Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

My phone rang.

Milo said, “Guess who’s alive and well and willing to help any way he can.”

“Dudley Galoway.”

“He goes by ‘Du.’ As in ‘I Du.’ Har har.”

“How’d you find him?”

“Used the right spelling and got hold of his pension records, which list a cellphone. He retired at forty-five, is only sixty-four now.”

“Soon after he picked up Swoboda.”

“He said it was an in-and-out. Maybe that’s why he sounds hale and hearty. I doubt he can tell me anything, but he was okay schmoozing so tomorrow at two.”

“Is he still out in Piro?”

“Ojai. I offered to go there, he said he’d rather drive in to La-La Land and give the old Jag a workout. He’s vegan, said anywhere with a salad. Given that, no reason I should trust him but beggars-choosers-losers and all that. I found a place near the station, here’s the address.”

I clicked off and summed up for Robin. “One less link in the accident chain.”

“Well, that’s good, something not to worry about, and maybe this guy will have something of value.” She smiled. “A preference for plant-based notwithstanding.”

CHAPTER 9

The unfortunately named Outer House was a couple of miles from the station, on Montana west of Barrington. Inside was a counter staffed by a young woman with a retro blond bob and enough piercings to drive a magnet mad. Dining took place at two rough wooden cable spools turned on their side.

I found Milo glaring at a jam jar filled with liquid the color of a silty river.

“Apple juice,” he said, without looking up. “Unfiltered and augmented with ground-up stems and peel. Apparently that’s where the vitamins are.”

I said, “Fiber.”

“Something’s gotta give.”

Next to us, a white-garbed Sikh couple shared something massive that looked like a burrito. They smiled and I returned the gesture.

Milo said, “You order over there.”

“I’m fine.”

“What’s that, your restaurant mantra? Fine, this time I’m not gonna argue.” He tasted the juice. “What it lacks in taste it makes up in grit.” He looked at his watch. “Hope the Jag didn’t break down.”

Only two minutes past the appointed time but antsy. I sat as he checked his email, did a lot of grimly enthusiastic deleting, put the phone down, and pinged the juice jar. “Eight bucks. I’m billing the department.”

I said, “They’ll probably approve.”

“Of what?”

“Taking the healthy approach.”

He shuddered. Turned to the front door as it opened.

The man who walked in managed to be thickly built and trim. Six feet tall, a muscular two hundred, great posture, broad-shouldered, with oversized hands and baseball-catcher thighs that filled dark-blue stretch jeans.

He saw us, grinned, and gave a thumbs-up. “Milo? Du Galoway. Hey!”

Galoway’s stride was long and confident, his complexion ruddy and smooth for sixty-four. Bright-blue eyes nested in thatches of laugh lines. His hair was thick, coarse, colored an unlikely black. A white collarless peasant shirt billowed over the jeans. The big hands ended in glossy, manicured nails. Sandals revealed equally impressive toenails. He could easily pass for ten years younger. Walking ad for healthy living.

Milo introduced me.

Galoway said, “Psychologist? That’s a new one. My day all the psychologists did was try to drum out maladjusts.”

Handshakes all around. His palms were soft and dry, his grip cautious, suggesting awareness of latent power. A glance at Milo’s juice. “Looks yum. Apple?”

Milo repeated the details.

“That’s true, peel’s full of good stuff.” Galoway patted a flat abdomen. “Our phase of life you need to keep the shipping routes open, right?”

“For sure,” said Milo, not coming close to credibility. “You order there. On me, Du.”

Galoway strode to the counter, returned with a glass filled with chartreuse fluid.

“Did your apple, added broccoli plus cumin and cardamom and turmeric and just a hint of chili powder. Reasonable, only ten bucks.”

Milo fished out a bill.

Galoway sat down. “Not going to happen, pal. I know it’s going to come out of your pocket not the department’s.”

“Either way, I insist, Du.”

“Uh-uh, not necessary, you did me a favor.” Perfect, blinding white smile.

“What favor is that?”

“Getting me out of the house. I’m not going to lie, life is overall good. But sometimes the days kind of drag. Even after I take my walk and do my biking and three times a week the lifting, then the gardening and the cleanup. Even with twice-a-week yoga there’s still a whole bunch of time to fill. I tried taking piano lessons but that didn’t work, far from it.”

He flexed his fingers. “Tone-deaf and clumsy. Can’t draw a straight line so art’s out. I thought of bonsai—those little Japanese trees? There’s a class near where I live. But it didn’t grab me. I even thought of writing a novel but that would take actual talent, right?”

“Happy to fill your day, Du.”

Galoway drank and exhaled with pleasure. The ten remained on the table. “C’mon, really, friend.”

“I insist.”

“Okay, don’t want to insult you.” Tweezing the bill between thumb and forefinger, Galoway slid it into a jean pocket. “So you’re reopening Swoboda. Man, that’s a blast from the past, took a sec to figure out the name. What got that going, some cold-case campaign?”

“Swoboda’s daughter is mega-rich and she pulled strings.”

“The daughter,” said Galoway. “One of the things I did when I got the case was try to talk to her, she was some sort of student. But her father didn’t want to give me her number, said she had nothing to add. He wasn’t cooperative, period. So what, she remembers something after all these years? One of those recuperating memory deals?”

“She knows nothing,” said Milo. “That’s why she pulled strings.”

“Strings. Huh.” Galoway finished half his juice, produced another gust of air rife with pleasure. “ Dee -li-cious. How’d she make her dough?”

“Gym ware.”

“Wow,” said Galoway. “Go know. So heavy-duty strings.”

Milo nodded. “Bridge cables. I was contacted by a deputy chief and ordered to prioritize.”

“Same old story, huh? Money talks, cow-slop walks. I had kind of the same feeling when they handed it to me.”

“What feeling is that?”

“Strings,” said Galloway. “Not that I ever found out for sure.”

I said, “Why’d you suspect outside influence?”

“Because it didn’t make sense, by then the case was—let me think—fourteen years cold. Don’t know how much you know about the particulars, Doc, but I was the third guy assigned to work it. They hand me this skimpy murder book and say go.”

“How skimpy?”

“Skimpiest I’ve ever seen.” Galoway measured a quarter of an inch between thumb and forefinger. “Basically just a general description—the one you just gave me, Milo. Plus some illegible notes and the coroner’s summary. There wasn’t even an address where it went down, just the approximate site. The first guy picked it up when it happened, forget his name. Worked it, got nothing, retired. I tried to call him, too. After that, it sat for like…three, four years? Who remembers? The second guy had it for a while. Him I spoke to. His name was Seeger. Not too swift. He still around?”

Milo shook his head. “So neither of them had accomplished much.”

“To be honest, neither did I. It was like trying to build a house without a foundation.” Galoway frowned. “It felt as I was being set up to fail. I was barely a D I, had something like four months investigating financial crimes under my belt, zero experience with homicide. One day my captain calls me in and tells me I’m transferred to Homicide. I never even applied.”