Джонатан Келлерман: Serpentine

The upside of custody work is the chance to blunt the effects of divorce on kids. The downside is anyone who’s not a kid is assumed to be lying. But the morning went well: children who’d entered the arena well adjusted, parents sincere about keeping that going. Not hard to see the connection. Most important, the lawyers each side had hired were retrievers not attack dogs.

Feeling energized, I broke for coffee and a sandwich at two fifteen, retrieved an earful of messages from my service, none from Milo. The last was a thinly veiled threat from a pit-bull lawyer representing the husband in the afternoon case. “Hope you’re careful in your wording, Doctor. We examine everything with a fine -tooth comb.”

Callbacks to the few people who merited a response and a chat with the judge in the afternoon case stretched the time to two forty-five.

Blanche woke from her nap, waddled in, and looked up at me with soft, beseeching eyes. I took her for an exploration out front, where a pine forest shades the property. Apart from the rare skittish raccoon or possum, a nice place for her to browse and snuffle and do her business. Back inside, I filled her water bowl, had just added some shredded mozzarella to her food when my cell chirped.

My designation Big Guy on the screen above Milo’s private number.

“What’s up?”

“Any new thoughts?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Shame,” he said. “It’s been the typical yawn fest, surveillance-wise. What we’ve learned so far is Galoway’s a homebody. One sighting: Moe spotted him at eleven while doing a pass in a phony plumber truck. Asshole opened the door in his bathrobe, yawned, looked out, stretched, closed it. The only ride in his driveway is the Isuzu. Unless the Jag’s in the shop, it’s probably in his garage. Which is a double, so maybe her vehicle’s also there. If she’s got one. If she lives there. If she’s real. I’m starting to think we’re dealing with a phantom.”

I said, “Galoway took the time and effort to misdirect us. That says there’s someone worth protecting.”

“There you go, restoring reality. Alicia’s coming on in an hour, fixed her up with a van, cleaning service stick-on and dark windows. In the end, I decided not to take Arredondo up on her magazine ploy. Turns out she’s three months out of the academy and her dad’s a Rampart Division lieutenant. Instead, I’ve got her riding with Alicia. No postal carrier has showed up, yet, the plan is to chat if it can be done out of eyeshot of the house and the vibe feels right. I called FedEx and UPS and there’s no regular driver who services the block. I asked about the delivery history and got the runaround—client privacy, get a subpoena. Which is pretty lame considering they leave packages out in the open.”

“How’re Ellie and Deirdre doing?”

“The odd couple? I just called Boudreaux and he’s out with them at the zoo.”

“That’s some image,” I said.

“Ain’t it, though. How’s your day going?”

“Great.”

“Really? That happens?”

—

The afternoon evaluation was the other side of the coin. Not shocking considering the message from the husband’s mouthpiece, whom the judge termed a “bottom-feeding asshole.”

Adrenaline jet-fueled me and by the time I finished my notes it was seven fifteen and fatigue had finally made a welcome appearance.

Sounds from the kitchen half an hour ago meant Robin’s workday had ended and she was fixing something. When I showed myself, she said, “Poor baby, dealing with jerks all day?”

“Half the day.”

“Charge them extra—stress pay. Will this help?”

Pointing to a bowl of pasta with meat sauce. Noodles of all shapes and sizes, no reason to get fussy when you know how to cook.

I said, “Definitely. This too.” Tapping the bottle of Sangiovese she’d uncorked.

We ate and drank.

I said, “You’re the perfect woman.”

She said, “Still hungry? I say you are.”

—

By eight thirty, we were in bed, by nine thirty, in our robes, pondside, finishing off the wine. The water gurgled, the fish seltzered the surface, Blanche alternated between growly snores and high-pitched dog-dream bleats.

Robin said, “Dreaming. Wonder what she sees.”

“Probably food.”

“She and Milo could be roommates.”

“He did okay sitting for her when we went to Denver.”

“If you don’t count the pound she gained.” She rested her head on my shoulder. “We work too hard.”

“Agreed.”

“I keep adding obligations and so do you. It’s not for the money, we don’t overspend and last I checked we were doing fine. So how come?”

“Want me to answer like a shrink or a person?”

“Let’s try person.”

“Okay,” I said. “I have no idea.”

“Fine. Shrink.”

“Not a clue.”

Just before ten p.m., we returned to the bedroom, watched an episode of Foyle’s War, and turned in, holding hands, playing footsie, slowing our breathing.

Robin said, “We really should try for more leisure, hon.”

“Let’s,” I said. “We’ll do some planning in the morning.”

She kissed me. “ ’Night.”

“ ’Night.”

A minute later, the phone rang. I ignored it.

Silence, then a retry.

Robin said, “That sounds like it could be something.”

“It’ll keep.”

“Maybe but you’ll wonder and have trouble conking out.”

“It’s probably robotic junk, I’ll be fine.”

“If you say so.”

Seconds later: another retry.

I got out of bed.

CHAPTER 40

Milo’s voice was tight. “Just about to give up on you. Something happened. No time to get into details, if you want to see it, come over.”

“Where?”

“Hollywood. Not far from Ellie’s.”

“She okay?”

“Yeah—” Voices in the background. A siren. “Here’s the address, gotta go.”

—

At ten fifty I pulled to the curb and parked in a red zone on Western Avenue just north of Franklin. A uniform came forward shaking his head and looking pugnacious. I used my I.D. to get past him, did the same for an equally skeptical cop guarding a side street just below the climb to Los Feliz Boulevard.

The leafy lanes of Los Feliz were yards to the north. This bumpy strip was crowded with shabby apartments. Skimpy street lighting, like on a lot of L.A. streets where the residents lack political currency.

Most of the illumination came from four blinking cruisers, a crime scene van with its rear door ajar, and the portable streetlamps the techs position once they’ve scoped out a scene and established the angles.

One pole was still being adjusted. Several techs played with their phones. The numbered yellow plastic right-angles used to mark evidence dotted the asphalt like corn fallen off an oversized cob. Those, the cops on the scene can do. The highest number I spotted was 12. Lots of bullets.

Beyond the white tech van sat a dark one, smaller. Happy Maids Cleaning vinyl on the side. Another set of wheels beyond that, impossible to identify because the van was taller and all I could see was the hazy outline of tires.

I continued slowly, inspecting the ground. To the left of the dark van were oily spots on the asphalt. Black where the light had missed, ruby where it hit.

Milo appeared from somewhere, unlit cigar in his mouth. He dropped it into a pocket of an exhausted tweed sport coat. His shirt was wrinkled, his tie loose.

“You decided to come. When you didn’t answer, I figured you might be sleeping.”

That hadn’t stopped him from making three attempts.

I said, “What’s going on?”

“Alicia and Arredondo decided to do a nighttime drive-by of Galoway’s street. Up till then, he hadn’t shown himself since the pajama thing. At nine fifteen he came out fully dressed, got in the Isuzu, and backed out. Alicia notified me and said she wanted to follow. She’s good with tails so I okayed it but told her to be careful with the rookie. Galoway got on the 101, the same maniac driving style we saw. At the 5 South, he swung three lanes abruptly to transfer, got off at Los Feliz, which put Alicia on high alert.”