Bones

Milo said, “Leaning on a serial killer for more dough is pretty stupid. A nighttime meet, no less. I think the lure was just what Duboff was told: I’ve got something to make you a hero. And the caller had credibility because he knew about the secret part of the marsh.”

Reed thought. “That makes sense, Loo. Duboff brought Reynolds because he wasn’t expecting trouble. Guy started thinking he was the marsh god. But no matter what Aaron found, it doesn’t let Huck off.”

“Well put, Detective Reed. Okay, I’m gonna try to get some speed on that shoe-print analysis.”

“Huck’s the one who rabbited, Loo. More I think about it, more I like the idea of all of them being in on it.”

“Three Nasty Musketeers? Then why would Simone hire Aaron to focus on Huck?”

“She and Weir used Huck but planned on ditching him all along.”

“Weakest link,” said Milo. “Criminal history, drug issues, frequents hookers. Yeah, that fits.”

I said, “Killing hookers makes me wonder if they tailored the murders to Huck because he’s a longtime john.”

“That blood in his drain could be real, or a plant,” said Reed. “But either way, he still smells dirty.”

“Which leads us to another issue,” said Milo. “If he’s expendable, giving him a chance to split is a real bad idea.”

Reed stared at him. “They didn’t and we’re chasing down a dead man?”

“Or Huck’s a lone psycho killer and Simone just happens to be an angry girl with a penchant for lying.”

Reed said, “Cutting up her family? Ripping off her brother’s face. Doc?”

I said, “It’s off-the-scale rage and the family is missing.”

Milo said, “Okay, let’s assume for the moment that Simone, Weir, and Huck did collude. The obvious motive would be getting rid of the Vanders.”

Reed said, “Hundred million worth of motive? Hell yeah.”

“Then how do the women in the marsh figure in?”

I said, “Like we said before, misdirects. If the Vanders were found murdered with no prior context, attention would’ve shot straight to the money. Meaning an unwelcome focus on Simone as sole survivor. But with Huck nailed as a lust murderer first, the Vanders could be seen as collateral damage-victims of a psychopath’s final rampage. That fits the staging of the crimes: concealing the other bodies but making sure Selena was found, so she could lead us to the Vanders.”

“That storage unit,” said Reed. “Board games. We are being played.”

Milo said, “Those bones being acid-washed and prepped means the other women were killed at leisure, maybe warehoused somewhere, then dumped sequentially.”

Reed said, “For all we know, they were on dry ice in the unit.”

I said, “One question: the evil bald guy. Huck or Weir minus his wig?”

Milo said, “You have any feelings on that?”

“Could go either way. But two guys who just happen to be skinned could be part of setting up Huck.”

“Like Nguyen said, Alex, it’s not that rare of a look. But the more I think about it, the more Huck’s shaping up at least a partial patsy. If Huck murdered a bunch of people and was smart enough to leave no trace, why would he rabbit and make himself an obvious suspect?”

I said, “Maybe fear overcame good sense. Or he caught on that Weir and Simone had plans to end his future. With that much money at stake, he had to know he’d never be an equal partner.”

Reed said, “Yeah, thirty-three million is a bit high for wet work. But he goes along with it anyway because killing is his thing.”

“Or Simone seduced him.”

“Another kind of three-way?”

“Why not?” I said. “But, Huck finally figured out he was expendable and ran. Maybe he somehow learned about Aaron’s investigation. Or he just got nervous when your investigation took on steam.”

Milo said, “Simone heaps it on to Aaron: Huck’s big-time weird, she’s always been afraid of him. Huck doesn’t help himself by actually being weird.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if his corpse shows up at a strategic moment-apparent suicide, accompanied by a nice, neat confession note and a tipoff to where the Vanders are buried. A whole bunch of cases close simultaneously and Simone’s one of the richest girls in L.A. ”

Milo rubbed his face. “Hundred million. Wars have been fought over less.”

Reed said, “If Huck pulled a real rabbit, Weir and Simone have to be freaking out.”

I said, “Maybe that’s why Simone hacked up the picture.”

Milo said, “Low frustration tolerance.”

“If that’s the case, she and Weir are working on Plan B right now. Get rid of any evidence that incriminates them, gussy up the case against Huck.” My head tightened. “That’s why Duboff had to die. He could link Weir to the marsh.”

Reed said, “Oh, man. These people are from another planet.”

Milo said, “We forgot something. If Huck was dead, Wallenburg wouldn’t be shielding him.”

I said, “Maybe she thinks he’s alive. Anyone can send a text message.”

“So who’s the Adams family she just visited? Creepy and kooky folk Wallenburg just happens to know? Boot up your computer, Alex.”

Reed was faster than Milo on the keyboard and he knew the access codes. Within seconds, he’d pulled up county records.

Anita Brackle nee Loring had given marriage a third shot two years ago.

Civil ceremony in Van Nuys court. The lucky groom, Wilfred Eugene Adams, black male, sixty-two years old, home address in Mar Vista.

His name pulled up three DUIs, the final conviction six years previous.

Reed said, “Probably another rehab romance.”

Milo said, “RDate-dot-com, there’s a business opportunity for you. Okay, let’s check it out.”

“We’re holding off on the dogs and the anthropologists?”

“Not at all. Call Dr. Wilkinson.” Tiny smile. “While you’re at it, she can also check out the western edge of the marsh.”

Reed’s jaw dropped.

Milo said, “Goes with the job, kiddo.”

“What does?”

“Long periods of futility livened by moments of chagrin.”

Reed made the call as Milo and I waited in the unmarked. As he headed for us, he looked defeated.

Milo said, “Maybe she turned him down for a second date.”

The young detective got in back.

“Everything okay, Moses?”

“Not in, left a message.”

“Something on your mind?”

“Text messaging, I should’ve thought of that.”

“What, ’cause you’re the techno-generation and I’m the poster boy for horse and plow and just gave up on my Betamax?”

“What’s that?”

“A brand of buggy whip.”

A Dodge van sat in the driveway of Wilfred and Anita Loring Brackle Adams’s bungalow. If Wilfred was home, he wasn’t advertising the fact. Anita’s voice was a gritty drill bit that threatened to pierce the locked door from behind.

“You go away.”

“Ma’am-”

“I will not open my door and you can’t force me to open it.”

Fourth time she’d recited the mantra.