Free Bones by Jonathan Kellerman Page A

the beard — showed up again. The officer on guard kept him out and there were some words. I’d like to begin early tomorrow — soon as the sun’s up — and I’ll be alone because Eleanor and Lisa can’t make it until nine. It would be nice to avoid distraction.”
    “I’ll make sure someone’s posted before you arrive.”
    “Thanks. It’s a beautiful place but it can get a little… ominous.”
    He logged on to the department’s Missing Persons list, searched for black females in the age range Wilkinson had given him, found five disappearances, the most recent half a year ago. No mention of limps or broken legs, but he printed the data anyway.
    “Time to start looking at other counties. Hopefully she’s not a throwaway no one gave a damn about.”
    Lighting up, he clouded the tiny room with illicit smoke. Coughed and loosened his tie, spit a shred of tobacco at his wastebasket and missed, and grabbed for his keyboard.
     
    Typing silently and furiously.
    I left without a word.
     
     
    Commuter traffic and lane closures for no apparent reason turned the drive home into an ordeal, and by the time I reached Beverly Glen it was nearly six.
    The old bridle path that leads to my house was a sudden infusion of peace. My house, framed by pines and sycamores, was welcome white simplicity.
    I called out Robin’s name, got no answer. Tossed my jacket, grabbed a Grolsch, headed down the kitchen stairs, and walked through the garden past the pond.
    My footsteps caused the koi to storm the edges.
    Twelve adults and five juveniles. Half of the babies had died before reaching an inch, but the survivors were nearly a foot long and perpetually hungry. I tossed pellets, watched placid water churn into a maelstrom as the fish gorged. Enjoying the illusion of omnipotence for a couple of minutes, I continued along the rock pathway to Robin’s studio.
    Sometimes she stays at her workbench until I distract her. This evening the bench was clear and she was sitting on the couch, curling and uncurling her hair with a lazy finger while reading a book about Renaissance lutes.
    Blanche nestled in her lap, bunny-ears drooping, flat face compressed to wrinkled velvet.
    The other female in my life is a twenty-pound vanilla-colored French bulldog with tidy table manners rarely seen in the breed, and a saintly disposition. Some of my patients request her presence during sessions. I’m still trying to figure out what her cut should be.
    She and Robin looked up simultaneously. New Olympic event: synchronized smiling. I kissed Robin’s cheek, pecked the top of Blanche’s knobby head.
    Robin said, “Pooch and girlfriend are on an equal footing?”
    “
She
pants in appreciation.”
    “She also pees in the bushes.”
    “And the problem is…”
    “Oh, don’t tempt me.” We kissed. I sat down next to her. Her skin and hair were fragrant with cedar and Gio.
    Cool fingers rested on the back of my neck. “Have a good day?”
    “Better, now.”
    During the next clinch, Blanche observed, head tilted to one side, ears erect.
    Robin said, “Getting an eyeful, girlfriend?”
    Blanche smiled.
     
     
    We cooked up a mushroom-and-cheese omelet and I asked her what she’d been up to.
    “Didn’t do much but loaf around. I might get used to it.”
    A week ago she’d completed a major commission: replicas of four vintage Gibson instruments for a dot-com gazillionaire who’d donated them to charity. She’d been talking about starting a new project but had limited herself to repairs.
    I thought of a still-fragrant, sixty-year-old flamenco guitar brought in for a neck-set. “Finished the Barbero?”
    “Yup, it was simpler than I figured, Paco picked it up a couple of hours ago. You must’ve been really tied up. Service just called, said you hadn’t checked in. Some lawyer wants you for a consult.”
    She told me the name.
    I said, “If he ever pays his bills, he might actually get someone to work for him.”
    I finished my beer,