Serpentine

Chapter 31

We left the winery and headed east toward the Del Norte on-ramp to the 101. Milo maintained an easy seventy-eight mph all the way to Thousand Oaks, where his phone rang with a text.

He handed it to me. “See if it’s anything.”

“Detective Sherry Mulhern, Valley Division. Call when you have a chance, no reason given.”

He said, “Keeping it brief, sounds like something active. Do me a favor and speaker it, then hold it close enough for me to talk.”

I put the phone on my left leg, maxed the volume, called the number.

A tobacco voice said, “Mulhern.”

“Sturgis.”

“Thanks for getting back so quick. I’m Valley Burglary, caught one in Granada Hills. Complainant is extremely freaked out, which is understandable. What’s different is she claims it could be related to some sort of contact with you but she won’t say what. Older woman, she seems okay mentally, but I’m no doctor. Deirdre Seeger, did you have dealings with her?”

“Couple of phone conversations,” said Milo. “Are you at the scene now?”

“For a while, the techies are doing their thing,” said Sherry Mulhern. “So she’s mentally stable?”

“Far as I know.”

“It’s probably shock, then. Can’t blame her, every room was basically trashed, going to take time to get prints and whatever else.”

“What’s the address?”

“You’re coming over?”

“Might as well, I’m in Thousand Oaks, can make it in twenty-five.”

“Okay,” said Mulhern, sounding amused. She read off an address on Southland Street. “That level of speed, watch out for the Chippies, they don’t give us any breaks.”

Thirty-one miles to the base of the Santa Susana Mountains, two more miles to reach the crime scene. One CHP car spotted, already ticketing a trucker.

Twenty-seven minutes.

The house was a low-slung, white midcentury with a sea-green door on a street lined with mature trees. One of the holdouts; most of neighbors had McMansionized. A venerable lemon tree spread across the left side of a fading lawn, evoking Granada Hills’s orchard origins. Same for the navel orange on the right. Other than the trees, just grass split by a cement walkway. Entry blocked by yellow tape.

Milo pulled behind a navy-blue Crown Victoria sedan with a sagging rear end and cop plates. Ford had stopped making the big sedans in 2011 but they endured as the go-to unmarked for situations where you didn’t need to be unmarked.

Behind the Crown Vic was a white Scientific Division van. The scenes I’m called to feature at least two vans. One for the technicians, one for the crypt drivers. Plus the compacts the coroner’s investigators take when they’re dispatched to go through dead people’s pockets.

The absence of all that did nothing to mollify the woman on the sidewalk weeping into a handkerchief. Small, thin, bespectacled, mid- to late seventies. She wore a stiff, dark-brown bouffant, a blue sweatshirt with the U.’s insignia, white sweatpants, white flats.

At her side was a gray-haired woman in her midforties no taller but thirty pounds heavier. Cropped, frizzy, utilitarian hair topped sharp eyes, a nub nose, and an assertive chin. Detective badge clipped to the breast pocket of her black blazer. The blazer hung open, revealing a holstered semi-auto.

Stocky woman but not fat; broad and solid, the kind of body designed for long-term plodding not showy sprints.

She nodded at us, looked over at the crying woman, flashed a goes with the territory frown, and shifted a couple of feet away.

Milo recited his name and mine. Sherry Mulhern did the same. No time for handshakes. The older woman had let out a sheep-like mewl and Mulhern rushed back to her.

“So sorry for your losses, Mrs. Seeger.”

“Sorry for being a crybaby,” said Deirdre Seeger. “I know it’s just things, not a person. But they’re my things and I could’ve been here except for the grace of God.”

Mulhern said, “Chances are if you were here, ma’am, they wouldn’t have dared.”

Deirdre Seeger looked up at Milo for confirmation.

He said, “Detective Mulhern’s right. Most burglars are cowards who avoid confrontation.”

Mulhern smiled, grateful for the support. “Anyway, I brought the lieutenant to you like you requested.”

Deirdre Seeger said, “What about those home invaders? They just break in, don’t care if you’re home.”

Mulhern said, “I won’t tell you it doesn’t happen. But not here, this is a really safe neighborhood.”

As if realizing how lame that sounded, she exhaled and turned to the side.

Milo said, “What was taken, Deirdre?”

“My jewelry, my cash — I don’t leave a lot around, maybe a hundred dollars for odds and ends. Then” — she began ticking her fingers — “there’s my flat screen. I just got it for myself last Christmas. Then there’s my iPad — it’s been broken for a while so tough luck for them. Then there’s my wine, four bottles, it’s good wine, I got it on sale at Trader Joe’s.”

Mulhern turned to us. “The typical stuff.”

Deirdre Seeger huffed. “It doesn’t feel typical to me, Detective. It feels like a violation.”

“Of course, ma’am. It’s a terrible violation. As I told you, we’re searching aggressively for fingerprints and any other physical evidence.”

“What about other burglaries around here?” said Seeger. “Wouldn’t that give you a lead?”

“It would, ma’am, but there haven’t been any.”

Seeger’s eyes bulged. “See! I was singled out! It’s me they wanted to violate!”

“Why would that be, ma’am?”

Seeger shook her head. Gave Milo a quick peek. Grim, conspiratorial. She folded her arms across her chest.

Sherry Mulhern’s mouth got tight. “Mrs. Seeger, if you’d rather talk to them alone, that’s fine. I’ve got a few things to do inside investigating your burglary.”

“Go,” said Deirdre Seeger. As if realizing how harsh that sounded, she followed up with, “Thank you, Miss Mulhern. Appreciate your service. Like I told you, I know about detection.”

“It appears that you do, ma’am.” Mulhern traded cards with Milo and ducked under the tape.

Deirdre Seeger said, “No sense involving her, I didn’t want to get in the way of your investigation. Police work is specialized, Phil taught me that.”

“You think this could be related to our conversations about Phil’s last case?”

“You just heard what she said. This is a safe neighborhood, I was targeted. I mean, how long ago were we talking — few days and then this happens.”

A tech exited the house with a hard-shell equipment case. “Stomping all over my home.” More tears. “Sorry, I’m such a baby.”

“Seems like a reasonable reaction to me, Deirdre.”

“Phil and I bought it for thirty-one thousand dollars. They say it’s worth seven hundred thousand but I don’t care. Where am I going to go, to some rest home where they don’t pay attention and you die in a corner?”

Biting her lip. “I loved my home. Want to love it again but... like I told her, it’s only for the grace of God that I wasn’t here and who knows what would’ve happened to me.”

“Where were you?”

“Newhall, I’ve got a friend there, we play canasta twice a week, have a group, we rotate. The game was Friday night, Ada served snacks and prosecco, really delicious, I overindulged and knew enough not to drive. I was going to try one of those Ubers. Never did it before but what the hey, there’s a first time for everything. Ada said she wouldn’t hear of it, the spare bedroom was already made up, she keeps it that way for when her kids come home and they rarely do now, they all moved out of state, the taxes. So I slept over and then I got the call. From Mulhern.”

“Any idea when the break-in occurred?”

“She thinks at night because no neighbors she talked to saw or heard anything. She said it was a real burglary not a staging because in staging the drawers are pulled out but not everything’s removed and at least some valuables are left behind. But what do you think?”

“That sounds logical, Deirdre.”

“Well, maybe. But the main thing is where am I going to stay? Even if they cleaned up, which they’re not going to do, I’m not staying here by myself. Not until my mind settles and who knows how long that’ll take? If Phil and I had children it would be a different story but God didn’t shine that light on us.” Brief glance at the sidewalk. “I have nowhere to go!”

Milo said, “I’ll make a call, Deirdre.”

“To who?”

“Someone who might be able to put you up temporarily.”

“I can’t afford to pay one of those Air-Bee-Bees.”

“I know that. Gimme a sec to take a look inside and then I’ll see what I can arrange.”

He loped to the house, emerged a few minutes later, during which Deirdre Seeger clenched and unclenched her hands and fought back tears.

“He seems like a good man. I’ve got a nose for that. Phil was a good man. He always tried his best.”

I said, “Last time you spoke to Lieutenant Sturgis, you mentioned Phil’s books and magazines. Were any of those taken?”

“That junk, why would they be? Besides, they’re out in the garage, which I keep bolted.” Her lips trembled. “I keep the house locked, too, but they just ripped the rear door off its hinges. Phil put a good bolt on the garage because he kept his bikes there plus parts. People tell me it’s worth a lot, one day I’ll sell them but not now, that’s for sure. I can’t have bikers or who-knows-who coming by. Sir, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe again!”

“You will.”

“How do you know?”

“Experience.”

“Have you ever felt alone and scared?”

It’s called being the child of a raging alcoholic.

I said, “I have.”

“Really?”

I touched her arm. “Absolutely.”

“Well... maybe.”

When she’d remained silent for a while, I said, “Would it be possible for me to get into the garage?”

“You might be interested in the parts?”

“I’d like to take a look around.”

“Is this something that could help catch the bad guys?”

“It could be, Mrs. Seeger. Every little bit helps.”

“Hmm. Okay, you also seem like a nice guy. Nice goes with nice, Phil and I were like that. Everyone said it. He’s nice, she’s nice, adds up to a nice couple.” Sniff. “We were happy together.”

Milo joined us. “All arranged if you’re agreeable, Deirdre.”

“What is?”

“A comfortable bedroom in a nice big house in Los Feliz, totally free.”

“Big empty house? Uh-uh, no way, too spooky.”

“No, there’s a woman living there and she’s got a full-time guard looking after the premises.”

“Why? Why does she need a full-time guard?”

He explained.

Deirdre Seeger said, “Oh... so her mother’s the one Phil tried so hard to figure out? I don’t know... oh, shoot, why not? If Phil cared, that means she was worth caring about and like I just told this other detective, nice goes with nice so the daughter’s probably also a good person.” A beat. “Is she?”

“Lovely person,” said Milo. “She didn’t hesitate to say yes.”

“Los Feliz. I don’t even know how to get there.”

“You have GPS?”

“Hate computers.”

“How about this, then: I’ll drive you and have an officer bring your car.”

“Hmm. Okay, it’s a deal.” As if doing Milo a favor. “Now go talk to Miss Mulhern so she’ll let pack some of my stuff, it’s already a mess on the floor, I’ll just toss it into a suitcase. And I’ll also get the key to the garage for your nice partner.”

Milo looked at me.

I said, “Thought I’d check out Phil’s books and such.”

That answered nothing but he said, “Ah,” and walked Deirdre into the house.

They returned ten minutes later, Milo toting two large suitcases, Deirdre Seeger lacing a bony arm around his sleeve. He loaded the luggage in the trunk of the unmarked after removing a shotgun to make space and placing it in the clamp at the front of the car. Deirdre was guided to a rear passenger seat and left there with the door open.

He jogged back to me.

I said, “What’s it like inside?”

“Like Mulhern said, total trash job, valuables taken, does look real. She’s gonna do the usual: neighborhood canvass, see who has cameras, ask about vehicles that don’t belong, check if there has been anything similar in the Valley.”

He held out a ring of keys, removed one. “That’s her wheels over there, I called Moe and he’s sending Arredondo over.”

Pointing to a silver Honda Civic parked a few yards up. “This one, the Medeco does the garage. Better lock than on the damn house but the back door’s a piece of crap, nothing woulda helped. Now tell me why you want to get in there.”

“Long shot,” I said. “Quick thinking, asking Ellie. Are you hoping for more than good-deed credits?”

“Such as?”

“Ellie and Deirdre get to know each other, Deirdre remembers something.”

“Wish I was that smart but nah, just doing the bleeding-heart thing. Deirdre gets a safe place, Ellie gets some company, maybe it’ll draw her out of her mood.”

I said, “Emotionally smart. Wish I’d thought of it myself.”

“Give yourself good-influence credits.”

No sense wasting time debating but I knew he was wrong. He didn’t need me or anyone else to do the right thing.

He said, “So why the garage?”

Ducking under the tape, keys in hand, with Milo following, I passed through an open wooden gate to the left of the house. The backyard was a meager square that mirrored the front lawn: grass, lemon tree, orange. Boxed by smog-pocked block walls that reduced it even further. A tech kneeled on the rear stoop, dusting the splintered remains of a sixty-year-old service door.

The garage was a single, taking up the left-hand corner of the property. The lock was gamy but I managed to key it open.

Manual door. The hinges groaned. I made sure it was stable in the open position before entering.

In front of me was a three-foot ribbon of empty space backed by clutter. Nothing messy or soiled, just too much stuff in too little space.

A good deal of the area was taken up by hacked-up sections of three Harleys that brought to mind butchered carcasses. The rest consisted of cartons, piles of them, sealed and neatly labeled in black marker. Saddlebags, lids, fenders, fire ext., clutches, brk levers, tappets.

The right-hand wall was lined with bolt-together steel shelves filled with smaller boxes. Screws, bolts, nuts, nails, hand tools.

For all of his rep as a sloppy detective, Phil Seeger had kept it organized at home.

A section of shelves in the far corner was my goal. It took some time clearing a path to reach it.

Floor-to-ceiling magazines that reminded me of my mother’s collection. The way she sat pretending to read when I tried to escape my father’s wrath.

I pushed that lovely memory aside and examined the periodicals. National Geographic, Life, Look, Saturday Evening Post, Reader’s Digest.

What I was after was stacked at the bottom, which took more clearance time and some cramp-inducing kneeling that felt oddly prayerful.

Fifty or so luridly covered magazines, pulpy covers falling apart.

The front pages of a type: screaming headlines and paintings of minimally clad, voluptuous women on the verge of victimhood.

The titles were an exercise in adjective manipulation: True Detective, Shocking Detective Stories, Ace Detective, Amateur Detective, Official Police Detective.

I was prepared to remove the entire stack but Phil Seeger had made my life easy. A small yellow triangle extended from the third magazine from the top.

Corner of a yellow Post-it, !!! written on it in the same black marker.

Third from the top was where you’d stick something you wanted to shield from casual eyes but didn’t want to waste time searching for.

I pulled out the issue, careful but unable to prevent a dandruff puff of acid-ruined paper dust.

Dark Detective, June 1976.

Turning to the tabbed page induced another dirt-fall but the interior of the magazine, shielded from the weather, was in surprisingly good shape, print and images still clear.

In the right-hand margin, Phil Seeger had written: HER!!!

A brief scan gave me the basics of the story.

Martha Maude Hopple, a fifteen-year-old girl from the rural southern tip of Illinois, had teamed up with a thirty-four-year-old ex-con named Langdon “Mike” Leigh and embarked on a four-month, multistate crime rampage. Eight people wounded, including a seven-year-old, plus six fatalities.

Plenty of black-and-white photos to go with the overheated prose.

Mike Leigh glared at the camera, scrawny, jug-eared, and with the flat eyes of a shark and a barely visible wisp of mustache trailing the top of a sneering mouth.

Martha Maude Hopple was equally hostile to the camera, managing to harden an adolescent face still larded with baby fat.

Compressed eyes, flaring nostrils, the barest upturn of lip.

Pretty girl once you got past the anger and the mannish, chopped haircut Mike Leigh had given her as a disguise.

A caption below his arrest photo proclaimed the habitual felon’s intention to “take the rap, she didn’t do nothing.”

A caption below Martha Maude’s portrait quoted her proclamation of innocence and the fact that “he forced me.”

The twitchy partial smile — enjoying a private joke — suggested otherwise.

I didn’t need Seeger to educate me.

Puberty, plastic surgery, and long-term aging can alter appearances radically, but short of that, facial proportions don’t change.

I said, “Look.”

Milo said, “Oh, shit.”

Both of us staring into the smug, psychopathic, teenage face of the woman who’d called herself Dorothy Swoboda.

I’d half expected, half hoped, but my heart rate had kicked up anyway. Milo was breathing fast. I heard his teeth grind.

He took the magazine, examined the title, the photos, the first paragraph of text. A droplet of sweat formed on his brow and rolled down to the magazine, forming a little gray dot on the browning paper. He wiped his face angrily with his hand.

“How the hell did you connect to this?”

“Small steps, nothing dramatic,” I said.

“Screw the modesty. Tell me.”

“When Strattine told us about an older bad girl Benni had fallen in with before she left town I flashed on the Azalea shot and Dorothy being a few years older than the other two women. Then I started thinking about the photo, itself.”

I brought up the image on my phone. “She’s apart from the other two. Not just physically, but emotionally. Apart from Des Barres, too.”

“Everyone’s having a good time except her.”

“Grim,” I said. “Same expression as in the forest shot with Stan Barker.” I tapped the article. “Same as this, back when she was fifteen and committing violent crimes.”

He studied all the screens. “Oh, man, once you point it out it’s obvious... I’m seeing more than grim. That’s perp anger — those eyes. Still, how’d you figure to find the story here?”

“Like I said, a long shot. You know I’ve been wondering on and off about all the accidents. Including Phil Seeger dying on his bike shortly after he retired. What if he’d learned something as a private citizen and died because of it? Then Deirdre mentioned he’d collected detective pulps. Why would a cop read about crime? So maybe he went digging into the past and discovered something. The final straw was the break-in. Maybe just a burglary, but what if it wasn’t? Long as we were here, I figured couldn’t hurt to look.”

“How your mind works... so our gal is Martha Maude. Who the hell’s Dorothy Swoboda?”

“Most likely the usual,” I said. “Name on a gravestone. When the investigation started, I looked her up and the only thing I found was a woman who’d died in the 1800s.”

“Me, too,” he said. “Didn’t figure it was worth mentioning.” He swabbed his face again. “It’s like a sauna in here, let’s get the hell out.”

The temperature felt fine to me. I said, “Sure. Want the magazine?”

“You carry it, I might drop it.”