I thought about that. “A family emergency might’ve worked as ruse. Simone’s been hurt, or she’s sick. Simon and Nadine trusted Huck, no reason to verify. But how does Duboff fit in?”

“When we nab Huck, we’ll find out. Let’s face it, Alex, when you cut through all the bullshit, this ain’t a whodunit. We had the prime suspect in our sights right off the bat-he had good reason to sweat.”

Ten steps later: “God only knows what Huck was doing all those under-the-radar years before the Vanders took him in. So, of course, he repays them in a metaphysically consistent manner.”

“No good deed,” I said.

“I’m amending it,” he said. “No good deed goes un-tied-up and bloodied and degraded and dumped like garbage.”

“Too long for a bumper sticker.”

CHAPTER 27

Limited TV exposure brought in thirty-four sightings of Ed-ward T. Huckstadter aka Travis Huck.

Milo and Moe Reed spent two days chasing air.

A man who’d worked at the Youth Authority when Huck was in custody informed Reed that Huck had “given him the willies. Always crybabying about something, but those eyes of his…”

“Mean?” said Reed.

“Crafty, you know? Like when they’re plotting something. I woulda never let him out.”

“He do anything bad while he was in?”

“Not that I remember, but so what, I was right. Those types get all coiled up and wait like snakes.”

Huck’s name didn’t show up on the passenger logs of trains and buses leaving L.A., but a Metro ticket paid for in cash would’ve provided easy escape. After some lawyerly hedging, Buddy Weir consented to have the Vanders’ Lexus examined at the LAPD motor lab.

“But please, Lieutenant, no damage. I don’t want Simon and Nadine returning home to that kind of thing.”

No one was paying attention to Silford Duboff’s murder, but I couldn’t let go of it. I called Alma Reynolds, listened to the phone ring.

No voice mail, and she’d bragged about no cell for her or “Sil.” Maybe no computer or TV either; I wondered if she’d heard about the search for Travis Huck.

She’d retired from teaching college, hadn’t mentioned another job. I called Milo to see if the file contained a work number. He was over at the airport, re-scanning departure records, and I spoke to Moe Reed.

He said, “Let me check… here it is, doctor’s office, West L.A. What are you figuring she can tell you?”

“Probably nothing.”

“You do this a lot, huh? Helping out.”

“When he asks.”

“He ask you to check Reynolds?”

“Sometimes I improvise.”

“Yeah,” said Reed. “He told me that.”

Given Alma Reynolds’s lifestyle, my bet was on some sort of holistic practice for her employer. But her boss turned out to be a conventional ophthalmologist in a conventional building on Sepulveda near Olympic.

The waiting room was full. Small-print brochures for LASIK were the preferred reading material.

Reynolds’s job title was office coordinator. The receptionist at the front seemed happy for a break in routine. About my age, with short dark hair and an easy smile.

“Sorry, she’s gone to lunch.”

“Two forty-five,” I said. “Kind of late.”

“We were swamped all morning, I guess she didn’t have time till now.”

“Any idea where she eats?”

“This about her boyfriend?”

“It is. She talk about him?”

“Just that she misses him. Wants to see whoever did such a terrible thing pay-you don’t wear contacts, do you?”

“Nope.”

“Thought so,” she said. “Your eyes are that natural gray-blue, with colored lenses they tend to overdo the blue… Alma likes Mexican, there’s a strip mall three blocks west.”

The mall provided easy parking and six ethnic restaurants. Alma Reynolds was the sole patron of Cocina de Cabo, sitting in a blue, molded-resin booth, enjoying blue corn fish tacos and a can of Coke Zero. Despite the heat, she had on the same mannish wool slacks, below a white V-neck that made her look ten pounds lighter than the work shirt she’d worn at the station. Long gray hair was tied back in a ponytail, and I thought I spotted makeup around wrinkle lines. Bright blue eyes made me wonder about cosmetic lenses.

I waved. She slapped a hand on her chest. “Stalking me?”

“Only in the service of public safety. May I sit down?”

“Can I stop you?”

“If it’s not a good-”

“Just kidding. Sentarse. I think that’s the right word, when in Cabo, do as the Caboans do.” Her big jaw jutted and the blue eyes lowered to her taco. “Sil was a vegan. I eat fish from time to time.”

“I was wondering if you’ve come up with any other ideas.”

Her mouth narrowed. “Citizen participation? The answer is no.”

“One thing we’re still trying to figure out is how Sil fits the other murders.”

“Maybe he doesn’t.”

I waited.

“That’s all,” she said. “Maybe he doesn’t. One of those lunatic copycats. Unless the scumbag who lured him over was trying to hide something about the first murders.”

“Lured him with a promise to help him solve the other murders.”

The hand on her chest shifted and I spotted a glint of gold. She moved her fingers back into position. “Yes.”

“Do you think it could’ve been someone who knew Sil well enough to push his buttons?”

“Such as?”

“A friend, even an acquaintance who understood his attachment to the marsh.”

“His friend was me,” she said. “Same for acquaintance.”

“Limited social circle.”

“By choice. People can be so tiresome.”

“What about someone who knew him indirectly-through his work?”

“That’s a possibility, but he never mentioned a name.”

“We can’t seem to find a membership roster for Save the Marsh.”

“That’s because it’s not a real group. In the beginning-after Sil rescued the marsh from the B.S. boys, Billionaire Scum-a board was established. But that was just rich people trying to feel virtuous. No meetings were ever held. For all practical purposes, STM was Sil.”

“Who paid the bills?”

“Said nine-figure scumbags. I told Sil it was risky, once he got too dependent on them they’d have complete control, like dope pushers. But he said he wanted to take them for every dollar they’d give, worry about consequences later.”

Her lower lip shook and her hand wavered for a second before returning to her chest. Just long enough to reveal a huge pearl on a chain.

She picked up a taco, nibbled, put it down. “I’d like to be alone, if you don’t mind.”

“Bear with me, please. What was Sil’s salary?”

“It was a stipend,” she said. “So the B.S. boys could avoid payroll taxes. Twenty-five thousand. Sil said anyone could live on that if they simplified.”

Her hand fanned out over the pearl.

“Pretty,” I said.

Her neck turned red. “Sil gave it to me for my birthday. I hated it, told him I’d never wear it, too ostentatious. Now I wear it.”

I nodded.

She said, “Don’t pretend you understand, because you don’t. People like Sil and myself are more than intelligent enough to play by the rules and live fat and sassy like every other urban droid. I’ve got master’s degrees in two subjects and Sil had a B.A. in physics.”

She leaned forward, as if offering a secret.

“We chose to embrace the core. But even Sil could be romantic. For our last anniversary, he wanted me to have something nice. Even idealists need some beauty in their lives.”

“I agree.”

“I told him I didn’t want it, demanded he return it. He refused. We sparred. He outlasted me. Now I’m glad he did.”

Her eyes traveled to the restaurant’s wall of windows. “That your car? The green whatever it is.”

“ Seville.”

“A Cadillac,” she said. “ Seville -nothing Spanish about it, what possesses corporate liars?”