“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: Why had Silford Duboff been lured to his death?

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 about her and the other women were prep?”

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 them.”

Milo said, “If you’re right about the other women, digging up background on them isn’t a good use of our time.”

I said, “The killer had to connect with them somehow, so it could still bear fruit.”

Reed said, “I’ve been up and down the airport stroll and no one remembers Huck.”

“It’s a transitory population. And people have short memories for all sorts of reasons.”

Milo got up, paced, pulled out a panatela. Moe Reed relaxed when the cigar dropped back into a pocket. “A guy goes for hookers, who says he limits himself to one neighborhood?”

“Another stroll?” said Reed.

“Huck lives in the Palisades,” I said. “For pure fun, he could stay on the Westside. But when he’s trawling for victims, he travels to where he’s less likely to be recognized.”

“Maybe somewhere closer to his kill-crib,” said Reed. “Which could be relatively close to the Vander house. Not that I’ve found anything in the assessor’s files or anywhere else.”

Milo said, “The airport, the marsh-that storage facility-they’re all pretty close together. So the crib could be in that vicinity.”

Reed said, “To find a rental we have to go public, hope someone tips.”

“It may come to that, Moses, but not yet. Let’s stick with the second-stroll angle. If we can find other working girls Huck frequented, learn he’s into rough sex, maybe even put his hands around someone’s neck, it sets up cause for a warrant.”

“I could do Lincoln Boulevard farther north.”

“Good idea. That doesn’t pan out, we move on to the Strip. In fact, we don’t wait. Tonight, you do Lincoln then Sunset from Doheny to Fairfax. I’ll take Sunset East to Rampart, then Downtown. I’ll re-fax Huck’s license to Vice, maybe someone’s memory’ll be jogged.”

“What about surveillance of the house?”

“We continue to leave that to patrol. Huck doesn’t show his face soon, I guess I’ll have to talk to the brass about a press conference. In addition to the deep-burrow risk, we’ve really got nothing on the guy and he’s already been the victim of official injustice. Can’t you just hear the defense attorney’s opening statement?”

He turned to me: “In terms of Duboff getting gutted by another marsh hugger, maybe, but making our way through the eco-crowd is low priority.”

I said, “I’ll see what I can find.”

Reed said, “Might as well join the department, Doc.”

Milo said, “He’s my friend. Watch your mouth.”

Save the Marsh: A Citizens’ Committee was headquartered in a beige frame bungalow in Playa Del Rey, where that district turns into a cute little village of cafés and shops.

Two miles from the marsh, closer yet to Pacific Storage.

The building was shuttered. No cars sat in the three-space lot.

No ad hoc memorial to Duboff-no evidence at all he’d been murdered.

I walked across the street to an eatery called Chez Dauphin. White wood, blue shutters, screen porch, a handful of snackers. I ordered a roll and coffee, finished half before asking the Gallic proprietress if she knew who to contact at the bungalow.

She said, “Non, m’sieur, I have never seen anyone there.”

I began phoning the people on the Save the Marsh board.

The voice-mail message at Chaparral Stevens’s jewelry business was soundtracked by bird squawks, trickling water, and wind chimes. Stevens’s voice was low-pitched and sultry, her speech slightly halting. The “tantric ecstasy” she claimed due to “my six-month spiritual retreat at the Monteverde Cloud Forest Reserve in breathtaking Coth-ta Ree-ca” came across like cannabis languor.