Serpentine

Chapter 33

When I got home, Milo was already there, parked in front. No surprise, the way he’d been driving.

As we climbed the stairs to the entry terrace, he said, “Found out a few more things about ol’ Du, and yeah, he’s been creative. He doesn’t live in Ojai, never did from what I can tell, has a place in Tarzana mostly owned by the bank. If he’s married or living with someone, they’re not on the papers. The Jag’s leased, from the amount still owed to the bank probably one of those minimal-down-payment deals.”

“Possible money problems.”

“At the very least, he’s not as well heeled as he wanted us to think. The vehicle he does own outright is a ten-year-old Isuzu Trooper. Again, no one else on the papers, so if Dorothy-Martha is still kicking around, she’s got her own wheels. I told Boudreaux to be ready for anything.”

I said, “Think he’s really vegan or into meat?”

He laughed. “I’m not even getting near that.”

I unlocked the door and looked for Robin. Not in the house. No surprise, when she’s fired up creatively, weekends get no respect.

Milo spread documents on the kitchen table.

I said, “Back in a sec.”

No answer. He’d opened Dark Detective, was deep into the Lolita story.

I thought of Martha Hopple’s eyes. So young and so hard. When they start that way, no telling what they’re capable of.

As I passed through the garden to the studio, my phone chirped.

Petra said, “Got a missed call from you. What’s up?”

“Quite a bit but best to hear it from Big Guy. He’s in my kitchen right now.”

“I know psychologists like to be enigmatic but give me a clue.”

“Dorothy Swoboda might be alive and Du Galoway might be her boyfriend.”

Silence.

“That’s... a lot to take in, Alex. Okay, I’ll get the details from the heights of Olympus. You want to hear about Captain Alomar or should I tell Milo?”

“He’s alive?”

“And well. If Big Guy’s in the kitchen, where are you? Foraging Bel Air for rare and exotic edibles?”

I laughed. “On the way to say hi to Robin.”

“Such a good boyfriend,” she said. “I give her a lot of credit.”

I expected Robin to be working on the mandolin but she’d taken on the re-fret of a lovely, petite, hundred-year-old Martin guitar, the kind of comparatively simple job she sometimes tackles in spare moments.

She stopped cutting fret-wire and looked down, amused, as Blanche nuzzled my leg. “Not going to match her devotion to that extent but happy you’re back. Any luck?”

“Total paradigm shift.” I explained.

She said, “Lolita. Wonder what Nabokov would think. So what’s next?”

“More research. Commencing in our kitchen as we speak. Milo insists on footing dinner — gourmet takeout.”

“Not necessary, honey, we’ve got leftovers.”

“He’s thinking Spago or the like.”

“Whoa,” she said. “So you played a major role in the shift — no, no, don’t aw shucks me.”

Big smile, hard kiss; I let her work and returned to the house, wondering what it was like to make a living creating beauty.

Milo had covered half the table with paper.

“Found a Zillow shot of Galoway’s house. Small, Spanish, corner lot. Can’t find any records of him selling real estate but he said that was years ago and I don’t know which companies he claimed to work for. Far as I can tell, he’s got no current source of income. Ditto registered firearm or criminal record. If you could get me the name of that city councilor who went up against him, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure. Petra just called me. Alomar’s still alive, here’s his number.”

He loaded his phone and called.

A deep, clipped voice said, “Pro shop.”

“Is Mr. Alomar there?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Lieutenant Milos Sturgis, LAPD—”

“What, they want to increase my pension?”

“Good luck on that,” said Milo. “No, sir, I’m West L.A. Homicide and calling about a detective who worked for you years ago. Dudley Galoway.”

“Worked?” said Greg Alomar. “According to who? Forget I said that — you’re not taping this, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“What’s your Christian name?”

“Milo.”

“Milo Sturgis... you the one who works with that shrink?”

“From time to time.”

“Heard about it a few years before I retired,” said Greg Alomar. “Got jealous. Hollywood, we had a whole different level of crazy than your civilized part of the city. We could’ve used some head-work.”

“We get our share.”

“What? Felonious anxiety when the Tesla won’t charge? Listen, I’m willing to schmooze but I need to verify you are who you say you are and I don’t truck with that FaceTime crap, anything on a phone or a computer can be faked. So if you want my side of the story, you’re going to have to show yourself.”

“No prob. Where are you?”

“Bel Air Ridge Country Club. I own the pro shop.”

“Nice,” said Milo. “How long have you been golfing?”

“Since never,” said Alomar. “It’s like being a specialist doc. You stay sharp and help people with an affliction.”

Milo laughed. “Can we come by now?”

“We?”

“Dr. Delaware and myself.”

“You’ve got the shrink with you? He works weekends?”

“When it’s interesting.”

“Psychology,” said Alomar. “I took it in college. Except for statistics, which is just a way to say fancy lies, it was interesting.”

The country club was a fifteen-minute ride from my house. I let Robin know I was leaving again and told her why.

“Your voice has that boyish lilt.” Wink. “Like when you’re interested.”

“I’m always interested in you.”

“Darling,” she said, “your devotion isn’t in question. But there’s interested and there’s interested. Go.”

As in most cities, L.A.’s venerable country clubs were founded as citadels of us versus them. Wasn’t success judged by who you rejected?

L.A. continues to be as exclusionary as ever — try parking within a mile of an Oscar after-party. But the people who run the city pretend to be tolerant so the old clubs are struggling.

Replacing them are a number of pay-to-play setups with the pay part steep enough to keep out all but the highly affluent. Bel Air Ridge Country Club was one of those.

Getting there took us north on the Glen and up to Mulholland but instead of heading east toward Hollywood and the Des Barres estate, we turned left and drove four miles past several luxury developments stacked with white, big-box contemporary houses before reaching a double-wide driveway railed with palm trees and blocked by a high iron gate.

Call-box chat, quick entry, then twenty additional yards of driving to a guard in a sentry box who didn’t pretend to care. A hundred yards of gentle green climb brought us to the Big Daddy white box contemporary: two stories of white stucco with a band of black lava rock running along the bottom.

As if the clubhouse were a stud bull who’d spent a rollicking breeding season siring calves.

Just a sprinkle of cars in sight, all of them German, as well as several golf carts with yellow and white striped awnings. On the building’s left end was a glass-faced store: The Pro Shoppe, as attested to by curvaceous gilt lettering. We pulled up in front and stepped in.

A door-triggered ding-a-ling introduced us to a cozy, softly lit space filled with the aroma of good leather and walled with mahogany cases. Callahan banner on one wall, Titleist on the other. Displays of bags, clubs, balls, and brightly colored clothing sat on waxed parquet floors.

No shoppers, just one man behind the counter, wearing a salmon-pink Bobby Jones polo and blue linen pants. Five-nine, deeply tan, trim and flat-bellied with razor-cut features topped by a thick, white brush cut.

Milo had accessed Gregory Alomar’s retirement records, a sketchy endeavor but who was going to complain? The former captain would be seventy-seven next month but looked ten years younger.

“Milo and Dr. Delaware? Greg Alomar.”

Confident, iron handshake. Alomar’s eyes were olive-drab and watchful with smaller pupils than the lighting would suggest. An eagle appraising prey.

“Thanks for meeting with us, Captain.”

“My pleasure, once you show me your I.D.’s.”

The raptor eyes took their time examining Milo’s card and my driver’s license. Alomar read off my address. “Am I right and you live close to here, Doc?”

“A few miles down the Glen.”

“Do you golf?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Don’t apologize. What exercise do you do?”

“Run.”

“Ah. So your hips and knees still might go but at least your heart’ll be okay. Let’s go in back. Someone comes in, I’ll need to interrupt but eventually we’ll get the job done.”

Alomar had been optimistic about our bona fides; he’d opened three black folding chairs in the center of a rear storage room and arranged them two facing one. Shelves of the same objects as in front took up the rest of the space. Everything neat, clean, organized.

He took the solo seat and we faced him.

“Dudley the Dud,” he said. “Called himself Du. I used to think, preface that with ‘Dog.’ ”

Milo said, “No love lost.”

“He was foisted on me and I don’t like foisting.”

“By who?”

“Never found out,” said Alomar. “I had an opening due to one of my senior D’s retiring, had my eye on someone in Rampart. Female, smart, I asked for her, got him. No Homicide experience, the clown had done Traffic.”

I said, “Connections.”

“He sure had pull with someone. As to who that was, couldn’t uncover it. What I do know is before Traffic, he drove an assistant chief around. Right out of the academy, got to go to celebrity parties, all that good stuff. So it was either that or he ate out some rich back-scratcher. However he pulled it off, I got stuck with him. He thought by being an A-plus ass-kisser he could get into my good graces. Sleazy. Did he finally turn criminal?”

Speaking evenly but no mistaking the anger.

Milo said, “Finally?”

“The guy had a truth problem. Lying for the heck of it, stupid stuff. Like saying he did something when he didn’t, taking fake sick days, just a generally oily attitude. Like it was fun for him, piling on the bullshit. Not a big leap to criminal. You’re Homicide. Did he actually kill someone?”

“Long story,” said Milo.

“No one’s rung the bell,” said Alomar, crossing his legs.

“When he worked for you, he caught a case. Woman shot up on Mulholland.”

“Dorothy something European,” said Alomar. “I remember it because it never got closed. No surprise, it was stone-cold by the time he showed up and pushed himself into it.”

“His story is that you pressured him to take on a loser.”

“Is it? Like I said, the asshole lied when he breathed. No, just the opposite. Two D’s had already taken it on for like, fourteen, fifteen years. There wasn’t all the hoopla about cold cases you have today. It being a thing. All we had were winners and losers and in our shop this one was a loser. Meanwhile, we had no shortage of winners because of the idiot thing. You know what I’m talking about.”

“Idiot One shoots Idiot Two in a bar and sticks around.”

Alomar laughed. “Makes us look heroic. Dorothy... what was her name...”

“Swoboda.”

“Swoboda... the likelihood of her being a winner was the same as me getting recruited by the Lakers to play center.”

The olive eyes passed from Milo to me and back to Milo. “Are you saying something’s changed? One of those DNA deals? That was a thing but I don’t recall there being anything to test.”

“There wasn’t,” said Milo. “I’ve been asked to look into it because of connections.”

“What kind of connections?”

Milo said, “Ka-ching.”

“Big bucks?” said Alomar. “Who?”

“A relative of Dorothy’s.”

“So what’s Galoway’s deal in all this?”

“I contacted him because he’s the only living D. Turns out, he’s been misdirecting us from the get-go. Can’t say more yet.”

Alomar digested that. “Understood. When you can say, will you?”

“You bet,” said Milo. “If you didn’t want him on the case, how’d he score it?”

“I didn’t want him in my shop, period,” said Alomar. “Initially figured the best way to make use of his limited talent was have him gofer for one of my seasoned D’s. Scut work he couldn’t screw up too badly. Problem is, no one wanted him because of his personality. Yessir yessir, accomplishing diddly-squat, always an excuse. What I wanted was him out, but given the way he came in, I needed to be careful. I was still figuring out what to do with him when he waltzes into my office with Swoboda’s file, says he’d been looking through some old ones, figures he could accomplish something on this one. I said forget it, it’s old and cold for a reason. He basically begged — I guess you’d call it wheedling. Please, sir, give me a chance, sir. Like that kid in the musical — Oliver Twist. Then I thought to myself, Why not, maybe this is a solution. Keep him out of everyone’s hair, eventually I’ll find a way to get rid of him. So I said sure. And guess what happened?”

“Nada,” said Milo.

“Whole lot of nada, my friend. He spent a month or two on it, never filed any paper, quit and put in for disability retirement.”

“What was the disability?”

“Some kind of back thing. You know, crap that can’t be proven or disproven. I signed off, good riddance. I won’t bug you for details but can you tell me if he had some personal involvement in the case? Because it never made sense, him being so industrious.”

Milo thought about his answer.

The delay was sufficient for Alomar. “He did, huh? Evil bastard, I hope you nail him. God knows how much pension money he’s been racking up.”

“You really didn’t like him.”

“I really didn’t.” Alomar shifted in his chair. “Okay, full disclosure. One of my friends, worked Central, met Galoway at a cop bar on Main. Galoway’s got no idea my friend is my friend. She’s discreet, very good listener — like you seem to be, Doc. Anyway, he’s trying to pick her up and starts bitching about work. About me. Tells her I’m a fat, chain-smoking fuck who wheezes when he walks.”

He ran a hand across a flat, muscular chest. “Three years ago is when I stopped doing triathlons. Back then? I could climb walls.”

We thanked Alomar and drove away from the country club.

Just outside the gate, Milo produced his wallet. “Let’s go back to your place and find the name of that politician. Meanwhile, take out my Amex and order grub.”

“From where?”

“Wherever you want.”

I phoned Robin on speaker. She said, “Anything.”

Milo said, “Long as it’s gourmet.”

“There’s no need to make a production, Milo.”

“Humor me.”

“Okay, sushi from a place in Westwood, Alex knows it. Delivery in three hours.”

“How about the pooch?”

“She likes fish and rice. Bye, boys.”

I called and ordered enough for four.

Milo said, “That’s enough?”

“It’s not, we’ll raid the fridge.”

“Resourceful,” he said. “Darwin would be proud.”