Bones

“What again?”

“New chief’s a hands-on administrator. Milo ’s never had to deal with anything like it. It’s probably better than the old days- Siberia. But the personal attention cuts both ways. Right, Alex?”

I said, “Pressure to perform.”

“Exactly.”

Rick tried Milo’s cell, got voice mail, didn’t bother to leave a message.

Robin brought his drink, turned to me. “Chivas, baby?”

“Thanks.”

As she poured, Rick carried his Manhattan to the kitchen window, looked out at trees and sky. “I forget how pretty it is.” He sipped. “Sounds like this marsh mess won’t resolve soon, Alex.”

I nodded.

“Terrible,” he said. “Those poor women. Though I’m thinking selfishly. Disgustingly narcissistic, in fact. I got invited to give a speech at an alumni meeting. Thought we both might make it. Do a New England thing afterward. Milo’s never been.”

Robin said, “Undergrad at Brown or med school at Yale?”

“Yale.” He laughed. “No big whup, those things are always mind-numbing.”

The front door shut. A voice roared: “I smell carcass!”

Milo stomped into the kitchen, hugged everyone, sucked up all the oxygen in the room. The look on Rick’s face was pure relief.

Within three minutes, Milo had guzzled juice from the fridge, downed a beer, inspected the roast as if it were evidence, dipped a finger into a gravy spot on the counter and tasted. “Oh, this is going to be good. Where we going in terms of wine?”

The four of us ate lustily and polished off a bottle of New Zealand Pinot.

When Robin asked how Milo was doing, he took the question literally and reviewed the basics of the marsh murders.

Rick said, “Appetizing.”

Milo ran a finger over his lips.

Robin said, “No, I’m interested.”

Milo said, “You might be, but Dr. Rick is repelled and Dr. Alex is bored out of his skull. Whoever has custody of the potatoes, please pass.”

Small talk commenced. Milo didn’t contribute much, continued to shovel food like a combine. Rick worked hard at ignoring the rate of ingestion; he’s still trying to get Milo in for a checkup.

Blanche toddled in from her nap. She’s the only dog Milo ’s ever admitted liking, but when she brushed against his leg, he ignored her. Rick lifted Blanche onto his lap, worked her ears.

Milo said, “Arf,” and stared into space.

Robin said, “Dessert?”

“I’m full, thanks,” said Rick.

“Congrats,” said Milo.

“For what?”

“Speaking for yourself.”

We moved outside, to the pond, ate fruit, drank coffee, watched the fish, tried to identify constellations in the moonless sky.

Milo said, “Twinkle, twinkle,” and lit up a cigar.

Rick said, “At least it’s outside, you won’t be poisoning the hosts.”

Milo tousled his hair. “How thoughtful of me.”

“What you’re doing to your own lungs we won’t talk about.”

Milo cupped a hand near his ear. “Ey, what’s that, sonny?”

Rick sighed.

Milo said, “I am beyond mere chemistry.”

“Ah, the theory. Call the Nobel committee.”

“What theory?” said Robin.

“He’s been so long on the job that his internal organs are petrified and immune to toxins.”

“Man of Granite,” said Milo, smoking hungrily. Holding his Timex to a low-voltage spot bulb, he said, “Oops, it’s that time,” got up, stubbed the cigar on stone, hugged everyone, and left.

Rick picked up the butt, held it between thumb and index finger. “Where should I toss this?”

By midnight, Robin and I were in bed, under crisp, clean covers.

She fell asleep quickly. I dragged myself through the usual brain-sweep, working to quiet my mind. Was back in Missouri, mastering my father’s Remington, feeling bigger than Dad-bigger than a bear-when the phone rang.

Dad said, “Hey, Al, you really caught on.”

Ring ring ring ring ring.

Stupid; no phones in the forest. I pulled the covers over my head.

Stayed gigantic.

CHAPTER 18

Robin was up by six, working in her studio soon after.

I found her sliding a razor-sharp mini-plane over a pristine rectangle of spruce. From the size and thickness of the wood, the future soundboard of an archtop guitar.

“Stromberg copy. Going to try the diagonal brace, see if I can tweak it for some interesting nuances.”

“Brought you coffee,” I said.

“Thanks-you’ve got crust in your eye-there we go, gone. Feel rested?”

“I tossed?”

“A bit. Get the message from your service?”

“Haven’t checked yet.” I yawned. “When did it come in?”

“Two calls, actually. Twelve forty and then at five, both from Milo.”

I reached him at his desk. “Huck did something?”

“Huck did the usual nothing. But there’s another body in the marsh.”

“Oh, no. Poor woman.”

“Not exactly.”

From seven thirty to nine p.m. the previous night, Silford Duboff and his girlfriend, Alma Reynolds, had enjoyed a vegan dinner at Real Food Daily on La Cienega.

“More accurately, I enjoyed it,” said Reynolds, on the other side of the one-way glass. “Sil was grumpy the entire time. Preoccupied. With what, I couldn’t pry out. I found the evening frustrating, but held my peace. Sil ordered his favorite item on their menu: the TV Dinner. Normally, that’s palliative. This time, it wasn’t. He closed up completely. So after a while I stopped trying, and we both simply consumed.”

Telling the story to Milo with authority but curious detachment, as if teaching a class.

A tall, solid woman in her fifties, Reynolds had an eagle nose, a heavy jaw, piercing blue eyes, and waist-length gray hair plaited tightly. The lecturer’s tone came honestly: For fifteen years, she’d worked as a junior college instructor in Oregon, teaching political science and economic history before retiring due to “budget cuts and apathetic students and fascist bureaucracy.”

Now she sat across from Milo, straight-backed, dry-eyed, wearing last night’s blue work shirt tucked into gray flannel trousers, hemp sandals. Tortoiseshell reading glasses hung from a chain. Turquoise-and-silver earrings