“Yeah, in one of the garbage bags. Turned out to be Brazilian rose-wood, which is rare, endangered. Would’ve been better to find jewelry or coins.”

“How long ago was this, Mr. Hernandez?”

“Two weeks. I tried to find something else they could’ve been, some other animal, but from what I can tell they’re human. So I didn’t put ’em up on eBay, that would be wrong.”

“eBay accept that kind of thing?”

“I never got that far,” said Hernandez. “Didn’t even try. Probably coulda sold ’em, but then I heard about those murders. On TV.” Peering at Milo. “Four women, and that marsh is pretty close to the storage unit. I know this is three, not four, it probably doesn’t mean anything, but I just thought I should come forward.”

“You did the right thing, Mr. Hernandez. Where’s the facility?”

“Pacific Public Storage, Culver Boulevard just before it intersects with Jefferson.”

“You live in Alhambra.”

“Sure do.”

“Bit of a drive to the auction.”

“Not compared with other places I been,” said Hernandez. “Did one in San Luis Obispo.” Yellow smile. “Heck, I’d drive to Lodi you tell me there’s bargains.”

“Auctions are your main job.”

“Nope, I’m trained as a landscaper, looking for work.”

“Been looking for a while?”

“Too long.” Hernandez sat back and laughed. “My brothers said it would be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Personal questions. ‘Come forward, be a good citizen, Bobby, but you’re gonna be looked at like a suspect because that’s what the job’s like. We don’t trust nobody.’ ”

“Your brothers are on the job.”

“Gene’s Covina PD, Craig’s South Pasadena. Dad’s a retired firefighter. Even Mom’s into it, West Covina dispatcher.”

Milo smiled. “You’re the nonconformist.”

“No offense, Lieutenant, but you couldn’t pay me enough to be cooped up in a car or an office. Give me a backhoe and five acres and I’m sailing. Speaking of which, I’d better get going. Job interview out in Canoga Park. They’re moving big palms and I know how to do that.”

Milo took his information, thanked him again, shook his hand.

At the door, Hernandez said, “One more thing, sir. It’s not the main reason I came in but I’ve got a court date on my warrants, so if you’re of a mind to put in a good word…”

“Your lawyer told you to come forward?”

“No, it was my idea. But he thought it might help. So did my brothers. You can call either of them, they’ll vouch for me. If I’m outta line, just tell me, and it never came up.”

“Who’s your lawyer?”

“Some fresh-out-of-school PD, that’s what bugs me,” said Hernandez. “Mason Soto, he’s more into stopping the war in Eye-Rack.”

Milo copied down Soto’s name and number. “I’ll tell him you’ve been a big help to LAPD, Bob.”

Hernandez beamed. “Thank you, sir, appreciate it deeply-those bones, at first I thought they might be from one of those anatomical models. You know, what doctors learn from? But there’s no holes drilled through them, like you would do if you were stringing them together. So they’re just loose bones.”

Short, hard tug at the Vandyke. “Can’t see any reason for a mentally healthy person to want something like that.”

Pacific Public Storage was a city block of beige bunkers hemmed by twenty-foot chain link. Flagrantly orange ten-foot signage promised special deals. The company’s logo was a stack of suitcases.

We drove past and clocked the drive to the marsh before circling back. Six minutes each way, at moderate speed.

Perched above the entry to the facility’s parking lot was a security camera. A Quonset hut served as the office. One man worked the desk, young, chubby, bored. His orange polo shirt bore the logo. His I.D. badge said Philip. A biography of Thomas Jefferson was unfolded face-down on the counter. Passionate sports talk blared from a radio.

Milo eyed the book. “History buff?”

“School. Can I help you?”

“Police.”

The badge made Philip blink.

Milo said, “Some contraband was found in one of your units. Number fourteen fifty-five.”

“Contraband? Like dope?”

“Let’s just say something illegal. What can you tell me about that bin?”

Philip leafed through a ledger. “One four five five… that one’s vacant.”

“We know that, Mr…”

“Phil Stillway.”

“The contraband in question was obtained when the contents were auctioned off two weeks ago, Mr. Stillway.”

“I’ve only been here a week.”

Milo tapped the ledger. “Could you please check who rented the unit?”

“It’s not in here, in here is just the occupied units.”

“Occupied? You’ve got tenants living here?”

Philip gaped. “No, sir, I meant material. Belongings. No one lives here, that’s against regulations.”

Milo winked and grinned.

“Oh,” said Philip, “you were joking.”

“Who rented fourteen fifty-five and when?”

Philip walked two steps to a computer, sat down, tapped keys. “Says here it’s been in arrears for sixty days and that was… two weeks ago… um, yeah, there was an auction, everything got cleaned out.” Tap, tap. “Says here the rental agreement was… fourteen months ago. One year, paid in advance, sixty days in arrears.”

“Paid, how?”

Tap tap tap. “Says here cash.”

“Who’s the renter?”

“Says here Sawyer comma initial T.”

“Address?”

“P.O.B. 3489, Malibu, California, 90156.”

Malibu ’s zip code was 90265. Milo scowled as he copied down the information.

“What other information did Sawyer, T., give?”

Philip read off an 818 phone number.

Malibu ’s 310 but with everything cellular, logic no longer pertains.

Milo said, “Okay, let’s have a look at your security tapes.”

“Pardon?”

“The camera out front.”

“Oh, that,” said Philip. “It’s for when the gates close after eight p.m. and renters want access.”

“You lock up after eight?”

“Yeah, but they can give a deposit and apply for a twenty-four-hour card key.”

“When do the cameras get turned on?”

“When there’s no one in the office.”

“Which is?”

“At night,” said Philip. “After eight.”

“Did T. Sawyer apply for a card key?”

Philip swung back to his keyboard. “The box is checked. Yes… looks like we never got the card back, so the deposit was forfeited. Two hundred dollars.”

“Okay,” said Milo. “Let’s see those tapes. Anything before two weeks ago would be best.”

“It might be best,” said Philip, “but it’s also impossible. Everything’s recorded over after forty-eight hours.”

“Two days and gone? Tight security system you’ve got here.”

“This contraband, was it dangerous? Like toxic waste, something hazardous? My parents aren’t too cool with me working here, worried about the stuff people store.”

“Nothing toxic or radioactive,” said Milo. “Is there anyone in the company who can tell us something about Mr. Sawyer?”

“I can ask but I don’t think so. Everything we need to know is here.” Tapping the computer.

“Let’s look at the last forty-eight hours of tape.”

“Sure.” Philip reached to his left and switched on a VCR. The feed went straight to the computer and the screen turned gray. Stayed that way. “Hmm,” he said, tickling the keyboard and changing nothing.

“It’s not showing much, I don’t know…”

“Stay with it, Phil.”

A perusal of the Help menu and several false starts later, we were staring at a grainy black-and-white close-up of the storage facility gate. Static shot, but for a time register playing bingo. The camera angle was tilted to give a truncated view of the lot, maybe fifteen feet of asphalt, well short of the parking slots.

I said, “All You Wanted to Know About the Driveway But Were Afraid to Ask.”

Phil started to smile, saw the look on Milo ’s face and changed his mind.

The screen reverted to gray.