I said, “You look in great shape.”
“Appearances are deceiving.”
CHAPTER
27
Hesse stood in the doorway as we walked to the unmarked. Before we reached the car, he shouted, “I bought plenty of those as props. Afterward we gave ’em to the stuntmen, they liked to hot-rod ’em.”
We laughed. Hesse beamed.
Milo said, “Good deed for the day,” as we got in.
The lumps in his jaw had receded but his shoulders were bunched and his hands were restless. He sped south toward Sunset.
I said, “You know the Missing Persons D.”
Pulling over just short of the boulevard, he produced his phone, scrolled for a while, handed it over.
LAPD personnel headshot of a long-faced man with a gray, wicket-shaped mustache. The resemblance to Fred Gwynne more than passing.
Below the image: P. J. Seeger, Detective II.
I said, “Before Homicide, he worked Missing Persons.”
“I’ll take that bet. You thinking what I am?”
“Seeger worked the missing girl and connected her to Des Barres but couldn’t take it further. Years later, he’s in Homicide and gets handed Dorothy’s murder as a low-priority cold case. He began the same way Galoway did, with the Cadillac, and connected it to Des Barres. Now he’s wondering about multiple murders at the mansion but too much time has lapsed to make any progress.”
“Exactly. Dorothy was handed to him as really warm beer, same as with Galoway. In Galoway’s case because he was a rookie and his captain didn’t like him. In Seeger’s case maybe his rep as a drudge was the reason. Whatever the case, without results, the bosses wouldn’t have allowed him much time to poke around.”
I said, “What if both cases stuck with Seeger and after he retired, he began digging around on his own? Asked the wrong questions of the wrong people and ended up run off the road on his Harley. That could explain the time lag between working Dorothy and his death.”
He took his time considering that. “Lemme have the phone back.”
More scrolling, another preset, switch to speaker.
“Hi, Deirdre, it’s Milo Sturgis again.”
A woman said, “Oh, hi. What’s up?”
“I know you said Phil didn’t talk about his cases but did he ever happen to mention any missings from way back?”
“He had so many of those, Milo. Have you ever worked them?”
“Never.”
“Phil hated missings,” said Deirdre Seeger. “He said you put so much time into them and most of them resolve by themselves. He was happy to switch to Property Crimes and then when his application for Homicide finally got approved, he was jumping for joy.”
“So no discussions about specific cases.”
“No, Phil cherished our time together. Cherished me and kept me away from bad things. I mean, sometimes he’d say I’ve got a frustrating one, doll. But that’s about it. How long ago is ‘way back’?”
“Thirty-seven, -eight years, maybe forty. Give or take.”
“That’s right after he got out of uniform and started at Missings. All I know from that time was he kept long hours and came home tired. But my cooking revived him. My desserts, especially.”
“The missing in question is a young woman, Deirdre. Early twenties, hung out in Beverly Hills.”
“That doesn’t help,” she said. “And Beverly Hills? Way outside of Phil’s jurisdiction. What he would’ve called above my pay grade.”
“Okay, thanks, and sorry for bothering you.”
“Oh, it’s no bother, Milo. I’m not exactly on a tight schedule.”
The phone went back into his pocket.
I said, “Frustration can hang you up or push you forward.”
“Seeger somehow got a fire in his belly?”
“Free to do what he wanted, no pressure from above? Maybe bored with retirement?”
“Hmm…never experienced pressure myself but that’s because of my magnetism.”
“No doubt.”
As he reached for the shift lever, I said, “Maybe Galoway remembers something from Seeger’s notes.”
“Didn’t sound that way when we talked to him but can’t hurt to ask.”
Du Galoway’s hearty voice came on after two rings. “Milo. Hey, what’s up? Progress, I hope? You got me thinking about the case.”
“I wish, Du. I’m calling to ask you something.”
“Sure, shoot.”
“Was there any mention in Seeger’s notes about a missing at Des Barres’s place prior to Dorothy’s murder?”
“Des Barres,” said Galoway. “You’re looking into the bastard. Great.”
“Baby steps,” said Milo.
“But sorry, nothing like that. You’re thinking the bastard was a serial? Shit, wouldn’t that be something.”
“What caught my interest in the missing is Seeger worked it before he got to Homicide.”
“You’re kidding,” said Galoway. “It’s getting that smell, isn’t it? Too bad I never got time to work it properly.”
“Pressure from the boss.”
“Nuclear pressure. I’m a greenhorn, getting nowhere, the fat slob’s pissed in the first place that I applied to Homicide and got in—why’m I telling you this, you know what the job’s like. So who was the missing?”
“All I know so far is she hung with Des Barres.”
“At the house?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe,” said Galoway. “Sorry for poking, I used to hate when I was working a tough one and someone did that to me.”
“No prob, Du. If you remember anything about anything, let me know.”
Galoway sighed. “Wish I could say that was going to happen. It’s the failures that stick with us, right? Good luck.”
Milo hung up but kept the phone in his hand. “Any other suggestions?”
I said, “Don’t imagine Hollywood missings files were preserved better than homicides, but…”
“You’re right, less than unlikely.” But he phoned the archivist, got voicemail.
Just as he began to pull away from the curb, Petra called.
He explained about the burglary at Des Barres’s house and how the decision not to file a report had mooted the issue.
She said, “He loses a bunch of bling but lets it ride? That’s different. My experience is rich folks are the most aggressive when it comes to their stuff. You’re thinking there was another reason Des Barres didn’t want any poking around at the castle.”
“Buried bodies,” said Milo. “Literally or otherwise.”
“Any way to get in there and poke around?”
“Not yet but there’s a possible hook for the long run.” He filled her in about the missing woman and P. J. Seeger’s involvement.
She said, “Two women gone. I’m picturing an unofficial graveyard out back.”
“Could be, it’s a big place.”
“Yuck. When did this other girl go missing?”
“Before Dorothy’s death. Des Barres’s second wife died a year before, maybe they’re connected.”
He told her about the woman Winifred Gaines had seen following Arlette Des Barres into the forest, our theory about an aspiring Queen Bee.
She said, “Money’s always motive number one and there was plenty of it. A murder victim and a missing in the same photo. Sounds like joining the harem was a high-risk endeavor.”
“Val Des Barres has that same feeling.” He related our meeting.
She said, “Letting the devil in. Think she knows more than what she can admit right now?”
“Could be. She didn’t have to step forward in the first place, so there’d be no reason to be evasive.”
“Still, there could be something psychological—denial,
whatever. Alex there?”
I said, “Here.”
“That make sense to you? Whatever she suspects of her dad, he’s still her dad, there’s just so much she can handle?”
“Could be.”
She laughed. “That’s all I’m going to get?”
Milo said, “He’s like that. But when he does consent to elaborate, it can get interesting.”
“Still waters running deep,” she said. “Yeah, I’ve seen him do that.”
I said, “Ahem.”
“C’mon, Alex, worship from afar is the best a consultant can hope for. Milo, what about the third girl in the photo? Could she be the bad girl?”
“Maybe, she’s got great cheekbones,” said Milo.
Winking at me. The same was true of Petra and she’d heard about it plenty.
She laughed. “Excellent structure is not a personality flaw.”
“So you claim. Listen, kid, don’t want to keep bugging you but Seeger was at your shop. Any chance there are prehistoric missing files lying around?”
“I doubt it. Since the remodel, anything that shows up is random. But I’ll check.”
“Appreciate it. Want me to email the photo?”
“Can’t hurt. Unless those cheekbones are too impressive.”
“I wouldn’t worry.”
“Aw, gee,” she said. “All this workplace support.”
* * *
—
Three days passed with as many letdowns.
Day One, Deirdre Seeger called to let Milo know she’d taken the time to go into her garage because it contained some of the “elements of Phil’s life. Including his Harley manual and all sorts of spare parts, I have no clue what they are.”
That memory choked her up. She went on to say that she’d found no old files, no case notes, just books and magazines. “All moldy and falling apart. Phil was a big reader. American Rifleman, Shooting and Fishing, National Geographic, some old Lifes, a few of those gross detective rags, why Phil loved them I could never figure out. I guess I should do a thorough housecleaning but…what am I going to end up with? Blank space?”
“Thanks, Deirdre.”
“Sorry I couldn’t help.”
Day Two, Du Galoway called to let Milo know he’d spent a long time thinking and meditating “because that sometimes feeds my memory. But in this case, nothing. I guess I told you everything I know the first time. Sorry.”
“Thanks, Du.”
Day Three, Petra called to let Milo know she’d assigned two police scouts to look into “every conceivable nook, cranny, drawer, and storage area. No missing files, period. Sorry.”
“Thanks, kiddo.”
* * *
—
We were returning to his office from a walk and some decent coffee when he said, “All those apologies and no one’s running for office. And the one whose job it is to check, hasn’t.”
He phoned the archive. A slurred voice said, “Records.”
“Officer Bardem, Lieutenant Sturgis.”
“Oh. Had a cold, just got back but still feeling it, forgot to let you know.”
“Let me know what?”
“Found you some missing females from that time.”
“Great, email ’em.”
“Sure.” Sniffle. Click.
The file arrived seconds later. And kept arriving.
Page after page filled his screen. Milo saved and printed, groaned as the bin filled and overflowed.
When the printer stopped whining, the bin held a stack as thick as a phone book. He leafed through, cursed, and gave it to me.
Single-spaced list of alphabetized names.
Over a fifteen-year period, spanning twenty-five to forty years ago, 56,154 females had gone missing in L.A. County. Of those, 44,723 had been accounted for, leaving 11,431 still gone.
All those families in limbo.
Milo had no bandwidth left for empathy. “This is bullshit. By the time I get through it I’ll be on a walker. Optimistically speaking.”
Yanking open a bottom drawer, he stuffed the list atop a ream of blank paper. The drawer wouldn’t close until he pounded the stack.
“Eleven thousand opens,” he said. “City of the Lost.”
I said, “You could put her face online and try missing persons databases, the department’s social media pages. Or create your own website.”
“All those sad stories, someone’s going to happen to find me?”
“Magnetism.”
He glared, dark brows knitting. Return of the jaw-cherries.
I said, “Son, we need to work on your confidence.”
Green eyes ignited. Then he roared with laughter.
* * *
—
He called for a technical officer and a five-foot-tall woman built like a fireplug showed up half an hour later. During the wait, we’d both worked on inspecting missing persons sites.
No room for three of us, so he spoke to Officer Shirlee Best out in the hallway.
She said, “That’s your office?”
“Rank has its privileges.”
Best remained impassive.
“Thanks for coming, Officer.”
“My job. What do you need?”
When he finished explaining, Best said, “A to B to C, you don’t need me for that.”
“Humor me.”
“It’ll slow you down, I can’t get back here until tomorrow.”
“I’m sure you’re worth the wait.”
“Yeah, right. Obviously, I can’t modify the department site or anyone else’s.”
“Don’t expect you to.” He ducked into the office and returned with the photo. “The woman on the right is the subject.”
She glanced at the image with no apparent interest. “Crap resolution, don’t expect much by way of enhancement. Do you want something pretty?”
“Meaning?”
“Cool graphics, attention-grabbing font, animation.”
“You can do that?”
“It’s not a big deal,” said Best. “I had one guy, Ruffalo in Auto Theft, out looking for a hot Mercedes, wanted me to splice in scenes from video games. I told him no dice unless he could show me the licensing fee had been paid. He found out what that cost and said forget it.”
“Beyond the call,” said Milo.
“Mercedes belonged to an actress, Ruffalo wouldn’t say who, just leered a lot. Guy looks like a pot of porridge but maybe he figured he could score if he produced the wheels. Not motivated enough to pay for the licensing, though. So how fancy do you want to get?”
“Does fancy make a difference?”
“No idea,” said Best. “In the meantime, do us both a favor and accomplish what you can by yourself.”
* * *
—
By the following morning at nine, he was at my kitchen table slurping coffee and demolishing an omelet he’d fixed from a staggeringly dubious mix of leftovers. Mushrooms plus salami plus candied walnuts plus jicama Robin and I had forgotten about unearthed from the recesses of the vegetable bin.
I ate toast and marveled.
Six mouthfuls in, he took a breather. “Right after Best left, she emailed and informed me one day has now stretched to two. So I did do some DIY: narrowed the national sites to the top five and sent them each Corn-Fed’s headshot. The department’s page has no sexy graphics and doesn’t seem to be attracting the public big-time. Who it did attract was someone in Martz’s office. She called me at home at ten p.m. demanding to know why when I was assigned to Swoboda I was veering off onto another case. I told her the victims were potentially linked, which got her all inquisitorial. But being a pencil-pusher, when I started explaining she spaced out and said, Whatever. Then she asked if Ellie had approved the ‘digression.’ That made all sort
s of very bad thoughts swirl through my brain but you and Orwell will be proud to know I reacted with discretion and finessed her with doublespeak. Then I called Ellie, because I knew Martz would.”
“How’d she react?”
“Graciously, I’m the expert, whatever I choose to do is fine,” he said. Three more hurried swallows and a coffee wash-down. “That was after she gasped at the notion of another potential victim and asked what you’d expect.”
“Could it be a serial killer.”
“Cliché of our century. I finessed her, too. Don’t know how long I can keep doing it, though.”
He drained his cup, refilled. “It was Mel Boudreaux who answered her cell. He said she was sleeping, had been doing a lot of that. When she phoned a few minutes later, she sounded pretty low. Probably the aftermath of being dumped by Runner Boy.”
That and her own limbo. No sense reminding him.
I said, “Makes sense.”
“Anyway, mood issues are your thing, not mine. Meanwhile, there’s nothing to do but bide time on what I’ve inputted and hope Best comes by tomorrow and isn’t just putting me off. How’s your day shaping up?”
“Appointments from noon to four.”
“Busy man,” he said. “No digressions for you.”
* * *
—
Two days later, he texted me.
Best finally showed up, here’s the hoo-hah production.
Below that, a link. No cute graphics, bright colors, or animation. Just a young, smiling face, unintentionally soft-focus, bordered top and bottom by somber black print.
DO YOU KNOW THIS WOMAN?
She went missing in or near Los Angeles sometime during the eighties and has never been identified. Someone must care about her. If you do, please contact Lieutenant Milo Sturgis, LAPD, Westside Division, at 310…
Another day passed, as the week slid into a warm, blue-sky Friday. Busier week than I’d anticipated, with two additional custody referrals from the court. One came with a personal email from a judge I respected.
Big bucks, small minds. Hope you don’t end up putting my face on a dartboard.
Serpentine Page 20
