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.
“That or start old-school — find someone who remembers the club.”
“Suggestions?”
“Sure,” I said. “Keep it close to home.”
He took Fountain to La Cienega, continued south to Third Street and the ever-growing megalith that is Cedars-Sinai hospital. Gliding easily, as if moving along a well-worn track, he continued to the emergency drop-off and parked in a No Parking zone. A valet came over.
“Keys are in the ignition, Armando.”
“Hi, Lieutenant. Dr. Silverman is here.”
“Great.”
“Um, sorry, I have to ask you how long. They’re kind of clamping down on non-essentials.”
“This is essential, Armando. Homicide case.” Milo slipped him a five.
“Oh,” said the valet. “Sure, whatever you need, I’ll take care of you.”
The E.R. waiting room was the usual acrid mix of anxiety, resignation, and human secretions. Faces out of Dickens. No one waiting looked in imminent danger, but you never know.
The triage nurse said, “Hey, Milo. You’re in luck, he just got out of surgery.”
“Hope his patient’s in luck.”
She laughed. “She is. Stitched up like a football but nothing serious.”
We kept going.
I said, “Everything’s relative.”
Rick was sitting on a rock-hard brown couch in the doctors’ room, wearing fresh scrubs and a long white coat and drinking from a bottle of Fiji water. He’s broad-shouldered and rock-jawed with huge, agile hands, a seamed, angular face, tightly curled gray hair, and a matching brush-mustache. The kind of hewn good looks that used to earn actors leading-man roles before the norms changed to juvenile and androgynous.
His default mood is somber. When he saw Milo, he raised his eyebrows in surprise, half smiled, and hugged him.
“Hi, Alex.” Firm handshake for me. “It’s business, huh? I’ll take what I can get.”
Milo said, “I came by to ask about dinner. Coq au vin or stale pizza?”
“Ha. What’s up, Big Guy?”
“Remember that place you told me about, The Azalea?”
“Tacky-Mahal? Is this related to your impossible one?”
“Yup. Take a look at this, see if it rings any bells.” Handing over the shot of Anton Des Barres and the blonde trio.
Rick said, “Older guy, bevy of cuties. Exactly what I saw when I was there... that wallpaper. Ugh. Looked even worse in real life... who are these people?”
“The one on the left is my victim and he’s the rich guy she lived with. It’s these two I’m interested in.”
“They look kind of... generic. As I told you, I was whisked past all that.” Another near-smile. “Did he tell you what they called the upstairs room, Alex? The Lavender Lair.”
I said, “Subtle.”
“The times weren’t subtle.” To Milo: “They’re suspects?”
“More likely potential sources. Can you think of anyone who’d know the place well?”
“Just one.”
“Who?”
“Mr. H.”
“Him? Thought he was an upstairs guy.”
“When we came in, everyone greeted him, so he probably circulated.”
“He still around?”
“Don’t know but haven’t heard to the contrary.”
“Think he’d cooperate?”
“That I can’t say. But he did like attention so you could play off that.”
“You haven’t seen him since?”
“Actually,” said Rick, “a couple of years back, his daughter brought him here with chest pains. Turned out to be indigestion. I didn’t think he’d recognize me but he did.”
“From high school senior to now?”
“You’re saying I’ve changed? Yeah, it was surprising.”
“Maybe he’s been keeping tabs on you.”
“I doubt it but whatever the reason, he was quite lovely about it. And more secure. He told me he came out a while back and his kids were supportive.”
“And he supports them, in return?” Milo rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.
“Cynic. You may be right but the interaction I saw, the daughter adored him.”
He pointed to one of several computers arrayed near the facing wall. “His records are in there. Maybe. He’s got to be, what, mideighties.”
He sprang up, crossed to a terminal, typed. “Still listed as an active patient, so if he died it didn’t happen here. You can check with the coroner or I can just call him for you.”
“The latter would be great, Richard.”
Rick patted his cheek. “Great is what I aim for.”
Harlow Hunter Hesse was alive and well and still living on the 900 block of North Roxbury Drive in Beverly Hills.
He picked up his own phone, barking “Yes?” loud enough for the sound to travel across the room. Rick introduced himself, then did a lot of listening. Churning the air with one hand as the monologue persisted. We were too far to hear the content but the pace and tone were turbocharged.
Finally, Rick broke in. “Nexium’s an appropriate choice, Mr. H... he’s a very qualified gastroenterologist... I do, we were actually in the same year at med school... that I can’t tell you but he was certainly well thought of... there you go, Mr. H, you’re in good hands. May I ask you a question? It’s for a friend of mine... no, nothing to do with investment, he’s trying to learn more about The Azalea... yes, we were there... yes, I know... is that so? Glad you got it at a good price... anyway, if — no, not a writer, he’s a police detective.”
Tensing up, as he said that. Then, one of the widest smiles I’d ever seen on Rick’s face spread smoothly. “That’s great, Mr. H. His name’s Milo Sturgis. Lieutenant Sturgis. What’s a good time for him to call... really? Hold on and I’ll check.”
Stretching the phone to arm’s length, he whispered: “Could you go there now?”
Milo said, “What’s the address?”
As we reached the door, I said, “Good price? Did he buy the building?”
Rick said, “Just the disco ball.”
The address matched a fieldstone-and-stucco, multigabled traditional on a double-wide lot one block north of Sunset.
H. H. Hesse met us at the door, wearing a maroon velour jumpsuit and red loafers. Four black-and-lace-uniformed maids buzzed around him like bees turned frantic by pheromones.
Milo introduced himself.
“Lieutenant — and other cop — glad to meet you, I’m Heck.”
Clear-eyed and gravel-voiced, looking every year of his eighty-seven, Heck Hesse was average height despite a bowed back, meaning he’d once been tall. Despite that, he came across gnome-like, with a smallish round face, impish and inescapably chimp-like under an arid thatch of ginger hair.
The four maids re-formed behind him in a line, a retinue waiting on nobility. As Milo and I entered, they curtsied.
Hesse said, “Make yourselves snacks, ladies. Have fun, life’s short.”
A collective, “Thank you, Heck,” as they scattered.
“Come on in, gents.”
He walked ahead of us, soles scuffing hardwood, maintaining a good pace despite the hunched spine and stiff legs. We passed several enormous, art-filled spaces, each of which could be a living room. It’s like that in many of the big houses I see. Set up for large-scale entertainment flow rather than family life.
The library was at the rear, any outdoors view blocked by pink damask drapes. A crystal chandelier subbed for the sun.
A disco ball, three feet in diameter and encrusted with mirrored squares, sat floodlit on a custom-fitted Lucite stand.
Other than the garish sphere, the room was traditional. Spacious enough for three arrangements of tufted leather chairs. Four walls of pickled-pine cases were crammed with volumes. Not leather-bound showy stuff; the kinds of books people actually read.
H. H. Hesse chose the center-most seating area: two club chairs and a love seat arranged around a glass-topped table. On the table was a copper-colored plastic pitcher purloined from IHOP slumming alongside three gilt-edged porcelain cups on saucers.