Джонатан Келлерман: Serpentine

I said, “Really. Never knew fun on the beach was your fantasy.”

Milo said, “I’m talking a theoretical individual, not personal vida loca. ”

We both looked at him.

He said, “Think what you like but I sack out too long on la playa, the Coast Guard gets called out on a beached whale.”

“Aw,” said Petra, touching the top of his hand. “Nothing fish-like about you. You’re a man of earthy substance.”

“Whales are mammals, kid, but I’m not gonna quibble seeing as I owe you for taking the time.”

“Consider it an even trade.”

“What’d you get out of it?”

“It’s what I didn’t get,” she said. “Swoboda died on my patch, there but for the grace.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

Another hand pat. “I commiserate, I really do. Being ordered around by brass monkeys isn’t a—ahem—day at the beach.”

Fighting back laughter, she ate a third of a spoonful of ice cream. “Though it might’ve been cool working with Ellie Barker. What’s she like?”

Milo said, “Why?”

“You said she was the brains behind Beterkraft. I love their stuff, wear it when I run, Spin, hike, anything active. Super-comfortable, flattering, moisture-wicking.”

“You sweat?”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“Well,” he said, “if you feel like opening some serious pores, I can ask the brass monkeys to—”

“That’s kind, sir, but no thanks. However, should additional questions regarding miscellaneous details arise in the future, feel free to have your people call my people. Assuming the proper forms have been filled out in triplicate.”

Milo extended his arm in a flourish. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how she ended up a superstar.”

CHAPTER 8

When Petra was gone, his smile faded. “Good intentions but I thought she’d have more. Guess I will have to trek to the archive and waste a bunch of time. Unless you have other ideas.”

I shook my head.

“Then mea culpa for bringing you out here. As compensation, let’s go downstairs and you buy an ice cream on me, unlimited toppings.”

“I’ll bring some home to Robin.”

“Get a quart—forget that, a gallon. Ten gallons, we’ll pretend we’re in Texas.”

“A pint’ll be fine.”

“Discretion,” he said, hitching his trousers. “One day I’ll understand the concept.”

—

Driving home, a pint of Turkish Coffee on the passenger seat, I found myself wondering about accidental death.

Nothing deductive or fact-based, just the kind of mental lint that settles in an unsatisfied brain.

Dorothy Swoboda’s murder had been staged as a car-crash immolation.

Fourteen years later, a detective assigned to her case had perished on his motorcycle.

Three years after that, Swoboda’s widower had tumbled off an isolated cliff.

With all that time separation, a pattern was far-fetched. But…how common were fatal accidents? When I got home I’d check.

I’d also try alternative spellings for Dudley Gallway/Galloway, a man Milo figured was deceased.

Wouldn’t it be interesting if he’d died from something other than illness?

—

I popped back to Robin’s studio and told her about the ice cream. She kissed me, said, “Something to look forward to, thanks,” and returned to mandolin micro-surgery.

This time Blanche trailed me back to the house, pausing to take care of business near an azalea bush. One of her customary spots; the blooms were especially lush.

I said, “I thank you for the flowers,” and continued to my office.

—

The previous year, 1,314,000 Americans had succumbed to the three most commonly lethal maladies: Heart disease had claimed 630,000 lives, cancer, a little over 600,000, diabetes, 84,000.

Deaths on motorcycles totaled 5,000. On the face of it, a substantial statistic, but when you did the math, less than a third of one percent of the disease total.

Falls while hiking were so rare they barely registered: 35.

A freak event had taken the life of a man who posed outdoors in a suit.

—

I began searching for the vanished Dudley Gallway/Galloway, adding lapd detective to the subject box and coming up empty. Tacking on retired didn’t help. Neither did spelling out los angeles police department, appending Dorothy Swoboda’s name, or repeating the entire process using dudley galway.

But dudley galoway popped up in three paragraphs retrieved by Nexis.

Ten-year-old article from a weekly called The Piro Clarion. Bookmarking, I looked up the town. Fifteen miles north of Simi Valley, population 2,340. Once agricultural, now a golf community.

A decade ago, the descendants of a farming family who’d homesteaded thirty acres of citrus on the outskirts of Piro back in the late 1800s had applied for a zoning variance in order to build “mixed-income housing.” Public opinion had immediately massed against the idea with the exception of a city council member named Dara Guzman, who bemoaned “NIMBY small-mindedness. The workers who service our town deserve decent housing.”

The other members of the council had squashed the proposal, including Councilman Dudley W. Galoway.

Armed with the proper spelling, I returned to Google.

Nothing.

I texted Milo anyway.

He called back instantaneously. “He worked Swoboda then went into politics. Figures.”

“How so?”

“He acquired a taste for accomplishing nothing. Nothing else on him, huh?”

“Not that I could find.”

“So he probably is dead. Okay, thanks for taking the time.”

“At least you can look up his service records.”

“If nothing else comes up, maybe—in the absence of fire, blow smoke. Speaking of which, Chief Martz just called me at home wanting to know how the meeting with Barker went, did I get hold of the file yet, what was my ‘proactive progress status.’ This from a pencil-jockey who’s never investigated a jaywalking. She called Barker ‘the client’ like this is a private gig. Apparently, I’m supposed to report regularly to ‘the client.’ Robin dig the ice cream?”

“She’s saving it for when she’s finished working.”

“Delay of gratification, a clear sign of maturity. Or so they say.”

—

I looked up the current Piro city council. Five new names, one of them designated mayor for the year. The Clarion had closed down six years ago and no paper or website had taken its place. Coverage of the town was scant—a few brief pieces in the Ventura County Star and the Simi Valley Acorn —most of it along the lines of “Little Guy, Huge Heart” about a nine-year-old who’d raised money for typhoon victims in Indonesia. What wasn’t happy news was straight reporting of bake sales and charity golf tournaments.

“Yum.” Robin stood in the doorway, taking her time with a spoonful of Turkish Coffee. Blanche hurried over to her, sat, looked up and smiled.

“Sorry, girlfriend—okay, fine, just a finger-lick.”

I said, “She deserves a bit of spoiling. The azalea looks amazing.”

“Must be the nitrates.” She bent and ruffled the folds of Blanche’s neck, then crossed the room and sat down on my battered leather couch. “So what’d you do today?”

I told her, asked if she had any suggestions.

“Why would I have any?”

Last year she’d provided vital info on the limo massacre. I reminded her.

“That was luck,” she said. Two nibbles later: “The accident thing is interesting but I see what you mean about all those years in between. Still, first the victim, then a cop looking into it, then the husband, and you think another cop who worked on it could also be dead. Maybe someone doesn’t want this raked up.”