Serpentine

Chapter 17

Raul stayed in the room and the three of us left and reconvened in another quiet spot near the elevators.

Milo said, “I just keep thinking about Twohy laying out his route. What a genius.”

Petra said, “I’ll see if he’s a genius with a past.”

“You’ve got the crime scene to deal with, I don’t mind.”

“Sure, thanks.”

He turned to me. “What do you think of Ellie and the whole guilt thing?”

“Does she know more than she’s letting on? I didn’t pick anything up. What does make me wonder is if Bauer hadn’t butted in, her contact with Val would have ended as a casual conversation.”

Petra said, “Val realizes Ellie could be talking about her dad? Feels like throwing up in her mouth but figures it’ll go nowhere. Then Bauer takes over and it gets bad.”

Milo said, “If so, she coulda been ready for us, what we saw was well rehearsed. Next step call one or both of her big brothers. Raking up the past could pose the same risk for them. Or she handles it herself.”

I said, “After you sent Dorothy’s photo to Bill, he could’ve said he had no idea. Instead he said he didn’t know her but he did recognize her as a harem member.”

“Strategy,” said Petra. “Guy’s a lawyer, used to scheming. We see that in suspects who are smart or think they are, right? Be semi-cooperative and you come across innocent. And sometimes it works. Besides, there’s no evidence. What would Dorothy’s presence in the house thirty-plus years ago prove? So it pays to play along, maybe learn details of the investigation.”

I said, “But then why shoot Twohy?”

Both of them frowned.

Milo said, “Maybe that wasn’t Bill’s decision.”

Petra said, “Kiddie-Book arranged a hit on her own?”

“Or she talked to Dr. Tony, her other brother, and he was more action-oriented. I’ve tried the guy three times and he still hasn’t called me back. It’s too late in Illinois but I’ll give it another go tomorrow.”

Petra said, “I’m going to synchronize with Raul then head over to the scene.”

“See you, kid.”

She yawned. “Wish I felt like a kid.”

The Seville was where we’d left it. Milo handed the valet a bill that evoked joy, got into the passenger seat, and removed the placard from my dash.

I drove toward the Vermont exit.

He said, “Good thinking on my part, having you drive.”

“Still feeling the wine?”

“Not a whit. Time to work. Onward, coachman.”

Vermont Avenue is one of L.A.’s longest streets, stretching twenty-three miles from Los Feliz down to the Wilmington Harbor. There’s nothing pretty about most of it but darkness has a way of concealing defect, and being able to glide through a dim, latent Vermont as Milo made notes in his pad was strangely soothing.

That lasted half a block until I turned west on Sunset, a street that never calms down.

Hospital Row dominates huge swaths of Sunset real estate, with all the ambulance din and peripheral anxiety that entails. Next come the Scientologists massing in and around their cathedral, a former hospital now painted cobalt blue and topped by a massive sign and a crucifix.

L. Ron Hubbardsville eventually gave way to grim blocks of dope fiends buying, selling, and bartering, wild-eyed unfortunates lost in various states of fantasy, homeless encampments you can smell from the curb, and, farther west, the liveliest stretch of all, the Strip, which mixes all of the previous with hipsters and party creatures and adolescents out way too late.

None of that stopped Milo’s pencil. When he stopped writing and began thinking, I said, “You okay with some music?”

“Why not?”

I switched on my favorite Stan Getz tape.

He said, “Definitely why not.”

As I continued west, he swapped the pad for his phone and began logging onto one database after another, cursing silently when Bluetooth went out, muttering, “Finally,” when connection resumed. “Nothing... nothing... et cetera...”

I’d just passed the Roxy, now sadly dark, and pulled to a stop at the Sunset — Doheny light when he shouted, “Finally!” and held out the tiny screen.

Small print. Before I had a chance to decipher, the light turned green. I drove on.

“As the TV bobbleheads say, here’s the recap: A Sabino Eduardo Chavez is listed on Val Des Barres’s IMDb page as the caterer on her second animation. Not exactly a tough gig, feeding toons. So she met him dishing out grub and hired him. But the main thing is NCIC knows him, too. Convictions for larceny and theft, jail time in Riverside... twenty-six and... twenty-eight years ago. Yeah, I know, ancient history, he’s totally repentant and completely rehabilitated. On the other hand, Alex, he coulda just gotten better at avoiding arrest. Whatever the case, he’s no virgin and parts of Riverside are serious gang territory. You want a shooter, you could do worse. Speaking of which, let’s see about our shooting victim.”

Two blocks into Beverly Hills: “Well, look at this. Mr. Twohy outdid Mr. Chavez and was busted four times... little run of naughtiness three to six years ago. One marijuana possession and three booze DUIs. Only one conviction, for the third deuce. He pled to misdemeanor, paid a fine. Maybe ol’ Sabino shoulda used his lawyer.”

“A substance history could explain Twohy’s approach to running.”

“Trading one addiction for another? Eight miles today, nine miles tomorrow, ten, eleven, blah blah blah? And by the way, here’s my route, look at me, everyone, I’m sober.”

“What I meant was he might be trying to stay healthy and structuring his life so he doesn’t relapse.”

“Oh,” he said. “Maybe that, too.”

No further conversation or revelations until I pulled past my gate and parked alongside the Impala.

He said, “Thanks for the best Uber in town. Val’s estate isn’t easy to watch but I’ll figure out something. I get lucky, Mr. Chavez goes somewhere interesting. That doesn’t happen, there’s all that panoramic view.”

He stretched. “You know, it’s kinda nice making my own schedule. What’s on your agenda?”

“Busy all day,” I said.

“With?”

“New patients.”

“Custody messes?”

“Two of those plus a trauma case.”

He winced. “A kid got hurt? Badly?”

“Car crash, no physical injuries but plenty of emotional issues.”

“Oh, man,” he said. “Glad he has you to talk to.”

“Eighteen months old,” I said. “Doesn’t talk much.”

“A baby? So what the hell do you do?”

“Observe, build trust, try some play therapy, then some incompatible response training.”

“Which is?”

“Teaching new ways to process what scares you.”

“A baby can do that?”

“Quite well,” I said. “Anger and fear don’t usually coexist in kids. If you can teach them to get mad at what frightens them, it can drive out anxiety.”

“Ah,” he said. “Maybe that’s why I’m never anxious, didn’t grow up. You work with the little ones a lot?”

“More often than most psychologists.”

“Because...”

“I don’t mind not talking.”

“Huh. That a hint?”

I laughed. “No.”

“The technique,” he said. “You invented it?”

“The research was in place. I put stuff together.”

“Eighteen months old. Phew.”

He got out of the car. “Thanks for your time, amigo. Let me ask you. When I call do you sometimes think it’s pain-in-the-ass complicated?”

“Never.”

He looked at me.

I said, “Not once.”