Serpentine
- Автор: Келлерман Джонатан
- Серия: Alex Delaware #36
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Random House Publishing Group/Ballantine Books
- ISBN: 978-0-525-61855-3
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «Serpentine». Краткое содержание книги:
This murder warrants an immediate call. Milo’s independence has been compromised as never before, as the department pressures him to cater to the demands of a mogul: a hard-to-fathom, megarich young woman who is obsessed with reopening the coldest of cases — the decades-old death of the mother she never knew.
The facts describe a likely loser: a mysterious woman found with a bullet in her head in a torched Cadillac that has overturned on infamously treacherous Mulholland Drive. No physical evidence, no witnesses, no apparent motive. And a slew of detectives have already worked the case and failed. But as Delaware and Sturgis begin digging, the mist begins to lift. Too many coincidences. Facts turn out to be anything but. And as they soon discover, very real threats lurking in the present.
This is Delaware/Sturgis at their best: traversing the beautiful but forbidding place known as Los Angeles and exhuming the past in order to bring a vicious killer to justice.
“If I don’t look daisy-fresh,” he said, “it’s because I spent a whole bunch of the evening and night watching Sabino Chavez. He left the house once at eight p.m., bought a bag of something at a liquor store on Sunset, returned and never reappeared. From what I’ve seen so far, Val never leaves. Thrilling bunch, huh?”
His desk phone rang. “Sturgis... oh, hi... go ahead, at this point I’ll believe anything, kiddo.”
He listened for a long while, body stiffening and leaning forward, as if torturously winched.
“That is nuts. Okay, thanks for filling me in. She know? You want to tell her or should I? No prob. Good work. Onward.”
He hung up, shaking his head.
“That was Petra. She just made an arrest in Brannon Twohy’s shooting. Turns out, nothing to do with Ellie. A psycho runner signed up for the same race.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Sounds so stupid, I wish I was. Seems there was another shooting yesterday evening, one of the top-rated entrants, Ethiopian, long history of marathon victories. Poor guy was doing his thing near the Observatory in Griffith Park and got nailed in the thigh. Through-and-through, missed the femoral artery, but I don’t imagine he’ll be competing this year.”
“Just like Twohy.”
“Unlike Twohy, this time there were onlookers who’d come to watch the Ethiopian, including a bunch of firefighters and off-duty cops. The shooter was behind some trees but had to show himself as he ran away. He got chased and tackled and cuffed. Another Hollywood D caught the case, talk about a gimme. Petra heard about it, put it together, and got to co-interview the suspect who crumpled like wet toilet paper. Weapon was an old revolver, Russian manufacture, the idiot’s daddy’s Vietnam souvenir.”
“How old’s the idiot?”
“Twenty-nine. And listen to this: grad student at the U. on leave for personal problems.”
I muttered, “Blind cave worms.”
“What?”
“Professional jealousy gone to the extreme.”
“Except the fool’s never been close to Twohy’s league, even farther from the Ethiopian’s. Blames it on a shin splint, if I ran I’d care about what the hell that is. So getting rid of a coupla top seeds would do nothing for him. Petra kept working that, finally got his motive. Quote unquote: fighting athletic inequality.”
“Oh, God.”
“Trust me, amigo, God is also baffled. Anyway, it boils down to the usuaclass="underline" pathetic loser with a firearm. His public defender’s already talking about a mental health plea.” He laughed. “Want me to recommend you as a consultant?”
“Not if the PD wants confirmation.”
“Wouldn’t that be a hoot? You get paid to evaluate the asshole then send in a report that demolishes their strategy? Anyway, I’m gonna let Ellie know.”
He dialed, got voicemail, left a message. “Maybe she’s over at the hospital, I’ll try later.”
Seconds later, his phone rang. “Here she is.”
“Hi, there, kid— Oh, hey, Mel, you’ve got her phone? That so? Any idea why? Hmm. I just got some news on him... you think she’s okay for that? Okay, we’ll give it a try.”
I said, “Boudreaux answers her phone?”
“Apparently he does when she’s up in her bedroom crying.”
Melvin Boudreaux answered the door looking less cop-like and more concerned friend.
As he closed the door behind us, he said, “What’s the news on the boyfriend?”
Milo summed up the arrest.
Boudreaux said, “Nutcases everywhere. One thing less to worry about, this might be the end of the gig.” Eyeing the stairs.
Milo said, “What’s going on with her?”
“It started after she went to see him in the hospital. I’m waiting in the hall, there, she comes out looking upset but not like she wants to talk about it. It stayed like that during the ride home, moment we get here, she starts bawling and runs up the stairs. I go up and ask her if everything’s okay. Which, looking back, was a dumb-ass question. She says, ‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry,’ through the closed door. So I head downstairs and hear her letting out the sobs.”
Boudreaux shook his head. “She took the time to reassure me. Say one thing, this gig is different.”
Milo said, “How so?”
“I’m with rich people constantly. They’re like anyone else, some are nice, some are obnoxious. But I never met anyone as nice as her.”
I said, “Is it possible Twohy took a turn for the worse?”
“That was my first thought, Doc. But then she would’ve stuck around and talked to a doctor, right? She was only in his room for a few minutes, so I’m figuring something more... I don’t know, interpersonal?”
Milo said, “No sense guessing.”
We left Boudreaux downstairs and climbed the steps. A round landing led to two open doors and one that was closed. Milo knocked softly, got no reply, turned a white porcelain doorknob that gave.
Cracking the door, he peeked in, curled his finger in a signal to follow, and stepped in.
Big bedroom, maybe twenty feet square, with high, hand-plastered ceilings, broad-plank oak floors, and vintage moldings. An open doorway to the left fed to an anteroom and a walk-in closet. A half-open door revealed a white-tiled bathroom.
Avocado-colored, gold-tasseled drapes were drawn over the windows. An off-kilter plastic lamp sat on one of two Ikea nightstands, oozing sickly chartreuse light. Next to the lamp sat a tissue box, a noise machine switched off, and several wads of used paper.
Enough space to house a king bed. Or two. Ellie had rented a queen with a cheap-looking slatted headboard, had added no other furniture.
The bedcovers were thin gray chenille that revealed the tight nautilus curl of her body. She’d wrapped herself in the flimsy cloth and drawn the covers over half her head.
A few strawberry strands laced the pillow. Medium-sized woman but the position made her look small, childlike.
Childhood is the essence of powerlessness. Yet for some reason, when we feel helpless, we try to time-travel in reverse.
Milo stepped close. “Ellie?”
Nothing. Then a sniffle followed by a nearly inaudible moan.
“It’s Milo, Ellie. I’m here with Dr. Alex.”
Prolonged silence. The hiss of a long sigh. Another moan as she labored to shift from her side to her back. Giving us a full view of her face but no emotional entrée: Her eyes remained clamped tight.
“Take your time, Ellie.”
As if rebelling, she puffed her lips, propped herself up, opened her eyes and studied the bedcovers. Her face looked eroded as if scrubbed by an overly zealous char. Strangely pretty in a waifish way.
Her lips worked a few seconds before producing sound. “Sorry.”
Milo said, “For what?”
She sat up higher, dared eye contact. “For being a baby.”
“How so, Ellie?”
“Mel didn’t tell you?”
“He said the visit to the hospital made you upset but he has no idea why.”
She shifted some more, finally attained a full sit, bracing herself against the too-low headboard. No upper back or neck support. She scooted forward. The covers fell to her waist.
She wore street clothes, a black knit top with white trim around the neckline. Part of a leg protruded. Jeans.
No energy to change when she got home. Collapsing the moment she had privacy and hoping for gray chenille sanctuary. Red-rimmed eyes said that hadn’t happened.
Milo perched on the edge of the bed.
Ellie said, “Mel asked but I didn’t answer him. Rude. Sorry about that, too.”
“Can’t see anything you need to be sorry for.”
Quivery smile. “According to him I have lots to be sorry for.”