Serpentine: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “It’s not a question, sir, it’s something that maybe is relevant?”

  Out of her pocket came a folded sheet of paper. “I’ve been looking at the sites with all the missings on them whenever I have a chance and a couple of hours ago something came up. While I was eating breakfast.”

  Alicia said, “Working meal? Dedicated.”

  More blush. “I had nothing else to do.”

  “That’s good, Jen. Really.”

  Arredondo shrugged.

  Milo took the paper and read. “Great work, Officer. Unbelievably great work.”

  For the first time since I’d met her, Jen Arredondo smiled.

  Below the photo of Benicia Cairn was a new string of comments.

  I’m not sure if I want to get involved but looking at this picture really threw me because I knew this woman. It was a long time ago and it was actually someone else I was looking for but then I saw her and it really threw me. The thing is I don’t know anything that could help the police find her and I’m not sure I want to get involved. I could use some advice from those of you who come here frequently. Do you think there’s a moral obligation even though I can see nothing I have will help? V.Q.

  That sparked six responses, one of which said a response wasn’t necessary “if you really have nothing new,” and five that offered counsel similar to that of Bonnie from Tulsa:

  see your conflict V but I’d say contact the cops anyway because you never know they could be holding something back they do that to confuse the criminal so you might have something that fits that.

  Milo looked at me.

  I said, “V.”

  Jen Arredondo said, “It could be something?”

  “We know of another woman who associated with Benni Cairns and Dorothy named Victoria Barlow. You all know how we feel about coincidences. So let me try to sort this out. We’ll still keep tomorrow in mind but there might be a delay.”

  Alicia leaned over and slapped Arredondo’s back lightly. “Let’s hear it for breakfast.”

  Milo pointed to the sandwiches. “Next we’ll hear it for lunch. Officer Arredondo, you pick first.”

  CHAPTER

  37

  Back in his office, he looked at the Azalea photo. “V. Gotta be.”

  I said, “One less corpse, it would be nice.”

  “Any reason I shouldn’t try to contact her?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  “How hard do I beg?”

  I said, “Time to dig out the magnetism.”

  Dear V, this is Lt. Milo Sturgis the lead investigator on Benicia Cairn’s disappearance. I’d greatly appreciate if you did get in touch. No problem keeping you anonymous. Email me as above or phone this number at the desk of the Los Angeles Police Department Westside Division.

  He re-read and sent. Sat back and pulled out a panatela and passed it between his hands. “Now I wait. You know what’s gonna happen.”

  I said, “A bit of slag then hopefully gold.”

  “A bit? I should be so lucky.”

  * * *

  —

  During the next hour, twelve responses popped up under Benni Cairn’s photo. Inquiries about other L.A. missings plus bellicose gripes about the department’s insensitivity and incompetence.

  Nothing initially from V.

  I’d used the time to rewrite some preliminary custody findings, finding the claustrophobic space surprisingly good for concentration.

  Shortly after one p.m., he said, “You finished?”

  “You’ve been waiting?”

  “Just for a few, you were looking professorial. Hungry? Even if you aren’t, let’s go.”

  We left and walked toward the war room.

  I said, “Leftover sandwiches?”

  “You kidding? Rank has its privileges.”

  * * *

  —

  The weather had turned encouraging. Cloudless blue sky, seventy-two degrees, dry but not Saharan.

  “This,” he said, “is why we live here. You up for a walk—scratch that, stupid question.”

  We headed north to Santa Monica Boulevard, crossed, continued several blocks to Wilshire, walked west and covered an additional half mile. Moving briskly, my runner’s lungs and his long stride a good partnership.

  The place he chose was Italian. Pleasant and clean but nothing out of the ordinary and no shortage of Italian close to the station. I figured he needed to stretch physically and mentally.

  We ordered spaghetti carbonara and iced tea and took a cop’s corner booth: facing the door with a clear view of anyone who entered but far enough to provide extra seconds for reacting to the unexpected. I’ve only seen him make use of that once: overpowering a ranting, knife-wielding psychotic who’d burst into his favorite Indian place. Milo had responded with astonishing swiftness, tackling, restraining, cuffing, calling for backup. Resuming his meal when the uniforms took the invader away as if nothing had happened.

  He tucked a napkin under his collar. The Godfather look. “Anything you want to add to what I told the troops?”

  “Nope.”

  “Way I see it, best case is Dorothy’s living with Galoway. Second best is she isn’t but he shows himself, Moe or Alicia can pull off a good tail and he leads us to her. The problem is, so what? No physical evidence or witnesses to justify a phone triangulation or a call subpoena, and these two don’t sound like the confessing sort.”

  I thought about that. Was still considering when the food came.

  Instead of picking up his fork, he stared at me.

  I said, “The only thing I can think of is try to set them against each other.”

  “If they even talk to me.”

  “Galoway will. He’s a show-off.”

  “All the years they’ve been together and he’ll just fold?”

  “Personality problems are on your side.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Selfish, callous, cruel,” I said. “Loyalty might not stand up to that.”

  * * *

  —

  We ate quickly and I had coffee while Milo demolished a square of spumoni. We were a block north of Santa Monica when his phone alerted.

  He stopped, read, slapped a hand on his chest.

  “You okay?”

  “Having an arrhythmia of joy.”

  * * *

  —

  New email from Victoriaquandt@spacemail.com:

  Lt. Sturgis, we can talk briefly. I live in Santa Monica Canyon but don’t want to be public about it. I looked up your station and you’re not that close and I don’t want to be in a station anyway so can you think of a good alternative?

  Dear Ms. Quandt, thanks so much for your quick response. Would somewhere in Pacific Palisades work for you? In the hills or on the beach? For the beach, not sure of Sunday parking but I can give you a police sticker that you can use.

  Best, Milo Sturgis, Lieutenant Detective.

  Dear Lt. Detective Sturgis, I used to live in the Palisades but have been gone for many years so no one will remember me so fine. A block from my old house is Rambla Azul Terrace, you can GPS it. There’s a roundabout kind of a little park. If no one’s there we can use it. It’ll take me thirty to forty-five minutes unless there’s craziness on the road. Vicki.

  Today?

  Unless that’s a problem. This will probably be a waste of time and I want to get it over with.

  No problem at all. See you soon.

  Racewalk back to the station. My runner’s lungs, fine. His stride not long enough to prevent red-faced panting by the time we arrived. We walked straight to the parking lot and got into the Impala.

  He said, “GPS the address, por favor,” and sped toward the gate. Drumming the wheel, tapping the floor with his left foot. Barely containing himself as the yardarm lifted and he jetted through.


  * * *

  —

  Rambla Azul Terrace was a teardrop drooping from a narrow street at the north end of Temescal Canyon. The park Vicki Quandt had cited was a circle of grass maybe thirty feet in diameter. Four old sycamores at the periphery provided intermittent shade. No benches.

  Pacific Palisades has its share of ocean-view estates. The surrounding houses here were pleasant and unremarkable and well maintained. Hard to pin down a style—maybe generic seventies. Somewhere else, a tract for junior managers. Here, four to five million a pop.

  Like Du Galoway’s block, unrestricted parking, a side benefit of obscurity.

  One car was parked at the south end of the circle: newish silver Bentley Flying Spur sedan.

  As we pulled up behind, a woman got out holding a rolled-up blanket. Fifties, tan and athletically built, showing off sinew and skin tone with a clinging turquoise tank top over clinging black yoga pants. Long, thick ash-blond hair, oversized white-framed sunglasses, grape-colored Gucci purse on a gold chain.

  Even at a distance, the cheekbones.

  She waved her fingers and walked to the circle of grass toting the blanket under one arm. Unfurling and spreading, she folded gracefully and sat.

  Milo said, “Again, thanks, Ms. Quandt. This is Alex Delaware.” We settled facing her.

  “Vicki.” With the oversized shades, no way to read her eyes. The rest of her face was immobile. “What would you like to know about Benicia?”

  “How you met her, your relationship. Anything you think would be helpful.”

  “Helpful finding her? All this time you can’t think she’s just been hiding?”

  “Whatever her status, it would help her family to know.”

  Off came the glasses. Large black eyes studied him. “At the station they said you were a homicide detective.”

  “I am.”

  “So maybe you should be upfront.”

  “Good point,” said Milo. “Didn’t mean to be evasive.”

  “Benicia’s probably dead.”

  “We really don’t know but that’s a logical assumption.”

  “Who do you think killed her?”

  “Again, ma’am, the facts aren’t in place.”

  “But you suspect someone.”

  “Names have come up.”

  Vicki Quandt waited.

  Milo said, “We’ve heard she lived at a mansion on Mulholland Drive and that another woman died there.”

  “The harem,” she said. “I suppose now’s when I’m supposed to expose my reckless youth.”

  “Whatever you’re comfortable with, ma’am.”

  “Vicki. My housekeeper forgets not to call me ma’am. I find it irritating.”

  “Sorry—”

  “Oh, stop apologizing, I’m just being difficult.” Eye-dance to the right. “This is tough. Bringing up the bad old days.”

  She raised her arms, stretched, arced them from side to side, closed her eyes, opened them, put the shades back on.

  “Okay, the short version. I grew up in Delano, boozehound parents, no future, hated my life and thought I was actress material because everyone told me I was. I ran away and bused to L.A., lived in a youth hostel with disgusting pigs, went looking for an acting school and found out what they cost. So I started saving by waiting tables at a pancake house during the day and cleaning offices at night, moved up to a rented room in an old lady’s house that smelled of boiled chicken. The offices were in bank buildings on Hollywood Boulevard. One night when I was leaving, a guy came up to me and said I was gorgeous, he wanted to photograph me, he’d pay me plus I’d get copies to keep. I figured it was sleazy and said no thanks. He said he could understand my reluctance, no pressure, here’s my card. Then life started to drag. Working like a dog, dodging creeps, no serious money. So one day I walked by the address on the card and it was a private house, looked well kept. Which means nothing but I was desperate. So I called.”

  She’d promised the short version, had talked nonstop.

  Most people have stories they want to tell.

  “I got a phone message on his end which for some reason I interpreted as he was legit. So I left my name and number, he took a couple of days to call back, and we arranged a weekend session. Middle of the day, I was scared as hell but the future didn’t look so bright. He answered the door, very nice, soft-spoken, obviously gay. Which was also encouraging, at least he wasn’t going to grope me. Plus we weren’t alone, he had a maid dusting and mopping, an old Chinese lady, she offered me tea.” Crooked smile. “Green tea. Never had that before. So I had some and then we went into the studio and he took a bunch of headshots and close-ups and had me change into different dresses and casual wear. Everything by the book. Then he said if I wanted he could do a bikini shot but up to me. I said I’ve worn bikinis but no way is it going beyond that. He said he had no intention, my figure was perfect for a swimsuit, and we could go to a public beach to do the shoot.”

  She ran her hands over a flat abdomen, trailed them down to sleek thighs. “Genetic luck. My mother was a drunk but she never gained weight. Anyway, we did the bikini shots in Santa Monica and true to his word he sent me copies of every pose and they looked great. Artistic. Then he asked if he could submit them for print ads and if they ran, he’d pay me ten percent. I said sure and a month later I got a check for eighty bucks which was a lot more than I was getting from tips. And then a few weeks later, another check, hundred and three, then hundred and ten. So now I’m loving this guy, I was basically getting residuals. So a few weeks after that when he called and told me about a club where beautiful young girls got in free, my trust level was up. And he was upfront. Told me it was basically a singles bar for older rich men, they were the paying customers and girls got in free. I said, Sounds iffy. He said, Trust me, nothing freaky goes on, they just like having pretty things giving them aesthetic companionship. What today you’d call arm candy. Then came the topper, the club was in Beverly Hills on Rodeo Drive, which to me was like an invitation to fly to Paris. But I still said no.”

  Milo said, “The Azalea.”

  She gave him a sharp look. “You know about it?”

  He reached into a side pocket and produced the photo of Des Barres and the three blondes.

  Vicki Quandt’s manicured hand flew to her mouth. “Omigod—so you already knew about me.”

  “No, ma’am. We knew about these three faces but not much about them.” Smooth lie; emotional fly-casting: bob the lure while remaining out of view. “Now that we’ve met you, we know a bit more.”

  “Really? I’ve changed.”

  I said, “Not that much.”

  Off came the shades. Black eyes bored into mine. “Are you kissing up?”

  “Nope, just telling the truth.”

  “Well,” she said, flipping her hair, “I do try to be fit.” She studied the photo. “Unbelievable. Where did you get this?”

  “An old book,” said Milo. “Out of print and no other copies that we’ve spotted.”

  “An old book…never knew you guys worked that hard. So you know that’s Benicia.”

  “We also know the man is Anton Des Barres.”

  “Ah, Tony,” she said. “Interesting piece of work.”

  More scrutiny of the image. “So how did I end up there after I turned Sterling—the photographer—down? Simple. Desperation. I was down and out, hadn’t received a check in a while, and then I got hit with a disgusting flu that lasted three weeks and cost me both my jobs. So I called him and said I’d be willing to give it a try. He said he was going himself in a couple of days, would be happy to take me. He picked me up in this massive copper-colored Lincoln Continental—it had portholes, like a ship—and we glided to Beverly Hills. I was still feeling punk but did my darndest to look my best. Red dress I’d bought on sale, pink stilettos, my hair was up. I’
m sure I looked horrid but Sterling told me I was ravishing. Then a few blocks from the place he told me he’d escort me in but he’d be going upstairs because that was a men’s-only section. He looked embarrassed. Poor guy, he couldn’t bring himself to say it.”

  I said, “He’d go upstairs and you’d be on your own.”

  “He didn’t phrase it that way, he just told me to value myself and act accordingly. That night I met a lovely brain surgeon who’d just lost his wife to cancer and wanted to hold hands. Free dinner, free drinks, and when I got home—Sterling came downstairs and we left together—there were three hundred-dollar bills in my purse that I’d never spotted going in there.”

  Off went the glasses, again. “If that sounds like prostitution, it wasn’t. He talked, I listened, he felt young and desirable again, and I guess with his surgeon’s skills he was able to slip me those bills.”

  She laughed. “Thank God he wasn’t an amateur pickpocket. Anyway, I went home to my pathetic little room feeling healthier and wealthier than I ever felt before. So the next week, when Sterling called, I said sure. And that’s when I met Tony.”

  She poked the black dress. “Sterling bought this for me, said you can’t go wrong with an LBD. He also gave me a wig. I was blond but apparently not blond enough and he wanted a certain style.”

  I said, “His preference or Tony’s?”

  “Obviously Tony’s, because look at the three of us. It’s basically a uniform.”

  “Did Sterling furnish their wigs?”

  “I have no idea. They already knew Tony, were living in his house. Benicia called it a palace. Said he was a really nice guy, put girls up in luxury and didn’t ask anything in return.”

  Third inspection of the photo. “Wow, this is a blast from the past. Do you know who the other girl is?”

  “Dorothy Swoboda,” said Milo. “She’s who we’re looking into.”

  “I knew her as Dot. Grumpy Dot…so why the interest in Benicia?”