Serpentine

by Jonathan Kellerman

  * * *

  —

  Rick was sitting on a rock-hard brown couch in the doctors’ room, wearing fresh scrubs and a long white coat and drinking from a bottle of Fiji water. He’s broad-shouldered and rock-jawed with huge, agile hands, a seamed, angular face, tightly curled gray hair, and a matching brush-mustache. The kind of hewn good looks that used to earn actors leading-man roles before the norms changed to juvenile and androgynous.

  His default mood is somber. When he saw Milo, he raised his eyebrows in surprise, half smiled, and hugged him.

  “Hi, Alex.” Firm handshake for me. “It’s business, huh? I’ll take what I can get.”

  Milo said, “I came by to ask about dinner. Coq au vin or stale pizza?”

  “Ha. What’s up, Big Guy?”

  “Remember that place you told me about, The Azalea?”

  “Tacky-Mahal? Is this related to your impossible one?”

  “Yup. Take a look at this, see if it rings any bells.” Handing over the shot of Anton Des Barres and the blonde trio.

  Rick said, “Older guy, bevy of cuties. Exactly what I saw when I was there…that wallpaper. Ugh. Looked even worse in real life…who are these people?”

  “The one on the left is my victim and he’s the rich guy she lived with. It’s these two I’m interested in.”

  “They look kind of…generic. As I told you, I was whisked past all that.” Another near-smile. “Did he tell you what they called the upstairs room, Alex? The Lavender Lair.”

  I said, “Subtle.”

  “The times weren’t subtle.” To Milo: “They’re suspects?”

  “More likely potential sources. Can you think of anyone who’d know the place well?”

  “Just one.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. H.”

  “Him? Thought he was an upstairs guy.”

  “When we came in, everyone greeted him, so he probably circulated.”

  “He still around?”

  “Don’t know but haven’t heard to the contrary.”

  “Think he’d cooperate?”

  “That I can’t say. But he did like attention so you could play off that.”

  “You haven’t seen him since?”

  “Actually,” said Rick, “a couple of years back, his daughter brought him here with chest pains. Turned out to be indigestion. I didn’t think he’d recognize me but he did.”

  “From high school senior to now?”

  “You’re saying I’ve changed? Yeah, it was surprising.”

  “Maybe he’s been keeping tabs on you.”

  “I doubt it but whatever the reason, he was quite lovely about it. And more secure. He told me he came out a while back and his kids were supportive.”

  “And he supports them, in return?” Milo rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

  “Cynic. You may be right but the interaction I saw, the daughter adored him.”

  He pointed to one of several computers arrayed near the facing wall. “His records are in there. Maybe. He’s got to be, what, mideighties.”

  He sprang up, crossed to a terminal, typed. “Still listed as an active patient, so if he died it didn’t happen here. You can check with the coroner or I can just call him for you.”

  “The latter would be great, Richard.”

  Rick patted his cheek. “Great is what I aim for.”

  * * *

  —

  Harlow Hunter Hesse was alive and well and still living on the 900 block of North Roxbury Drive in Beverly Hills.

  He picked up his own phone, barking “Yes?” loud enough for the sound to travel across the room. Rick introduced himself, then did a lot of listening. Churning the air with one hand as the monologue persisted. We were too far to hear the content but the pace and tone were turbocharged.

  Finally, Rick broke in. “Nexium’s an appropriate choice, Mr. H…he’s a very qualified gastroenterologist…I do, we were actually in the same year at med school…that I can’t tell you but he was certainly well thought of…there you go, Mr. H, you’re in good hands. May I ask you a question? It’s for a friend of mine…no, nothing to do with investment, he’s trying to learn more about The Azalea…yes, we were there…yes, I know…is that so? Glad you got it at a good price…anyway, if—no, not a writer, he’s a police detective.”

  Tensing up, as he said that. Then, one of the widest smiles I’d ever seen on Rick’s face spread smoothly. “That’s great, Mr. H. His name’s Milo Sturgis. Lieutenant Sturgis. What’s a good time for him to call…really? Hold on and I’ll check.”

  Stretching the phone to arm’s length, he whispered: “Could you go there now?”

  Milo said, “What’s the address?”

  As we reached the door, I said, “Good price? Did he buy the building?”

  Rick said, “Just the disco ball.”

  * * *

  —

  The address matched a fieldstone-and-stucco, multigabled traditional on a double-wide lot one block north of Sunset.

  H. H. Hesse met us at the door, wearing a maroon velour jumpsuit and red loafers. Four black-and-lace-uniformed maids buzzed around him like bees turned frantic by pheromones.

  Milo introduced himself.

  “Lieutenant—and other cop—glad to meet you, I’m Heck.”

  Clear-eyed and gravel-voiced, looking every year of his eighty-seven, Heck Hesse was average height despite a bowed back, meaning he’d once been tall. Despite that, he came across gnome-like, with a smallish round face, impish and inescapably chimp-like under an arid thatch of ginger hair.

  The four maids re-formed behind him in a line, a retinue waiting on nobility. As Milo and I entered, they curtsied.

  Hesse said, “Make yourselves snacks, ladies. Have fun, life’s short.”

  A collective, “Thank you, Heck,” as they scattered.

  “Come on in, gents.”

  He walked ahead of us, soles scuffing hardwood, maintaining a good pace despite the hunched spine and stiff legs. We passed several enormous, art-filled spaces, each of which could be a living room. It’s like that in many of the big houses I see. Set up for large-scale entertainment flow rather than family life.

  The library was at the rear, any outdoors view blocked by pink damask drapes. A crystal chandelier subbed for the sun.

  A disco ball, three feet in diameter and encrusted with mirrored squares, sat floodlit on a custom-fitted Lucite stand.

  Other than the garish sphere, the room was traditional. Spacious enough for three arrangements of tufted leather chairs. Four walls of pickled-pine cases were crammed with volumes. Not leather-bound showy stuff; the kinds of books people actually read.

  H. H. Hesse chose the center-most seating area: two club chairs and a love seat arranged around a glass-topped table. On the table was a copper-colored plastic pitcher purloined from IHOP slumming alongside three gilt-edged porcelain cups on saucers.

  He took the couch, lowering himself slowly, taking more time to cross his legs.

  “Sorry for the creaking,” he said. “Coffee?”

  Milo said, “Thank you, sir.”

  “You pour, my shoulder hurts.”

  Milo semi-filled three cups. Hesse said, “You’ve got finesse for a husky fellow. Great to meet you. I’m sure Dr. Rick told you. My forte was finance but I did get behind some small-screen productions, including cop shows.”

  He rattled off several titles, most forgettable or forgotten, plus a long-running drama that could’ve earned him a few mansions.

  “You look like the real deal, Lieutenant. You, on the other hand, are what casting directors like. The two of you would make a great pair. Either of you ever done any T.A.’ing?”

  Milo said, “Teaching assistant?”

  “Technical advising,” said Hesse. “Terrific money,
even with the tightening up. It’s the kind of line item that makes its way through the budgetary process because compared with all the waste, it’s penny ante.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind, sir.”

  “I wouldn’t advise either of you trying to break in solo, too much competition, too much hassle. But as a pairing, you’ve got something different. Synergy. They could tap into your repartee as well as your expertise. Who knows, you might score a reality show or something. Though you’d probably need to retire first. Want some phone numbers?”

  “Sure, thanks,” said Milo. “Before that, could we talk about why we’re here?”

  “Cut to the chase,” said Heck Hesse. “I like your style. Go.”

  Milo handed the photo across the table. “We’re trying to identify these people.”

  Hesse said, “I need my glasses—over there, near the art section.” Pointing to a bookcase filled with oversized spines. From Renaissance to Basquiat.

  Milo retrieved a pair of specs with lime-green frames and handed them over. Even assisted, Hesse squinted.

  He began on the left side, the way most readers of English do. “This one”—tapping Dorothy’s image—“I don’t know her but I may have a vague memory of seeing her there, that doesn’t help you…the guy I saw plenty of times. Some sort of scientist? Doctor?”

  Milo said, “Engineer.”

  “So you know him,” said Hesse. “So why come to me?”

  “We don’t know much about him.”

  “Neither do I, other than what I told you. Engineers are buttoned-up types, this one probably had a second adolescence, trying too hard to be a hippie. Silk shirts from Battaglia, good luck with that, the whole key to being a hippie was pretending to come off poor. My daughters tried it. Then they found out being poor was no picnic.”

  Hesse’s eyes shifted to the right. “This one I don’t know…this one, the chubby one. I’m pretty sure she’s the one who went missing. Am I right? That what you’re after?”

  We got up and studied the photo.

  The woman to Des Barres’s immediate left had a narrow face and fashion-model cheekbones. The woman Hesse had labeled chubby was anything but overweight. Just a bit of extra padding on her cheeks.

  More fresh-faced than exotic.

  Everything’s relative.

  Milo said, “What else do you know about her?”

  “So I’m right.” Hesse slapped a knee. “Good to know the brain’s still working. That said, don’t ask me about names, haven’t been able to hold on to names for longer than I’ll admit. What I do remember is once I was there with a…friend. The manager comes upstairs looking upset and tells us there’s a cop downstairs asking questions. Nothing that could involve us, a girl went missing, could we please go downstairs and talk to them. Naturally, I’m not tickled. Upstairs was a place to get privacy, good drinks, listen to that Indian Beatle music, jasmine or whatever in the air. Although by that time, it’s losing business. But they lowered the membership, I love a bargain…anyway…I’m loosening up after a tough day, aluminum had just gone nuts, or maybe it was the raw ore…bauxite. I ended up making a killing but what a day, it damaged my arteries, heh. But I go downstairs because it’s a cop, let’s keep it simple. He shows me a picture of this one.” Tapping. “I say no idea, he thanks me and leaves.”

  Hesse sat back. “The whole thing was two minutes, if that. But still not a pleasant experience. That’s what we remember, right? The bad stuff and the good stuff, everything in between gets shoved in the mental dumpster. What was bad wasn’t the cop, per se. It was any cop. My situation back then. You guys, even when you’re not trying to, you get accusatory. I get it. You see the worst in everyone. But it doesn’t make you fun to talk to.”

  He smiled. “Not you two. This is fun. Maybe nowadays they train you better in human relations, psychology, whatever.”

  Milo said, “We do have some top-notch psychologists.”

  “Well, that’s good. Anyway, I’m sorry for her, she looks like a nice girl—corn-fed. As to why she’d be at The Azalea, I don’t have to tell you.”

  “Please educate us, sir.”

  “Forget sir. Heck.” Velour legs crossed painfully slowly. “Think about it: What does L.A. mean to everyone in the outside world? New York, China, Russia, India, everywhere.”

  “The film business.”

  “Bingo. Like that movie, the Steve Martin one—guy’s brilliant, plays the banjo. Cute blonde gets off the bus and says, ‘Where do I go to become a star?’ Hilarious but not far from the truth. A girl’s got good looks, not too much in the brainpan, she comes here, ends up broke. Then what? You need me to spell it out.”

  “Prostitution.”

  “Literally or conceptually,” said Hesse. “The premise is the same: I can sell my looks so why not? During The Azalea’s heyday, it was free love, anyway, so you had social norms on your side. Even with that, females giving it away like crazy, there was a pecking order. You want a hippie chick with unshaved legs studying for a Ph.D., fine but that is not to everyone’s taste. Hairy legs wouldn’t make it through the door of The Azalea.”

  Hesse chuckled. “Unless you’re a guy who likes guys and thinks the bear thing is the thing.” Peering at Milo’s trousers and winking. “So, sure, some of the poor dears ended up as call girls. Or just plain hooking on the street if they got addicted to hard drugs. But there were also plenty of ambiguous situations. Cutie goes home with a rich guy, spends a few days, he gives her cash, takes her shopping, she spends a few more nights, even weeks. Some of them even got married. Plenty of women who call themselves socialites started off that way.”

  He pointed to Des Barres’s goatee. “He looks like some cartoon devil, no? No Adonis, that’s for sure, but with three cuties hanging on to him, his money made him feel gorgeous. He do something to Corn-Fed?”

  “No indication of that.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s part of another case, Heck. Complicated. Sorry.”

  “Can’t argue with complicated, complicated always wins.” Hesse returned the photo. “That’s all I can tell you, let me get you those phone numbers for T.A.’ing.”

  Milo said, “Do you recall if the detective who asked about her was L.A. or Beverly Hills?”

  Head shake. “If he said, it didn’t register. All I wanted was to get myself back upstairs. I can tell you what he looked like but all these years, that’s not going to help you.”

  “Tell us anyway.”

  “The reason,” said Hesse, “that I remember is a thing about me. Faces stay in here forever”—tapping his forehead. “One of my granddaughters is studying psychology, she said I’m a super-recognizer.”

  Smiling proudly.

  “Also, this face wasn’t an average face. You remember The Munsters?”

  “Sure.”

  “The guy who played Herman, Fred Gwynne. Before that, he was in Car 54, you’re probably too young to recall that one. Take away the Frankenstein makeup from Herman Munster, and picture the face.”

  I said, “Long, narrow.”

  “With big lips, droopy eyes—like a tired horse. Which isn’t to say Gwynne wasn’t a great actor. And smart, a class act. I met him at a Harvard thing, he was Adams House, I was Cabot. He could sing, draw, very talented. Limited by his size and that face, but still, he delivered some great performances—anyway, the cop who showed up looked like Fred. Not as tall, Fred had to be six-five, six, this guy was probably six…two. But he could’ve been Gwynne’s less impressive brother. Once you took away the mustache.”

  Ball-bearing-sized lumps rolled up and down Milo’s jaw, tenting and releasing the skin. His hands had tightened.

  Heck Hesse said, “Not the classiest thing, the mustache, but guys were doing that back then. Doing all sorts of tonsorial stuff—muttonchops, that never helps anyone aesthetically. I saw this
guy and was surprised the cops allowed it.”

  He traced a horizontal line over his upper lip, used both hands to drop at right angles down to his chin.

  I said, “Fu Manchu.”

  “Nah, Fu was wispy—you see the movie? This thing was geometric. Like a croquet wicket. Dark brown wicket. That sums it up perfectly: Freddy Gwynne with a croquet wicket mustache. Only other thing I remember was he wore a cheap suit. Can’t tell you what color ’cause it’s not a face, only faces stay in here.”

  Milo said, “When did this happen?”

  Hesse gave a start. His eyes fluttered. “Not so good with time…long time ago…thirty-five years? More?” He slumped.

  I said, “With your visual recognition skills, you’d know if you saw the missing woman at the club.”

  He perked up. “I would indeed and I didn’t. All I saw was a photo the cop showed me. Was she ever at The Azalea? The cop came around so I’m assuming yes. Or maybe he was just fishing around. You guys do that, I know from working with T.A.’s.”

  Quick sidelong glance at the disco ball. “You need to bear in mind that back then I was always upstairs, would go straight up like there was a lit fuse in my keister. Which is what I probably did when the cop asked someone else.”

  Louder chuckle. “That was me, back then. Hiding from reality. Nowadays, I’m comfortable. Unfortunately, I’m also ancient.”

  * * *

  —

  Milo thanked him, declined the offer of more coffee and “a little snack.” But we stuck around for a few more minutes, serving as a patient audience for Heck Hesse’s tour of the library and capsule descriptions of his favorite books. (“Oscar Wilde, and not because of that. Guy was a dynamite writer.”) Then a detour into one of the other ambiguously functioned great rooms where he showed us three Emmys. All for forgettable shows.

  When we left, the four maids had split into two pairs flanking the door. They stood by as Hesse took his time working the knob.

  “I like to do as much for myself while I can,” he said. “Who knows how long that’ll last.”