Serpentine: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Hope so.”

  He stepped aside revealing Ellie standing behind him, wan and round-shouldered in a shapeless black dress. Something different: bright-red lipstick applied too generously. As if she’d felt faded and decided at the last minute to risk color.

  Deirdre beelined to her, arms stretched wide for a hug. Ellie was surprised but she allowed herself to be clasped, finally laced a loose arm around Deirdre’s back.

  Satisfied by the reciprocation, Deirdre drew back, held on to Ellie’s arms and studied her. “You poor thing. My late husband cared so much about your poor mother. He did everything in his power to solve what happened to her.”

  Ellie said, “Thank you, Mrs. Seeger.”

  “Call me Didi. And thank you, dear. For offering me the sanctuary of your lovely home.” Edgy glance at Boudreaux. “And protection.”

  She turned back to Ellie. “I’m sure we’ll have lots to talk about. Now where do I bunk?”

  Boudreaux said, “Upstairs, ma’am, I’ll show you.”

  Deirdre smiled at Ellie. “I’m not picky, anyplace to rest my weary head.” Bending as if burdened, she followed Boudreaux up the stairs with surprising speed.

  Ellie smiled feebly.

  Milo said, “Thanks for doing this.”

  “Sure,” she said, sounding anything but. “I didn’t think to ask you about the break-in. Was that due to me?”

  “No.”

  “No? Definitely not?”

  “Ellie, even if it turns out to have something to do with the investigation, that’s not your responsibility.”

  “Well,” she said, “it kind of is. I’m the one who initiated the process.”

  “You did and it was your prerogative. But you did nothing other survivors haven’t attempted.”

  “But you didn’t want—”

  Milo waved that off. “I want to now.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Couldn’t be surer,” he said. “My job boils down to chasing the truth. If that sounds corny and phony, can’t help it.”

  She said nothing.

  “Think of yourself as a flint in darkness, Ellie. You helped light a spark, it caught, and the fire’s raging.”

  “So if I changed my mind—”

  “Irrelevant. With or without you, I’m gonna take it as far as I can.”

  Tic of tension in his jaw. All the years we’d worked together, I got the implication.

  Taking it places you don’t want to go, kid.

  She said, “That’s reassuring. I guess.”

  Another flick of constricted muscle.

  If you only knew.

  Boudreaux’s baritone floated down from the top of the landing. “You have bar soap? She doesn’t do liquid.”

  Ellie Barker said, “Let me go up and check. If I don’t, I’ll get some. Whatever makes her comfortable.”

  She trudged up the stairs and Boudreaux descended. Milo motioned him into the living room. Boudreaux kept his mouth shut and his eyes clear, ready for input.

  Milo said, “The break-in looks bona fide but something came up that’s leaning me toward a staging. Not gonna get into details but an ex-D might be a bad guy and that’s who you should prioritize when you’re looking around. Don’t ask why, too complicated.”

  “Don’t like complicated,” said Boudreaux.

  Milo gave him Galoway’s name and described Galoway’s car.

  “Red Jag,” said Boudreaux.

  “I know, conspicuous. So there could be another vehicle registered to him. Once I find out, I’ll let you know. One more thing: Galoway might be operating in someone else’s interests, not just his own.” He cocked his chin toward the stairs. “This you absolutely keep to yourself.”

  Nod.

  “Girlfriend, she’d be early sixties.”

  “Senior citizen,” said Boudreaux.

  “Don’t let that comfort you, Mel. If it’s true, her kind of bad doesn’t fade with age.”

  “You’re not saying…”

  “I am saying.” Milo lowered his voice to a near-whisper. “Mommy not-so-dearest.”

  Boudreaux blinked, then turned steely. “Interesting.”

  “You have a way with words, my friend.”

  “My philosophy,” said Boudreaux. “Fewer the better.”

  * * *

  —

  At the Impala, Milo put the shotgun back in the trunk and his case on the backseat.

  I said, “Wow, Dad, I get to go in front.”

  “Not for free. Start ideating.”

  “About what?”

  “Who what where how then start over again. Any damn thing that floats into your cranium, let Boudreaux do the taciturn bit.”

  By the time he wended his way back to Los Feliz and made the iffy left turn, I hadn’t spoken.

  He said, “Ahem.”

  “Don’t have much to add.”

  “Then add a little. For practice.”

  “You don’t need me to tell you, you just told Boudreaux. Priority is learning what you can about Galoway.”

  He tapped the wheel impatiently, headed west on Franklin, barely acknowledged the next few stop signs. “Any suggestions?”

  I said, “When I looked him up, I came across an article from a town where he served on the city council. Forget the town’s name, it’s in my notes back home. Some sort of controversy about zoning, there was one councilor on the other side. Nothing like political enemies.”

  “Excellent. See—once that massive brain of yours starts ticking it keeps going. Next.”

  “You’re putting your order in, huh?”

  “I am indeed. And throw in some bagels and a schmear.”

  I laughed. Thought for a while. Heard no ticking. “Okay, assuming Galoway’s been lying about everything, the part about his captain forcing the case on him could be bullshit. Just the opposite could be the case, if we’re right about him and Dorothy being together.”

  “Galoway volunteered.”

  “In order to find out what was known and then get rid of the files. Galoway said the captain was obese and a smoker but given his credibility, it’s worth trying to locate him. That name I do remember: Gregory Alomar. Reminded me of the baseball player.”

  “Which one?”

  “Robbie Alomar.”

  “You follow baseball?”

  “Intermittently.”

  “I’m intermittent with football. Got my head knocked around plenty in high school, that’s why I rely on your memory. Okay, let’s start with Alomar. Call Petra and see if anyone at Hollywood remembers him.”

  I tried, got voicemail, left a message.

  Milo said, “The nerve, working her own cases. Anything else?”

  “Maybe carefully read the article on Martha and see if any details help.”

  “Let’s both re-read. How’s the rest of your day shaking out?”

  “Open unless Robin needs me for something.”

  “I’ll drop you at your car and meet you back at your place. Your kitchen has that big table for a work surface, the light, the peace and quiet.”

  Not to mention self-serve catering.

  “Also,” he said, “the cuisine. But not what you’re thinking, we’re getting deluxe takeout on my tab. Spago, Jean-Georges, you name it. We’ll use Grubhub or something to deliver, throw in perks for the pooch. That work for you? If it doesn’t, now’s the time for stoic.”

  CHAPTER

  33

  When I got home, Milo was already there, parked in front. No surprise, the way he’d been driving.

  As we climbed the stairs to the entry terrace, he said, “Found out a few more things about ol’ Du, and yeah, he’s been creative. He doesn’t live in Ojai, never did from what I can tell, has a place in Tarzana mostly owned by the
bank. If he’s married or living with someone, they’re not on the papers. The Jag’s leased, from the amount still owed to the bank probably one of those minimal-down-payment deals.”

  “Possible money problems.”

  “At the very least, he’s not as well heeled as he wanted us to think. The vehicle he does own outright is a ten-year-old Isuzu Trooper. Again, no one else on the papers, so if Dorothy-Martha is still kicking around, she’s got her own wheels. I told Boudreaux to be ready for anything.”

  I said, “Think he’s really vegan or into meat?”

  He laughed. “I’m not even getting near that.”

  * * *

  —

  I unlocked the door and looked for Robin. Not in the house. No surprise, when she’s fired up creatively, weekends get no respect.

  Milo spread documents on the kitchen table.

  I said, “Back in a sec.”

  No answer. He’d opened Dark Detective, was deep into the Lolita story.

  I thought of Martha Hopple’s eyes. So young and so hard. When they start that way, no telling what they’re capable of.

  * * *

  —

  As I passed through the garden to the studio, my phone chirped.

  Petra said, “Got a missed call from you. What’s up?”

  “Quite a bit but best to hear it from Big Guy. He’s in my kitchen right now.”

  “I know psychologists like to be enigmatic but give me a clue.”

  “Dorothy Swoboda might be alive and Du Galoway might be her boyfriend.”

  Silence.

  “That’s…a lot to take in, Alex. Okay, I’ll get the details from the heights of Olympus. You want to hear about Captain Alomar or should I tell Milo?”

  “He’s alive?”

  “And well. If Big Guy’s in the kitchen, where are you? Foraging Bel Air for rare and exotic edibles?”

  I laughed. “On the way to say hi to Robin.”

  “Such a good boyfriend,” she said. “I give her a lot of credit.”

  * * *

  —

  I expected Robin to be working on the mandolin but she’d taken on the re-fret of a lovely, petite, hundred-year-old Martin guitar, the kind of comparatively simple job she sometimes tackles in spare moments.

  She stopped cutting fret-wire and looked down, amused, as Blanche nuzzled my leg. “Not going to match her devotion to that extent but happy you’re back. Any luck?”

  “Total paradigm shift.” I explained.

  She said, “Lolita. Wonder what Nabokov would think. So what’s next?”

  “More research. Commencing in our kitchen as we speak. Milo insists on footing dinner—gourmet takeout.”

  “Not necessary, honey, we’ve got leftovers.”

  “He’s thinking Spago or the like.”

  “Whoa,” she said. “So you played a major role in the shift—no, no, don’t aw shucks me.”

  Big smile, hard kiss; I let her work and returned to the house, wondering what it was like to make a living creating beauty.

  * * *

  —

  Milo had covered half the table with paper.

  “Found a Zillow shot of Galoway’s house. Small, Spanish, corner lot. Can’t find any records of him selling real estate but he said that was years ago and I don’t know which companies he claimed to work for. Far as I can tell, he’s got no current source of income. Ditto registered firearm or criminal record. If you could get me the name of that city councilor who went up against him, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Sure. Petra just called me. Alomar’s still alive, here’s his number.”

  He loaded his phone and called.

  A deep, clipped voice said, “Pro shop.”

  “Is Mr. Alomar there?”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Lieutenant Milos Sturgis, LAPD—”

  “What, they want to increase my pension?”

  “Good luck on that,” said Milo. “No, sir, I’m West L.A. Homicide and calling about a detective who worked for you years ago. Dudley Galoway.”

  “Worked?” said Greg Alomar. “According to who? Forget I said that—you’re not taping this, are you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What’s your Christian name?”

  “Milo.”

  “Milo Sturgis…you the one who works with that shrink?”

  “From time to time.”

  “Heard about it a few years before I retired,” said Greg Alomar. “Got jealous. Hollywood, we had a whole different level of crazy than your civilized part of the city. We could’ve used some head-work.”

  “We get our share.”

  “What? Felonious anxiety when the Tesla won’t charge? Listen, I’m willing to schmooze but I need to verify you are who you say you are and I don’t truck with that FaceTime crap, anything on a phone or a computer can be faked. So if you want my side of the story, you’re going to have to show yourself.”

  “No prob. Where are you?”

  “Bel Air Ridge Country Club. I own the pro shop.”

  “Nice,” said Milo. “How long have you been golfing?”

  “Since never,” said Alomar. “It’s like being a specialist doc. You stay sharp and help people with an affliction.”

  Milo laughed. “Can we come by now?”

  “We?”

  “Dr. Delaware and myself.”

  “You’ve got the shrink with you? He works weekends?”

  “When it’s interesting.”

  “Psychology,” said Alomar. “I took it in college. Except for statistics, which is just a way to say fancy lies, it was interesting.”

  * * *

  —

  The country club was a fifteen-minute ride from my house. I let Robin know I was leaving again and told her why.

  “Your voice has that boyish lilt.” Wink. “Like when you’re interested.”

  “I’m always interested in you.”

  “Darling,” she said, “your devotion isn’t in question. But there’s interested and there’s interested. Go.”

  * * *

  —

  As in most cities, L.A.’s venerable country clubs were founded as citadels of us versus them. Wasn’t success judged by who you rejected?

  L.A. continues to be as exclusionary as ever—try parking within a mile of an Oscar after-party. But the people who run the city pretend to be tolerant so the old clubs are struggling.

  Replacing them are a number of pay-to-play setups with the pay part steep enough to keep out all but the highly affluent. Bel Air Ridge Country Club was one of those.

  Getting there took us north on the Glen and up to Mulholland but instead of heading east toward Hollywood and the Des Barres estate, we turned left and drove four miles past several luxury developments stacked with white, big-box contemporary houses before reaching a double-wide driveway railed with palm trees and blocked by a high iron gate.

  Call-box chat, quick entry, then twenty additional yards of driving to a guard in a sentry box who didn’t pretend to care. A hundred yards of gentle green climb brought us to the Big Daddy white box contemporary: two stories of white stucco with a band of black lava rock running along the bottom.

  As if the clubhouse were a stud bull who’d spent a rollicking breeding season siring calves.

  Just a sprinkle of cars in sight, all of them German, as well as several golf carts with yellow and white striped awnings. On the building’s left end was a glass-faced store: The Pro Shoppe, as attested to by curvaceous gilt lettering. We pulled up in front and stepped in.

  A door-triggered ding-a-ling introduced us to a cozy, softly lit space filled with the aroma of good leather and walled with mahogany cases. Callahan banner on one wall, Titleist on the other. Displays of bags, clubs, balls, and brightly colored clothing sat on
waxed parquet floors.

  No shoppers, just one man behind the counter, wearing a salmon-pink Bobby Jones polo and blue linen pants. Five-nine, deeply tan, trim and flat-bellied with razor-cut features topped by a thick, white brush cut.

  Milo had accessed Gregory Alomar’s retirement records, a sketchy endeavor but who was going to complain? The former captain would be seventy-seven next month but looked ten years younger.

  “Milo and Dr. Delaware? Greg Alomar.”

  Confident, iron handshake. Alomar’s eyes were olive-drab and watchful with smaller pupils than the lighting would suggest. An eagle appraising prey.

  “Thanks for meeting with us, Captain.”

  “My pleasure, once you show me your I.D.’s.”

  The raptor eyes took their time examining Milo’s card and my driver’s license. Alomar read off my address. “Am I right and you live close to here, Doc?”

  “A few miles down the Glen.”

  “Do you golf?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Don’t apologize. What exercise do you do?”

  “Run.”

  “Ah. So your hips and knees still might go but at least your heart’ll be okay. Let’s go in back. Someone comes in, I’ll need to interrupt but eventually we’ll get the job done.”

  * * *

  —

  Alomar had been optimistic about our bona fides; he’d opened three black folding chairs in the center of a rear storage room and arranged them two facing one. Shelves of the same objects as in front took up the rest of the space. Everything neat, clean, organized.

  He took the solo seat and we faced him.

  “Dudley the Dud,” he said. “Called himself Du. I used to think, preface that with ‘Dog.’ ”

  Milo said, “No love lost.”

  “He was foisted on me and I don’t like foisting.”

  “By who?”

  “Never found out,” said Alomar. “I had an opening due to one of my senior D’s retiring, had my eye on someone in Rampart. Female, smart, I asked for her, got him. No Homicide experience, the clown had done Traffic.”