Джонатан Келлерман: Serpentine

I said, “I’m sure Hollywood Pres will do a thorough job. I know the psych staff, if you’d like I can liaison.”

“Why are you here, Doctor?”

“I’ve been consulted on the case.”

“Have you…well, we’ll go over all of this once the full data set is in place. In the meantime, Lieutenant, the officer-involved team will be assigned and you’ll both be cooperating with them fully.”

Milo said, “Dr. Delaware wasn’t involved.”

“Really?” said Martz. “He just said he’s your consultant—uh-uh, no more debate.” Martz looked at the dark van. “Nine shots? Really?”

“He was armed and dangerous. No sense taking chances.”

“Of someone surviving.”

“He was out to kill both of them.”

“So you say.”

“So I do,” said Milo. “Far as I’m concerned she’s a hero. Do you see it differently?”

Martz’s chin edged farther into his personal space. “I’m not here to answer questions. I was at a bar association dinner, had to leave just before my husband’s speech.”

“So sorry.”

No sarcasm in his tone; a feat of acting. Martz studied his face, anyway, hoping to pick out a shred of insolence. Failing, she settled for a withering glance.

Milo said, “What was the speech about?”

“Eminent domain, Ismail’s a specialist in land-use law—what’s the difference. ” Another glance at the scene. “Nine bullets.”

“How many times have you had to actively fire your weapon, ma’am?”

Martz blinked hard, rocked back on her heels. “No times. Not that it’s your concern but I view that as a testament to good judgment.”

“I’m sure it is, ma’am, but it’s tough to be in someone else’s shoes unless…”

“So,” she said, “when can we hope to wrap up your little adventure with Ms. Barker?”

“We’re getting there.”

“How much longer?”

“Hopefully a few days.”

“Hopefully,” said Martz. “Empty word.”

She turned, sped back to her car, backed up, roared away.

Milo grinned. He’d stopped sweating. Inert jaw. The racing neck pulse was gone.

I said, “The power of fantasy.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re thinking about all sorts of unpleasant ends for her and it’s kicked in your parasympathetic nervous system and mellowed you out.”

“ Moi? Engaging in cruel and vindictive and bloodthirsty thoughts? Perish the notion.” He chuckled. Welcome sound.

As I got in the Seville, he said, “Be nice, though, if some other perishing would go down.”

CHAPTER 41

Milo had expected a warrant by noon Tuesday but the day passed without my hearing from him. Probably tied up with the shooting board.

When radio silence stretched to Wednesday, I began to wonder if complications had set in. Bureaucracy’s like untreated cancer: Once it takes hold, it ravages.

I searched for media coverage of Du Galoway’s shooting, was surprised to find nothing but a page-32 squib in the Times about “the death of a gun-wielding felony suspect.”

The department pulling up the drawbridge. That said nothing about how it would treat Jen Arredondo, Alicia, and Milo.

Wednesday at nine forty p.m., he finally called.

“I was starting to wonder.”

“Yeah, it’s been interesting. As in a pain. Fortunately, once we got through the bullshit, the people assigned to evaluate turned out to be sane and the kid’s connections didn’t hurt.”

“Dad’s well thought of.”

“Big-time. Top of that, Mom’s a dispatcher at Hollenbeck, there’s a brother in Burbank PD, and an uncle is a robbery D in Saugus.”

I said, “Police aristocracy.”

He said, “Nothing like blue blood when you need a transfusion. What also helped was I told them about Galoway’s lies, what he was suspected of. Nothing pisses off good cops more than bad cops. So no doubt about the kid being ruled justified. I managed to put in for the phone subpoena, no guarantee when the data dump will come in. In terms of the warrant for the house, you know how it is: time-limited so I waited until today to apply, just got it. Moe’s been checking out Galoway’s street, no movement, I’m starting to think she’s somewhere else. The goal is to enter the house Friday morning, planning session’s tomorrow. Nine work for you?”

“Tied up until ten, I can be there by twenty after.”

“Then that’s when we’ll start.”

—

The whiteboards were filled with the same shots of Galoway’s street and house. Galoway’s DMV photo had been removed.

In the first row was an empty chair for me, flanked by Milo, Reed, and Sean Binchy returned from vacation and sporting a sunburn.

A couple of years ago I’d saved Sean’s life. Terrifying near-miss as a psychopath tried to toss him off a skyscraper. Tough thing to come to grips with but for the most part, we’d dealt. Still, sometimes he avoided eye contact.

This morning he waved and smiled. Let’s hear it for sand and surf.

In the second row sat six uniformed officers from the SWAT team, the lieutenant a six-four, brush-cut, heavy-jawed stereotype named Mackleroy Bain.

Milo had prepped them. They stood, nodded, shook my hand.

Bain was the last to greet me, smiling warmly and offering just enough pressure in his grip to imply power. “ Really great to meet you, Dr. Delaware. You taught my wife in grad school.”

Soft, boyish voice.

I said, “Who’s that?”

“Laurie Trabuco.”

“Great student.”

“She had wonderful things to say about your seminar,” said Bain. “Got her Ph.D. last year, works for the V.A. Long Beach doing PTSD therapy.”

“That’s terrific. Give her my best.”

“Will do, Doctor.”

Milo said, “Good morning to all concerned,” and people hustled to their seats. “Alex, let’s start with your thoughts about approach.”

I said, “Is your warrant no-knock?”

“Yup.”

“Then I think you should take advantage. Go in with force and clear the place as quickly as possible.”

Milo eyed Bain and the SWAT leader got up and pointed to an aerial of the house. “We lucked out on layout, not much square footage and only two doors, front and back. A fenced-in yard and a driveway gate means limited space for escape. I’m figuring an officer stationed outside on each door and four of us doing the entry in pairs.”

Milo said, “You planning on getting all military?”

Bain smiled. “We’ll bring the toys—gas, concussion grenades—but I really don’t see using them unless you think she’ll be waiting for us with a firearm.”

Milo looked at me.

I said, “Suicide by cop? Nothing in her background suggests it but there are always surprises. She could be extremely edgy because Galoway left on Monday night and still hasn’t returned. On top of that, there was a brief mention in yesterday’s paper about an armed suspect going down and if she put it together, my guess would be she’d plan her escape rather than seek confrontation. But no guarantees.”

Bain frowned. “Thought there was a media blackout.”

Milo said, “So did I, amigo. I called Public Affairs and got a runaround. At least there were no details but sure, she could’ve figured it out.”

Bain said, “What else can you say about her psychological makeup, Doctor?”

I said, “Criminally antisocial from a young age. At fifteen she hooked up with a felon in his thirties and they embarked on a multistate crime spree. Burglary, robbery, kidnapping, several murders. He was executed, she got reform school, was released no later than at twenty-one. She changed her identity and nothing surfaces over the next few years other than a job in Texas. Which she left to come to L.A., traveling with and dominating a younger woman named Benicia Cairn. The working assumption is she stole money from the man they lived with and shot Cairn in order to fake her own death. At some point after that, she hooked up with Galoway and they’ve been together since.”