Moe Reed returned from Fallbrook with cheek scrapes of Sheralyn Dawkins’s mother and the dead woman’s stunned fifteen-year-old son. The mother worked as a housekeeper on a rich man’s avocado ranch. Devon Dawkins was an honor student, did farm chores during his spare time.
Reed said, “Nice lady, the way she described Sheralyn’s leg break matches Jane One to a T. She wouldn’t talk in front of Devon, but after she sent him out she poured it out. Sheralyn was a problem since high school. Low self- esteem, drugs, alcohol, bad men.”
Milo said, “Same story Big Laura’s mommy told us. Any bad men in particular?”
“She meant Sheralyn’s teen years, but even back then she didn’t know any names. That was the problem, Sheralyn kept her private life private, wouldn’t give an inch to Mom. The two of them hadn’t been in contact for years. I got the feeling Mom had been happy with the arrangement, wanted a shot at raising Devon properly. Really nice kid, it was tough giving him the bad news.”
I said, “How long has the family been living down there?”
“They moved to San Diego right after Sheralyn’s father got out of the military. His civilian job was school district custodial manager, he died twelve years ago. Sheralyn was born in San Diego, did a couple years of high school, dropped out. Her mom never heard of Travis Huck, and the six-pack with Huck’s picture didn’t jog her memory.”
Milo said, “Why should life be easy?”
“She did tell me one thing that might be interesting. When Devon couldn’t hear. Sheralyn had a thing for pain. Not causing it, experiencing it. Mom said when she was a teenager, she’d cut herself on the arms, pull her eyelashes out, once in a while she’d burn herself with cigarettes. Sometimes she’d come home from being with boys and have bruises on her neck and arms. Mom threatened to take her to a psychiatrist. Sheralyn yelled at her to mind her own damn business, ran out of the house, stayed away for a few days. What boiled things over was Sheralyn getting pregnant when she was sixteen and refusing to say who the father was. She was already into dope, so the parents worried about a drug baby. When Devon was born healthy they tried to get Sheralyn to let them adopt him. Sheralyn went ballistic, took the baby and left. No contact for three years, then Sheralyn shows up without warning, stays for a couple days, things seem to be going okay. All of a sudden, she sneaks out in the middle of the night, leaves Devon behind.”
“Into pain,” said Milo.
“And being squeezed around the neck,” said Reed. “That would make her an easy mark for a sadist, right? They start off playing the choking game for what she thinks is money and fun, he turns on the pressure, she’s caught off guard. Make sense, Doc?”
“Makes perfect sense,” I said. “It could also be our link to Selena. The parties she played at got extreme and she joined in.”
Reed said, “Thinking she was in control, but she got flipped.”
Milo said, “Sheralyn’s story also reminds me of Selena’s. Bad feelings between daughter and mother, leaving home.”
Reed said, “So what now?”
“Got a call from the chief,” said Milo. “Caitlin Frostig.”
Reed slumped. “Am I in some sort of shit?”
“No, you’re fine. He wanted to know how we were doing on the marsh murders. I gave him the honest answer and he pretended to be understanding and patient. Then he brought up Frostig.”
“Checking up on me,” said Reed.
“His Fierceness takes a personal interest in the troops.”
“Did he make like I’m supposed to be doing something on Caitlin? Because I did everything I could think of.”
“He wanted to make sure you
“Okay… any hint about a task force, Loo?”
“Why, you want one?”
“Hell, no,” said Reed. “I was just wondering, another body and all that. I’m green, haven’t exactly burned up the record books-”
Milo ’s hand clapped Reed’s shoulder. “It’s a whodunit, kiddo. Meaning no one burns up anything, we simmer slowly and hope something cooks. No one with half a brain-and the Sun King has at least that-expects resolution by the fourth commercial break.”
“Okay,” said Reed. “He actually mentioned Caitlin by name?”
“First and last.”
“He probably got a call. Her father works for a big-time tech guy.”
I said, “Caitlin’s your missing person?”
Reed nodded. “College girl, left work thirteen months ago, hasn’t been seen since. Cold as frozen fish sticks and they hand it to me, my second case. If I pissed someone off and it’s punishment, I can’t figure out who or how.”
Milo said, “You solved your first one. That’s batting five hundred.”
“Unfortunately, this ain’t baseball.” Reed tightened the knot of his tie. “So when can we talk to Huck?”
Pools of water spread beneath Simon Vander’s Aston Martin, Lincoln Town Car, and Mercedes. Moisture blackened the slate motor court.
Reed said, “Car wash day, either they have a service or Huck does it himself. Lexus is gone, maybe he’s out gassing it. Or the car wash dude is.”
He pushed the call-box button. No answer from the house. Same for two more attempts.
Milo looked up the Vanders’ landline and punched it, got voice mail, kept his voice even as he left a message for Travis Huck to get in touch. Cordial as an invitation to a poker game.
We loitered near the octopus gates. Twenty minutes in, the mail-man drove up and dropped ad circulars and bulk mail into a slot on one of the gateposts.
Reed went up to him. “Know these people?”
The carrier shook his head. “Never see anyone around.” His fingers brushed the gate. “I have packages, I just leave ’em here, no one signs.”
“Private, huh?”
“Rich,” said the mailman. “These kind of people keep you at a distance.”
“What kind of packages?”
“Wine, fruit packages, gourmet food. The good life, right?” Hoisting his bag, he trudged down the road.
Milo waited, descended Calle Maritimo himself, far enough to disappear around a bend. He returned a few minutes later. “Nothing plus nothing, time to boogie. Leave your bona fides, Moses.”
Reed dropped one card onto the mail pile, wedged another between the gate and the post. “Think Huck might’ve rabbited?”
“There’s always that chance.”
We drove to PCH. The sun was custard, the ocean a melting jigsaw puzzle of green and blue. No Lexus in front of the Vander beach house, no more success with the bell push there.
Moe Reed tapped the high wooden fence that blocked off the beach. “What’s next, a moat?”
“That’s what money buys,” said Milo.
We cruised up and down the highway, scoped every filling station until Broad Beach for a sign of the Lexus. Gas in the Palisades was nearing five bucks a gallon for high-octane. That didn’t stop motorists from lining up for a petrochemical IV. Huck wasn’t one of them.
Milo said, “Let’s get back, call the crypt, get a time line on Duboff’s autopsy, see if they’ve done a prelim, anything useful on the visual. Then we need to work on confirming that Jane Three is DeMaura Montouthe. Victim I.D. isn’t likely to be a big deal on this one, but we can’t afford to screw up and get it wrong. That working girl said
