The other members of the council had squashed the proposal, including Councilman Dudley W. Galoway.
Armed with the proper spelling, I returned to Google.
Nothing.
I texted Milo anyway.
He called back instantaneously. “He worked Swoboda then went into politics. Figures.”
“How so?”
“He acquired a taste for accomplishing nothing. Nothing else on him, huh?”
“Not that I could find.”
“So he probably is dead. Okay, thanks for taking the time.”
“At least you can look up his service records.”
“If nothing else comes up, maybe—in the absence of fire, blow smoke. Speaking of which, Chief Martz just called me at home wanting to know how the meeting with Barker went, did I get hold of the file yet, what was my ‘proactive progress status.’ This from a pencil-jockey who’s never investigated a jaywalking. She called Barker ‘the client’ like this is a private gig. Apparently, I’m supposed to report regularly to ‘the client.’ Robin dig the ice cream?”
“She’s saving it for when she’s finished working.”
“Delay of gratification, a clear sign of maturity. Or so they say.”
* * *
—
I looked up the current Piro city council. Five new names, one of them designated mayor for the year. The Clarion had closed down six years ago and no paper or website had taken its place. Coverage of the town was scant—a few brief pieces in the Ventura County Star and the Simi Valley Acorn—most of it along the lines of “Little Guy, Huge Heart” about a nine-year-old who’d raised money for typhoon victims in Indonesia. What wasn’t happy news was straight reporting of bake sales and charity golf tournaments.
“Yum.” Robin stood in the doorway, taking her time with a spoonful of Turkish Coffee. Blanche hurried over to her, sat, looked up and smiled.
“Sorry, girlfriend—okay, fine, just a finger-lick.”
I said, “She deserves a bit of spoiling. The azalea looks amazing.”
“Must be the nitrates.” She bent and ruffled the folds of Blanche’s neck, then crossed the room and sat down on my battered leather couch. “So what’d you do today?”
I told her, asked if she had any suggestions.
“Why would I have any?”
Last year she’d provided vital info on the limo massacre. I reminded her.
“That was luck,” she said. Two nibbles later: “The accident thing is interesting but I see what you mean about all those years in between. Still, first the victim, then a cop looking into it, then the husband, and you think another cop who worked on it could also be dead. Maybe someone doesn’t want this raked up.”
My phone rang.
Milo said, “Guess who’s alive and well and willing to help any way he can.”
“Dudley Galoway.”
“He goes by ‘Du.’ As in ‘I Du.’ Har har.”
“How’d you find him?”
“Used the right spelling and got hold of his pension records, which list a cellphone. He retired at forty-five, is only sixty-four now.”
“Soon after he picked up Swoboda.”
“He said it was an in-and-out. Maybe that’s why he sounds hale and hearty. I doubt he can tell me anything, but he was okay schmoozing so tomorrow at two.”
“Is he still out in Piro?”
“Ojai. I offered to go there, he said he’d rather drive in to La-La Land and give the old Jag a workout. He’s vegan, said anywhere with a salad. Given that, no reason I should trust him but beggars-choosers-losers and all that. I found a place near the station, here’s the address.”
I clicked off and summed up for Robin. “One less link in the accident chain.”
“Well, that’s good, something not to worry about, and maybe this guy will have something of value.” She smiled. “A preference for plant-based notwithstanding.”
CHAPTER
9
The unfortunately named Outer House was a couple of miles from the station, on Montana west of Barrington. Inside was a counter staffed by a young woman with a retro blond bob and enough piercings to drive a magnet mad. Dining took place at two rough wooden cable spools turned on their side.
I found Milo glaring at a jam jar filled with liquid the color of a silty river.
“Apple juice,” he said, without looking up. “Unfiltered and augmented with ground-up stems and peel. Apparently that’s where the vitamins are.”
I said, “Fiber.”
“Something’s gotta give.”
Next to us, a white-garbed Sikh couple shared something massive that looked like a burrito. They smiled and I returned the gesture.
Milo said, “You order over there.”
“I’m fine.”
“What’s that, your restaurant mantra? Fine, this time I’m not gonna argue.” He tasted the juice. “What it lacks in taste it makes up in grit.” He looked at his watch. “Hope the Jag didn’t break down.”
Only two minutes past the appointed time but antsy. I sat as he checked his email, did a lot of grimly enthusiastic deleting, put the phone down, and pinged the juice jar. “Eight bucks. I’m billing the department.”
I said, “They’ll probably approve.”
“Of what?”
“Taking the healthy approach.”
He shuddered. Turned to the front door as it opened.
The man who walked in managed to be thickly built and trim. Six feet tall, a muscular two hundred, great posture, broad-shouldered, with oversized hands and baseball-catcher thighs that filled dark-blue stretch jeans.
He saw us, grinned, and gave a thumbs-up. “Milo? Du Galoway. Hey!”
Galoway’s stride was long and confident, his complexion ruddy and smooth for sixty-four. Bright-blue eyes nested in thatches of laugh lines. His hair was thick, coarse, colored an unlikely black. A white collarless peasant shirt billowed over the jeans. The big hands ended in glossy, manicured nails. Sandals revealed equally impressive toenails. He could easily pass for ten years younger. Walking ad for healthy living.
Milo introduced me.
Galoway said, “Psychologist? That’s a new one. My day all the psychologists did was try to drum out maladjusts.”
Handshakes all around. His palms were soft and dry, his grip cautious, suggesting awareness of latent power. A glance at Milo’s juice. “Looks yum. Apple?”
Milo repeated the details.
“That’s true, peel’s full of good stuff.” Galoway patted a flat abdomen. “Our phase of life you need to keep the shipping routes open, right?”
“For sure,” said Milo, not coming close to credibility. “You order there. On me, Du.”
Galoway strode to the counter, returned with a glass filled with chartreuse fluid.
“Did your apple, added broccoli plus cumin and cardamom and turmeric and just a hint of chili powder. Reasonable, only ten bucks.”
Milo fished out a bill.
Galoway sat down. “Not going to happen, pal. I know it’s going to come out of your pocket not the department’s.”
“Either way, I insist, Du.”
“Uh-uh, not necessary, you did me a favor.” Perfect, blinding white smile.
“What favor is that?”
“Getting me out of the house. I’m not going to lie, life is overall good. But sometimes the days kind of drag. Even after I take my walk and do my biking and three times a week the lifting, then the gardening and the cleanup. Even with twice-a-week yoga there’s still a whole bunch of time to fill. I tried taking piano lessons but that didn’t work, far from it.”
He flexed his fingers. “Tone-deaf and clumsy. Can’t draw a straight line so art’s out. I thought of bonsai—those little Japanese trees? There’s a class near where I live. But it didn’t grab me. I even t
hought of writing a novel but that would take actual talent, right?”
“Happy to fill your day, Du.”
Galoway drank and exhaled with pleasure. The ten remained on the table. “C’mon, really, friend.”
“I insist.”
“Okay, don’t want to insult you.” Tweezing the bill between thumb and forefinger, Galoway slid it into a jean pocket. “So you’re reopening Swoboda. Man, that’s a blast from the past, took a sec to figure out the name. What got that going, some cold-case campaign?”
“Swoboda’s daughter is mega-rich and she pulled strings.”
“The daughter,” said Galoway. “One of the things I did when I got the case was try to talk to her, she was some sort of student. But her father didn’t want to give me her number, said she had nothing to add. He wasn’t cooperative, period. So what, she remembers something after all these years? One of those recuperating memory deals?”
“She knows nothing,” said Milo. “That’s why she pulled strings.”
“Strings. Huh.” Galoway finished half his juice, produced another gust of air rife with pleasure. “Dee-li-cious. How’d she make her dough?”
“Gym ware.”
“Wow,” said Galoway. “Go know. So heavy-duty strings.”
Milo nodded. “Bridge cables. I was contacted by a deputy chief and ordered to prioritize.”
“Same old story, huh? Money talks, cow-slop walks. I had kind of the same feeling when they handed it to me.”
“What feeling is that?”
“Strings,” said Galloway. “Not that I ever found out for sure.”
I said, “Why’d you suspect outside influence?”
“Because it didn’t make sense, by then the case was—let me think—fourteen years cold. Don’t know how much you know about the particulars, Doc, but I was the third guy assigned to work it. They hand me this skimpy murder book and say go.”
“How skimpy?”
“Skimpiest I’ve ever seen.” Galoway measured a quarter of an inch between thumb and forefinger. “Basically just a general description—the one you just gave me, Milo. Plus some illegible notes and the coroner’s summary. There wasn’t even an address where it went down, just the approximate site. The first guy picked it up when it happened, forget his name. Worked it, got nothing, retired. I tried to call him, too. After that, it sat for like…three, four years? Who remembers? The second guy had it for a while. Him I spoke to. His name was Seeger. Not too swift. He still around?”
Milo shook his head. “So neither of them had accomplished much.”
“To be honest, neither did I. It was like trying to build a house without a foundation.” Galoway frowned. “It felt as I was being set up to fail. I was barely a D I, had something like four months investigating financial crimes under my belt, zero experience with homicide. One day my captain calls me in and tells me I’m transferred to Homicide. I never even applied.”
He pushed his glass to the side. “Milo, I’m sure you like what you do. And I’ve nothing but respect for what you do. But I never had any interest in bodies, my plan was to do financial for a few years, then go back to school for a CPA and get a fed job. Secret Service or the IRS. Or maybe go private and get into industrial security. Homicide? What’s that going to do for me? I tried to beg off, it was like talking to a brick. So I must’ve pissed someone off. Why else would they assign me to a loser?”
Milo said, “Any idea who?”
“No, that’s the thing. It was like that writer…the guy who turned into a bug?”
I said, “Kafka.”
“Exactly, Kafka. It was like him, stuff starts happening and you have no idea. The only thing I could think of was working white collar I got too close to some moneybags. But none of my cases fit the bill, I was strictly small-time.”
“Why bother reopening the case if the goal was to fail?”
“You tell me,” said Galoway. “Here’s the funny thing, rookie me might’ve actually solved it if I had some decent intel. You know what they say, it’s always in the file. I went over that sucker a hundred times, at first it was like reading Chinese.”
He jiggled an index finger. “Truth is, I’ve got a pretty good feeling for who did it. But good luck proving it.”
Milo’s bulk edged forward. “You developed a lead?”
“No, no, just what I said, a feeling, that’s all.”
“About what?”
“Well,” said Galoway, “I don’t want to make more of this than it is but something Seeger wrote down got me going. Though he didn’t realize it. His handwriting sucked, you could barely make it out, but once I did I got curious. I played with it for a while, went to my new captain and told him I was making progress. He gives me a look like I just pulled my dick out and wanted to rub it on his face. A few days later, I’m back on financial. After that, I had enough with the job. Department was incentivizing early retirement so I left with my pension and got my real estate license and worked for a brokerage. The plan was to make enough to go back to school but all of a sudden I’m making serious dough selling property so I decided to stick with that a bit longer. Then I get bigger listings and serious commissions. Then I start using my earnings to flip houses.”
He lifted his juice. “Here’s to good luck.”
Milo pulled out his pad. “What did Seeger write down?”
Galoway looked uneasy. “Like I said, it was based on a feeling, not evidence. Plus all these years later, it’s like I’m handing you a glass of spoiled milk.”
“I’ll take what I can get, Du.”
Galoway looked back at the counter. “Hold on, let me get myself one of those muffins.”
CHAPTER
10
Fortified by two large bites of a fist-sized, rust-colored concoction laced with pumpkin seeds, Galoway wiped his lips and sat up straight, as if called upon to recite in class.
“You mind if I back up a bit? To make things clear for you.”
“Sure,” said Milo.
“How much do you know about her? Dorothy.”
“She was shot in the head in her car somewhere on the L.A. side of Mulholland, the car was pushed over the side then torched to look like an accident.”
Galoway stared at him. “That’s it?”
“We just started, Du.”
“Wow. Okay. First, I’m going to give you what I see as the psychology—her psychological state, you can appreciate that, Doctor.” He cleared his throat. “To me it was obvious she was unhappy with her marriage. She’d left him—what was his name…Seymour…Stanley. Right?”
“Stanley Barker.”
“An eye doctor. Right?”
“Right.”
Galoway grinned. “Nice to know the memory’s got some battery power left. Anyway, Stanley’s living up north but Dorothy dies down here. Obviously, that’s a red flag. I called him. He didn’t sound thrilled to hear from me, I’m thinking this is probably the guy. ’Cause that’s what they teach us, right? Start from the inside and work your way out. I figured he’d clam up but he answered my questions, just not with enthusiasm. He admitted they weren’t getting along, she’d left him six months before she was killed. No warning. He comes home, there’s a note on the bed and the kid’s at the next-door neighbor’s. Which tells you she had to be pretty miserable. I ask a few more questions—confirming the basics—and we finish. After that, Stanley’s not so great about getting back to me. So he stays on top of my list.”
I said, “Did you ever meet him face-to-face?”
“That would’ve required a plane ticket and a hotel, Doc. Milo, tell him the way it is when you’re soloing on a loser and ask for dough.”
“Got it,” I said.
“I’d have loved to sit down with the guy,” said Galoway. “You going to?”
Milo said, “He died nineteen years ago.”
>
“Oh. So like…two years after I talked to him. Who picked the case up after me?”
“No one.”
“All these years?” said Galoway. “Bummer. Anyway, no way was I going to dip into my own pocket. So I’m ready to fold my tents, figuring Stanley got away with it. Then something else Seeger wrote down—this smudged-pencil writing in the corner of a page, you could barely make it out—attracted my attention. The car wasn’t hers, it was registered to a company. Precision machining outfit, forget the name.”
He tapped his forehead, wrinkled it, tapped again. “Nope, gone, time for some new double A’s. Anyway, they made surgical knives, stuff like that. No indication Dorothy’s got those types of skills, I’m figuring if she had a job there, she was a secretary, something along those lines. But then I read the file for the zillionth time and the car she was in gets to me. Not a cheapo, we’re talking a one-year-old Cadillac Eldorado. Are you getting the same feeling I did, Milo?”
“Young woman, rich guy.”
“Bingo,” said Galoway, giving a thumbs-up. “Good-looking chick comes to town with no job experience, what’s she going to do? Use what God gave her.”
“Who owned the car?”
“Exactly, the obvious question. The first guy didn’t ask, or if he did, he didn’t record it. Same for Seeger. But I sniffed around. Unfortunately, the company wasn’t listed locally, so I backtracked with some business directories at the public library and then I went to the newspaper morgue. All of which takes time, by then there’s a little internet going on but the department’s not using computers except to teach clerks word processing. So we’re talking prying open Tut’s Tomb with my fingernails. Anyway the owner of the company is a guy named Deebarze. Spelled D-E-S separate word B-A-R-R-E-S, probably a French dude. Anton Des Barres. I check the backwards directory for an address and get nothing, makes sense, rich guys keep it private. So I go to the assessor and Des Barres had a house in L.A. but the last property tax payment was four years ago. I’m thinking shit, he split to France or wherever. But then I wonder if he’s dead so I check and sure enough, he kicked the bucket a year before that.”
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