Джонатан Келлерман: Serpentine

“Meaning?”

“Selfish, callous, cruel,” I said. “Loyalty might not stand up to that.”

—

We ate quickly and I had coffee while Milo demolished a square of spumoni. We were a block north of Santa Monica when his phone alerted.

He stopped, read, slapped a hand on his chest.

“You okay?”

“Having an arrhythmia of joy.”

—

New email from Victoriaquandt@spacemail.com:

Lt. Sturgis, we can talk briefly. I live in Santa Monica Canyon but don’t want to be public about it. I looked up your station and you’re not that close and I don’t want to be in a station anyway so can you think of a good alternative?

Dear Ms. Quandt, thanks so much for your quick response. Would somewhere in Pacific Palisades work for you? In the hills or on the beach? For the beach, not sure of Sunday parking but I can give you a police sticker that you can use.

Best, Milo Sturgis, Lieutenant Detective.

Dear Lt. Detective Sturgis, I used to live in the Palisades but have been gone for many years so no one will remember me so fine. A block from my old house is Rambla Azul Terrace, you can GPS it. There’s a roundabout kind of a little park. If no one’s there we can use it. It’ll take me thirty to forty-five minutes unless there’s craziness on the road. Vicki.

Today?

Unless that’s a problem. This will probably be a waste of time and I want to get it over with.

No problem at all. See you soon.

Racewalk back to the station. My runner’s lungs, fine. His stride not long enough to prevent red-faced panting by the time we arrived. We walked straight to the parking lot and got into the Impala.

He said, “GPS the address, por favor, ” and sped toward the gate. Drumming the wheel, tapping the floor with his left foot. Barely containing himself as the yardarm lifted and he jetted through.

—

Rambla Azul Terrace was a teardrop drooping from a narrow street at the north end of Temescal Canyon. The park Vicki Quandt had cited was a circle of grass maybe thirty feet in diameter. Four old sycamores at the periphery provided intermittent shade. No benches.

Pacific Palisades has its share of ocean-view estates. The surrounding houses here were pleasant and unremarkable and well maintained. Hard to pin down a style—maybe generic seventies. Somewhere else, a tract for junior managers. Here, four to five million a pop.

Like Du Galoway’s block, unrestricted parking, a side benefit of obscurity.

One car was parked at the south end of the circle: newish silver Bentley Flying Spur sedan.

As we pulled up behind, a woman got out holding a rolled-up blanket. Fifties, tan and athletically built, showing off sinew and skin tone with a clinging turquoise tank top over clinging black yoga pants. Long, thick ash-blond hair, oversized white-framed sunglasses, grape-colored Gucci purse on a gold chain.

Even at a distance, the cheekbones.

She waved her fingers and walked to the circle of grass toting the blanket under one arm. Unfurling and spreading, she folded gracefully and sat.

Milo said, “Again, thanks, Ms. Quandt. This is Alex Delaware.” We settled facing her.

“Vicki.” With the oversized shades, no way to read her eyes. The rest of her face was immobile. “What would you like to know about Benicia?”

“How you met her, your relationship. Anything you think would be helpful.”

“Helpful finding her? All this time you can’t think she’s just been hiding?”

“Whatever her status, it would help her family to know.”

Off came the glasses. Large black eyes studied him. “At the station they said you were a homicide detective.”

“I am.”

“So maybe you should be upfront.”

“Good point,” said Milo. “Didn’t mean to be evasive.”

“Benicia’s probably dead.”

“We really don’t know but that’s a logical assumption.”

“Who do you think killed her?”

“Again, ma’am, the facts aren’t in place.”

“But you suspect someone.”

“Names have come up.”

Vicki Quandt waited.

Milo said, “We’ve heard she lived at a mansion on Mulholland Drive and that another woman died there.”

“The harem,” she said. “I suppose now’s when I’m supposed to expose my reckless youth.”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with, ma’am.”

“Vicki. My housekeeper forgets not to call me ma’am. I find it irritating.”

“Sorry—”

“Oh, stop apologizing, I’m just being difficult.” Eye-dance to the right. “This is tough. Bringing up the bad old days.”

She raised her arms, stretched, arced them from side to side, closed her eyes, opened them, put the shades back on.

“Okay, the short version. I grew up in Delano, boozehound parents, no future, hated my life and thought I was actress material because everyone told me I was. I ran away and bused to L.A., lived in a youth hostel with disgusting pigs, went looking for an acting school and found out what they cost. So I started saving by waiting tables at a pancake house during the day and cleaning offices at night, moved up to a rented room in an old lady’s house that smelled of boiled chicken. The offices were in bank buildings on Hollywood Boulevard. One night when I was leaving, a guy came up to me and said I was gorgeous, he wanted to photograph me, he’d pay me plus I’d get copies to keep. I figured it was sleazy and said no thanks. He said he could understand my reluctance, no pressure, here’s my card. Then life started to drag. Working like a dog, dodging creeps, no serious money. So one day I walked by the address on the card and it was a private house, looked well kept. Which means nothing but I was desperate. So I called.”

She’d promised the short version, had talked nonstop.

Most people have stories they want to tell.

“I got a phone message on his end which for some reason I interpreted as he was legit. So I left my name and number, he took a couple of days to call back, and we arranged a weekend session. Middle of the day, I was scared as hell but the future didn’t look so bright. He answered the door, very nice, soft-spoken, obviously gay. Which was also encouraging, at least he wasn’t going to grope me. Plus we weren’t alone, he had a maid dusting and mopping, an old Chinese lady, she offered me tea.” Crooked smile. “Green tea. Never had that before. So I had some and then we went into the studio and he took a bunch of headshots and close-ups and had me change into different dresses and casual wear. Everything by the book. Then he said if I wanted he could do a bikini shot but up to me. I said I’ve worn bikinis but no way is it going beyond that. He said he had no intention, my figure was perfect for a swimsuit, and we could go to a public beach to do the shoot.”

She ran her hands over a flat abdomen, trailed them down to sleek thighs. “Genetic luck. My mother was a drunk but she never gained weight. Anyway, we did the bikini shots in Santa Monica and true to his word he sent me copies of every pose and they looked great. Artistic. Then he asked if he could submit them for print ads and if they ran, he’d pay me ten percent. I said sure and a month later I got a check for eighty bucks which was a lot more than I was getting from tips. And then a few weeks later, another check, hundred and three, then hundred and ten. So now I’m loving this guy, I was basically getting residuals. So a few weeks after that when he called and told me about a club where beautiful young girls got in free, my trust level was up. And he was upfront. Told me it was basically a singles bar for older rich men, they were the paying customers and girls got in free. I said, Sounds iffy. He said, Trust me, nothing freaky goes on, they just like having pretty things giving them aesthetic companionship. What today you’d call arm candy. Then came the topper, the club was in Beverly Hills on Rodeo Drive, which to me was like an invitation to fly to Paris. But I still said no.”