Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

In the photo I’d just seen, Barker was soft-looking. Wearing a suit outdoors. I supposed he could’ve embraced fitness at an advanced age, but his death-site seemed curious.

What I also found curious was that Ellie Barker hadn’t mentioned his unnatural death.

Maybe when balanced against her mother’s murder, a fatal accident seemed benign. Or there was just so much bad karma she could tolerate at one time.

Mom in a car, shot and burned and rolled over into a ravine.

Dad found, decaying, in a gully.

There was a certain confluence.

I looked up Wikipedia’s description of the park, stopped short at the end of the first paragraph.

Trampas was Spanish for “traps.”

I called Milo.

—

He picked up sounding sleepy.

I said, “Another Martini?”

“Wine at dinner. Rick cooked and he picked a really nice Rioja, how could I say no? What’s up?”

I told him about Barker.

He said, “Nineteen years. Seventeen after Dottie, not exactly a pattern.”

“True.”

“But they did both go over cliffs.”

“And Ellie didn’t mention it.”

“Maybe she wanted to concentrate on Mommy. Speaking of Mommy, Petra called right after I dropped you off. She did come through with something, God bless her. Not the case file, but better than nothing—listing of three D’s who worked it.”

“Together or in sequence?”

“Passed from one to the other, there was never a task force. The first guy was before my time, D III named Elwin McClatchy. He was on it for six years, retired, died soon after. I know all this because googling him brings up a big departmental funeral, apparently he’d done some heroics as a patrolman. After McClatchy, the case sat there for three years before going to a guy I do know from when he worked at Pacific briefly before retiring. Drone named P. J. Seeger, we talked about a gang case that leaked over to West L.A. and then he was gone.”

“Any idea why the case got reactivated?”

“Not yet. This was before cold cases were a thing so it could’ve been routine housecleaning—new captain comes in, wants to clear the cobwebs. Or the department ran an audit and Hollywood wanted good stats.”

“Or Seeger got curious.”

“Maybe, but P.J. wasn’t an inquisitive guy and the fact that it was given to him tells me it wasn’t prioritized.”

“No Sherlock.”

“A dim bulb with low energy. Taaawked-liiike-thiiis, when I got off the phone with him I felt like shooting speed. He held on to Swoboda for five years before transferring so by the time he took his pension, the case was fourteen years old. I didn’t expect much from talking to him but no stone and all that, so I dug up the last home number in his file and talked to his widow. Chatty lady lives in the same house in Granada Hills. Turns out P.J. celebrated his newfound freedom by buying a Harley that he crashed fatally a month later.”

“She know anything about Swoboda?”

“Nope, Philly never brought his work home. Right after he transferred to Pacific, the case went to a name I don’t know, D I named Dudley Gallway.”

“Lower-grade detective,” I said. “That mean anything?”

“Probably. Haven’t found paper or internet info on Gallway yet but I don’t feel like attacking the issue under the influence of Spanish wine. Tomorrow I’ll ask Petra for some old-timer contacts, maybe take her to Musso as a gesture of gratitude. Speaking of which, lunch was pretty good, no?”

“Great,” I said.

“My imagination or did the portions get smaller?”

CHAPTER 7

I heard from him at eleven thirty a.m. the following day.

“Petra got more info, the angel. I offered her a repast but she had a big breakfast, all she wants is ice cream. Hour and a half, McConnell’s on the boulevard, if you can make it.”

“It’ll be nice to see her,” I said.

“You bet, form and function. The PC squad comes knocking, I never said that.”

—

The ice cream parlor sported white brick walls, golden hardwood floors, and a spotless freezer case. The ground floor was for ordering and takeout, the eat-in tables upstairs.

I’d taken a while to find parking, arrived to find D III Petra Connor spooning something from a cup as Milo, his back to me, assaulted an unseen target with rapid scooping motions. The only other patrons were a large group of Nordic tourists eating and talking gutturally and guffawing, all in slo-mo.

Petra’s one of Hollywood Division’s best homicide investigators, promoted via fast-track based on smarts, dependability, and an eye for detail honed during her civilian career as a commercial artist.

Her model-thin frame, ivory angular face, and gleaming black hair created an interesting, borderline-comical counterpoint to Milo’s rumpled bulk and assorted convexities. She was dressed, as usual, in a tailored dark pantsuit, this one charcoal, mandarin-collared, buttoned to the neck. An oversized black knit leather bag rested in her lap. When there’s a gun in your purse, you don’t leave it dangling over your chair.

She saw me and finger-waved. Milo turned around for a moment, resumed eating. The object of his fury was a hot fudge sundae topped with pineapple, maraschino cherries, and sliced almonds.

I pulled up a chair. He said, “You didn’t order?”

“I’m fine.”

Petra said, “This is Turkish Coffee, Alex. Has a real coffee taste.”

“Maybe also real caffeine,” said Milo. “If you’re flagging.” He squinted at me.

“Wide awake. What’s up?”

Milo said, “Ms. Ace came through with data.”

“That makes it sound like more than it is,” said Petra.

“It’s a start, kid.” He turned to me. “My guess about an audit was right. Found one bemoaned in the police union rag, just before Seeger got the case. And turns out Seeger is recalled by an old-timer.”

Petra said, “I knew a guy, Maurice Jardine, went off the job fifteen years ago pushing seventy and is alive and well in Desert Hot Springs. I called him, he’s got a sharp memory and his impression of Seeger fits Milo’s. Slow-moving, slow-thinking, unlikely to solve anything but an obvious.”

I said, “Does Jardine have any memory of Swoboda?”

“None,” she said. “Seeger never mentioned the case and there were definitely no meetings on it.”

Milo said, “Bureaucratic housecleaning leads to a low-priority bullshit-assignment.” He wiped his lips and looked at Petra.

She said, “Jardine also remembered the next link in the chain, Dudley Gallway. Who he thought was Gall- o- way, but couldn’t be sure.”

Milo said, “Plenty of lousy spellers in the department so I checked both of them. Nada.”

Petra said, “Guy’s probably not worth talking to anyway, Jardine said he was a new transfer from somewhere, totally green, didn’t stick around long.”

“Are we sensing a pattern, Alex? Whatever was done is probably irrelevant. And no paper on Gall-whoever might mean he’s also dead. I did look for a certificate and didn’t find one but if he met his maker overseas there might not be.”

Petra smiled and spooned ice cream. “Tell him your hypothesis.”

“What—nah, what’s the diff?”

She put her spoon down and turned to me. “I’ll do my best to quote faithfully, Alex.” She lowered her voice to basso. “ ‘Guy probably bit it south of the border after years of tequila, vanilla, fiestas, and siestas.’ ”

I pretended to study the sundae. “Vanilla your thing? Looks like chocolate to me.”

Milo said, “German chocolate with cookie bits, if you must know.”

Petra said, “However…”

Milo groaned.

She said, “I learn so much from my superiors, Alex. The lieutenant informs me that in Spanish idiom, vanilla can also mean ‘sex.’ ”