“What’s up?”
“Anything new on the case?”
“Not yet, sorry.”
“Well, I thought of something. Been ruminating about what could’ve gotten Sil over to the marsh that night. Not that he needed prodding, he was always going there. To clean up trash, make sure no one had trespassed. He had a thing for that place. Truth is, he was somewhat obsessed. I know why. His parents were beatniks who moved from Ann Arbor to a rural part of Wisconsin. The family lived in a cabin near a guess-what.”
“Freshwater and reeds.”
“A huge marsh, fed by one of the Great Lakes. Sil said it was perfect-idyllic, until a paper mill opened up nearby and polluted the hell out of it. All the fish died, the air smelled horrible, and eventually Sil’s family had to move to Milwaukee. Both his parents died of cancer and he was convinced it was the toxic air and water. Even though his father was a three-pack-a-day smoker who got lung cancer, and breast cancer ran in his mother’s family. But try telling Sil that. Try telling him anything.”
I said, “I can see why the Bird Marsh would be important to him.”
“Obsessed,” said Alma Reynolds. “Sometimes it got in the way.”
“Of what?”
“Us. We’d be relaxing and he’d jump up suddenly, say he needed to drive over, make sure everything was okay. It annoyed me, but I rarely said anything because I could see the psychology behind the idealism. But the night he was-that night, I really didn’t want to go and he defied me. So it had to be something major.”
“He told you the caller promised to solve the murders.”
“And I believed him. When those bodies showed up, Sil took it personally, as if he’d allowed something to happen to his baby. He was also worried the murders would be used to say the marsh was no longer pristine and that would open the door to development. I know it sounds paranoid, but Sil didn’t dance to anyone else’s beat. Just the opposite, the world waltzed, he two-stepped.”
I said, “With that level of anxiety, he’d follow any lead.”
“Exactly. I’m glad I reached you and not Sturgis.”
“Did Sil give any indication he knew who’d called?”
“No,” she said. “I thought about that, trying to remember if he indicated one way or the other, and he didn’t. You’re thinking someone he respected might’ve gotten him over.”
“Someone who supported his work. Do you have a list of Save the Marsh members?”
“Never saw one, don’t know that one exists.”
“Who’s in charge of the office now?”
“Don’t know, don’t want to know,” she said. “I wash my hands of all of it.”
No one answered at Save the Marsh.
The group’s board of directors listed the progressive billionaires who’d tried to build on the land, in addition to Silford Duboff, a woman named Chaparral Stevens, and two men: Tomas Friedkin, M.D., and Lionel Mergsamer, Ph.D.
Chaparral Stevens was a Sierra Madre-based jewelry designer, Dr. Friedkin was a ninety-year-old ophthalmologist, emeritus at the U.’s med school. Professor Mergsamer was a Stanford astronomer.
Not a likely bunch, criminal-wise, but I printed their names.
I looked for fund-raisers held for the marsh, found three Westside cocktail parties, no listed guests.
Backing away from the trees, I thought about the forest:
Dispatching him didn’t fit with the thrill-seeking aspect of a sexual psychopath. The only motive that made sense was he’d known too much-knowledge that came about innocently or otherwise.
More bones beneath the muck? Aerial photos had revealed nothing, but the earth had a way of swallowing and digesting death.
Or Alma Reynolds was right and Duboff’s desire to play savior-to undo his childhood trauma-had led him to walk into a trap.
That felt analytically pat, but I turned it over and came up with nothing further. A soft rap on my office door snapped the tape loop.
“You look engrossed,” said Robin.
“No, I’m finished.”
“If you’re not, I can cook.”
I got up and we walked to the kitchen.
She said, “Co-Op-E-Ration, just like on Sesame Street. Want to be Bert or Ernie?”
“Maybe Oscar.”
“That kind of day, huh?”
Blanche waddled in and smiled.
I said, “She can set the table.”
CHAPTER 23
Head, arms, and legs in Missouri,” said Moe Reed. “Head, hands, and feet in New Jersey. Three hands and feet only in…” He scanned his notes. “ Washington State, West Virginia, and Ohio.”
Milo said, “Nothing with just hands.”
“Nope. And no acid wash. Plus, in three cases, they have a good idea who it is but don’t have enough evidence to bring charges.”
We were in a Westside interview room at the end of another draggy day. Milo ’s follow-up call to Buddy Weir had evoked a “still working on it” message from the attorney’s paralegal. Plainclothes surveillance of the house on Calle Maritimo had revealed no movement, other than the entry of a gardener’s crew.
None of the groundsmen had any idea if Huck was inside the house, and when Milo convinced one of them to ring the front door-bell, no one answered.
Huck continued to refuse telephonic invitations to talk with the police.
Reed said, “The one in Jersey, they’re sure is a mob deal. Victim was I.D.’d by a surgical scar on the back.”
“Some goombah with disk problems. Anything else?”
Reed shook his head.
I said, “Any of the amputations spare only one hand?”
“Nope.”
“Because chopping was used to hinder the investigation. Our case has nothing to do with that. Our hands are symbolic.”
“Of what?” said Milo.
“I’m good with questions, not answers,” I said. “But maybe something to do with Selena’s piano playing?”
“People play piano with both hands, Alex.”
“The right hand plays the melody.”
Both their expressions said thanks, but no thanks.
“An alternative,” I said, “is someone’s trying to make the killings appear bizarre.”
“Psychosexual fake-out?” said Milo. “To hide what?”
“I keep coming back to Selena. She really stands out from the others. What if this is all
Milo said, “Over a year of prep? What made Selena so important?”
“Something she knew turned her into a threat. Something serious enough to take her computer. Same reason Duboff got killed.”
“Long-term planning is usually about money.”
Reed said, “And the Vanders have big money-it keeps coming back to them. And Huck, who works for
