Bones (29 page)

Wallenburg put the pen down, picked up a rocker blotter.

Milo said, “We’re talking nineteen years with no legitimate identity. That kind of caginess implies something to hide.”

“It implies nothing of the sort.”

“What then?”

Debora Wallenburg plinked a long, silver nail against the blotter. “You have no idea,” she said.

I said, “I think we do. He was traumatized, lonely, in so much despair he wouldn’t accept your help in readjusting.”

No answer.

“What part of the picture are we missing, Ms. Wallenburg?”

Her eyes lost lawyer-steel and turned human. Another quick blink restored them to flat, jade disks.

I said, “What happened to him during those hidden years?”

The phone rang. She picked it up and said, “Sure, put it through. Hi, Mort, what’s up? That? I sent it yesterday, you should be getting it any minute. What’s that? Absolutely. No, just taking life easy.”

Making a show of relaxation, she sat back, chatted, did more listening, finally glanced our way.

Feigned surprise at our presence and kept talking.

A tall blond assistant in a suit almost as nice as Wallenburg’s entered the office on lethal heels. “Gentlemen, the garage just called. Your car is ready.”

John Nguyen said, “There’s nothing I can do, Milo.”

“Even if she’s harboring a fugitive.”

“Did she acknowledge that she was?”

“She claimed she wasn’t.”

“Do you have evidence to the contrary?”

“It’s pretty obvious Huck reached out to her. I’m sure she’s got an idea where he’s bunked down.”

Nguyen said, “You keep putting me in this position.”

“What position?”

“Having to be Mr. Ice Bath. What you have doesn’t mean squat, Milo, and you’re too experienced not to know that.”

We were at the Pacific Dining Car on Sixth, just west of Down-town. Nguyen was demolishing a surf and turf. Reed and I stuck with soda water. Milo had ordered but he had no appetite, which meant the world was coming to an end.

“Jesus, John, do you have any idea how high-profile this could get?”

“Seen the memos,” said Nguyen. “Also heard rumors about your boss’s slowing down the process.”

“Well, now my bosses want everything sped up. I told Wallenburg I thought she’d dummied up deliberately and she didn’t argue.”

“Her situation, that’s what I’d do, Milo.”

“John, we’ve got a goddamn serial lust maniac out there and she can help us find him.”

“Maybe.”

“She’s the hero of Huck’s story, I’m sure he turned to her when he rabbited. Even without explicit knowledge of his whereabouts, she’s likely to have a pretty good idea.”

“Prove that she’s harboring and I’ll see if there’s some way I can twist it in your favor.”

“Surveillance on her would be—”

“Your choice, but I wouldn’t be heavy-handed about it. Debora’s going to be ready for you and if you overstep, she’ll slam you with a civil suit.”

“So lawyers get special privileges,” said Reed.

“Hey, that’s why we become lawyers.” Nguyen forked a huge piece of steak. Reconsidered and sawed it in half. “What do you really expect to learn from watching her? She’s not going to drive her Ferrari straight to Huck’s crib.”

“She’s got a Ferrari?”

“And a Maybach — the super-Mercedes,” said Nguyen. “What’s that, four hundred grand, excluding the gas-guzzler tax?”

“Crime pays,” said Reed.

“I drive a Honda, don’t make me cry. I knew Debora back when I was in school and she was teaching criminal law. She was a great lecturer as well as one of the best PDs in the city.”

Milo said, “She make all that money shuffling corporate paper?”

“Not directly,” said Nguyen. “Shortly after she switched to corporate, she was assigned to drawing up the contracts on a bunch of gazillion-dollar dot-com deals. Invested early and cashed out at the right time. I don’t know why she bothers practicing anymore.”

“Must be the thrill,” said Milo.

“Ha ha ha.” Nguyen dipped lobster in drawn butter, sipped his martini.

“John, if I asked you for a tap on her—”

“I’d say, ‘So when are you opening at the Comedy Store?’ ”

“All those women dead, John. And maybe the Vanders — a kid, John, maybe with his hand hacked clean off.”

Nguyen looked at his steak and sighed.

Milo said, “Public’s gonna love us wimping out on this.”

“You can’t tap her, Milo. She’s his lawyer, not his girlfriend.”

Reed said, “Who knows?”

“You’ve got evidence of an intimate relationship?”

“Not yet.”

“Find that — find anything that shows me she’s behaved illegally.”

Milo said, “If she’s his girlfriend, she’s the dumbest smart person in the world. His sexual partners tend to end up dead and dismembered.”

“And facing east,” I said, wondering if Nguyen would find that interesting.

He didn’t. “I really wish I could help you, guys. Maybe you should forget about Debora and find Huck the old-fashioned way.”

Milo said, “Meaning?”

“Shoe leather, interviewing street people — whatever you guys do that brings in the goods.” He made a try for his steak. Chewed without apparent pleasure. “There’s another reason not to piss Debora off.

Once you do get Huck, we could be contending with her at the defense table. Then I’ll be the one with the ulcer.”

“You see her putting aside her corporate clients and taking him on?”

“From what you’ve told me, she believes in him,” said Nguyen. “Even if she’s not chief defense counsel, she’ll play a role. I know Debora.”

“Tenacious,” I said.

“Beyond belief, Doctor.”

“Ferrari, Maybach,” said Reed. “She can afford to play Wonder Woman.”

“Must be nice,” said Nguyen.

I’ve ridden in a few funeral processions. The drive back to the station had that same stunned, dispirited feeling.

Milo said, “Smart woman like that and she’s taken in by his bullshit.”

Reed said, “Like those losers who hook up with cons in prison. What’s behind it, Doc?”

“Usually really low self-esteem and a desire for attention.” Neither of which applied to Wallenburg, but why intrude on their resentment?

Milo rubbed his face. “All that dough, but her life’s empty so she wants to feel righteous again.”

“Limousine liberals,” said Reed.

The corners of Milo’s mouth twitched but gave up short of a smile. “Haven’t heard that one in a while, Moses.”

“That’s what my mother said my father used to call them.”

Milo said, “Any suggestions about changing Wallenburg’s mind, Alex?”

“With someone else, I’d try piling on the gory details — victim photos, autopsy shots, emphasize the suffering the women went through. In Wallenburg’s case, it’s likely to solidify her resistance.”

“Because she sees herself as Iron Maiden.”

“Saving Huck was a major event in her life, so viewing him as a vicious killer is too threatening. But if you do get some serious evidence — something that appeals to her rationality — you could crack her denial.”

“That’s what you were getting at in her office. Huck’s not the same innocent kid, no fault of hers.”

Reed said, “We’ve got blood in the drain.”

Milo said, “I thought of telling her, didn’t want to give her anything to work with. First thing out of her mouth would be ‘ABO typing’s not DNA.’ ”

Reed said, “We get a full confession, she’ll probably still stand behind him. Poor little victim of the system.” He shook his head. “Ferrari Debby.”

Milo said, “Feel like following her, Moses?”

“Sure,” said Reed. “Department paying for a Maserati? She gives me the slip, conventional wheels aren’t going to cut it.”

“Long as you can get it for thirty bucks a day.”

“I could boost some hot wheels,” said Reed. “But God forbid I should be heavy-handed.”

Back home and away from their ill humor, I wondered if Debora Wallenburg had lied about not knowing Huck’s whereabouts.

Smart people made foolish mistakes all the time; my profession thrived on that fact. But if Wallenburg had overstepped by harboring a dangerous fugitive, my guess was we’d never find out.

I thought about Huck, rootless, haunted. The cameo performance as a superhero.

Saving a baby.

Debora Wallenburg’s initial act of kindness had created a longterm bond between her and Huck. What if the same was true for Huck and Brandi Loring’s family?

No Internet hits popped up for
Anita and Lawrence Brackle
but
Larry Brackle
appeared on a three-year-old police blotter from the
Daily News.
Arrestee, age forty-three, a Van Nuys DUI bust.

No follow-up on that but an image scan brought up a two-year-old photo of Brackle celebrating the “Turkey Tenpin Fest of the Meadowlark Association Bowling Club” at a Canoga Park alley.

A dozen beaming keglers. Brackle had earned front-row center because size mattered. Even compared with the slight women flanking him, he was a small man — skinny, wiry, with black hair slicked back and sideburns reaching to his jawline.

I plugged in
Meadowlark Association
and came up with the home-owners’ group at a condo development in Sherman Oaks.

Eighty-nine “deluxe” units on three acres north of Ventura Boulevard, just east of the 101 freeway. Prices ranged from mid-six-figures for a one-bedroom “Hacienda Suite” to nearly a million for “3 Br. 2 Ba. Rancheros.”

High-def photos showcased white, red-roofed modules softened by ferns, palms, banana plants, and rubber trees. “Gracious path-ways for strolling,” three pools, two with “whirlpool soaking spas,” as well as a screening room, a gym “with sumptuous steamroom and sauna.”

Nice upgrade from the Silverlake rental Brackle and his family had called home a decade ago.

I checked the names of the other bowlers. None of the women was Anita Brackle. Maybe she had no use for tenpins. Or Larry’s drinking had continued, driving her away.

Along with Baby Brandeen?

I searched Brackle’s face for signs of dissolution, saw only a skinny little bespectacled man happy to be among his peers.

Copying down The Meadowlark address, I told Robin I’d be stepping out.

She said, “This time it’s not just restlessness. You’ve got that heat in your baby blues.”

I told her about Brackle.

She said, “Huck helped the family, so they’re helping him?”

“I’m grasping.”

“No grasp, no get.” She kissed me. “Be careful.”

When I reached the door, she said, “Be great if the baby’s thriving.”

The reality of The Meadowlark was white stucco grayed by time and pollution, a profusion of plants in need of trim, a constant overlay of freeway flatulence.

Security was mechanical but effective: a deadbolted iron mesh gate. I checked the roster of residents, failed to find Brackle’s name, figured him for long gone, or a sublet.

Then a listing at the bottom caught my eye.

Ranchero Five. One of the high-priced units.

I was deliberating whether or not to try the direct approach when a FedEx guy came charging through the gate. I caught it before it could swing shut, made my way past the first two swimming pools, both unoccupied and leaf-littered.

The Haciendas were a collection of two-story units tucked into the northeast corner and segregated by a low wall of cut-out cement blocks.

The orange door to Five was nearly hidden by the broad leaves of a banana that had managed to thrive in the shade but would never bear fruit.

I rang the bell. A female voice said, “Larry? Forget your key again?”

I murmured something that could’ve been “Uh-huh” or “Uh-uh.”

The door opened on a perilously thin, brown-haired, middle-aged woman wearing an oversized white jersey top and black yoga pants, and holding a cigarette. Bare feet, pink toenails, red polish for the tips of her spidery fingers. A gold chain rested on the arch of one varicose foot. A face perched on a long, graceful neck bore the aftershocks of beauty. Puckers around her wide, thin mouth gave her a capuchin look. Shadows under her eyes spoke of stories that could never be untold.

“You’re not Larry.” Smoker’s rasp. Olfactory stew of Chanel and tobacco.

“Mrs. Vander?”

“Who’s asking?”

I gave her my name and flashed the consultant’s I.D.

“A doctor? Something happened to Larry?”

“No. I’m here to talk to him.”

“About what?”

“Old friends.”

“Well, he’s not here.” Kelly Vander began closing her door.

I said, “When’s Mr. Brackle coming back? It’s important.”

The door stopped moving.

“Mrs. Vander?”

“I heard you.” Behind her was a big bright, high-ceilinged room set up with a flat-screen and pink leather couches. A half-gallon bottle of Fresca stood on an end table. Music played. Jack Jones advising some girl to comb her hair and fix her makeup.

Kelly Vander said, “He went out for cigarettes.”

“No problem. I’m happy to wait outside.”

“What kind of old friends?”

“Travis Huck, for one.”

“Travis,” she said.

“You know him.”

“Why wouldn’t I? He works for my ex-husband.”

“Are you and Mr. Vander in regular contact?”

“We talk.”

“Have you spoken to him recently?”

She shook her head. “This has something to do with Simon?”

I said, “Did Larry help Travis get the job with Simon?”

She sucked in smoke. “I don’t speak for Larry. For anyone. Give me your number, I’ll pass it on.”

“I’d rather wait.”

“Suit yourself.” The door edged inward another couple of inches.

I said, “Simon hasn’t been heard from in two weeks. Same for Nadine and Kelvin.”

“They’re probably traveling. They do that.”

“Two weeks ago, they flew from Asia to San Francisco. Any idea where they might be staying?”

“I wouldn’t know. What’s that got to do with Larry?”

“You haven’t heard about Travis?”

“Heard what?”

I told her.

“That’s insane.”

“What is?”

“Travis doing something like that. He loves us.”