Serpentine

Chapter 30

Milo said, “Oh, do we get surprised. Let’s walk a bit.”

We strode the strip-mall walkway, passing all kinds of opportunities to ingest calories and a gym where you could burn them off. Spandex and unspoken intensity abounded. People trying so hard to defy the passage of time.

He said, “Well, that was a game changer.” Out came the Azalea Club photo from his case. “Three blondes, probably all murdered, and the Sultan dies in his bed confessing. You ever actually see that in psychopaths? Sudden burst of guilt?”

“So far not the ones who premeditate murder. But like I said, terminal illness can mess with the nervous system.”

“Biology, not morality?”

“I wouldn’t count on morality.”

“Hunh. Sometimes I think you’re more cynical than I am. Anyway, the creepiness level has just ratcheted higher and who knows where it’ll end. Maybe I will ask Val for permission to bring in the radar.”

“Think she’d agree?”

“She came to us about the confession.”

“True but she’s ambivalent, and too much disruption could tip her over. Also, the house isn’t only hers, her brothers are co-owners. If she felt the need to call them, it could go bad pretty fast.”

“What, then?”

“When’s your appointment with Nancy Strattine?”

“Hour and a half, Oxnard.”

“I’d wait to hear what she has to say. Meanwhile we can try to learn about the photo studio and Vicki Barlow. Sterling Lawrence and others like him could be where Des Barres sourced his women.”

“Fine art covering for pimping.”

“Lawrence could’ve had a steady supply, Des Barres and men like him provided the demand.”

“What’s that called, symbiosis?”

“If you’re being charitable.”

“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.

“Here she is, Big Guy. On the dot.”

He wiped his face hurriedly, stood to greet her.

“Ms. Strattine. Thanks for coming.”

“Nancy’s fine.”

Fine came out “Fahn.”

He gave her the same name-only intro for me that he’d offered Bella Owen. She smiled, said, “Hi, Alex,” and sat.

Nancy Strattine was five-three and trim, wearing full makeup that included exuberant false eyelashes and bright-red lipstick. The blond hair was an ash-colored, meringue-like cloud. Her eyes were dark, her chin firm and pointy. A slightly oversized nose aimed for the sky.

She carried a navy Gucci bag, wore yellow spike-heeled shoes and an olive-green pantsuit. The suit’s neckline framed a vee of freckled chest and an inch of cleavage. On her left lapel was a gold brooch shaped like a rose. Three-inch gold hoop earrings, a fire-opal pendant on a chunky gold chain, a two-carat diamond ring paired with a wedding band crusted with pavé diamonds, and an Apple Watch with an orange leather band completed the ensemble.

She said, “Never get this far south. What’s good?”

Milo said, “Everything, ma’am,” and nudged the charcuterie toward her.

She inspected the plate, tweezed jerky between manicured fingers, and nibbled. “Yums.”

“Glad you like it, ma’am.”

“Ma’am? That sounds like where I’m from.”

“No geographic boundaries when it comes to manners. Ma’am.”

Nancy Strattine let out a throaty laugh. Then her face changed, as if suddenly warned to avoid merriment. “I shouldn’t be frivolous, it’s a sad situation with Benicia. Either way.”

The waiter reappeared. Milo and I had turned down wine but he asked Nancy Strattine if she wanted some.

She looked at us. “Against your rules?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Well... not against mine. I’ll have a glass of Pinot.”

“Coming up.”

“Any questions or are you folks ready?”

Nancy Strattine speed-scanned the menu. “I am. Chicken sandwich.”

Milo ordered the deluxe burger and I asked for a seven-ounce fillet.

The waiter said, “No worries,” and left.

Nancy Strattine said, “Why do they say that? What would I be worried about unless he knows something I don’t.”

I said, “Generational anxiety.”

“Ha — and he didn’t say ma’am. In Texas even the kids are polite. So. When you emailed me I got charged up and called the only member of my family who was alive back when Benni — that’s what we called her, two n’s, one i — when Benni disappeared. That’s my uncle Nat, he’s retired police in Austin. He was the baby, born after Benni and my mom. He said he didn’t have anything but then he found what I’m going to show you and sent it. She’s still a kid and her figure was different, but who knows, maybe you can draw a conclusion.”

Out of the blue bag came an Apple 10 XR in a pink snakeskin case. An image already loaded.

Outdoor shot, clumped greenery backing a chubby girl sixteen to eighteen, wearing a yellow print dress with puffed sleeves.

None of the open glee of the smooth-faced blonde in the Azalea shot. This subject was barely able to meet the camera head-on. Long brown hair hung lank. Too-short bangs did nothing for a full face that was lightly spotted with acne.

Milo loaded the Azalea shot with everyone but the fresh-faced blonde blocked out and we did a side-by-side comparison.

Puberty, plastic surgery, and long-term aging can alter appearances radically but a handful of unmanipulated years, particularly during youth, don’t have much impact on facial proportions.

He looked at me. I nodded.

He said, “Unless Benni had a twin, it’s a match.” He offered Strattine the comparison.

She said, “My oh my... so Benni did end up in L.A. That’s what people said. But she sure looks different... but yes, it’s her.”

“Which people?”

“Let me rephrase. That’s what my mom said. She used Benni as a bad example whenever she wanted me to toe the line. Her claim was Benni had slipped out through a bedroom window late at night and it was obvious where she went because she’d talked about being a Hollywood movie star. Which Mama said was stupid because Benni never acted a whit in school. Didn’t do much of anything in school.”

I said, “Not a student.”

“Not according to Mama,” said Strattine. “Stay in school, Nancy, don’t drop out like stupid Benni. Use your time wisely, Nancy, don’t sit around letting your rear get as wide a barn door like fat Benni. Get a respectable job, not like lazy Benni who ended up spreading manure at one of the rose growers. Watch your figure — I know, brutal. I suppose that’s why I went searching for what happened to Benni. Kind of like saving a poor soul.”

“She and Benni were first cousins?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any reason for the animosity?”

“My theory,” said Strattine, “is it was really between their mothers. Mawmaw — my grandma — was religious, a total puritan. Benni’s mom, Great-Aunt Sadie, was anything but. But again, that’s just what I’ve been told. I asked Uncle Nat about it and he had no idea, said he’d never heard about the actress thing, either. The story his dad — Great-Uncle Nathaniel, Sr. — told him was totally different. Benni fell in with a criminal female and likely met a bad end because of it.”

I said, “Either way, Benni was the bad example.”

“Exactly.”

Milo said, “Did the criminal have a name?”

“Not that Nat knows. What Senior said was she was an ex-con, got released and hired to work with the roses. Busy season, the growers brought on all sorts of temporaries. I suppose Benni could’ve met her while spreading manure. But if she made it to L.A., Nat was probably wrong and it was Hollywood she was after. Can I see that photo again, please?”

Milo handed her his phone.

“She looks so pretty,” said Strattine. “She improved herself. All by herself.” Fist-pump.

An exuberant voice said, “Here we go, folks.” Three plates were set down silently.

Nancy Strattine tasted her sandwich. “Yums.” Then her wine. “Yums, again.” She put her glass down. “It’s sad to think of Benni out there with no family. I suppose after all this time there’s not much hope.”

“No matter how it turns out, you did the right thing, ma’am.”

“Thank you for saying that, Lieutenant. Mama would disagree.”

“Why’s that?”

“The road to hell’s paved with good intentions, Nancy. Deal in facts, Nancy, not far-fetched ideas.”

“Whew,” said Milo. “She does sound tough.”

“Let me tell you, there are times...” Head shake. “That attitude’s part of what makes me want to do right by Benni.”

Sudden flash of anger. Then a nibble of her sandwich. “This is good.”

As the three of us ate, Milo and I rephrased questions we’d already asked. Nancy Strattine didn’t resist but she had nothing to add.

Then I said, “Did Benni ride horses?”

“As a sport? No. Did she ever get on a horse? Probably, it’s Texas. Tyler’s a city but there’s ranchland not too far, that’s where I used to ride with my dad. So maybe Benni did, too. Though I never saw it personally. And her dad — Uncle Loudon — died when she was little.”

“It was just her and her mother?”

“And her mother drank. A lot. So did Loudon, that’s what killed him, driving drunk into a cottonwood. They were looked down upon by the rest of the family.”

The check came. Nancy Strattine reached for it.

Milo snatched it up and carried it to the host station.

When he returned, she grinned. “I can’t get into trouble for bribing a peace officer?”

“Nope, you’re safe.”

“Can I at least do the tip?”

“Taken care of, ma’am.”

“Bummer — okay, can you at least call me Nancy? That way I can pretend this is a social thing and next time it’ll be my turn.”

“Sure, Nancy.”

“You’re an easygoing man. Texas would like you.” She reached out to touch his hand, thought better of it.

The three of us stood and headed out of the restaurant.

Milo said, “If there’s anything else you can recall or learn about Benni, let us know.”

“Promise,” said Nancy Strattine. “I’m really a source, huh? My husband and kids are going to get a huge kick out of that.”

She drove away in a rental Explorer.

I said, “Two positive I.D.’s in one day.”

“Unbelievable,” he said. “Must be sunspots or something.”

“Benni hanging with a bad girl could fit our Queen Bee guess. A tough, more streetwise girl brought her to L.A. and got her into the scene.”

He nodded. “That’s why you asked about horseback riding. Which she didn’t rule out. Okay, let’s check in with the kids.” He phoned Moe Reed and gave him the news.

Reed said, “Funny you should say that, L.T. Alicia and I got nearly identical tips from two sources about a girl named Benni. Mine described her as intellectually challenged.”

“Where are the tipsters from?”

“Dallas and Boston. Both said they grew up in East Texas, that’s where they knew her.”

“They have anything else to say?”

“Just that they thought they recognized her.”

“How much info is left to go through?”

“At least a day’s worth,” said Reed. “Maybe some spillover tomorrow.”

“You need a break from weekend work?”

“Nope, Alicia and I are charged up. The rookie’s kind of bummed because none of her stuff has panned out but that’s good training, right, L.T.? Getting used to failure.”