Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

“Whew,” said Milo. “She does sound tough.”

“Let me tell you, there are times…” Head shake. “That attitude’s part of what makes me want to do right by Benni.”

Sudden flash of anger. Then a nibble of her sandwich. “This is good.”

—

As the three of us ate, Milo and I rephrased questions we’d already asked. Nancy Strattine didn’t resist but she had nothing to add.

Then I said, “Did Benni ride horses?”

“As a sport? No. Did she ever get on a horse? Probably, it’s Texas. Tyler’s a city but there’s ranchland not too far, that’s where I used to ride with my dad. So maybe Benni did, too. Though I never saw it personally. And her dad—Uncle Loudon—died when she was little.”

“It was just her and her mother?”

“And her mother drank. A lot. So did Loudon, that’s what killed him, driving drunk into a cottonwood. They were looked down upon by the rest of the family.”

The check came. Nancy Strattine reached for it.

Milo snatched it up and carried it to the host station.

When he returned, she grinned. “I can’t get into trouble for bribing a peace officer?”

“Nope, you’re safe.”

“Can I at least do the tip?”

“Taken care of, ma’am.”

“Bummer—okay, can you at least call me Nancy? That way I can pretend this is a social thing and next time it’ll be my turn.”

“Sure, Nancy.”

“You’re an easygoing man. Texas would like you.” She reached out to touch his hand, thought better of it.

The three of us stood and headed out of the restaurant.

Milo said, “If there’s anything else you can recall or learn about Benni, let us know.”

“Promise,” said Nancy Strattine. “I’m really a source, huh? My husband and kids are going to get a huge kick out of that.”

—

She drove away in a rental Explorer.

I said, “Two positive I.D.’s in one day.”

“Unbelievable,” he said. “Must be sunspots or something.”

“Benni hanging with a bad girl could fit our Queen Bee guess. A tough, more streetwise girl brought her to L.A. and got her into the scene.”

He nodded. “That’s why you asked about horseback riding. Which she didn’t rule out. Okay, let’s check in with the kids.” He phoned Moe Reed and gave him the news.

Reed said, “Funny you should say that, L.T. Alicia and I got nearly identical tips from two sources about a girl named Benni. Mine described her as intellectually challenged.”

“Where are the tipsters from?”

“Dallas and Boston. Both said they grew up in East Texas, that’s where they knew her.”

“They have anything else to say?”

“Just that they thought they recognized her.”

“How much info is left to go through?”

“At least a day’s worth,” said Reed. “Maybe some spillover tomorrow.”

“You need a break from weekend work?”

“Nope, Alicia and I are charged up. The rookie’s kind of bummed because none of her stuff has panned out but that’s good training, right, L.T.? Getting used to failure.”

CHAPTER 31

We left the winery and headed east toward the Del Norte on-ramp to the 101. Milo maintained an easy seventy-eight mph all the way to Thousand Oaks, where his phone rang with a text.

He handed it to me. “See if it’s anything.”

“Detective Sherry Mulhern, Valley Division. Call when you have a chance, no reason given.”

He said, “Keeping it brief, sounds like something active. Do me a favor and speaker it, then hold it close enough for me to talk.”

I put the phone on my left leg, maxed the volume, called the number.

A tobacco voice said, “Mulhern.”

“Sturgis.”

“Thanks for getting back so quick. I’m Valley Burglary, caught one in Granada Hills. Complainant is extremely freaked out, which is understandable. What’s different is she claims it could be related to some sort of contact with you but she won’t say what. Older woman, she seems okay mentally, but I’m no doctor. Deirdre Seeger, did you have dealings with her?”

“Couple of phone conversations,” said Milo. “Are you at the scene now?”

“For a while, the techies are doing their thing,” said Sherry Mulhern. “So she’s mentally stable?”

“Far as I know.”

“It’s probably shock, then. Can’t blame her, every room was basically trashed, going to take time to get prints and whatever else.”

“What’s the address?”

“You’re coming over?”

“Might as well, I’m in Thousand Oaks, can make it in twenty-five.”

“Okay,” said Mulhern, sounding amused. She read off an address on Southland Street. “That level of speed, watch out for the Chippies, they don’t give us any breaks.”

Thirty-one miles to the base of the Santa Susana Mountains, two more miles to reach the crime scene. One CHP car spotted, already ticketing a trucker.

Twenty-seven minutes.

The house was a low-slung, white midcentury with a sea-green door on a street lined with mature trees. One of the holdouts; most of neighbors had McMansionized. A venerable lemon tree spread across the left side of a fading lawn, evoking Granada Hills’s orchard origins. Same for the navel orange on the right. Other than the trees, just grass split by a cement walkway. Entry blocked by yellow tape.

Milo pulled behind a navy-blue Crown Victoria sedan with a sagging rear end and cop plates. Ford had stopped making the big sedans in 2011 but they endured as the go-to unmarked for situations where you didn’t need to be unmarked.

Behind the Crown Vic was a white Scientific Division van. The scenes I’m called to feature at least two vans. One for the technicians, one for the crypt drivers. Plus the compacts the coroner’s investigators take when they’re dispatched to go through dead people’s pockets.

The absence of all that did nothing to mollify the woman on the sidewalk weeping into a handkerchief. Small, thin, bespectacled, mid- to late seventies. She wore a stiff, dark-brown bouffant, a blue sweatshirt with the U.’s insignia, white sweatpants, white flats.

At her side was a gray-haired woman in her midforties no taller but thirty pounds heavier. Cropped, frizzy, utilitarian hair topped sharp eyes, a nub nose, and an assertive chin. Detective badge clipped to the breast pocket of her black blazer. The blazer hung open, revealing a holstered semi-auto.

Stocky woman but not fat; broad and solid, the kind of body designed for long-term plodding not showy sprints.

She nodded at us, looked over at the crying woman, flashed a goes with the territory frown, and shifted a couple of feet away.

Milo recited his name and mine. Sherry Mulhern did the same. No time for handshakes. The older woman had let out a sheep-like mewl and Mulhern rushed back to her.

“So sorry for your losses, Mrs. Seeger.”

“Sorry for being a crybaby,” said Deirdre Seeger. “I know it’s just things, not a person. But they’re my things and I could’ve been here except for the grace of God.”

Mulhern said, “Chances are if you were here, ma’am, they wouldn’t have dared.”

Deirdre Seeger looked up at Milo for confirmation.

He said, “Detective Mulhern’s right. Most burglars are cowards who avoid confrontation.”

Mulhern smiled, grateful for the support. “Anyway, I brought the lieutenant to you like you requested.”

Deirdre Seeger said, “What about those home invaders? They just break in, don’t care if you’re home.”

Mulhern said, “I won’t tell you it doesn’t happen. But not here, this is a really safe neighborhood.”

As if realizing how lame that sounded, she exhaled and turned to the side.

Milo said, “What was taken, Deirdre?”