Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

“Just for a moment.”

“I dunno.”

“It’s important,” I said. “Police business.”

“Hold on. Sir.”

Moments later, Val came on: “Hi, Lieutenant.”

“This is Alex,” I said. “He’s driving without distraction.”

“Oh, of course. What can I do for you?”

“We’d like to know if your house was ever burgled when your dad was alive.”

Simple yes-or-no question.

She said, “I’m not sure.”

“You were too young to remember?”

“No, I remember clearly. Father did think something had happened, he was pretty upset. But to my knowledge he never called the police and the issue faded away.”

“When did this happen?”

“Not that long after your murder—maybe a month or so after? Possibly two, can’t say for sure. I do know I was young.”

“How long did it take for the issue to fade?”

“Just a day,” she said. “One night, I heard him cursing, almost growling, went to his bedroom and saw him pawing through his drawers, tossing things all over the place. Not like him, he was extremely meticulous. I asked what was going on and he said someone had taken advantage of him. I asked how. He said, ‘The Seventh Commandment, darling,’ and then he gritted his teeth. I asked who but he just shook his head. The following morning, he told me he’d been wrong, just forget about it.”

“What did he think was missing?”

“If he was rummaging in his drawers, it was probably his jewelry. He’d really gotten into chunky gold chains, had boxes of them from Beverly Hills boutiques. Rings, too—diamonds and ruby pinkie rings. After it happened, he eased off a bit on the gaudy stuff. But he never gave it up. Why’s the lieutenant asking?”

Milo said, “Just trying to be thorough.”

Another non-explanation.

Val Des Barres said, “Oh, hi. Of course, being thorough is the only way. By the way, our chat was helpful. For some reason I feel lighter.”

“That’s great,” he said.

She and Milo exchanged goodbyes and I hung up.

He said, “The timing fits. Femme gets rid of Dorothy, sticks around, finally figures snagging the boss is a lost cause, and collects some combat pay.”

“If Des Barres was implicated in Arlette’s death, he couldn’t very well report a burglary by his accomplice.”

“Let the devil in…” He redialed Petra. “Forget the previous request, kid. If this all sounds weird, call me and I’ll fill you in.” To me: “Now what?”

I said, “Only thing I can think of is trying to identify and find Femme. Maybe starting with the two blondes in the Azalea photo and seeing where that leads.”

“Put the shot on social media?”

“That or start old-school—find someone who remembers the club.”

“Suggestions?”

“Sure,” I said. “Keep it close to home.”

—

He took Fountain to La Cienega, continued south to Third Street and the ever-growing megalith that is Cedars-Sinai hospital. Gliding easily, as if moving along a well-worn track, he continued to the emergency drop-off and parked in a No Parking zone. A valet came over.

“Keys are in the ignition, Armando.”

“Hi, Lieutenant. Dr. Silverman is here.”

“Great.”

“Um, sorry, I have to ask you how long. They’re kind of clamping down on non-essentials.”

“This is essential, Armando. Homicide case.” Milo slipped him a five.

“Oh,” said the valet. “Sure, whatever you need, I’ll take care of you.”

—

The E.R. waiting room was the usual acrid mix of anxiety, resignation, and human secretions. Faces out of Dickens. No one waiting looked in imminent danger, but you never know.

The triage nurse said, “Hey, Milo. You’re in luck, he just got out of surgery.”

“Hope his patient’s in luck.”

She laughed. “She is. Stitched up like a football but nothing serious.”

We kept going.

I said, “Everything’s relative.”

—

Rick was sitting on a rock-hard brown couch in the doctors’ room, wearing fresh scrubs and a long white coat and drinking from a bottle of Fiji water. He’s broad-shouldered and rock-jawed with huge, agile hands, a seamed, angular face, tightly curled gray hair, and a matching brush-mustache. The kind of hewn good looks that used to earn actors leading-man roles before the norms changed to juvenile and androgynous.

His default mood is somber. When he saw Milo, he raised his eyebrows in surprise, half smiled, and hugged him.

“Hi, Alex.” Firm handshake for me. “It’s business, huh? I’ll take what I can get.”

Milo said, “I came by to ask about dinner. Coq au vin or stale pizza?”

“Ha. What’s up, Big Guy?”

“Remember that place you told me about, The Azalea?”

“Tacky-Mahal? Is this related to your impossible one?”

“Yup. Take a look at this, see if it rings any bells.” Handing over the shot of Anton Des Barres and the blonde trio.

Rick said, “Older guy, bevy of cuties. Exactly what I saw when I was there…that wallpaper. Ugh. Looked even worse in real life…who are these people?”

“The one on the left is my victim and he’s the rich guy she lived with. It’s these two I’m interested in.”

“They look kind of…generic. As I told you, I was whisked past all that.” Another near-smile. “Did he tell you what they called the upstairs room, Alex? The Lavender Lair.”

I said, “Subtle.”

“The times weren’t subtle.” To Milo: “They’re suspects?”

“More likely potential sources. Can you think of anyone who’d know the place well?”

“Just one.”

“Who?”

“Mr. H.”

“Him? Thought he was an upstairs guy.”

“When we came in, everyone greeted him, so he probably circulated.”

“He still around?”

“Don’t know but haven’t heard to the contrary.”

“Think he’d cooperate?”

“That I can’t say. But he did like attention so you could play off that.”

“You haven’t seen him since?”

“Actually,” said Rick, “a couple of years back, his daughter brought him here with chest pains. Turned out to be indigestion. I didn’t think he’d recognize me but he did.”

“From high school senior to now?”

“You’re saying I’ve changed? Yeah, it was surprising.”

“Maybe he’s been keeping tabs on you.”

“I doubt it but whatever the reason, he was quite lovely about it. And more secure. He told me he came out a while back and his kids were supportive.”

“And he supports them, in return?” Milo rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

“Cynic. You may be right but the interaction I saw, the daughter adored him.”

He pointed to one of several computers arrayed near the facing wall. “His records are in there. Maybe. He’s got to be, what, mideighties.”

He sprang up, crossed to a terminal, typed. “Still listed as an active patient, so if he died it didn’t happen here. You can check with the coroner or I can just call him for you.”

“The latter would be great, Richard.”

Rick patted his cheek. “Great is what I aim for.”

—

Harlow Hunter Hesse was alive and well and still living on the 900 block of North Roxbury Drive in Beverly Hills.

He picked up his own phone, barking “Yes?” loud enough for the sound to travel across the room. Rick introduced himself, then did a lot of listening. Churning the air with one hand as the monologue persisted. We were too far to hear the content but the pace and tone were turbocharged.

Finally, Rick broke in. “Nexium’s an appropriate choice, Mr. H…he’s a very qualified gastroenterologist…I do, we were actually in the same year at med school…that I can’t tell you but he was certainly well thought of…there you go, Mr. H, you’re in good hands. May I ask you a question? It’s for a friend of mine…no, nothing to do with investment, he’s trying to learn more about The Azalea…yes, we were there…yes, I know…is that so? Glad you got it at a good price…anyway, if—no, not a writer, he’s a police detective.”