Bones

De-Maura was from Alabama, but it could be Arkansas, anywhere down south. Hell, it could be Arizona or Albania. If we can locate some next of kin, maybe we’ll get lucky and DeMaura talked to someone about an especially creepy john.”

“Like the guy Big Laura escaped from.”

“Like him,” said Milo. “In a perfect world.”

Back at the station, a civilian clerk I’d never seen before said, “I’ve been trying to call you, Lieutenant.”

“Never got any message,” said Milo.

“Well, I did try.”

“Which number did you use?”

The clerk read off a number. The final digit was off by two.

“Well, that’s what I was given,” said the clerk, without remorse. “Anyway, someone came in to see you, went upstairs, is still there. So no big deal.”

***

James Robert “Bob” Hernandez was a blue-eyed, muscular six-footer with slicked-back brass-colored hair and a four-inch Vandyke of matching hue. He wore jeans with rolled-up cuffs, weathered motorcycle boots, and a plaid shirt with short sleeves folded up high. Tattoos the color of swimming pool water ran from thick wrists to corded biceps. Tweety Bird, Popeye, smooching cherubs. On his right arm, devotion to Kathy was proclaimed calligraphically. Pro jobs, not prison art. Hernandez’s record was minor. Drunk driving, traffic warrants, failures to appear.

After running him through the databases, Milo returned to the interview room and sat back down. During the brief break, I’d waited with Hernandez, the two of us talking about sports.

Moe Reed was out processing the pretty wooden box Hernandez had brought for show-and-tell. Phoning the crypt first and getting authorization to carry the box personally to Dr. Hargrove’s lab.

“Human bones,” said Milo.

“That’s what they look like to me,” said Bob Hernandez. “I mean, I’m not a scientist, but I looked them up on the Internet and they match human fingers. Enough for three complete hands.”

“Doing research, huh?”

“Didn’t want to waste your time, sir.”

“We appreciate that. So go over again how you found them.”

“Didn’t find ’em, bought ’em,” said Hernandez. “I mean not them, specifically. A whole bunch of stuff. Unclaimed storage, they have auctions, people not paying their monthlies. Like you guys do with confiscated cars.” Hernandez smiled. “Lost an El Camino that way.”

“What else was in the bin?”

“Garbage bags full of crap. Bicycle I thought might be worth something, turned out to be crap, some old board games, newspapers. I tossed it all except the box. Because the box was nice wood. Later I found out what was inside. I’m pretty sure they’re finger bones ’cause they don’t look like anything else. So I called Pacific Division and they sent me to Detective Reed and he said to come here. So here I am.”

“Was the box wrapped?”

“Yeah, in one of the garbage bags. Turned out to be Brazilian rose-wood, which is rare, endangered. Would’ve been better to find jewelry or coins.”

“How long ago was this, Mr. Hernandez?”

“Two weeks. I tried to find something else they could’ve been, some other animal, but from what I can tell they’re human. So I didn’t put ’em up on eBay, that would be wrong.”

“eBay accept that kind of thing?”

“I never got that far,” said Hernandez. “Didn’t even try. Probably coulda sold ’em, but then I heard about those murders. On TV.” Peering at Milo. “Four women, and that marsh is pretty close to the storage unit. I know this is three, not four, it probably doesn’t mean anything, but I just thought I should come forward.”

“You did the right thing, Mr. Hernandez. Where’s the facility?”

“Pacific Public Storage, Culver Boulevard just before it intersects with Jefferson.”

“You live in Alhambra.”

“Sure do.”

“Bit of a drive to the auction.”

“Not compared with other places I been,” said Hernandez. “Did one in San Luis Obispo.” Yellow smile. “Heck, I’d drive to Lodi you tell me there’s bargains.”

“Auctions are your main job.”

“Nope, I’m trained as a landscaper, looking for work.”

“Been looking for a while?”

“Too long.” Hernandez sat back and laughed. “My brothers said it would be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Personal questions. ‘Come forward, be a good citizen, Bobby, but you’re gonna be looked at like a suspect because that’s what the job’s like. We don’t trust nobody.’ ”

“Your brothers are on the job.”

“Gene’s Covina PD, Craig’s South Pasadena. Dad’s a retired firefighter. Even Mom’s into it, West Covina dispatcher.”

Milo smiled. “You’re the nonconformist.”

“No offense, Lieutenant, but you couldn’t pay me enough to be cooped up in a car or an office. Give me a backhoe and five acres and I’m sailing. Speaking of which, I’d better get going. Job interview out in Canoga Park. They’re moving big palms and I know how to do that.”

Milo took his information, thanked him again, shook his hand.

At the door, Hernandez said, “One more thing, sir. It’s not the main reason I came in but I’ve got a court date on my warrants, so if you’re of a mind to put in a good word…”

“Your lawyer told you to come forward?”

“No, it was my idea. But he thought it might help. So did my brothers. You can call either of them, they’ll vouch for me. If I’m outta line, just tell me, and it never came up.”

“Who’s your lawyer?”

“Some fresh-out-of-school PD, that’s what bugs me,” said Hernandez. “Mason Soto, he’s more into stopping the war in Eye-Rack.”

Milo copied down Soto’s name and number. “I’ll tell him you’ve been a big help to LAPD, Bob.”

Hernandez beamed. “Thank you, sir, appreciate it deeply-those bones, at first I thought they might be from one of those anatomical models. You know, what doctors learn from? But there’s no holes drilled through them, like you would do if you were stringing them together. So they’re just loose bones.”

Short, hard tug at the Vandyke. “Can’t see any reason for a mentally healthy person to want something like that.”

CHAPTER 20

Pacific Public Storage was a city block of beige bunkers hemmed by twenty-foot chain link. Flagrantly orange ten-foot signage promised special deals. The company’s logo was a stack of suitcases.

We drove past and clocked the drive to the marsh before circling back. Six minutes each way, at moderate speed.

Perched above the entry to the facility’s parking lot was a security camera. A Quonset hut served as the office. One man worked the desk, young, chubby, bored. His orange polo shirt bore the logo. His I.D. badge said Philip. A biography of Thomas Jefferson was unfolded face-down on the counter. Passionate sports talk blared from a radio.