Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

Petra said, “I’m going to synchronize with Raul then head over to the scene.”

“See you, kid.”

She yawned. “Wish I felt like a kid.”

—

The Seville was where we’d left it. Milo handed the valet a bill that evoked joy, got into the passenger seat, and removed the placard from my dash.

I drove toward the Vermont exit.

He said, “Good thinking on my part, having you drive.”

“Still feeling the wine?”

“Not a whit. Time to work. Onward, coachman.”

—

Vermont Avenue is one of L.A.’s longest streets, stretching twenty-three miles from Los Feliz down to the Wilmington Harbor. There’s nothing pretty about most of it but darkness has a way of concealing defect, and being able to glide through a dim, latent Vermont as Milo made notes in his pad was strangely soothing.

That lasted half a block until I turned west on Sunset, a street that never calms down.

Hospital Row dominates huge swaths of Sunset real estate, with all the ambulance din and peripheral anxiety that entails. Next come the Scientologists massing in and around their cathedral, a former hospital now painted cobalt blue and topped by a massive sign and a crucifix.

L. Ron Hubbardsville eventually gave way to grim blocks of dope fiends buying, selling, and bartering, wild-eyed unfortunates lost in various states of fantasy, homeless encampments you can smell from the curb, and, farther west, the liveliest stretch of all, the Strip, which mixes all of the previous with hipsters and party creatures and adolescents out way too late.

None of that stopped Milo’s pencil. When he stopped writing and began thinking, I said, “You okay with some music?”

“Why not?”

I switched on my favorite Stan Getz tape.

He said, “ Definitely why not.”

As I continued west, he swapped the pad for his phone and began logging onto one database after another, cursing silently when Bluetooth went out, muttering, “Finally,” when connection resumed. “Nothing…nothing…et cetera…”

I’d just passed the Roxy, now sadly dark, and pulled to a stop at the Sunset–Doheny light when he shouted, “Finally!” and held out the tiny screen.

Small print. Before I had a chance to decipher, the light turned green. I drove on.

“As the TV bobbleheads say, here’s the recap: A Sabino Eduardo Chavez is listed on Val Des Barres’s IMDb page as the caterer on her second animation. Not exactly a tough gig, feeding toons. So she met him dishing out grub and hired him. But the main thing is NCIC knows him, too. Convictions for larceny and theft, jail time in Riverside…twenty-six and…twenty-eight years ago. Yeah, I know, ancient history, he’s totally repentant and completely rehabilitated. On the other hand, Alex, he coulda just gotten better at avoiding arrest. Whatever the case, he’s no virgin and parts of Riverside are serious gang territory. You want a shooter, you could do worse. Speaking of which, let’s see about our shooting victim. ”

Two blocks into Beverly Hills: “ Well, look at this . Mr. Twohy outdid Mr. Chavez and was busted four times…little run of naughtiness three to six years ago. One marijuana possession and three booze DUIs. Only one conviction, for the third deuce. He pled to misdemeanor, paid a fine. Maybe ol’ Sabino shoulda used his lawyer.”

“A substance history could explain Twohy’s approach to running.”

“Trading one addiction for another? Eight miles today, nine miles tomorrow, ten, eleven, blah blah blah? And by the way, here’s my route, look at me, everyone, I’m sober.”

“What I meant was he might be trying to stay healthy and structuring his life so he doesn’t relapse.”

“Oh,” he said. “Maybe that, too.”

—

No further conversation or revelations until I pulled past my gate and parked alongside the Impala.

He said, “Thanks for the best Uber in town. Val’s estate isn’t easy to watch but I’ll figure out something. I get lucky, Mr. Chavez goes somewhere interesting. That doesn’t happen, there’s all that panoramic view.”

He stretched. “You know, it’s kinda nice making my own schedule. What’s on your agenda?”

“Busy all day,” I said.

“With?”

“New patients.”

“Custody messes?”

“Two of those plus a trauma case.”

He winced. “A kid got hurt? Badly?”

“Car crash, no physical injuries but plenty of emotional issues.”

“Oh, man,” he said. “Glad he has you to talk to.”

“Eighteen months old,” I said. “Doesn’t talk much.”

“A baby? So what the hell do you do?”

“Observe, build trust, try some play therapy, then some incompatible response training.”

“Which is?”

“Teaching new ways to process what scares you.”

“A baby can do that?”

“Quite well,” I said. “Anger and fear don’t usually coexist in kids. If you can teach them to get mad at what frightens them, it can drive out anxiety.”

“Ah,” he said. “Maybe that’s why I’m never anxious, didn’t grow up. You work with the little ones a lot?”

“More often than most psychologists.”

“Because…”

“I don’t mind not talking.”

“Huh. That a hint?”

I laughed. “No.”

“The technique,” he said. “You invented it?”

“The research was in place. I put stuff together.”

“Eighteen months old. Phew.”

He got out of the car. “Thanks for your time, amigo. Let me ask you. When I call do you sometimes think it’s pain-in-the-ass complicated?”

“Never.”

He looked at me.

I said, “Not once.”

CHAPTER 18

I spent the next two days with children under stress. The custody cases weren’t the worst I’d seen but neither were they ideal. Nice, well-balanced kids; I’d work hard to keep it that way.

The eighteen-month-old trauma victim was a chubby, black-eyed girl named Amelia with a surprisingly quick smile. Good temperament; a plus. When her mother, a five-eight, hundred-pound graphic designer named Lara, warily introduced me as a doctor, she said, “Da-ka.”

The collision had sprained Lara’s shoulder and ankle. The latter was swaddled by an elastic bandage, and every step was clearly painful. As was the session we’d had last week when I’d taken a history.

This morning, she said, “She keeps waking up. This has been hell.”

I said, “Sorry for what you’ve been through.”

“Not sorrier than me.” She began playing with her phone, leaving Amelia to toddle around the office.

I keep toys to a minimum, using the few that play a role in therapy. For a child this age, the playhouse would do. I’d positioned it in the center of the floor, and it didn’t take long for Amelia to get to it.

Cheerful and relaxed as she sat down and began exploring. Good sign.

Then she spotted the miniature cars in the garage, shrank back and hugged herself. A run to her mother ended with a swing up to the maternal lap.

“See what I mean? She freaks out. Just getting here in the loaner was an ordeal.”

I picked up the cars. “It’s understandable.”

“You really think you can help her?”

“I do.”

“Hard to believe,” she said. “But my lawyer said try. He also said you’ll document everything for the case.”

Amelia looked at her.

I said, “Bad cars,” and tossed them onto the floor.

Amelia’s gaze switched back to me.

“Bad,” I said, louder. Extending a foot and kicking the vehicles.

“Bah,” she said. Looking to her mother for guidance.

Lara folded her arms across her chest. “What would you like her to do, now?”

I picked up the cars and tossed them again. Amelia scampered off the sofa and did the same.