Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

Big smile, hard kiss; I let her work and returned to the house, wondering what it was like to make a living creating beauty.

—

Milo had covered half the table with paper.

“Found a Zillow shot of Galoway’s house. Small, Spanish, corner lot. Can’t find any records of him selling real estate but he said that was years ago and I don’t know which companies he claimed to work for. Far as I can tell, he’s got no current source of income. Ditto registered firearm or criminal record. If you could get me the name of that city councilor who went up against him, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure. Petra just called me. Alomar’s still alive, here’s his number.”

He loaded his phone and called.

A deep, clipped voice said, “Pro shop.”

“Is Mr. Alomar there?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Lieutenant Milos Sturgis, LAPD—”

“What, they want to increase my pension?”

“Good luck on that,” said Milo. “No, sir, I’m West L.A. Homicide and calling about a detective who worked for you years ago. Dudley Galoway.”

“Worked?” said Greg Alomar. “According to who? Forget I said that—you’re not taping this, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“What’s your Christian name?”

“Milo.”

“Milo Sturgis…you the one who works with that shrink?”

“From time to time.”

“Heard about it a few years before I retired,” said Greg Alomar. “Got jealous. Hollywood, we had a whole different level of crazy than your civilized part of the city. We could’ve used some head-work.”

“We get our share.”

“What? Felonious anxiety when the Tesla won’t charge? Listen, I’m willing to schmooze but I need to verify you are who you say you are and I don’t truck with that FaceTime crap, anything on a phone or a computer can be faked. So if you want my side of the story, you’re going to have to show yourself.”

“No prob. Where are you?”

“Bel Air Ridge Country Club. I own the pro shop.”

“Nice,” said Milo. “How long have you been golfing?”

“Since never,” said Alomar. “It’s like being a specialist doc. You stay sharp and help people with an affliction.”

Milo laughed. “Can we come by now?”

“We?”

“Dr. Delaware and myself.”

“You’ve got the shrink with you? He works weekends?”

“When it’s interesting.”

“Psychology,” said Alomar. “I took it in college. Except for statistics, which is just a way to say fancy lies, it was interesting.”

—

The country club was a fifteen-minute ride from my house. I let Robin know I was leaving again and told her why.

“Your voice has that boyish lilt.” Wink. “Like when you’re interested . ”

“I’m always interested in you.”

“Darling,” she said, “your devotion isn’t in question. But there’s interested and there’s interested. Go.”

—

As in most cities, L.A.’s venerable country clubs were founded as citadels of us versus them. Wasn’t success judged by who you rejected?

L.A. continues to be as exclusionary as ever—try parking within a mile of an Oscar after-party. But the people who run the city pretend to be tolerant so the old clubs are struggling.

Replacing them are a number of pay-to-play setups with the pay part steep enough to keep out all but the highly affluent. Bel Air Ridge Country Club was one of those.

Getting there took us north on the Glen and up to Mulholland but instead of heading east toward Hollywood and the Des Barres estate, we turned left and drove four miles past several luxury developments stacked with white, big-box contemporary houses before reaching a double-wide driveway railed with palm trees and blocked by a high iron gate.

Call-box chat, quick entry, then twenty additional yards of driving to a guard in a sentry box who didn’t pretend to care. A hundred yards of gentle green climb brought us to the Big Daddy white box contemporary: two stories of white stucco with a band of black lava rock running along the bottom.

As if the clubhouse were a stud bull who’d spent a rollicking breeding season siring calves.

Just a sprinkle of cars in sight, all of them German, as well as several golf carts with yellow and white striped awnings. On the building’s left end was a glass-faced store: The Pro Shoppe, as attested to by curvaceous gilt lettering. We pulled up in front and stepped in.

A door-triggered ding-a-ling introduced us to a cozy, softly lit space filled with the aroma of good leather and walled with mahogany cases. Callahan banner on one wall, Titleist on the other. Displays of bags, clubs, balls, and brightly colored clothing sat on waxed parquet floors.

No shoppers, just one man behind the counter, wearing a salmon-pink Bobby Jones polo and blue linen pants. Five-nine, deeply tan, trim and flat-bellied with razor-cut features topped by a thick, white brush cut.

Milo had accessed Gregory Alomar’s retirement records, a sketchy endeavor but who was going to complain? The former captain would be seventy-seven next month but looked ten years younger.

“Milo and Dr. Delaware? Greg Alomar.”

Confident, iron handshake. Alomar’s eyes were olive-drab and watchful with smaller pupils than the lighting would suggest. An eagle appraising prey.

“Thanks for meeting with us, Captain.”

“My pleasure, once you show me your I.D.’s.”

The raptor eyes took their time examining Milo’s card and my driver’s license. Alomar read off my address. “Am I right and you live close to here, Doc?”

“A few miles down the Glen.”

“Do you golf?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Don’t apologize. What exercise do you do?”

“Run.”

“Ah. So your hips and knees still might go but at least your heart’ll be okay. Let’s go in back. Someone comes in, I’ll need to interrupt but eventually we’ll get the job done.”

—

Alomar had been optimistic about our bona fides; he’d opened three black folding chairs in the center of a rear storage room and arranged them two facing one. Shelves of the same objects as in front took up the rest of the space. Everything neat, clean, organized.

He took the solo seat and we faced him.

“Dudley the Dud,” he said. “Called himself Du. I used to think, preface that with ‘Dog.’ ”

Milo said, “No love lost.”

“He was foisted on me and I don’t like foisting.”

“By who?”

“Never found out,” said Alomar. “I had an opening due to one of my senior D’s retiring, had my eye on someone in Rampart. Female, smart, I asked for her, got him. No Homicide experience, the clown had done Traffic.”

I said, “Connections.”

“He sure had pull with someone. As to who that was, couldn’t uncover it. What I do know is before Traffic, he drove an assistant chief around. Right out of the academy, got to go to celebrity parties, all that good stuff. So it was either that or he ate out some rich back-scratcher. However he pulled it off, I got stuck with him. He thought by being an A-plus ass-kisser he could get into my good graces. Sleazy. Did he finally turn criminal?”

Speaking evenly but no mistaking the anger.

Milo said, “Finally?”

“The guy had a truth problem. Lying for the heck of it, stupid stuff. Like saying he did something when he didn’t, taking fake sick days, just a generally oily attitude. Like it was fun for him, piling on the bullshit. Not a big leap to criminal. You’re Homicide. Did he actually kill someone?”

“Long story,” said Milo.

“No one’s rung the bell,” said Alomar, crossing his legs.

“When he worked for you, he caught a case. Woman shot up on Mulholland.”

“Dorothy something European,” said Alomar. “I remember it because it never got closed. No surprise, it was stone-cold by the time he showed up and pushed himself into it.”