastics, karate. A curator from the Getty’s been tutoring him in art history.”

“Kelvin doesn’t like regular school?” said Milo.

“Kelvin’s too bright for regular school.” One of Huck’s legs buckled and he braced himself on the hood of the unmarked. His forehead was soaked.

Moe Reed said, “Bright and a good piano player.”

“He plays classical,” said Huck, as if that settled it.

“How long has Selena Bass been teaching him?”

“She… I want to say… a year. Give or take.”

“Where did the lessons take place?” said Milo.

“Where? Right here.”

“Never at Selena’s house?”