Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

“She was the aspiring Queen Bee.”

“Or she just got bored with being a member of the pack and decided to bankroll another adventure. We’re talking multiple murder by fifteen. Heavy-duty thrill factor. And think of those photos: She’s not whooping it up. We know from the serpentine necklace that she was going back between L.A. and Stan Barker. Getting Barker to babysit and playing him. He wasn’t as rich as Des Barres but he was comfortable enough and well heeled and had paternal instincts. An easy mark whom she eventually dropped.”

“She’d just leave her baby?”

“A baby,” I said. “What if it wasn’t hers?”

“Benni’s? She’d give it up.”

“Young single mother, impressionable, overwhelmed. Dorothy convinces her it’s in the child’s best interest? It’s just a theory at this point but Martha did have experience kidnapping.”

“Oh, man…so why would she wait that long to ditch the kid?”

“Good prop,” I said. “Coming across as a struggling mom for when she met Barker. It didn’t take her long to walk out on both of them so we’re not talking massive maternal instincts.”

“Oh, God, poor Ellie…if we’re talking that level of psychopath and Dorothy had been aiming for Queen, she could’ve also done Arlette.”

I said, “Texas, horses? Nothing in her past says she’d give it a moment’s hesitation.”

He got up, retrieved the arrest photo from the pulp, and plopped down again. I settled next to him and we both studied the shot.

Fifteen-year-old girl in the grips of two fedora-wearing detectives. Uncowed—not even close. Defiant.

He sighed and put the magazine down. “How does Mr. Happy Vegan figure in?”

“Slick, shallow, lies when he breathes?”

“Psychopathy loves company.”

“Good basis for a long-term relationship.”

He frowned. “Find that councilperson?”

—

I shuffled through my notes, nailed it in seconds. “Dara Guzman, city of Piro, she got seriously outvoted. The second time I checked, Galoway was still on the council but she wasn’t.”

“Bitter ex-politician, even better.” He got up and pointed to my keyboard. “You mind?”

I got up. “Go for it.”

Settling in front of my monitor, he inputted his department access code.

Dara Guzman had turned fifty-three a couple of months ago. One registered vehicle, a twelve-year-old Corolla, home address an apartment in Venice. A few more keystrokes revealed a work address on the western edge of Pico, the tough part of Santa Monica. Guzman was the operations manager of a nonprofit called VistaVenture that aimed to support homeless adolescents.

Milo tried the number.

Seven rings. “Probably closed Saturday.” He moved to click off.

“VeeVee.”

“Could I please speak to Dara Guzman.”

“You are.”

“This is Lieutenant Milo Sturgis, LAPD Westside Division. Do you have a few minutes?”

“For what?”

“To talk about someone you knew in Piro. Dudley Galoway.”

Silence. “And why would I want to do that?”

“His name has come up—”

“How did my name come up?”

“We were looking through some old references and found an article about—”

“Exactly,” said Dara Guzman. “ Old. How do I know you are who you say you are?”

Same reaction as Alomar’s. Everyone ceded privacy to their online gizmos but embraced the pretense of pointless suspicion.

Or maybe Dara Guzman just didn’t like cops.

Milo exhaled. “I’d be happy to give you my credentials and you can verify them.”

“I need to go through a hassle so you can question me?”

“Of course not. If you’d rather—”

“Look,” she said, “I’m not trying to be difficult but you’re catching me at the tail end of a monstrously shitty day, okay? Two of our kids suicided. Together.”

“I’m so sorry.” Meaning it and sounding like he did.

“Not as sorry as we are. We try hard to focus on positivity, build on whatever they have going for them. In this case, I thought we’d pulled it off, they seemed…whatever. I’m not in the mood to rehash something a zillion years old.”

“It needn’t take long, ma’am. I’d be happy to come to you.”

“Sorry, I’m going home.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

Silence.

“Ms. Guzman?”

“What’s really going on? Some sort of high-end real estate lawsuit crap, you represent a conglomerate, I’ll get a subpoena in the mail and then get sued for slander after I testify?”

“This is a criminal case, nothing to do with real estate, ma’am.”

“What crime?”

“Mr. Galoway’s name came up in a homicide investigation.”

“Shit. He actually killed someone?”

“It really would be helpful to have a brief chat, ma’am. If FaceTime or Skype are enough to assure you I’m who I say I am, I can log on at your convenience. If you’d rather we meet face-to-face, no problem, just name the place and time.”

“If I’d rather, ” said Dara Guzman. “Giving me a limited choice so I start thinking one of my options is great? Nice tactic. Homicide, huh? Now I really don’t want to get involved.”

“I understand, ma’am. Sorry for bothering you and sorry about the suicides. I mean that.”

“You know,” she said, “you sound like you really do. Hold on, I’m going to subject you to my own brand of detection. What’s your name? Or as you guys say, your alleged name.”

Milo told her.

We sat there, listening to clicks on the other end.

Finally, Dara Guzman said, “You don’t come up much but when you do it seems to be okay, no allegations of brutality…hold on…says here you work with a psychologist?”

“When it’s called for.”

“Does that include this homicide?”

“As a matter of fact it does.”

“Tell you what,” said Dara Guzman. “Bring him by and I’ll check you both out. Maybe I can get him to volunteer, we need all the help we can get.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Where—”

“Here. As close to now as possible. I’m beat. And beaten.”

—

VistaVenture was a grubby gray building just east of Lincoln Boulevard. Spray stucco had fallen off in patches. On one side was a dealer in plumbing fixtures, on the other a school with minuscule signage surrounded by a high link fence that I knew specialized in the problem children of movie stars and other L.A. royalty.

Quick walk from the hundred-grand-a-year school to a place that aided teens living rough. Maybe not an inevitably big leap, when you thought about it. A banished scion or heiress fallen low and reaching out for warm soup, emotional comfort, and a housing chit for an SRO.

The front door was unlocked. Lights off, no one at the reception counter, the only person in sight a woman working her phone on a lint-colored sofa so vanquished its center section grazed the linoleum floor. Mental health and contagious disease posters filled the walls along with the Gestalt Prayer.

I do my thing and you do your thing.

If only it were that simple.

The woman had short, tightly curled gray hair, deep brown eyes, and a face riddled by worry lines. Road map to Sorry Town. She wore a black sweatshirt over jeans and cracked red patent slippers, barely looked up when Milo said, “Ms. Guzman?”

“Uh-huh…” She typed a bit more before her fingers stilled. Stood wearily, looked us over but with scant curiosity. “Lieutenant and therapist, interesting. If I was in a better state I’d have questions about that.”

We followed her out of the front room and into a hallway lined with more posters. AIDS, other STDs, exhortations to get free flu shots, to reach out when emotional pain hit, to be proud of your gender.