Serpentine: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Bain frowned. “Thought there was a media blackout.”

  Milo said, “So did I, amigo. I called Public Affairs and got a runaround. At least there were no details but sure, she could’ve figured it out.”

  Bain said, “What else can you say about her psychological makeup, Doctor?”

  I said, “Criminally antisocial from a young age. At fifteen she hooked up with a felon in his thirties and they embarked on a multistate crime spree. Burglary, robbery, kidnapping, several murders. He was executed, she got reform school, was released no later than at twenty-one. She changed her identity and nothing surfaces over the next few years other than a job in Texas. Which she left to come to L.A., traveling with and dominating a younger woman named Benicia Cairn. The working assumption is she stole money from the man they lived with and shot Cairn in order to fake her own death. At some point after that, she hooked up with Galoway and they’ve been together since.”

  “Long-term relationship,” said Bain. “She finds out he’s dead at our hands, that’s a big deal.”

  “It could be but she’s emotionally shallow and self-serving to the point of abandoning a daughter she claimed as her own and as of Monday night, trying to have her murdered or at least terrorized. Also, other than murdering Cairn, she’s been more director than actor. And the crimes we know about are well planned not impulsive. If I had to bet, I’d say trying to escape was more likely than confrontation. But if cornered, she could be volatile.”

  “The spree when she was a kid sounds pretty impulsive,” said Bain.

  “Fifteen isn’t sixty. Her partner claimed it was all him, she was just along for the ride. But it was a long ride, so who knows?”

  Milo said, “The fact that she hasn’t been spotted over the last few days makes me wonder if she’s already escaped.”

  “Even with you guys watching?”

  Moe Reed said, “The layout made it too risky to do a sit-around, all we managed were intermittent drive-bys. Then, after the shooting, I had to go solo so she had plenty of opportunity to split.”

  Bain said, “Bottom line: mean but not stupid and crazy.”

  Milo said, “Mean as they come.”

  I said, “In any event, the psychology doesn’t matter.”

  All eyes on me.

  “Play it safe,” I said. “Go in fast and with force.”

  CHAPTER

  42

  Friday, four forty-five a.m. Inky morning, the chill blunted by the electrochemical heat of hearts racing in anticipation.

  A black tactical van blocked the street, its arrival a near-silent coast. Moments later Bain and his crew had been egested, all six officers vanishing into the darkness.

  Milo, Reed, Binchy, and I waited five houses south. Reed had brought Milo in his work-ride, a gray Dodge Charger; Binchy showed up seconds later in his, a maroon Chevy Caprice.

  My orders were per usual: Don’t get in the way. The Seville was parked well behind the police wheels.

  Dark windows checkered Galoway’s place and every other house on the block. If any of the neighbors had noticed the van, they weren’t complaining.

  Another ten minutes of nothing to make sure. Just as Bain was about to go in, headlights flashed a block north and swelled as they neared.

  Bain and two of his officers ran toward the intrusion waving small-beam flashlights. The car stopped. Bain jogged to the driver’s window and said something. The headlights died. Another officer got in the van and angled it so the car could pass.

  Black Audi sedan, frightened-looking woman at the wheel. She drove for a block before switching her lights on.

  Bain came over. “Poor thing, heading to LAX for a flight to Denver to see her daughter. Okay, no sense waiting for another disruption, we’re a go.”

  * * *

  —

  Silent approach, dual entry punctuated by a single thump in front, followed by a second at the rear door, muted by distance.

  Several more minutes of silence, then the front door opened and Mac Bain ambled out.

  “All clear.”

  Milo said, “Shit, she’s not there.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  * * *

  —

  The door opened to a small, neatly kept living room. The smell began at the mouth of a narrow hallway that paralleled the kitchen.

  Bedroom to the left, another on the right, bathroom in between.

  The smell became a stench that directed us to the left-hand bedroom. Another well-kept space if you didn’t count what was on the bed.

  What remained of a woman lay under heavy, deep-green covers. Odd color for a duvet; I’d seen it before on a string of beads. Maggots wriggled at the upper hem where cloth ended and flesh began.

  Gray-brown flesh, matte finish. Sunken cheeks, sunken eyes, a tumble of red hair on the pillow. White at the roots where dye had dissipated.

  Reed gagged and ran out. Binchy uttered a silent prayer and stayed.

  Milo covered his nose and mouth with a fresh handkerchief. I used my sleeve. It didn’t help much.

  Everyone knew the rules: The scene belonged to the cops, the body to the coroner. No one would lift the covers and look for wounds—crimson parabolas and slits resulting from stabbing; the crushing and corrosion effected by blunt trauma; the obscenely precise mini-craters caused when bullets raped soft tissue.

  What police euphemize as “defects.”

  Mackleroy Bain had already made the call to the crypt. A coroner’s investigator would be here within half an hour to inspect and pronounce and identify.

  No need for an official I.D. We knew who this was.

  Pill bottles on her nightstand. Fighting back nausea, I got close enough to read.

  Most recently, she’d called herself Martha Dee Ensler.

  The prescribing physician was someone I knew. Edwin Rothsberger, a first-rate neurologist, practice in Encino. Years ago, Ed had rotated through Western Peds, one of the best interns from the med school where I taught. He’d been great with the kids and like a lot of sensitive trainees had decided to spend his career treating adults.

  I examined the labels. Hyoscine hydrobromide for excess salivation, diazepam for anxiety, quinine bisulfate for cramps, dantrolene for muscle stiffness.

  Symptomatic treatment, nothing curative. The palliative stage of a neuromuscular disease.

  I took in the rest of the room. Stack of adult diapers in the corner, a hoist partially disassembled. Cartons of bottled water, bottles of liquid diet.

  Whatever Du Galoway’s sins, he’d taken good care of the woman he loved, had been tripped up by overstepping as he strove to cover up her sins.

  I’m no pathologist but dull skin, and eyes depressed so deeply they resembled miniature lunar craters, said plenty and I was willing to bet on cause and manner of death.

  Immobilized by disease, she’d spent four helpless days in bed without food, water, or attention.

  Cause, dehydration.

  Manner, accidental.

  Milo said, “What the hell am I gonna tell Ellie?”

  I said, “Nothing.”

  CHAPTER

  43

  Basia Lopatinski worked heroically but it still took three weeks.

  “And that,” she informed us, “is a record.”

  During that time, Milo had paid a visit to Ellie and informed her that the case was going well but he had nothing definitive to report. Yet.

  She didn’t object but she did call him two days later wondering if anything had changed, and four days after that. He’d managed to put her off with ambiguous optimism and a request to be patient. She hung up sounding irritated. If she’d chosen at that point to complain to Martz or Andy Bauer or one of the political contacts, it could’ve gotten complicated.

  She didn’t.

 
No threats to Deirdre Seeger remained so she could’ve moved back to her house. But kept ignorant by Milo, she remained in Ellie Barker’s rented house and the two of them, accompanied by an equally uninformed Mel Boudreaux, filled their days with outings.

  Huntington Gardens, the Arboretum, Descanso Gardens, a three-day excursion to San Diego where they took in the wild animal park and SeaWorld. Then a detour on the trip back for a night at the Disneyland Hotel and an all-day pass at the park.

  VIP pass, Ellie’s money allowing them to jump lines. Deirdre revealed a lust for the Matterhorn and rode it three times.

  Boudreaux: “Man, I felt like puking just watching her.”

  On the twenty-first day, at eleven a.m., everything was in place and Milo phoned Ellie.

  Sounding subdued, she said, “We’re at the art museum.” She lowered her voice: “Special exhibit on contemporary German paintings. Deirdre says it’s kindergarten garbage.”

  He laughed. “Everyone’s a critic. When can we meet?”

  “Meet as in…”

  “Solving your case.”

  “Oh…can Deirdre be included?”

  “Not a good idea.”

  “I’m kind of used to her and she’s got nowhere to go.”

  “We could talk at the station,” said Milo. “Whatever suits you.”

  “This really is it, Lieutenant?”

  “It is.”

  “Am I going to be happy?”

  “You’ll know the facts.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “I wouldn’t call it that.”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Ellie, it’s best we sit down and talk.”

  “Is it?” A beat. “Fine, let’s do it at the house. I’ll tell Mel to take Deirdre to lunch and I’ll Uber back. If that’s safe.”

  “It is.”

  “So this really is it.”

  * * *

  —

  We were parked in front of the house on Curley Court when a dented white Celica in need of a muffler dropped Ellie off. VIP tickets for Deirdre, but no Uber Black for the woman with the credit card.

  That fit with her understated approach to clothes and demeanor. Nothing wrong with that but I wondered if she held back due to feelings of unworthiness. I’ve seen that in patients with complicated childhoods. What I think of as Eternal Lent.

  Sometimes they let you ease them out of it, sometimes not.

  She said nothing to us and hurried to her front door. We caught up.

  “Hi, Ellie.”

  She mumbled something well short of a greeting. Her hands shook hard enough to rattle her keys and she missed the keyhole a couple of times before unlocking the door. Deactivating the alarm, she stood in the entry hall with a frozen look on her face.

  Milo guided her by the elbow to the same living room chair she’d occupied the first time we met. Her hands continued to vibrate. She rounded her back, laced her fingers, and pressed her knees together as if warding off assault.

  Milo said, “It really isn’t ominous, Ellie.”

  “Let’s just get on with it, I’m ready to jump out of my skin.”

  Milo placed his attaché case on the sofa between us.

  Ellie said, “What’s in there, terrible police stuff?”

  Milo ignored the question. “Okay, let’s get into it. The woman you’ve believed was your mother, wasn’t. DNA proves it. Her given name wasn’t Dorothy Swoboda, it was Martha Maude Hopple. Swoboda was a stolen identity, one of several used by Martha Hopple. She was a career criminal.”

  Ellie’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, God. So you have no idea who my mother was.”

  “We do. Her name was Benicia Cairn and she grew up near Tyler, Texas, where she met Martha Hopple. She was barely twenty, Hopple was twenty-four. The two of them left town and traveled for a couple of years before they settled in L.A. You were born during that time and we figure Hopple convinced your mom she wasn’t equipped to take care of a baby.”

  “You figure,” she said.

  “We can’t know for sure, Ellie, but everything we know about Benicia tells us she was a caring person.”

  “Oh, really. A caring person just gives up her baby.”

  Not an unexpected question. Milo didn’t need to cue me.

  I said, “Martha Hopple was a manipulative psychopath and Benicia Cairn was young, impressionable, and, from what we’ve learned, extremely submissive.”

  “Submissive? So what? She just allows a criminal to take me and dump me on Dad? Are you going to tell me he was a criminal, too?”

  “No, he was a victim. One of the many men Martha Hopple seduced and took money from.”

  And pushed off a cliff years later when she showed up unexpectedly and he wouldn’t pony up more cash.

  Ellie shuddered. “She sounds like a monster.”

  I said, “She was but your mother wasn’t. From everything we’ve learned, she was kind.”

  “Not so kind she didn’t abandon her baby.”

  “We believe she had regrets.”

  “You believe.”

  Milo said, “Her regrets may be the reason—and this is going to be another tough thing to hear, Ellie—Martha murdered her.”

  “Murdered…the body in the car?”

  We nodded.

  She clutched her belly. “God, I think I’m going to be sick…why would she do that? Kill a friend. What was the point?”

  “Martha had just robbed the man she was living with and wanted to disappear and assume a new identity. She used Benicia to fake her own death.”

  “How can you know that?” she said. “And, wait a minute, how can you even presume to know this Benicia was my mother? You told me the body was burned up. And there was no DNA back then, anyway. You’re just guessing, aren’t you?”

  “We’re not,” said Milo. “I matched your DNA to one of Benicia’s relatives. She’s your second cousin, her mom and Benicia were sisters. She still lives in Texas. You’ve got an extended family there.”

  “My DNA? I never gave you a sample!”

  “Remember the time I came to see you a couple of weeks ago?”

  “Yes, when you told me nothing.” She set her lips grimly.

  “True,” said Milo. “I was putting you off until we had proof, not just theory. While you were in the bathroom, I went into the kitchen and swiped a juice glass you’d just used. We had your sample tested at the same time we express-shipped a DNA kit to your relative—her name is Nancy. She expressed it right back to us and we zipped everything to a private lab. The results came in yesterday and they’re clear. Benicia Cairn was your mother.”

  She slumped. “This is insane…what about my father?”

  “That’s still unknown, Ellie. To us and to your Texas family. They were never aware Benni—that was her nickname—was pregnant. It may be the reason she left with Martha Hopple, or she could’ve met a man shortly after, we just don’t know. In terms of paternity, there are ancestral geneticists who work with the big public DNA sites and sometimes they can get results. We figured this was enough information for you to take in.”

  “My Texas family…my real mom…” Bitter laugh. “Guess I’m no worse off, same story, murdered. Hello, world, I’m still an orphan.”

  She flashed a sick smile that crumpled. Let out a sob, beat her knees with her fists and wailed.

  Out came Milo’s fresh hankie.

  Ellie Barker shook her head violently, then she snatched it and pressed it to her eyes. It took a while for her to catch her breath. “This is…I don’t even know how to define it, my world is fucking spinning!”

  “It’s a lot to deal with,” said Milo. “Wish there could’ve been a storybook ending. But your goal was to solve the mystery and that’s been accomplished.”

  She lowere
d the handkerchief. Glared. “Congratulations on your big old detective success. For me it’s not exactly a celebra…oh, crap, I’m taking my messed-up life out on you and all you’ve done is exactly what I asked. And frankly, what I thought was impossible. So you did an amazing job. Even though…I’m sorry, I should be grateful. But I’m feeling totally out of control. It’s not like I had expectations of sugar plum fairies. You took on the challenge, came through, and I have no right to be anything but grateful. And I’ll get there, I promise. It’s just…”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “How could you not be disoriented?”

  She stared at me. Tottered to her feet, walked around the coffee table to Milo, bowed and kissed his cheek. Looking over at me, she laughed. “All this time, you haven’t gotten half a gold star from me. Sorry for that, too. It’s not your fault I had some crap shrinks.”

  Dry lips brushed my cheek lightly. She returned to her chair and sat with both feet on the floor. “Should I contact her—Nancy? Does she want me to contact her?”

  I said, “She sure does. A lot of what we learned came from her responding to a post on a missing persons site. She and the rest of your family’s wondered for decades what happened to Benni.”

  “My family,” she said. “Alien concept.” A hand poked her breast. “Hey, Lone Star folk, here’s your mystery baby.”

  A few moments passed. “Benni. Cute name…you guys aren’t lying to me, are you? About her being a good person.”

  “A good person and an innocent victim,” I said.

  “So the bitch ruined her,” she said with sudden savagery. “You want to know something? This is starting to make me feel better. About her. How I’ve always felt about her in the back of my head and couldn’t admit. That photo of her and Dad. The look on her face, so hard. Now I know it was worse than that, it was cruelty. It always bothered me. Feeling off about her. I figured it was resentment because she abandoned me. That’s what the other shrinks said. Now I know I had an inner sense. That my judgment’s not as messed up as I thought.”