Serpentine: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Big bucks, small minds. Hope you don’t end up putting my face on a dartboard.

  I looked up the names on the order. Husband-and-wife tycoons, mutual accusations of neglect, cruelty, and child endangerment. One child, a toddler. Enough money to keep the battle going indefinitely.

  I’d do my best and try to protect the poor kid’s psyche. Protect my soul from erosion.

  No word from Milo since he’d posted the missing woman’s image. There had to be tips, there always are. The question was validity. I was writing clinical notes when he phoned at three.

  “What’s up?”

  “You’re probably in TGIF mode but if you want to see the war room, c’mon over.”

  “You managed to get some troops?”

  “Begging has its virtues. Also, I had Ellie call Martz.”

  * * *

  —

  I went out to Robin’s studio. She was seated at her bench, gloved up and French-polishing a rosewood guitar back, using deft circular motions to massage her hand-blended shellac into the wood with a soft cotton pad.

  A near-silent, old-school task that she said could be hypnotically calming. A serene face said today it was.

  I hung back and Blanche trotted toward me. I embarked on my own massage, rubbing her knobby head, then behind her ears, eliciting cat-like mews.

  Robin looked up. Her hand stilled. Delayed-reaction smile.

  Off in her own world but willing to let me in.

  I went over and looked down at the wood. Purplish chocolate with veins of cream, quarter-sawn, straight-grained, glistening with polish—an elixir secreted by a sap-intoxicated beetle from Southeast Asia. When Robin had gotten the slab, she’d showed it to me, tapping and producing a ringing tone.

  What had once been a tree in Brazil, felled by a storm, hummed melodically, ready for its new life.

  I said, “Really pretty.”

  “Going to be a winner.” She leaned over for a kiss. “What’s up?”

  “Just got a call from Big Guy, asking me to look at his war room.”

  “Blue screens and encryption?”

  “More likely piles of paper and bad language. What’s your schedule?”

  “Don’t have one, darling. I was thinking dinner at sevenish but no big deal if it’s later. I’m enjoying this and I’ve got enough juice to do the maple mandolin and the Macassar OM.”

  “Shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”

  She pursed her lips and pushed words past them. “Then you can come up and see me. Again.”

  “Mae would be proud.”

  She laughed. “Who needs external validation?”

  CHAPTER

  28

  The war room was an interview space on the second floor, down the hall from Milo’s office. He’d set up two rolling whiteboards and a long folding table with five plug-in landlines. Four chairs along the length, one at the head. A smaller round table in the corner held a coffee urn, cups, and pink boxes from a bakery he passes driving from his house in West Hollywood to the station.

  No crumbs. Everyone in work mode, reading and writing, the phones unused.

  My friend’s relative independence from departmental routine comes with hitches. One of them is that unlike other lieutenants, he has no one under his direct command and when the need for support comes up he’s forced to petition his captain. What he calls “the bended knee routine.”

  Coming from a semi-freelance not on the department’s books, any request on Swoboda would be deemed iffy. But helped along by Ellie’s call, he’d done okay, scoring a team of three. Two faces I knew well, one I’d never seen before.

  At the left end of the long table, Detective Moses Reed, muscle-bound, crew-cut, ruddy, and baby-faced, sifted through paper and made notes. He looked up for a sec and finger-waved. So did Detective I Alicia Bogomil, ponytailed, raptor-eyed, and clean-featured, positioned next to him.

  To Alicia’s right a uniformed officer kept squinting in concentration.

  No sign of D II Sean Binchy, the usual third leg of the investigatory tripod.

  Milo was on his feet, near one of the boards. He said, “Hey,” and that drew the uniform away from her pen and pencil.

  Young—early twenties—with big, black, startled eyes and French-braided hair the same color. J. Arredondo.

  Milo settled next to her, which stretched her eyes wider. He indicated the chair at the head. “Doctor.”

  I said, “Position of honor?”

  “Who better? Officer, this is Dr. Delaware, the psychologist I told you about.”

  Whatever he’d told J. Arredondo made her gnaw her lower lip and look at me with uncertainty.

  I smiled and held out my hand. “Alex.”

  Her palm was moist. “Jen.”

  Milo said, “Sean’s on vacation so patrol gave us this fine officer for a few days.”

  Arredondo’s soft, rosy mouth allowed itself a tremulous smile.

  I sat and read the boards. Both were filled with columns of hash marks labeled P, N, F, and V? Entire sections were slashed with diagonal lines.

  I said, “Tips?”

  Milo nodded and picked up a sheet. “Here’s where we are, so far. The department missing site pulled up sixteen. A couple looked promising but didn’t pan out.”

  Jen Arredondo’s frown said she’d been assigned to that sift.

  “The websites,” he went on, “were the usual mixed blessing. From five of them, we got two hundred ninety responses. Those we divided into prankster, nutcase, flaky psychic, and potentially valid. Finished that tally yesterday and got it down to…a hundred and two possibles. Those people we’ve begun emailing, asking for phone numbers and recording each contact for follow-up. Responses are trickling in so we’re repeating, sometimes three, four times. Of the people we actually spoke to, very little has turned out promising. Wrong time period, wrong age, physical stats not even close. Despite the dates I listed, some people were decades off.”

  I said, “Desperation distracts.”

  “Yeah, there’s a whole lot of wishful thinking out there.”

  He put the paper down. “I pulled a few possibles for my own review. There are plenty of initials to go, and new tips may come in over time. If Officer Arredondo is still with us, she’ll be handling them.”

  Arredondo said, “Yes, sir.”

  Alicia said, “Wishful thinking and sad endings, Doc. With death records so accessible, whoever runs the sites could’ve pared down.”

  Moe said, “The volume the sites deal with, they probably don’t deal with that.”

  “Well, they should,” she said. “Searching for the truth and going public means responsibility.”

  Milo said, “We must be talking about a different internet.”

  Moe smiled. Alicia shrugged and returned to work.

  Arredondo had followed the interchange with fascination.

  Milo said, “The deaths do create an issue. We have no obligation to inform family members but morally I think we need to. But my feeling is don’t take the time now, wait and see what the final pile looks like.”

  I said, “Make sense.”

  He smiled at Arredondo: “I turn to him for occasional validation.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Whenever we do notify, Officer, you won’t have to be part of it.”

  “I don’t mind, sir.”

  “Appreciate the can-do attitude but it’s the part of the job we hate and you don’t need to put yourself through it.”

  “Okay, sir.”

  He turned to me. “Let’s take a walk.”

  * * *

  —

  Out in the hallway, I said, “A real walk or just away from there?”

  He crooked a thumb toward his office. When we got there, I squeezed into a corner and sat on a
n inhospitable plastic chair as he worked his bulk between me and his desk.

  “Impressive phone bank,” I said. “What disease are we combating?”

  “How about chronic deceptivitis?”

  “Good cause. I hear it’s an epidemic.”

  “Goddamn pandemic. So why after that dog-and-pony no-show you just heard did I call you over? I want to show you a couple of possibles that slightly vibrate my antenna. One of mine, one Alicia pulled up.”

  “You didn’t want the troops to know because…”

  “Both will likely dud out and I don’t want them to lose momentum.”

  He opened a desk drawer and drew out a sheet of yellow legal paper. In the center, his back-slanted cursive:

  B. Owen???? N. Strattine???

  Below that, two emails.

  bjowen@mindbody.net had written:

  Sir, this could just be my cousin named Victoria Barlow. She vanished without a trace around 1983, 84 when she was a young adult and I’m pretty sure she used to live in L.A. I have only one picture from when she was younger but I’m feeling it’s her. Happy to share, appreciate hearing from you. Here’s my number. Bella J. Owen.

  A 310 prefix.

  ncstrat@petalsworth.com had written:

  Dear Lieutenant Milo Sturgis, I’m responding to the photo you posted on Missing Spirits. I can’t be certain but it’s possible the woman in question is my aunt, Benicia Cairn who disappeared, probably between 1983 and 1985, possibly in California. If you’re interested in discussing, this is the best number to reach me at. I’m based in Tx, but just happen to be near you, in Carpenteria on business for a few days. Best, Nancy Strattine.

  I said, “Both sound pretty reasoned.”

  “That’s what impressed me. Cautious, no hyped-up, mouth-breathing crusade, and the timing’s right.”

  “You’ve been getting a lot of over-exuberance.”

  “Oh, Lord. The Web is catnip for the loosely wired. I searched our files for both of them, came up empty and checked out the sources. Bella Owen’s forty-three, single, works at a day spa in Brentwood. Bodywork, reflexology, yoga, skin care. Ergo the mind–body dominion in her address, which did make me wonder. But it belongs to her employer and there’s nothing spacey on her social network. Friends, dogs, cats, outdoor sports, wine. Strattine’s forty-five, married, kids, works as a sales rep for a big rose grower in Tyler, Texas. Apparently it’s the place for bounteous blossoms. So you agree, worth looking into.”

  “I do.”

  “Owen’s local so maybe I can get over to her today or tomorrow. Or, if Strattine’s heading back soon, she’ll be the priority. Want me to call you when I connect?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Good. How about some grub?”

  “Robin’s planning on dinner around seven. I’ll tell her for three.”

  “No, no, no, don’t wanna wear out the welcome mat.”

  “You haven’t seen what our new mat says.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Seekers of truth welcome, others tolerated.”

  He laughed hard enough to wheeze, loosened his tie, stretched arms and legs and neck, pulled out a panatela and passed it from hand to hand.

  We stepped out into the corridor.

  He said, “If I talk to Owen and Strattine and lose enthusiasm, I won’t bother calling you. Now go home and get all romantic. The kids get piqued, I call out for pizza. Maybe calzones.”

  “Moe will want salad and lean protein.”

  “Whatever. Meanwhile, I will chase any damn truth I can find.”

  * * *

  —

  I got home by six fifteen, peered out the back door and saw lights on in Robin’s studio. Pulling a couple of steelhead fillets from the freezer, I set them out to thaw. Leftover coleslaw that had somehow eluded Milo got tossed with carrot shreds, sesame oil, and glass noodles. I found some mushrooms and sautéed them, made a dry rub of chili powder, cumin, turmeric, coriander, salt, and pepper for the fish, fetched a tablecloth and set the table.

  Two tall, beeswax tapers, long forgotten at the back of the linen closet, caught my eye, and I placed them in the center in glass stands. The fish had warmed minimally so I finished thawing with forty-five seconds in the microwave and began the rubdown.

  That done, I called over to the studio. “Hi, baby. ETA?”

  Robin said, “Another twenty, twenty-five, plus ten for me to clean up and we can go.”

  “Sure. Where?”

  “You pick.”

  “Deal.”

  Eighteen minutes later, she and Blanche entered the kitchen. Lights off but for the candles, slaw in the fridge, steelhead crispy-skinned and sizzling.

  Robin said, “Whoa. Milo had good news?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “So what are we celebrating?”

  “Who needs a reason?”

  “So romantic.” She kissed me.

  No point telling her he’d given me the idea.

  CHAPTER

  29

  Type A parents don’t mind weekend appointments and neither do I. So I worked on custody cases from eight to noon, celebrated a quiet house with coffee, then returned to my office to get organized. Thirty-five emails, mostly junk. One from Milo, at eleven fourteen.

  I texted and left a message. Appts with both Owen and Strattine.

  I called his cell. He said, “Just about to give up on you and leave for a noon meeting with Owen. She sounds encouragingly not-crazy. You wanna meet me there?”

  “Sure.”

  “Brentwood. She’s working today, so close to her job, Hava-Java, San Vicente near Bundy.”

  “See you there.”

  “You already caffeinated? I am.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “So we’ll go decaf.”

  * * *

  —

  Hava-Java was shoehorned into the northwest corner of a strip mall in the heart of Brentwood shopping. The parking lot was populated by electric cars, hybrids, scooters, and a few gas-eating SUVs for the atheists. A harried attendant stood guard at the entrance, dispensing time-stamped tickets and listless warnings not to park in handicapped slots.

  I said, “How many spaces are still open?”

  “Not many.”

  I circled twice without success, finally saw a rose-colored Tesla pulling out and zipped in. During the first circuit, I’d spotted Milo’s Impala, which was good. I had no idea what Bella Owen looked like.

  I found him alone at a table, checking his watch, then his phone.

  Tall cup of something iced and foamy in front of him. He said, “She called fifteen minutes ago but didn’t leave a message. Phoned her back, straight to voicemail, hope to hell she didn’t cancel.”

  He pointed to his drink. “In answer to your next question, chai yogi something or other. Tastes like cloves and cotton candy—okay, this is probably her.”

  I turned to see a tall woman approaching and waving. She I.D.’d us immediately; we carried the only Y-chromosomes in the place.

  Bella Owen was nice-looking, on the heavy side, with porcelain skin, bright-blue eyes, and pulled-back dark hair. A couple of curled tendrils hung intentionally loose. She wore a black tunic and pants. A yellow sunrise logo on the left breast sat above orange lettering. Bodywise.

  Milo introduced me by name, not title.

  She said, “Nice to meet you guys,” sat and placed her hands on the table. Eight of ten fingers were banded by a ring. Reaching down, she produced her phone and placed it next to her right hand.

  “Reason I called a few minutes ago is I might be getting another photo of Vicki. My aunt who lives in Downey said if she has one she’d email it. But she’s old and not always with it so who knows? I figured if you could’ve made it a bit later, I’d wait to see if the jpeg came in, you mi
ght or might not want to meet. Then a client I don’t like working with did a walk-in and I didn’t want her to see me so I left.”

  Milo said, “No problem. Appreciate your getting in touch. Have you remembered anything more about your cousin?”

  “No, sorry. She was quite a bit older than me, my mother was the baby of the family and Vicki’s dad was the oldest. By the time I was born, she had to be eighteen, nineteen and not around much. Also, her family lived in Delano and we lived in Davis.”

  “The aunt in Downey is her mom?”

  “No, Thelma’s an aunt to both of us. She lives in care, can sometimes remember stuff or claim she does. But it comes and goes. I was surprised she had a picture. Her opinion of Vicki isn’t exactly positive.”

  “How so?”

  “Mind you, this is her speaking not me.” She formed air-quotes with both hands. “Wild child, hung with hooligans, never learned anything at school, thought her looks could get her everything. But Thelma’s a bitter person. Her own daughter committed suicide years ago. What’d you think of the photo I showed you of Vicki and some other cousins? She was just a kid, but maybe?”

  Milo said, “The coloring’s right.”

  Bella Owen slumped. “But the faces are teensy, I know. I’m feeling a little foolish about all of this, Lieutenant. You must be so busy.”

  “Never too busy to check out leads, ma’am. No matter how yours turns out, we appreciate your taking the initiative.”

  “Well,” she said, “I figured it was the least I could do, my mom said Vicki’s vanishing basically killed Vicki’s parents. The stress of not knowing. Both of them did get cancer and what I know about holistic medicine tells me stress is a giant factor in that. What struck me was the time period in your post and the fact that we’re talking L.A. According to my mom, Vicki definitely came here. Her parents heard from her a few times, then nothing.”

  I said, “Do you have any idea what led her to L.A.?”

  “My guess would be excitement. Delano was pretty much grapes and screw-top wine. Vicki’s mom and dad both worked for Gallo. I suppose she didn’t want to slip into that.”