Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

“So far not the ones who premeditate murder. But like I said, terminal illness can mess with the nervous system.”

“Biology, not morality?”

“I wouldn’t count on morality.”

“Hunh. Sometimes I think you’re more cynical than I am. Anyway, the creepiness level has just ratcheted higher and who knows where it’ll end. Maybe I will ask Val for permission to bring in the radar.”

“Think she’d agree?”

“She came to us about the confession.”

“True but she’s ambivalent, and too much disruption could tip her over. Also, the house isn’t only hers, her brothers are co-owners. If she felt the need to call them, it could go bad pretty fast.”

“What, then?”

“When’s your appointment with Nancy Strattine?”

“Hour and a half, Oxnard.”

“I’d wait to hear what she has to say. Meanwhile we can try to learn about the photo studio and Vicki Barlow. Sterling Lawrence and others like him could be where Des Barres sourced his women.”

“Fine art covering for pimping.”

“Lawrence could’ve had a steady supply, Des Barres and men like him provided the demand.”

“What’s that called, symbiosis?”

“If you’re being charitable.”

“If not?”

“Flesh peddling.”

“Okay, let’s get back to my wheels and see if ol’ Sterling has a past.”

—

He used the computer in the Impala and confirmed that the photography studio no longer existed. The 900 block of Gower was residential. The exact address was a big-box apartment complex that looked to be around ten years old.

NCIC had nothing criminal on Lawrence. A Find A Grave search pulled up a headstone for Sterling Adrian Lawrence at Hollywood Memorial. Smallish and simple, black granite. An old-fashioned camera with bellows engraved at the top.

The photographer had died fourteen years ago, age seventy-eight. That made finding a record at the coroner’s office a decent shot.

He found it. Like Swoboda, just a summary: heart attack.

He said, “So much for that. Now what?”

“You could try Harlow Hesse.”

“Why?”

“He’s old, likes to talk, seems to know everyone.”

“Fun times. Why not.”

—

A woman, probably one of the maid-quartet, answered. “Hesse residence, who may I ask is calling?”

“Lieutenant Sturgis. We met with Mr. Hesse a few days ago and have a question.”

“Oh,” she said. “He went down for a nap but let me see.”

Moments later, a familiar bellow shot through the tiny speaker: “Didn’t you see me in the kitchen, Sheila? Of course I’m up…hello, Lieu ten ant, auld lang syne, how can I help you.”

“A name came up during the investigation, sir. A photographer named Sterling—”

“Lawrence. Great guy, hope you’re not going to tell me he did something nasty.”

“Not at all.”

“What, then?”

“We found a portrait he took of our missing girl and wondered what you could tell us about him.”

“First off,” said Hesse, “he’s dead, so forget talking to him. Chain-smoker, loved steak, no surprise. I tried to tell him to moderate at least the cigs but he was puffing away since the army. So was the picture classy? I’m betting yes because Ster was a classy guy, extremely artistic, took his time with the lighting. A real artist, none of that cheesecake crap, none of those phony shutterbug clubs attracting perverts. He had a classy setup, worked out of this big Craftsman he owned in Hollywood. Great place, the neighborhood got a little iffy but Ster stayed…Sycamore Avenue maybe? Cherokee?”

“Gower.”

“That’s it, Gower. Don’t know who owns it now.” A beat. “Ster had no heirs.”

“The building’s long gone,” said Milo.

“What’s there now?”

“Big apartment complex.”

“All the class of a shipping carton?”

“Something like that.”

“Figures,” said Hesse. “Like Joni used to say—she’s got a great place in Bel Air, by the way—they paved paradise and discombobulated everything classy.”

“The photo we have was shot on a beach.”

“So?”

“So I guess Sterling traveled away from his studio.”

“Same question. What’s the diff?”

“Good point,” said Milo. “What else can you tell us about him?”

A beat. Throat clearing. “You know, Lieutenant, I enjoyed talking to you, you seem like a really dedicated guy. You and the shrink, both of you seemed like good people. And I’m a civic-minded citizen so obviously I want to do anything I can to help with whatever it is you think you need help with. But if you’re barking up Ster Lawrence’s tree, don’t. Great guy, had a tough life. Military brat, crazy-strict religious parents. Knew who he was but they didn’t approve so he did his own thing and used his talent to make a life for himself. It wasn’t easy. Are you catching my drift?”

Milo said, “Yes, sir.”

“Trust me,” said Hesse. “He was upright and ethical and a very, very, very talented guy.”

His voice broke.

Milo waited.

Harlow Hesse said, “I’m not going to get into details but let’s just say Ster was known to frequent the same place I went with your Dr. Silverman. Both floors.”

“Got it.”

“I’d hope so. Given who you are.”

Click.

I said, “Upstairs/downstairs at The Azalea. Maybe there was more interplay than was obvious.”

“Lawrence and Des Barres ran into each other and figured out the supply–demand thing?”

“Des Barres and others like him. Lawrence could’ve gotten kickbacks or Hesse is right and there was nothing sleazy going on, just some informal matchmaking. In any event, we’ve got a good theory of how three women ended up in the harem.”

“But no clue what happened to them. And maybe others.” He rubbed his face. “This is the point where I’d suggest nutrition but I’m supposed to meet Nancy Strattine for lunch. You have Saturday plans?”

“No, I’ll come, once I figure out where to put my car.”

“Let’s see to that.”

—

No letup in the strip-mall traffic. The attendant looked even more harried.

Milo said, “Hi.”

Waving hands, scowling face. “One sec one sec hold on.”

A flash of the badge drew the attendant’s eyes. “Police? Okay, no problem.” He let in a pink VW Bug. “What?”

“We came in with two cars, the Impala and a classic Seville.”

“The green one, yeah, nice.”

“Very nice and it’s going to be here for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

“Hours.”

“I can’t do that.”

A twenty pressed into the man’s palm. Milo folded his fingers over the bill.

“Got it, sir.”

“Knew you would.”

—

Eighty minutes to get to Oxnard was close to a sure bet, even with a mishap or two on the 101. Today there were none and we sailed through the Valley into 805 territory, passed Camarillo and into its northern neighbor.

Once a high-crime scar on the pretty face of Ventura County, Oxnard had finally realized it was a beach town and matured accordingly. A few gang neighborhoods survived but between a well-designed harbor, surf-side resorts and condos to the west, and lush plantings of berries, artichokes, and leafy things to the east, once you got off the freeway, the drive was a pretty one.

We exited at Rice Avenue, continued a few miles, and turned right into a high-end industrial park. Wide, mostly empty streets crisscrossed multi-acre lots on which white and off-white buildings sat behind knolls of barbered grass. Some of the structures housed the headquarters of agribusiness firms and the companies that serve them—truckers, shippers, packers. Others with black glass windows sported the names of corporations—names that explained nothing and could have sprung from the feverish mind of a conspiracy theorist.