Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

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 might 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.”