Serpentine: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I said, “Connections.”

  “He sure had pull with someone. As to who that was, couldn’t uncover it. What I do know is before Traffic, he drove an assistant chief around. Right out of the academy, got to go to celebrity parties, all that good stuff. So it was either that or he ate out some rich back-scratcher. However he pulled it off, I got stuck with him. He thought by being an A-plus ass-kisser he could get into my good graces. Sleazy. Did he finally turn criminal?”

  Speaking evenly but no mistaking the anger.

  Milo said, “Finally?”

  “The guy had a truth problem. Lying for the heck of it, stupid stuff. Like saying he did something when he didn’t, taking fake sick days, just a generally oily attitude. Like it was fun for him, piling on the bullshit. Not a big leap to criminal. You’re Homicide. Did he actually kill someone?”

  “Long story,” said Milo.

  “No one’s rung the bell,” said Alomar, crossing his legs.

  “When he worked for you, he caught a case. Woman shot up on Mulholland.”

  “Dorothy something European,” said Alomar. “I remember it because it never got closed. No surprise, it was stone-cold by the time he showed up and pushed himself into it.”

  “His story is that you pressured him to take on a loser.”

  “Is it? Like I said, the asshole lied when he breathed. No, just the opposite. Two D’s had already taken it on for like, fourteen, fifteen years. There wasn’t all the hoopla about cold cases you have today. It being a thing. All we had were winners and losers and in our shop this one was a loser. Meanwhile, we had no shortage of winners because of the idiot thing. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Idiot One shoots Idiot Two in a bar and sticks around.”

  Alomar laughed. “Makes us look heroic. Dorothy…what was her name…”

  “Swoboda.”

  “Swoboda…the likelihood of her being a winner was the same as me getting recruited by the Lakers to play center.”

  The olive eyes passed from Milo to me and back to Milo. “Are you saying something’s changed? One of those DNA deals? That was a thing but I don’t recall there being anything to test.”

  “There wasn’t,” said Milo. “I’ve been asked to look into it because of connections.”

  “What kind of connections?”

  Milo said, “Ka-ching.”

  “Big bucks?” said Alomar. “Who?”

  “A relative of Dorothy’s.”

  “So what’s Galoway’s deal in all this?”

  “I contacted him because he’s the only living D. Turns out, he’s been misdirecting us from the get-go. Can’t say more yet.”

  Alomar digested that. “Understood. When you can say, will you?”

  “You bet,” said Milo. “If you didn’t want him on the case, how’d he score it?”

  “I didn’t want him in my shop, period,” said Alomar. “Initially figured the best way to make use of his limited talent was have him gofer for one of my seasoned D’s. Scut work he couldn’t screw up too badly. Problem is, no one wanted him because of his personality. Yessir yessir, accomplishing diddly-squat, always an excuse. What I wanted was him out, but given the way he came in, I needed to be careful. I was still figuring out what to do with him when he waltzes into my office with Swoboda’s file, says he’d been looking through some old ones, figures he could accomplish something on this one. I said forget it, it’s old and cold for a reason. He basically begged—I guess you’d call it wheedling. Please, sir, give me a chance, sir. Like that kid in the musical—Oliver Twist. Then I thought to myself, Why not, maybe this is a solution. Keep him out of everyone’s hair, eventually I’ll find a way to get rid of him. So I said sure. And guess what happened?”

  “Nada,” said Milo.

  “Whole lot of nada, my friend. He spent a month or two on it, never filed any paper, quit and put in for disability retirement.”

  “What was the disability?”

  “Some kind of back thing. You know, crap that can’t be proven or disproven. I signed off, good riddance. I won’t bug you for details but can you tell me if he had some personal involvement in the case? Because it never made sense, him being so industrious.”

  Milo thought about his answer.

  The delay was sufficient for Alomar. “He did, huh? Evil bastard, I hope you nail him. God knows how much pension money he’s been racking up.”

  “You really didn’t like him.”

  “I really didn’t.” Alomar shifted in his chair. “Okay, full disclosure. One of my friends, worked Central, met Galoway at a cop bar on Main. Galoway’s got no idea my friend is my friend. She’s discreet, very good listener—like you seem to be, Doc. Anyway, he’s trying to pick her up and starts bitching about work. About me. Tells her I’m a fat, chain-smoking fuck who wheezes when he walks.”

  He ran a hand across a flat, muscular chest. “Three years ago is when I stopped doing triathlons. Back then? I could climb walls.”

  * * *

  —

  We thanked Alomar and drove away from the country club.

  Just outside the gate, Milo produced his wallet. “Let’s go back to your place and find the name of that politician. Meanwhile, take out my Amex and order grub.”

  “From where?”

  “Wherever you want.”

  I phoned Robin on speaker. She said, “Anything.”

  Milo said, “Long as it’s gourmet.”

  “There’s no need to make a production, Milo.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Okay, sushi from a place in Westwood, Alex knows it. Delivery in three hours.”

  “How about the pooch?”

  “She likes fish and rice. Bye, boys.”

  I called and ordered enough for four.

  Milo said, “That’s enough?”

  “It’s not, we’ll raid the fridge.”

  “Resourceful,” he said. “Darwin would be proud.”

  CHAPTER

  34

  Back at the house, he collected the papers from the kitchen table and we beelined to my office.

  I said, “Alomar hit on what we’ve figured: Galoway took the case to kill it and get rid of any records. Just as he’s about to leave the department, he gets a call from Seeger. Who’s been snooping around old magazines and just learned about Martha Maude and tells him. Fatal error.”

  “Poor guy,” he said. “Probably thought he’d get props for being a miracle man.”

  “Or he just wanted to solve the case.”

  “Hmm…yeah, that happens, too. Thirsty, gonna get some water.”

  I figured he wouldn’t stop at tasteless, transparent fluid, picked up the pulp and began reading.

  Mike Leigh had met Martha Maude Hopple when she rode her bike past a property he was clearing as a day laborer. He already had a long sheet, was less than a month out of prison for a theft charge. Five months later, the two of them were traveling together, hitchhiking and stealing cars and burglarizing houses in the Little Egypt section of Illinois, then Missouri, Arkansas, and Texas. One break-in involved the unexpected appearance of the homeowners, an elderly couple, the wife wheelchair-bound. Two corpses. Eighteen bucks taken.

  According to the article’s feverish prose, the double murder led to Leigh and his “Jailbait Juliet acquiring a taste for blood.” By the time the duo was arrested for a reign of terror that included carjacking, armed robbery, kidnapping, assault, and murder, four more people had died.

  Mike Leigh was executed in the electric chair ten months after his conviction.

  Martha Hopple was been sentenced to a girl’s reformatory in Jarvis, Texas. I did a map search. Fifty miles from Tyler.

  Milo returned with cranberry juice and a half-eaten apple. I was at my keyboard running a search using Martha Hopple’s name.

 
Nothing.

  I told him about the reform school.

  He said, “Longest she could be in there was till twenty-one, maybe even less. She gets out, finds a gig at a grower, meets Benni Cairn. So maybe Benni’s the woman in the car.”

  “It fits,” I said. “Martha—probably Dorothy by then, given the Lolita thing it would make sense for her to change her identity—is a few years older than Benni but a whole lot more experienced. And dominant. She tells Benni stories about Hollywood, Benni has nothing going for her in Tyler, the two of them cut town.”

  “Why would Dorothy want Benni along?”

  “Someone to use.”

  “For what?”

  “Gullible younger woman?” I said.

  “She pimped her out?”

  “Could be that or other scams. Maybe Dorothy gave her a makeover and she looked like she did in the photo. The two of them knock around for a while, make their way to L.A., end up at Des Barres’s mansion. Benni’s more attractive than she used to be but no smarter. Easy enough for Dorothy to get her in the Caddy. Let’s go have some fun—oh, pull over for a second, I need my cigarettes.”

  “Then bang,” he said. “Cold. What’s the motive for killing her?”

  “Dorothy wanted to disappear. Probably with a whole lot of Des Barres’s bling.”

  “She was the aspiring Queen Bee.”

  “Or she just got bored with being a member of the pack and decided to bankroll another adventure. We’re talking multiple murder by fifteen. Heavy-duty thrill factor. And think of those photos: She’s not whooping it up. We know from the serpentine necklace that she was going back between L.A. and Stan Barker. Getting Barker to babysit and playing him. He wasn’t as rich as Des Barres but he was comfortable enough and well heeled and had paternal instincts. An easy mark whom she eventually dropped.”

  “She’d just leave her baby?”

  “A baby,” I said. “What if it wasn’t hers?”

  “Benni’s? She’d give it up.”

  “Young single mother, impressionable, overwhelmed. Dorothy convinces her it’s in the child’s best interest? It’s just a theory at this point but Martha did have experience kidnapping.”

  “Oh, man…so why would she wait that long to ditch the kid?”

  “Good prop,” I said. “Coming across as a struggling mom for when she met Barker. It didn’t take her long to walk out on both of them so we’re not talking massive maternal instincts.”

  “Oh, God, poor Ellie…if we’re talking that level of psychopath and Dorothy had been aiming for Queen, she could’ve also done Arlette.”

  I said, “Texas, horses? Nothing in her past says she’d give it a moment’s hesitation.”

  He got up, retrieved the arrest photo from the pulp, and plopped down again. I settled next to him and we both studied the shot.

  Fifteen-year-old girl in the grips of two fedora-wearing detectives. Uncowed—not even close. Defiant.

  He sighed and put the magazine down. “How does Mr. Happy Vegan figure in?”

  “Slick, shallow, lies when he breathes?”

  “Psychopathy loves company.”

  “Good basis for a long-term relationship.”

  He frowned. “Find that councilperson?”

  * * *

  —

  I shuffled through my notes, nailed it in seconds. “Dara Guzman, city of Piro, she got seriously outvoted. The second time I checked, Galoway was still on the council but she wasn’t.”

  “Bitter ex-politician, even better.” He got up and pointed to my keyboard. “You mind?”

  I got up. “Go for it.”

  Settling in front of my monitor, he inputted his department access code.

  Dara Guzman had turned fifty-three a couple of months ago. One registered vehicle, a twelve-year-old Corolla, home address an apartment in Venice. A few more keystrokes revealed a work address on the western edge of Pico, the tough part of Santa Monica. Guzman was the operations manager of a nonprofit called VistaVenture that aimed to support homeless adolescents.

  Milo tried the number.

  Seven rings. “Probably closed Saturday.” He moved to click off.

  “VeeVee.”

  “Could I please speak to Dara Guzman.”

  “You are.”

  “This is Lieutenant Milo Sturgis, LAPD Westside Division. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “For what?”

  “To talk about someone you knew in Piro. Dudley Galoway.”

  Silence. “And why would I want to do that?”

  “His name has come up—”

  “How did my name come up?”

  “We were looking through some old references and found an article about—”

  “Exactly,” said Dara Guzman. “Old. How do I know you are who you say you are?”

  Same reaction as Alomar’s. Everyone ceded privacy to their online gizmos but embraced the pretense of pointless suspicion.

  Or maybe Dara Guzman just didn’t like cops.

  Milo exhaled. “I’d be happy to give you my credentials and you can verify them.”

  “I need to go through a hassle so you can question me?”

  “Of course not. If you’d rather—”

  “Look,” she said, “I’m not trying to be difficult but you’re catching me at the tail end of a monstrously shitty day, okay? Two of our kids suicided. Together.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Meaning it and sounding like he did.

  “Not as sorry as we are. We try hard to focus on positivity, build on whatever they have going for them. In this case, I thought we’d pulled it off, they seemed…whatever. I’m not in the mood to rehash something a zillion years old.”

  “It needn’t take long, ma’am. I’d be happy to come to you.”

  “Sorry, I’m going home.”

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  Silence.

  “Ms. Guzman?”

  “What’s really going on? Some sort of high-end real estate lawsuit crap, you represent a conglomerate, I’ll get a subpoena in the mail and then get sued for slander after I testify?”

  “This is a criminal case, nothing to do with real estate, ma’am.”

  “What crime?”

  “Mr. Galoway’s name came up in a homicide investigation.”

  “Shit. He actually killed someone?”

  “It really would be helpful to have a brief chat, ma’am. If FaceTime or Skype are enough to assure you I’m who I say I am, I can log on at your convenience. If you’d rather we meet face-to-face, no problem, just name the place and time.”

  “If I’d rather,” said Dara Guzman. “Giving me a limited choice so I start thinking one of my options is great? Nice tactic. Homicide, huh? Now I really don’t want to get involved.”

  “I understand, ma’am. Sorry for bothering you and sorry about the suicides. I mean that.”

  “You know,” she said, “you sound like you really do. Hold on, I’m going to subject you to my own brand of detection. What’s your name? Or as you guys say, your alleged name.”

  Milo told her.

  We sat there, listening to clicks on the other end.

  Finally, Dara Guzman said, “You don’t come up much but when you do it seems to be okay, no allegations of brutality…hold on…says here you work with a psychologist?”

  “When it’s called for.”

  “Does that include this homicide?”

  “As a matter of fact it does.”

  “Tell you what,” said Dara Guzman. “Bring him by and I’ll check you both out. Maybe I can get him to volunteer, we need all the help we can get.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Where—”

  “Here. As close to now as possible. I’m beat. And beaten.”

  * * *

  —

 
VistaVenture was a grubby gray building just east of Lincoln Boulevard. Spray stucco had fallen off in patches. On one side was a dealer in plumbing fixtures, on the other a school with minuscule signage surrounded by a high link fence that I knew specialized in the problem children of movie stars and other L.A. royalty.

  Quick walk from the hundred-grand-a-year school to a place that aided teens living rough. Maybe not an inevitably big leap, when you thought about it. A banished scion or heiress fallen low and reaching out for warm soup, emotional comfort, and a housing chit for an SRO.

  The front door was unlocked. Lights off, no one at the reception counter, the only person in sight a woman working her phone on a lint-colored sofa so vanquished its center section grazed the linoleum floor. Mental health and contagious disease posters filled the walls along with the Gestalt Prayer.

  I do my thing and you do your thing.

  If only it were that simple.

  The woman had short, tightly curled gray hair, deep brown eyes, and a face riddled by worry lines. Road map to Sorry Town. She wore a black sweatshirt over jeans and cracked red patent slippers, barely looked up when Milo said, “Ms. Guzman?”

  “Uh-huh…” She typed a bit more before her fingers stilled. Stood wearily, looked us over but with scant curiosity. “Lieutenant and therapist, interesting. If I was in a better state I’d have questions about that.”

  We followed her out of the front room and into a hallway lined with more posters. AIDS, other STDs, exhortations to get free flu shots, to reach out when emotional pain hit, to be proud of your gender.

  Dara Guzman swung a left at the third door, continued to a windowless room with a brown metal desk and chair and three plastic chairs, and sat down behind the desk. Bare walls; maybe the lack of stimulation comforted her.

  “Cop and shrink,” she said. “Must be different.”

  Milo said, “It can be.”

  She turned to me. “You deal with teen suicides?”

  “I have.”

  “Any words of wisdom?”

  “I wish.”

  “Brutal,” she said. “At least you’re honest. The kids who died this morning jumped off a five-story building on Main Street. Fourteen and sixteen, horrible home lives, bad deal of cards for both of them. They were madly in love with each other. Also with heroin.”