Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

Tensing up, as he said that. Then, one of the widest smiles I’d ever seen on Rick’s face spread smoothly. “That’s great, Mr. H. His name’s Milo Sturgis. Lieutenant Sturgis. What’s a good time for him to call…really? Hold on and I’ll check.”

Stretching the phone to arm’s length, he whispered: “Could you go there now?”

Milo said, “What’s the address?”

As we reached the door, I said, “Good price? Did he buy the building?”

Rick said, “Just the disco ball.”

—

The address matched a fieldstone-and-stucco, multigabled traditional on a double-wide lot one block north of Sunset.

H. H. Hesse met us at the door, wearing a maroon velour jumpsuit and red loafers. Four black-and-lace-uniformed maids buzzed around him like bees turned frantic by pheromones.

Milo introduced himself.

“Lieutenant—and other cop—glad to meet you, I’m Heck.”

Clear-eyed and gravel-voiced, looking every year of his eighty-seven, Heck Hesse was average height despite a bowed back, meaning he’d once been tall. Despite that, he came across gnome-like, with a smallish round face, impish and inescapably chimp-like under an arid thatch of ginger hair.

The four maids re-formed behind him in a line, a retinue waiting on nobility. As Milo and I entered, they curtsied.

Hesse said, “Make yourselves snacks, ladies. Have fun, life’s short.”

A collective, “Thank you, Heck,” as they scattered.

“Come on in, gents.”

He walked ahead of us, soles scuffing hardwood, maintaining a good pace despite the hunched spine and stiff legs. We passed several enormous, art-filled spaces, each of which could be a living room. It’s like that in many of the big houses I see. Set up for large-scale entertainment flow rather than family life.

The library was at the rear, any outdoors view blocked by pink damask drapes. A crystal chandelier subbed for the sun.

A disco ball, three feet in diameter and encrusted with mirrored squares, sat floodlit on a custom-fitted Lucite stand.

Other than the garish sphere, the room was traditional. Spacious enough for three arrangements of tufted leather chairs. Four walls of pickled-pine cases were crammed with volumes. Not leather-bound showy stuff; the kinds of books people actually read.

H. H. Hesse chose the center-most seating area: two club chairs and a love seat arranged around a glass-topped table. On the table was a copper-colored plastic pitcher purloined from IHOP slumming alongside three gilt-edged porcelain cups on saucers.

He took the couch, lowering himself slowly, taking more time to cross his legs.

“Sorry for the creaking,” he said. “Coffee?”

Milo said, “Thank you, sir.”

“You pour, my shoulder hurts.”

Milo semi-filled three cups. Hesse said, “You’ve got finesse for a husky fellow. Great to meet you. I’m sure Dr. Rick told you. My forte was finance but I did get behind some small-screen productions, including cop shows.”

He rattled off several titles, most forgettable or forgotten, plus a long-running drama that could’ve earned him a few mansions.

“You look like the real deal, Lieutenant. You, on the other hand, are what casting directors like. The two of you would make a great pair. Either of you ever done any T.A.’ing?”

Milo said, “Teaching assistant?”

“Technical advising,” said Hesse. “Terrific money, even with the tightening up. It’s the kind of line item that makes its way through the budgetary process because compared with all the waste, it’s penny ante.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, sir.”

“I wouldn’t advise either of you trying to break in solo, too much competition, too much hassle. But as a pairing, you’ve got something different. Synergy. They could tap into your repartee as well as your expertise. Who knows, you might score a reality show or something. Though you’d probably need to retire first. Want some phone numbers?”

“Sure, thanks,” said Milo. “Before that, could we talk about why we’re here?”

“Cut to the chase,” said Heck Hesse. “I like your style. Go.”

Milo handed the photo across the table. “We’re trying to identify these people.”

Hesse said, “I need my glasses—over there, near the art section.” Pointing to a bookcase filled with oversized spines. From Renaissance to Basquiat.

Milo retrieved a pair of specs with lime-green frames and handed them over. Even assisted, Hesse squinted.

He began on the left side, the way most readers of English do. “This one”—tapping Dorothy’s image—“I don’t know her but I may have a vague memory of seeing her there, that doesn’t help you…the guy I saw plenty of times. Some sort of scientist? Doctor?”

Milo said, “Engineer.”

“So you know him,” said Hesse. “So why come to me?”

“We don’t know much about him.”

“Neither do I, other than what I told you. Engineers are buttoned-up types, this one probably had a second adolescence, trying too hard to be a hippie. Silk shirts from Battaglia, good luck with that, the whole key to being a hippie was pretending to come off poor. My daughters tried it. Then they found out being poor was no picnic.”

Hesse’s eyes shifted to the right. “This one I don’t know…this one, the chubby one. I’m pretty sure she’s the one who went missing. Am I right? That what you’re after?”

We got up and studied the photo.

The woman to Des Barres’s immediate left had a narrow face and fashion-model cheekbones. The woman Hesse had labeled chubby was anything but overweight. Just a bit of extra padding on her cheeks.

More fresh-faced than exotic.

Everything’s relative.

Milo said, “What else do you know about her?”

“So I’m right.” Hesse slapped a knee. “Good to know the brain’s still working. That said, don’t ask me about names, haven’t been able to hold on to names for longer than I’ll admit. What I do remember is once I was there with a…friend. The manager comes upstairs looking upset and tells us there’s a cop downstairs asking questions. Nothing that could involve us, a girl went missing, could we please go downstairs and talk to them. Naturally, I’m not tickled. Upstairs was a place to get privacy, good drinks, listen to that Indian Beatle music, jasmine or whatever in the air. Although by that time, it’s losing business. But they lowered the membership, I love a bargain…anyway…I’m loosening up after a tough day, aluminum had just gone nuts, or maybe it was the raw ore…bauxite. I ended up making a killing but what a day, it damaged my arteries, heh. But I go downstairs because it’s a cop, let’s keep it simple. He shows me a picture of this one.” Tapping. “I say no idea, he thanks me and leaves.”

Hesse sat back. “The whole thing was two minutes, if that. But still not a pleasant experience. That’s what we remember, right? The bad stuff and the good stuff, everything in between gets shoved in the mental dumpster. What was bad wasn’t the cop, per se. It was any cop. My situation back then. You guys, even when you’re not trying to, you get accusatory. I get it. You see the worst in everyone. But it doesn’t make you fun to talk to.”

He smiled. “Not you two. This is fun. Maybe nowadays they train you better in human relations, psychology, whatever.”

Milo said, “We do have some top-notch psychologists.”

“Well, that’s good. Anyway, I’m sorry for her, she looks like a nice girl—corn-fed. As to why she’d be at The Azalea, I don’t have to tell you.”

“Please educate us, sir.”

“Forget sir. Heck. ” Velour legs crossed painfully slowly . “Think about it: What does L.A. mean to everyone in the outside world? New York, China, Russia, India, everywhere.”