Serpentine

Chapter 34

Back at the house, he collected the papers from the kitchen table and we beelined to my office.

I said, “Alomar hit on what we’ve figured: Galoway took the case to kill it and get rid of any records. Just as he’s about to leave the department, he gets a call from Seeger. Who’s been snooping around old magazines and just learned about Martha Maude and tells him. Fatal error.”

“Poor guy,” he said. “Probably thought he’d get props for being a miracle man.”

“Or he just wanted to solve the case.”

“Hmm... yeah, that happens, too. Thirsty, gonna get some water.”

I figured he wouldn’t stop at tasteless, transparent fluid, picked up the pulp and began reading.

Mike Leigh had met Martha Maude Hopple when she rode her bike past a property he was clearing as a day laborer. He already had a long sheet, was less than a month out of prison for a theft charge. Five months later, the two of them were traveling together, hitchhiking and stealing cars and burglarizing houses in the Little Egypt section of Illinois, then Missouri, Arkansas, and Texas. One break-in involved the unexpected appearance of the homeowners, an elderly couple, the wife wheelchair-bound. Two corpses. Eighteen bucks taken.

According to the article’s feverish prose, the double murder led to Leigh and his “Jailbait Juliet acquiring a taste for blood.” By the time the duo was arrested for a reign of terror that included carjacking, armed robbery, kidnapping, assault, and murder, four more people had died.

Mike Leigh was executed in the electric chair ten months after his conviction.

Martha Hopple was been sentenced to a girl’s reformatory in Jarvis, Texas. I did a map search. Fifty miles from Tyler.

Milo returned with cranberry juice and a half-eaten apple. I was at my keyboard running a search using Martha Hopple’s name.

Nothing.

I told him about the reform school.

He said, “Longest she could be in there was till twenty-one, maybe even less. She gets out, finds a gig at a grower, meets Benni Cairn. So maybe Benni’s the woman in the car.”

“It fits,” I said. “Martha — probably Dorothy by then, given the Lolita thing it would make sense for her to change her identity — is a few years older than Benni but a whole lot more experienced. And dominant. She tells Benni stories about Hollywood, Benni has nothing going for her in Tyler, the two of them cut town.”

“Why would Dorothy want Benni along?”

“Someone to use.”

“For what?”

“Gullible younger woman?” I said.

“She pimped her out?”

“Could be that or other scams. Maybe Dorothy gave her a makeover and she looked like she did in the photo. The two of them knock around for a while, make their way to L.A., end up at Des Barres’s mansion. Benni’s more attractive than she used to be but no smarter. Easy enough for Dorothy to get her in the Caddy. Let’s go have some fun — oh, pull over for a second, I need my cigarettes.”

“Then bang,” he said. “Cold. What’s the motive for killing her?”

“Dorothy wanted to disappear. Probably with a whole lot of Des Barres’s bling.”

“She was the aspiring Queen Bee.”

“Or she just got bored with being a member of the pack and decided to bankroll another adventure. We’re talking multiple murder by fifteen. Heavy-duty thrill factor. And think of those photos: She’s not whooping it up. We know from the serpentine necklace that she was going back between L.A. and Stan Barker. Getting Barker to babysit and playing him. He wasn’t as rich as Des Barres but he was comfortable enough and well heeled and had paternal instincts. An easy mark whom she eventually dropped.”

“She’d just leave her baby?”

“A baby,” I said. “What if it wasn’t hers?”

“Benni’s? She’d give it up.”

“Young single mother, impressionable, overwhelmed. Dorothy convinces her it’s in the child’s best interest? It’s just a theory at this point but Martha did have experience kidnapping.”

“Oh, man... so why would she wait that long to ditch the kid?”

“Good prop,” I said. “Coming across as a struggling mom for when she met Barker. It didn’t take her long to walk out on both of them so we’re not talking massive maternal instincts.”

“Oh, God, poor Ellie... if we’re talking that level of psychopath and Dorothy had been aiming for Queen, she could’ve also done Arlette.”

I said, “Texas, horses? Nothing in her past says she’d give it a moment’s hesitation.”

He got up, retrieved the arrest photo from the pulp, and plopped down again. I settled next to him and we both studied the shot.

Fifteen-year-old girl in the grips of two fedora-wearing detectives. Uncowed — not even close. Defiant.

He sighed and put the magazine down. “How does Mr. Happy Vegan figure in?”

“Slick, shallow, lies when he breathes?”

“Psychopathy loves company.”

“Good basis for a long-term relationship.”

He frowned. “Find that councilperson?”

I shuffled through my notes, nailed it in seconds. “Dara Guzman, city of Piro, she got seriously outvoted. The second time I checked, Galoway was still on the council but she wasn’t.”

“Bitter ex-politician, even better.” He got up and pointed to my keyboard. “You mind?”

I got up. “Go for it.”

Settling in front of my monitor, he inputted his department access code.

Dara Guzman had turned fifty-three a couple of months ago. One registered vehicle, a twelve-year-old Corolla, home address an apartment in Venice. A few more keystrokes revealed a work address on the western edge of Pico, the tough part of Santa Monica. Guzman was the operations manager of a nonprofit called VistaVenture that aimed to support homeless adolescents.

Milo tried the number.

Seven rings. “Probably closed Saturday.” He moved to click off.

“VeeVee.”

“Could I please speak to Dara Guzman.”

“You are.”

“This is Lieutenant Milo Sturgis, LAPD Westside Division. Do you have a few minutes?”

“For what?”

“To talk about someone you knew in Piro. Dudley Galoway.”

Silence. “And why would I want to do that?”

“His name has come up—”

“How did my name come up?”

“We were looking through some old references and found an article about—”

“Exactly,” said Dara Guzman. “Old. How do I know you are who you say you are?”

Same reaction as Alomar’s. Everyone ceded privacy to their online gizmos but embraced the pretense of pointless suspicion.

Or maybe Dara Guzman just didn’t like cops.

Milo exhaled. “I’d be happy to give you my credentials and you can verify them.”

“I need to go through a hassle so you can question me?”

“Of course not. If you’d rather—”

“Look,” she said, “I’m not trying to be difficult but you’re catching me at the tail end of a monstrously shitty day, okay? Two of our kids suicided. Together.”

“I’m so sorry.” Meaning it and sounding like he did.

“Not as sorry as we are. We try hard to focus on positivity, build on whatever they have going for them. In this case, I thought we’d pulled it off, they seemed... whatever. I’m not in the mood to rehash something a zillion years old.”

“It needn’t take long, ma’am. I’d be happy to come to you.”

“Sorry, I’m going home.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

Silence.

“Ms. Guzman?”

“What’s really going on? Some sort of high-end real estate lawsuit crap, you represent a conglomerate, I’ll get a subpoena in the mail and then get sued for slander after I testify?”

“This is a criminal case, nothing to do with real estate, ma’am.”

“What crime?”

“Mr. Galoway’s name came up in a homicide investigation.”

“Shit. He actually killed someone?”

“It really would be helpful to have a brief chat, ma’am. If FaceTime or Skype are enough to assure you I’m who I say I am, I can log on at your convenience. If you’d rather we meet face-to-face, no problem, just name the place and time.”

“If I’d rather,” said Dara Guzman. “Giving me a limited choice so I start thinking one of my options is great? Nice tactic. Homicide, huh? Now I really don’t want to get involved.”

“I understand, ma’am. Sorry for bothering you and sorry about the suicides. I mean that.”

“You know,” she said, “you sound like you really do. Hold on, I’m going to subject you to my own brand of detection. What’s your name? Or as you guys say, your alleged name.”

Milo told her.

We sat there, listening to clicks on the other end.

Finally, Dara Guzman said, “You don’t come up much but when you do it seems to be okay, no allegations of brutality... hold on... says here you work with a psychologist?”

“When it’s called for.”

“Does that include this homicide?”

“As a matter of fact it does.”

“Tell you what,” said Dara Guzman. “Bring him by and I’ll check you both out. Maybe I can get him to volunteer, we need all the help we can get.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Where—”

“Here. As close to now as possible. I’m beat. And beaten.”

VistaVenture was a grubby gray building just east of Lincoln Boulevard. Spray stucco had fallen off in patches. On one side was a dealer in plumbing fixtures, on the other a school with minuscule signage surrounded by a high link fence that I knew specialized in the problem children of movie stars and other L.A. royalty.

Quick walk from the hundred-grand-a-year school to a place that aided teens living rough. Maybe not an inevitably big leap, when you thought about it. A banished scion or heiress fallen low and reaching out for warm soup, emotional comfort, and a housing chit for an SRO.

The front door was unlocked. Lights off, no one at the reception counter, the only person in sight a woman working her phone on a lint-colored sofa so vanquished its center section grazed the linoleum floor. Mental health and contagious disease posters filled the walls along with the Gestalt Prayer.

I do my thing and you do your thing.

If only it were that simple.

The woman had short, tightly curled gray hair, deep brown eyes, and a face riddled by worry lines. Road map to Sorry Town. She wore a black sweatshirt over jeans and cracked red patent slippers, barely looked up when Milo said, “Ms. Guzman?”

“Uh-huh...” She typed a bit more before her fingers stilled. Stood wearily, looked us over but with scant curiosity. “Lieutenant and therapist, interesting. If I was in a better state I’d have questions about that.”

We followed her out of the front room and into a hallway lined with more posters. AIDS, other STDs, exhortations to get free flu shots, to reach out when emotional pain hit, to be proud of your gender.

Dara Guzman swung a left at the third door, continued to a windowless room with a brown metal desk and chair and three plastic chairs, and sat down behind the desk. Bare walls; maybe the lack of stimulation comforted her.

“Cop and shrink,” she said. “Must be different.”

Milo said, “It can be.”

She turned to me. “You deal with teen suicides?”

“I have.”

“Any words of wisdom?”

“I wish.”

“Brutal,” she said. “At least you’re honest. The kids who died this morning jumped off a five-story building on Main Street. Fourteen and sixteen, horrible home lives, bad deal of cards for both of them. They were madly in love with each other. Also with heroin.”

She threw up her hands.

I said, “Terrible.”

Milo sighed.

Both of us hoping not to be pressed for wisdom we didn’t have.

“Okay,” said Dara Guzman, “might as well get on with your business.”

Not asking for I.D. the way Greg Alomar had. We’d passed some kind of test.

Milo said, “Whatever you can tell us about Dudley Galoway would be helpful.”

“How about he’s a total asshole? What’d you find out about me and him? And where did you find out?”

“Newspaper clipping.” He summed up the zoning dispute.

She said, “That says it all. Look, I’m not claiming he was the only reason I lost. I was young, stupid, had worked for the farmworkers out of college, went to law school but hated it and dropped out and moved out to the boonies with someone I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with.”

She shrugged. “Not your problem. Anyway, Piro seemed like a sweet little town, I thought I’d grow vegetables and mellow out. No idea what it’s like now but it was close to some serious real estate so for all I know it’s like Calabasas.”

I said, “Lots of golf courses there now.”

“Figures. When I was on the council it was agricultural and depended on seasonal workers. Their living conditions were appalling. Falling-down shacks near the town garbage dump, no indoor plumbing, outhouses that overflowed, raw sewage, you get the picture.”

Milo said, “Nasty picture.”

She studied him, assessing sincerity. He sat there, calm.

Dara Guzman twiddled her fingers and continued. “The heirs to one of the old-time families tried to sell some land to a developer who wanted to build Section 8 housing. It sounds crazy, me siding with a developer, but given how the workers lived, lesser of two evils. The property was vacant, on the outskirts, being used for nothing. From all the uproar you’d think convicts were going to be bused in. I pushed for it, everyone piled up against me, I didn’t stand a chance. But that’s not what bothered me about Galoway and his wife. It was the way they went about it. Attacking me personally during council meetings. No raised voices, just sarcastic insinuations that I was a spy for some radical group, out to ruin the town. The other council members didn’t agree with me but they were decent about it. The issue stayed civil until those two entered the picture. They actually got reprimanded by the other members of the council, but that didn’t change the vote.”

She opened a desk drawer, pulled out a box of staples, removed one and played with it. “I licked my wounds and tried to figure out my future. Then they killed my dog.”

“Geez,” said Milo.

“Geez Louise. Baxter was sixteen years old, big old husky with gorgeous blue eyes. Not doing great, he probably had a year or two. Despite all that coat, when he got old, he got cold. Liked to sit outside and snooze and sun himself. One evening, he’s been out there enjoying himself for a few hours, I come out to take him for his wee-walk and find him on his back, stone-cold.”

Her mouth twisted. A single tear ran down her right cheek. “I figured he’s old, had a heart attack. Then I see white crusty stuff around his mouth and it kind of smells of almonds but it still didn’t register. I bring Baxter to the vet for cremation and she smells it. Didn’t say anything at the time but took it upon herself to do a necropsy gratis and found a big chunk of hamburger in Baxter’s tummy, laced with what turned out to be cyanide. She asks me do I lay down rat poison, I say no way, I’m totally organic. She says do you have apricot trees, cherries, has he been known to chew a lot of pits. I say all I’ve got is one scraggly tangerine and Baxter didn’t stray. She says, then I’m afraid someone killed your dog. I told the sheriffs, including who I suspected, lot of good that did. My property was unfenced, anyone could’ve walked in and fed the meat to Baxter. He loved his food. He had no protective instincts.”

“You told them it was Galoway.”

“Or her. Maybe only her, to my eye she was meaner than him. One of those hard-body types, the formfitting jeans, the cowgirl boots, big blond hair, full of herself. Never smiled. He did but it was sleazy. The two of them were a pair. Are they still in Piro?”

“No.”

“Where, then?”

“The Valley.”

“Big place,” said Dara Guzman.

“It is.”

“You’re not going to be specific? Fine, I couldn’t care less.”

I said, “Did they own land in Piro?”

“They lived on a couple of acres, big old house, not much in the way of flowers or trees. Most of it was used for their horses.”

“Ranch situation.”

“More like a house with horses, four or five,” said Guzman. “You’d see her prancing into town, tall in the saddle. Using a whip too much for my taste but what do I know? Never rode myself.”

Milo showed her the Azalea photo with Dorothy/Martha’s face isolated.

She said, “She was older when I knew her but could be... yeah, kick it up to probably. Notice the eyes? Mean. They really were a pair.” To me: “There’s probably a name for that. People building on each other’s meanness.”

I said, “Hooking up with the wrong people.”

She laughed, looked at Milo.

He said, “Should’ve warned you. He hates jargon.”

“Well,” she said, “that’s a plus. You interested in volunteering from time to time, Dr. Delaware?”

“It’s possible.”

“Noncommittal? He says you’re only part-time with him. What else do you do?”

“Private practice and teaching.”

“So you make good money, why not give back? We could use some teaching, here. In-service seminars for staff, maybe counsel some of the kids.”

“Let’s trade cards.” I handed her mine and she scrounged in her desk before coming up with a fuzzy-edged rectangle of cheap paper.

“Got your number, Doc.”

I said, “What name did she go by?”

“Hmm. Don’t know if I ever knew it. He was on the council, she just hung around. I always thought of her as The Bitch.”

Milo smiled, “Anything else you can tell us?”

“Nah,” said Dara Guzman. “I do hope you pin something on them. Tonight I’m going to be thinking about Baxter.”