Reed said, “For all we know, they were on dry ice in the unit.”

I said, “One question: the evil bald guy. Huck or Weir minus his wig?”

Milo said, “You have any feelings on that?”

“Could go either way. But two guys who just happen to be skinned could be part of setting up Huck.”

“Like Nguyen said, Alex, it’s not that rare of a look. But the more I think about it, the more Huck’s shaping up at least a partial patsy. If Huck murdered a bunch of people and was smart enough to leave no trace, why would he rabbit and make himself an obvious suspect?”

I said, “Maybe fear overcame good sense. Or he caught on that Weir and Simone had plans to end his future. With that much money at stake, he had to know he’d never be an equal partner.”

Reed said, “Yeah, thirty-three million is a bit high for wet work. But he goes along with it anyway because killing is his thing.”

“Or Simone seduced him.”

“Another kind of three-way?”

“Why not?” I said. “But, Huck finally figured out he was expendable and ran. Maybe he somehow learned about Aaron’s investigation. Or he just got nervous when your investigation took on steam.”

Milo said, “Simone heaps it on to Aaron: Huck’s big-time weird, she’s always been afraid of him. Huck doesn’t help himself by actually being weird.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if his corpse shows up at a strategic moment-apparent suicide, accompanied by a nice, neat confession note and a tipoff to where the Vanders are buried. A whole bunch of cases close simultaneously and Simone’s one of the richest girls in L.A. ”

Milo rubbed his face. “Hundred million. Wars have been fought over less.”

Reed said, “If Huck pulled a real rabbit, Weir and Simone have to be freaking out.”

I said, “Maybe that’s why Simone hacked up the picture.”

Milo said, “Low frustration tolerance.”

“If that’s the case, she and Weir are working on Plan B right now. Get rid of any evidence that incriminates them, gussy up the case against Huck.” My head tightened. “That’s why Duboff had to die. He could link Weir to the marsh.”

Reed said, “Oh, man. These people are from another planet.”

Milo said, “We forgot something. If Huck was dead, Wallenburg wouldn’t be shielding him.”

I said, “Maybe she thinks he’s alive. Anyone can send a text message.”

“So who’s the Adams family she just visited? Creepy and kooky folk Wallenburg just happens to know? Boot up your computer, Alex.”

Reed was faster than Milo on the keyboard and he knew the access codes. Within seconds, he’d pulled up county records.

Anita Brackle née Loring had given marriage a third shot two years ago.

Civil ceremony in Van Nuys court. The lucky groom, Wilfred Eugene Adams, black male, sixty-two years old, home address in Mar Vista.

His name pulled up three DUIs, the final conviction six years previous.

Reed said, “Probably another rehab romance.”

Milo said, “RDate-dot-com, there’s a business opportunity for you. Okay, let’s check it out.”

“We’re holding off on the dogs and the anthropologists?”

“Not at all. Call Dr. Wilkinson.” Tiny smile. “While you’re at it, she can also check out the western edge of the marsh.”

Reed’s jaw dropped.

Milo said, “Goes with the job, kiddo.”

“What does?”

“Long periods of futility livened by moments of chagrin.”

Reed made the call as Milo and I waited in the unmarked. As he headed for us, he looked defeated.

Milo said, “Maybe she turned him down for a second date.”

The young detective got in back.

“Everything okay, Moses?”

“Not in, left a message.”

“Something on your mind?”

“Text messaging, I should’ve thought of that.”

“What, ’cause you’re the techno-generation and I’m the poster boy for horse and plow and just gave up on my Betamax?”

“What’s that?”

“A brand of buggy whip.”

A Dodge van sat in the driveway of Wilfred and Anita Loring Brackle Adams’s bungalow. If Wilfred was home, he wasn’t advertising the fact. Anita’s voice was a gritty drill bit that threatened to pierce the locked door from behind.

“You go away.”

“Ma’am-”

“I will not open my door and you can’t force me to open it.”

Fourth time she’d recited the mantra.

Milo said, “We really can return with a warrant.”

“Then you’d really better do that.”

Milo leaned on the bell. When he stopped, Anita Adams laughed. The sound was rocks in a tumbler.

“You see humor in the situation, ma’am?”

“You’re playing the bell, like some sort of brainwashing tactic. Why don’t you go get some of that rap music and blast it all over the street. See how popular that makes you with the neighbors. ’Specially when it turns out you had no good cause to…”

Milo and I returned to the unmarked. Her taunts reached nearly to the curb.

“Sweet lady,” he said. “Gosh, I wish she was my mom.”

We sat in the car and watched the little frame house. I drank cold coffee and he swigged Red Bull. Five minutes in, he phoned Moe Reed. Liz Wilkinson and three grad students interning at the bone lab were on their way to the western edge of the marsh. Insufficient daylight prevented a comprehensive search but they’d do a spot examination. Wilkinson suggested a helicopter sweep, and sure, the dogs were fine.

Nothing back on the shoe print.

Milo clicked off just as a car pulled up behind us.

Steel-colored Maybach. Debora Wallenburg got out and looked up and down the street before approaching the unmarked. Aqua Chanel suit, silver hair pulled back severely, lots of diamond glint.

“Tired of the Chevy, Counselor?”

Wallenburg flinched but recovered quickly. “You’re following me. Charming.”

“Have a chat with your elusive client recently?”

Wallenburg laughed. “Here goes the tape loop.”

“What’s funny, Counselor, is your viewing the situation as a yukfest.”

“I view it as theater of the absurd.”

“The way you claim to feel about Huck, I’d expect you to be taking it seriously.”

“Your alleged case.”

“Your client’s demise.”

Wallenburg’s cheek muscles twitched. Courtroom training delayed her response. “What are you talking about?”

“When’s the last time you actually spoke to ol’ Travis?”

Wallenburg cocked a hip in a display of mellow. Tension around the eyes blew the performance.

“Just like I thought,” said Milo.

“Is this the moment where your artful goading causes me to blurt out some crucial piece of information, Lieutenant?”

“It’s the moment that I tell you I know Huck didn’t call, you got a text message and assumed. No offense, Counselor, but maybe it’s an age thing. Digital naïveté.”

“You’re mad,” said Wallenburg.

“More like peeved.”

“I meant in the mental illness sense.”

“Insult registered, digested, soon to be excreted.”

“My clients that concern you at this time are Mr. and Mrs. Adams,” she said. “They request that you cease harassing them.”

“Thought you were corporate,” said Milo. “How does that get you to front for a couple of working-class alkies who just happen to know Travis from dry-out camp?”

“Oka-ay,” said Wallenburg. “Now we switch to class warfare and denigration of people with the courage to recover.”

“My dad’s shirt was blue and I’ve known a few tipplers but the issue ain’t politics, it’s murder.”

Wallenburg didn’t answer.

“Hell,” said Milo, “what’s a few strangled women with their hands hacked off to a courthouse vet like you?”

“That’s repellent.”

“Thing is,” said Milo, “you’re not even doing good lawyering here. I’m not after your client as the prime bad guy. I’m figuring he was used and tossed. It’s in both our interests to get to the real evil.”