Free Bones by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

stretched.
    “You look weighed down,” she said.
    “Milo’s burden. I hung around and watched.”
    “Watched what?”
    I hesitated, the instinct to protect rearing its paternalistic little head. Back in the old days, I’d avoided talking about police cases. A couple of breakups and makeups later, I had a new appreciation for sharing.
    I gave her the basics.
    She said, “The marsh? Where we tried to take a walk?”
    “None other.”
    “You know, the place was kind of creepy.” Same thing Liz Wilkinson had said.
    “How so?”
    “It’s nothing I can really pinpoint. Unfriendly, I guess. Where were the bodies left?”
    “The most recent one was right near the eastern entrance. The others were submerged farther up the path.”
    “Drive up and dump,” she said. “A car would’ve been conspicuous, Alex. And all that development looking down on it.”
    “Nighttime dump, turn off the headlights, you’d fade into the darkness. Including the view from above.”
    She pushed her plate away. Mixed herself a cranberry juice with a splash of Grey Goose. “Three sunken bodies and one left right out in the open. What does that mean?”
    “Maybe a new level of confidence.”
    “Bragging,” she said. “Like it’s something to be proud of.”
     
     
    The dot-com guy had sent Robin a box of Audrey Hepburn movies. We’d made our way through most of the DVDs, had saved
Charade
for a long quiet night.
    Ten minutes into the film, the phone rang. I ignored it, drew Robin closer. Seconds later, the clanging resumed. I put Cary Grant on pause.
    Milo said, “You free tomorrow at ten, right? Selena’s mom is due.”
    “Sure.”
    “Everything okay?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “I interrupt something?”
    “High intrigue featuring gorgeous people.”
    “A movie,” he said.
    “Ace detective.”
    “Sure ain’t real life. Go back to Cinema Dreams. I’ll tell you about the bones tomorrow.”
    “What about the bones?”
    “Hey, far be it from me to take you away from Robin and Doggie and fictitious gorgeous people.”
    “What?”
    “Dr. Hargrove got a quicker fix than she thought. All three of the submerged victims are complete skeletons, minus the right hand. Jane Doe Number Two is also a black female, same age range as Jane One with the broken leg, also probable strangulation. From the length of
her
femurs, at least five seven, and strain marks indicate she was probably significantly overweight. Hargrove is guessing burial for maybe half a year, but she won’t commit. Number Three’s a white female, older than the others — closer to fifty, average size, another broken hyoid, nothing much in the way of distinguishing marks. Could be the same TOD as Jane Two, or longer, hard to say. The other tidbit is San Diego PD has a missing black female named Sheralyn Dawkins. Twenty-nine years old, arrests for solicitation and dope, and she broke her leg in a car crash five years ago and limped.”
    “Hundred and twenty miles away,” I said. “Our boy’s a traveler?”
    “Just what I need. I told Reed to find family, drive down, and notify. Give him a sense of accomplishment, boy’s got low self-esteem, no?”
    “He have any luck with the Vanders’ accountants?”
    “Not a lick. Global Investments referred him to Vander’s lawyer where he got shunted to a secretary. Who sent him to
her
secretary. Who put him on hold, then informed him she’d get back to him. No nasty stuff on Travis Huck or Silford Duboff, either. And no links show up between the two of them.”
    I said, “The thrilling world of sleuthing.”
    “Let’s see what Reed learns from Sheralyn Dawkins’s family. Maybe she moved to L.A. and we can establish some kind of connection to someone.”
    “If she did move, here’s something to consider: The marsh isn’t that far from the airport, and the area around LAX is full of streetwalkers.”
    “Hmm… I like that. Okay, go back to your movie,” he said. “Which one?”
    “Charade.”
    “Cavorting in