Bones by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

e-mail, four months old, from engrbass345 at a Hotmail account. I read over his shoulder.
     
Sel, so glad you finally found a job. And a satisfying one, to boot. Be well, dear. Don’t take so long next time.
Love, mom.
     
    Milo sighed. “Notification time.”
    “Your favorite thing,” I said.
    “That and drowning puppies.”
    Reed charged back into the apartment, bright-eyed and waving his pad.
    “Looks like Simon Vander’s a
big-
time money guy. The investment account might be in Seattle but he lives here, the Palisades. He owned a chain of supermarkets in Mexican neighborhoods, sold out two and a half years ago for a hundred and eleven million. After that, he drops off the screen except for three more hits for Kelvin, all recitals. Kid’s ten years old. Found one photo of him.”
    He flashed a grainy black-and-white shot of a good-looking Asian boy.
    Milo showed him the e-mail from Selena Bass’s mother.
    Reed said, “Going to try her by computer?”
    “If she’s local, we’ll do it in person.”
    “ ‘engrbass,’ ” said Reed. “Maybe she’s an engineer. Meanwhile, should we start with the Vanders, see if they know anything about Selena’s personal life?”
    Using the murdered woman’s first name. Beginning of the bond.
    Milo said, “That’s what I’d do.”
    Reed frowned. “Like I’m inventing the wheel.”
     
CHAPTER 7
     
    Five vehicles at two addresses were registered to Simon Mitchell Vander.
    At Calle Maritimo in Pacific Palisades: a three-month-old Lexus GX, a one-year-old Mercedes SLK, a three-year-old Aston Martin DB7, and a five-year-old Lincoln Town Car.
    At a Malibu listing on Pacific Coast Highway, a seven-year-old Volvo station wagon.
    Moe Reed ran map traces. “La Costa Beach and the north end of the Palisades. Pretty darn close.”
    “Maybe he likes sand between his toes,” said Milo. “Middle of the week, I’m betting on the main house. If that doesn’t pan out, we get a day at the beach.”
     
     
    The drive from Venice to Pacific Palisades was a slow drip along Lincoln, not much better on Ocean Front, followed by a quick drop onto Channel Road and a blue zip up the coast. A charitable breeze whipped the ocean into cobalt meringue. Surfers and kite runners and people who liked clear lungs were out in force.
    Calle Maritimo was a snaky climb above the old Getty estate. As the altitude climbed, properties enlarged, soil growing pricier by the yard. Reed drove fast, clipping past bougainvillea hedges, rock walls, charitable glimpses of ocean.
    A sign warned
Dead End: No Through Traffic.
Seconds later that promise was fulfilled by ten-foot iron gates.
    Hand-fashioned gates, with stout posts resembling oversized stalks of coral and curving iron rods tangled like octopus tentacles. On the other side of all that foundry work was an oval motor court paved with precise slate squares. Recently hosed slate, still beaded in spots, and ringed by razor-cut date palms. Behind the trees, a surprisingly modest house.
    Single story, dun stucco, red tile roof, enclosed courtyard hiding the front door. Off to the side were the four cars listed on Vander’s reg forms. Reed punched the call box. Five rings on the intercom, then silence.
    He tried again. Four more rings. A boyish-sounding male voice said, “Yes?”
    “L.A. police here to talk to Mr. Simon Vander.”
    “Police?”
    “Yes, sir. We need to talk to Mr. Vander.”
    A beat. “He’s not here.”
    “Where can we find him?”
    Two beats. “His last stop was Hong Kong.”
    “Business trip?”
    “He’s traveling. I can give him a message.”
    “Who am I speaking with, sir?”
    More hesitation. “Mr. Vander’s estate manager.”
    “Name please?”
    “Travis.”
    “Could you please come out to the gate for a second, Mr. Travis?”
    “Can I ask what this is—”
    “Why don’t you come out and we’ll tell you.”
    “Uh… hold on.”
    Moments later, the courtyard door opened. A man in a navy-blue shirt, pale jeans,