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 not?”
“Flesh peddling.”
“Okay, let’s get back to my wheels and see if ol’ Sterling has a past.”
He used the computer in the Impala and confirmed that the photography studio no longer existed. The 900 block of Gower was residential. The exact address was a big-box apartment complex that looked to be around ten years old.
NCIC had nothing criminal on Lawrence. A Find A Grave search pulled up a headstone for Sterling Adrian Lawrence at Hollywood Memorial. Smallish and simple, black granite. An old-fashioned camera with bellows engraved at the top.
The photographer had died fourteen years ago, age seventy-eight. That made finding a record at the coroner’s office a decent shot.
He found it. Like Swoboda, just a summary: heart attack.
He said, “So much for that. Now what?”
“You could try Harlow Hesse.”
“Why?”
“He’s old, likes to talk, seems to know everyone.”
“Fun times. Why not.”
A woman, probably one of the maid-quartet, answered. “Hesse residence, who may I ask is calling?”
“Lieutenant Sturgis. We met with Mr. Hesse a few days ago and have a question.”
“Oh,” she said. “He went down for a nap but let me see.”
Moments later, a familiar bellow shot through the tiny speaker: “Didn’t you see me in the kitchen, Sheila? Of course I’m up... hello, Lieutenant, auld lang syne, how can I help you.”
“A name came up during the investigation, sir. A photographer named Sterling—”
“Lawrence. Great guy, hope you’re not going to tell me he did something nasty.”
“Not at all.”
“What, then?”
“We found a portrait he took of our missing girl and wondered what you could tell us about him.”
“First off,” said Hesse, “he’s dead, so forget talking to him. Chain-smoker, loved steak, no surprise. I tried to tell him to moderate at least the cigs but he was puffing away since the army. So was the picture classy? I’m betting yes because Ster was a classy guy, extremely artistic, took his time with the lighting. A real artist, none of that cheesecake crap, none of those phony shutterbug clubs attracting perverts. He had a classy setup, worked out of this big Craftsman he owned in Hollywood. Great place, the neighborhood got a little iffy but Ster stayed... Sycamore Avenue maybe? Cherokee?”
“Gower.”
“That’s it, Gower. Don’t know who owns it now.” A beat. “Ster had no heirs.”
“The building’s long gone,” said Milo.
“What’s there now?”
“Big apartment complex.”
“All the class of a shipping carton?”
“Something like that.”
“Figures,” said Hesse. “Like Joni used to say — she’s got a great place in Bel Air, by the way — they paved paradise and discombobulated everything classy.”
“The photo we have was shot on a beach.”
“So?”
“So I guess Sterling traveled away from his studio.”
“Same question. What’s the diff?”
“Good point,” said Milo. “What else can you tell us about him?”
A beat. Throat clearing. “You know, Lieutenant, I enjoyed talking to you, you seem like a really dedicated guy. You and the shrink, both of you seemed like good people. And I’m a civic-minded citizen so obviously I want to do anything I can to help with whatever it is you think you need help with. But if you’re barking up Ster Lawrence’s tree, don’t. Great guy, had a tough life. Military brat, crazy-strict religious parents. Knew who he was but they didn’t approve so he did his own thing and used his talent to make a life for himself. It wasn’t easy. Are you catching my drift?”
Milo said, “Yes, sir.”
“Trust me,” said Hesse. “He was upright and ethical and a very, very, very talented guy.”
His voice broke.
Milo waited.
Harlow Hesse said, “I’m not going to get into details but let’s just say Ster was known to frequent the same place I went with your Dr. Silverman. Both floors.”
“Got it.”
“I’d hope so. Given who you are.”
Click.
I said, “Upstairs/downstairs at The Azalea. Maybe there was more interplay than was obvious.”
“Lawrence and Des Barres ran into each other and figured out the supply — demand thing?”
“Des Barres and others like him. Lawrence could’ve gotten kickbacks or Hesse is right and there was nothing sleazy going on, just some informal matchmaking. In any event, we’ve got a good theory of how three women ended up in the harem.”
“But no clue what happened to them. And maybe others.” He rubbed his face. “This is the point where I’d suggest nutrition but I’m supposed to meet Nancy Strattine for lunch. You have Saturday plans?”
“No, I’ll come, once I figure out where to put my car.”
“Let’s see to that.”
No letup in the strip-mall traffic. The attendant looked even more harried.
Milo said, “Hi.”
Waving hands, scowling face. “One sec one sec hold on.”
A flash of the badge drew the attendant’s eyes. “Police? Okay, no problem.” He let in a pink VW Bug. “What?”
“We came in with two cars, the Impala and a classic Seville.”
“The green one, yeah, nice.”
“Very nice and it’s going to be here for a while.”
“How long is a while?”
“Hours.”
“I can’t do that.”
A twenty pressed into the man’s palm. Milo folded his fingers over the bill.
“Got it, sir.”
“Knew you would.”
Eighty minutes to get to Oxnard was close to a sure bet, even with a mishap or two on the 101. Today there were none and we sailed through the Valley into 805 territory, passed Camarillo and into its northern neighbor.
Once a high-crime scar on the pretty face of Ventura County, Oxnard had finally realized it was a beach town and matured accordingly. A few gang neighborhoods survived but between a well-designed harbor, surf-side resorts and condos to the west, and lush plantings of berries, artichokes, and leafy things to the east, once you got off the freeway, the drive was a pretty one.
We exited at Rice Avenue, continued a few miles, and turned right into a high-end industrial park. Wide, mostly empty streets crisscrossed multi-acre lots on which white and off-white buildings sat behind knolls of barbered grass. Some of the structures housed the headquarters of agribusiness firms and the companies that serve them — truckers, shippers, packers. Others with black glass windows sported the names of corporations — names that explained nothing and could have sprung from the feverish mind of a conspiracy theorist.
One of the few buildings that’s not white is painted brick and cream and contains a large winery with a tasting room at the front and restaurant at the back consistently rated the best in the county. I’d discovered it years ago, interviewing a witness in a previous case, had turned Milo and Rick on to it because they’re always looking for cuisine. They’d become fans, stopping on the way to rare weekends in Santa Barbara for Cabernet and prime rib.
Any eatery Milo frequents benefits from his habitual overtipping. It’s a cop thing he takes even further. The result is usually a hero’s welcome and today was no exception.
We arrived eighteen minutes before the appointment with Nancy Strattine, were immediately seated at a private corner table and comped with a charcuterie plate generous enough to nourish all three bears.
Milo said, “Aw, not necessary.”
The waiter said, “Enjoy.”
Milo said, “Sage advice,” and reached for his fork.
Several bison sausages, strips of venison jerky, and chunks of veal pâté later, he took a breather, wiped his forehead, swigged ice water, and looked around. Seconds after he’d returned to the food, I noticed a blond woman enter, confer with the host, and head our way.