Milo said, “Perish the thought.”

Fox said, “Comes back to Alston Weir, Attorney-at-Mischief. Such a greedy scumbag, she wouldn’t trust him as far as she could throw him. Meanwhile he’s her lunch-hour fuck-buddy.”

Reed said, “Is Weir bald?”

“You think, Moses? Is there any other good reason to saddle himself with a big old mess of phony, piss-yellow fake-o hair? I’m talking Halloween, guys. Blond dust mop. What I find weird is the guy knows how to dress. Zegna suit, Ricci tie, Magli shoes. Threads like that and he blows it with a bad rug. Go figure.”

“Maybe he’s got an exaggerated self-image,” said Milo.

“Meaning?”

“Thinks he’s cuter than he really is, ’cause of all the Bondo in his face.”

Fox frowned. “Yeah, that, too. So you know all this? I just blew off a client for nothing?”

No answer.

“Oh, that’s just great. You guys sit there and let me spin my wheels.” To his brother: “Having fun, Moses?”

Reed smiled. But no irony, no resentment. Maybe even something resembling brotherly affection.

“What?” Fox demanded.

“We knew a little, Aaron. You just made it a lot.”

The four of us left the restaurant. Fox and Reed walked side by side, seemed on the verge of conversation. But neither brother initiated.

Milo said, “Did you happen to hold on to Simone’s garbage, Aaron?”

“Lucky for you, I’m a bit of a pat rack, Milo. Moses can verify. His side of the room looked like some ashram, mine was beaucoup toys.”

Reed said, “Beaucoup junk.”

Fox said, “Shall I have it picked up or would you like me to deliver?”

“We’ll come to you, Aaron. And thanks.”

“Figured I had to, the girl’s bad news. Any way to keep my part quiet?”

“We’ll do our best.”

Fox fooled with his pocket square and eyed his Porsche. “Meaning no.”

Milo said, “You know how it goes, Aaron. Depends where it leads. Meanwhile, do us another favor and hold off on trying to collect your bill from Simone.”

“For how long?”

“Until it’s no longer an issue.”

“Meaning never.”

“Meaning until it’s no longer an issue.”

“Now,” said Fox, “you’re sounding like a lieutenant.”

Pulling Alston “Buddy” Weir’s driver’s license took seconds. Forty-five years old, blond and blue, beta-carotene tan coating a heavy face that alternated between too-tight and losing the battle with gravity.

The bored, insolent expression of a man with better things to do than pose for the clerk. No one had questioned the biological authenticity of the Jan-and-Dean wig.

No criminal record, but a bar association complaint, still pending, had been filed two years ago over misappropriation of funds.

Locating Chance Brandt ate up over an hour.

We finally found the boy at the Westwood house of a friend named Bjorn Loftus.

Parents on vacation, gussied-up SUVs in the driveway, earsplitting music and marijuana fumes blowing through the doorway as Bjorn gaped.

He jabbered improbable lies until Milo told him to bring Chance out now. Both boys staggered out moments later.

Chance smirked. “Again?”

Reed said, “Recognize this guy?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“Who?”

“Dude I saw giving the envelope to Duboff-jackoff.” Bobbing his head and waiting for laughter that never came. “Mister look at me I’m all…” Chance’s eyes clouded as he groped for a punch line.

“Sign your name to the photo,” said Milo.

Chance’s scrawl was unsteady. Reed had him repeat it.

Bjorn Loftus let out a dope giggle. “Now you’re gonna have to testify, dude.”

Chance said, “No way,” and looked to us for confirmation.

Milo said, “We’ll be in touch.”

“Hear that, dude? You’re gonna get touched, dude.”

Chance said, “Not unless they’re gay, dude,” and lurched back inside.

Bjorn said, “Dude.”

Milo studied the signed photo. “My head feels like it’s gonna split open. Time for Advil and a sit-down on what we know and what we don’t.”

I said, “My house is ten minutes away and I’ve got an ice pack for that neck.”

“I said head, not neck.”

“I was talking whiplash, from getting jerked around.”

He and Reed laughed. “Yeah, let’s boogie over to the White House. He’s got a nice place, Moses. Cute dog, too. Maybe she can make sense of all this.”

I said, “There’s additional incentive. Fifteen thousand worth.”

CHAPTER 36

Reed and Milo sat on the leather couch. No one bounced.

Blanche nestled in Milo ’s lap. She smiled; he didn’t notice.

All eyes on the money.

Reed said, “When did Reynolds bring that to you?”

“Yesterday,” I said. “I was about to tell you when Aaron came in.”

Milo said, “Fifteen grand ain’t picnic pay. Maybe it’s time for the anthropologists. Death dogs, too.” Blanche’s ears perked. “No offense.”

Reed said, “Weir and Simone have been paying Duboff for access to the west side for something nasty? He finds out what their bribes are for and gets killed?”

“I doubt he knew, he’d have been screaming,” I said. “But they couldn’t risk his finding out.”

“Guy has free rein to the marsh, if anyone’s going to find it, he is. What if he did find out, then tried to make some extra dough?”

Milo said, “Leaning on a serial killer for more dough is pretty stupid. A nighttime meet, no less. I think the lure was just what Duboff was told: I’ve got something to make you a hero. And the caller had credibility because he knew about the secret part of the marsh.”

Reed thought. “That makes sense, Loo. Duboff brought Reynolds because he wasn’t expecting trouble. Guy started thinking he was the marsh god. But no matter what Aaron found, it doesn’t let Huck off.”

“Well put, Detective Reed. Okay, I’m gonna try to get some speed on that shoe-print analysis.”

“Huck’s the one who rabbited, Loo. More I think about it, more I like the idea of all of them being in on it.”

“Three Nasty Musketeers? Then why would Simone hire Aaron to focus on Huck?”

“She and Weir used Huck but planned on ditching him all along.”

“Weakest link,” said Milo. “Criminal history, drug issues, frequents hookers. Yeah, that fits.”

I said, “Killing hookers makes me wonder if they tailored the murders to Huck because he’s a longtime john.”

“That blood in his drain could be real, or a plant,” said Reed. “But either way, he still smells dirty.”

“Which leads us to another issue,” said Milo. “If he’s expendable, giving him a chance to split is a real bad idea.”

Reed stared at him. “They didn’t and we’re chasing down a dead man?”

“Or Huck’s a lone psycho killer and Simone just happens to be an angry girl with a penchant for lying.”

Reed said, “Cutting up her family? Ripping off her brother’s face. Doc?”

I said, “It’s off-the-scale rage and the family is missing.”

Milo said, “Okay, let’s assume for the moment that Simone, Weir, and Huck did collude. The obvious motive would be getting rid of the Vanders.”

Reed said, “Hundred million worth of motive? Hell yeah.”

“Then how do the women in the marsh figure in?”

I said, “Like we said before, misdirects. If the Vanders were found murdered with no prior context, attention would’ve shot straight to the money. Meaning an unwelcome focus on Simone as sole survivor. But with Huck nailed as a lust murderer first, the Vanders could be seen as collateral damage-victims of a psychopath’s final rampage. That fits the staging of the crimes: concealing the other bodies but making sure Selena was found, so she could lead us to the Vanders.”

“That storage unit,” said Reed. “Board games. We are being played.”

Milo said, “Those bones being acid-washed and prepped means the other women were killed at leisure, maybe warehoused somewhere, then dumped sequentially.”