Serpentine

Chapter 37

Back in his office, he looked at the Azalea photo. “V. Gotta be.”

I said, “One less corpse, it would be nice.”

“Any reason I shouldn’t try to contact her?”

“Not that I can see.”

“How hard do I beg?”

I said, “Time to dig out the magnetism.”

He re-read and sent. Sat back and pulled out a panatela and passed it between his hands. “Now I wait. You know what’s gonna happen.”

I said, “A bit of slag then hopefully gold.”

“A bit? I should be so lucky.”

During the next hour, twelve responses popped up under Benni Cairn’s photo. Inquiries about other L.A. missings plus bellicose gripes about the department’s insensitivity and incompetence.

Nothing initially from V.

I’d used the time to rewrite some preliminary custody findings, finding the claustrophobic space surprisingly good for concentration.

Shortly after one p.m., he said, “You finished?”

“You’ve been waiting?”

“Just for a few, you were looking professorial. Hungry? Even if you aren’t, let’s go.”

We left and walked toward the war room.

I said, “Leftover sandwiches?”

“You kidding? Rank has its privileges.”

The weather had turned encouraging. Cloudless blue sky, seventy-two degrees, dry but not Saharan.

“This,” he said, “is why we live here. You up for a walk — scratch that, stupid question.”

We headed north to Santa Monica Boulevard, crossed, continued several blocks to Wilshire, walked west and covered an additional half mile. Moving briskly, my runner’s lungs and his long stride a good partnership.

The place he chose was Italian. Pleasant and clean but nothing out of the ordinary and no shortage of Italian close to the station. I figured he needed to stretch physically and mentally.

We ordered spaghetti carbonara and iced tea and took a cop’s corner booth: facing the door with a clear view of anyone who entered but far enough to provide extra seconds for reacting to the unexpected. I’ve only seen him make use of that once: overpowering a ranting, knife-wielding psychotic who’d burst into his favorite Indian place. Milo had responded with astonishing swiftness, tackling, restraining, cuffing, calling for backup. Resuming his meal when the uniforms took the invader away as if nothing had happened.

He tucked a napkin under his collar. The Godfather look. “Anything you want to add to what I told the troops?”

“Nope.”

“Way I see it, best case is Dorothy’s living with Galoway. Second best is she isn’t but he shows himself, Moe or Alicia can pull off a good tail and he leads us to her. The problem is, so what? No physical evidence or witnesses to justify a phone triangulation or a call subpoena, and these two don’t sound like the confessing sort.”

I thought about that. Was still considering when the food came.

Instead of picking up his fork, he stared at me.

I said, “The only thing I can think of is try to set them against each other.”

“If they even talk to me.”

“Galoway will. He’s a show-off.”

“All the years they’ve been together and he’ll just fold?”

“Personality problems are on your side.”

“Meaning?”

“Selfish, callous, cruel,” I said. “Loyalty might not stand up to that.”

We ate quickly and I had coffee while Milo demolished a square of spumoni. We were a block north of Santa Monica when his phone alerted.

He stopped, read, slapped a hand on his chest.

“You okay?”

“Having an arrhythmia of joy.”

New email from Victoriaquandt@spacemail.com:

Racewalk back to the station. My runner’s lungs, fine. His stride not long enough to prevent red-faced panting by the time we arrived. We walked straight to the parking lot and got into the Impala.

He said, “GPS the address, por favor,” and sped toward the gate. Drumming the wheel, tapping the floor with his left foot. Barely containing himself as the yardarm lifted and he jetted through.

Rambla Azul Terrace was a teardrop drooping from a narrow street at the north end of Temescal Canyon. The park Vicki Quandt had cited was a circle of grass maybe thirty feet in diameter. Four old sycamores at the periphery provided intermittent shade. No benches.

Pacific Palisades has its share of ocean-view estates. The surrounding houses here were pleasant and unremarkable and well maintained. Hard to pin down a style — maybe generic seventies. Somewhere else, a tract for junior managers. Here, four to five million a pop.

Like Du Galoway’s block, unrestricted parking, a side benefit of obscurity.

One car was parked at the south end of the circle: newish silver Bentley Flying Spur sedan.

As we pulled up behind, a woman got out holding a rolled-up blanket. Fifties, tan and athletically built, showing off sinew and skin tone with a clinging turquoise tank top over clinging black yoga pants. Long, thick ash-blond hair, oversized white-framed sunglasses, grape-colored Gucci purse on a gold chain.

Even at a distance, the cheekbones.

She waved her fingers and walked to the circle of grass toting the blanket under one arm. Unfurling and spreading, she folded gracefully and sat.

Milo said, “Again, thanks, Ms. Quandt. This is Alex Delaware.” We settled facing her.

“Vicki.” With the oversized shades, no way to read her eyes. The rest of her face was immobile. “What would you like to know about Benicia?”

“How you met her, your relationship. Anything you think would be helpful.”

“Helpful finding her? All this time you can’t think she’s just been hiding?”

“Whatever her status, it would help her family to know.”

Off came the glasses. Large black eyes studied him. “At the station they said you were a homicide detective.”

“I am.”

“So maybe you should be upfront.”

“Good point,” said Milo. “Didn’t mean to be evasive.”

“Benicia’s probably dead.”

“We really don’t know but that’s a logical assumption.”

“Who do you think killed her?”

“Again, ma’am, the facts aren’t in place.”

“But you suspect someone.”

“Names have come up.”

Vicki Quandt waited.

Milo said, “We’ve heard she lived at a mansion on Mulholland Drive and that another woman died there.”

“The harem,” she said. “I suppose now’s when I’m supposed to expose my reckless youth.”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with, ma’am.”

“Vicki. My housekeeper forgets not to call me ma’am. I find it irritating.”

“Sorry—”

“Oh, stop apologizing, I’m just being difficult.” Eye-dance to the right. “This is tough. Bringing up the bad old days.”

She raised her arms, stretched, arced them from side to side, closed her eyes, opened them, put the shades back on.

“Okay, the short version. I grew up in Delano, boozehound parents, no future, hated my life and thought I was actress material because everyone told me I was. I ran away and bused to L.A., lived in a youth hostel with disgusting pigs, went looking for an acting school and found out what they cost. So I started saving by waiting tables at a pancake house during the day and cleaning offices at night, moved up to a rented room in an old lady’s house that smelled of boiled chicken. The offices were in bank buildings on Hollywood Boulevard. One night when I was leaving, a guy came up to me and said I was gorgeous, he wanted to photograph me, he’d pay me plus I’d get copies to keep. I figured it was sleazy and said no thanks. He said he could understand my reluctance, no pressure, here’s my card. Then life started to drag. Working like a dog, dodging creeps, no serious money. So one day I walked by the address on the card and it was a private house, looked well kept. Which means nothing but I was desperate. So I called.”

She’d promised the short version, had talked nonstop.

Most people have stories they want to tell.

“I got a phone message on his end which for some reason I interpreted as he was legit. So I left my name and number, he took a couple of days to call back, and we arranged a weekend session. Middle of the day, I was scared as hell but the future didn’t look so bright. He answered the door, very nice, soft-spoken, obviously gay. Which was also encouraging, at least he wasn’t going to grope me. Plus we weren’t alone, he had a maid dusting and mopping, an old Chinese lady, she offered me tea.” Crooked smile. “Green tea. Never had that before. So I had some and then we went into the studio and he took a bunch of headshots and close-ups and had me change into different dresses and casual wear. Everything by the book. Then he said if I wanted he could do a bikini shot but up to me. I said I’ve worn bikinis but no way is it going beyond that. He said he had no intention, my figure was perfect for a swimsuit, and we could go to a public beach to do the shoot.”

She ran her hands over a flat abdomen, trailed them down to sleek thighs. “Genetic luck. My mother was a drunk but she never gained weight. Anyway, we did the bikini shots in Santa Monica and true to his word he sent me copies of every pose and they looked great. Artistic. Then he asked if he could submit them for print ads and if they ran, he’d pay me ten percent. I said sure and a month later I got a check for eighty bucks which was a lot more than I was getting from tips. And then a few weeks later, another check, hundred and three, then hundred and ten. So now I’m loving this guy, I was basically getting residuals. So a few weeks after that when he called and told me about a club where beautiful young girls got in free, my trust level was up. And he was upfront. Told me it was basically a singles bar for older rich men, they were the paying customers and girls got in free. I said, Sounds iffy. He said, Trust me, nothing freaky goes on, they just like having pretty things giving them aesthetic companionship. What today you’d call arm candy. Then came the topper, the club was in Beverly Hills on Rodeo Drive, which to me was like an invitation to fly to Paris. But I still said no.”

Milo said, “The Azalea.”

She gave him a sharp look. “You know about it?”

He reached into a side pocket and produced the photo of Des Barres and the three blondes.

Vicki Quandt’s manicured hand flew to her mouth. “Omigod — so you already knew about me.”

“No, ma’am. We knew about these three faces but not much about them.” Smooth lie; emotional fly-casting: bob the lure while remaining out of view. “Now that we’ve met you, we know a bit more.”

“Really? I’ve changed.”

I said, “Not that much.”

Off came the shades. Black eyes bored into mine. “Are you kissing up?”

“Nope, just telling the truth.”

“Well,” she said, flipping her hair, “I do try to be fit.” She studied the photo. “Unbelievable. Where did you get this?”

“An old book,” said Milo. “Out of print and no other copies that we’ve spotted.”

“An old book... never knew you guys worked that hard. So you know that’s Benicia.”

“We also know the man is Anton Des Barres.”

“Ah, Tony,” she said. “Interesting piece of work.”

More scrutiny of the image. “So how did I end up there after I turned Sterling — the photographer — down? Simple. Desperation. I was down and out, hadn’t received a check in a while, and then I got hit with a disgusting flu that lasted three weeks and cost me both my jobs. So I called him and said I’d be willing to give it a try. He said he was going himself in a couple of days, would be happy to take me. He picked me up in this massive copper-colored Lincoln Continental — it had portholes, like a ship — and we glided to Beverly Hills. I was still feeling punk but did my darndest to look my best. Red dress I’d bought on sale, pink stilettos, my hair was up. I’m sure I looked horrid but Sterling told me I was ravishing. Then a few blocks from the place he told me he’d escort me in but he’d be going upstairs because that was a men’s-only section. He looked embarrassed. Poor guy, he couldn’t bring himself to say it.”

I said, “He’d go upstairs and you’d be on your own.”

“He didn’t phrase it that way, he just told me to value myself and act accordingly. That night I met a lovely brain surgeon who’d just lost his wife to cancer and wanted to hold hands. Free dinner, free drinks, and when I got home — Sterling came downstairs and we left together — there were three hundred-dollar bills in my purse that I’d never spotted going in there.”

Off went the glasses, again. “If that sounds like prostitution, it wasn’t. He talked, I listened, he felt young and desirable again, and I guess with his surgeon’s skills he was able to slip me those bills.”

She laughed. “Thank God he wasn’t an amateur pickpocket. Anyway, I went home to my pathetic little room feeling healthier and wealthier than I ever felt before. So the next week, when Sterling called, I said sure. And that’s when I met Tony.”

She poked the black dress. “Sterling bought this for me, said you can’t go wrong with an LBD. He also gave me a wig. I was blond but apparently not blond enough and he wanted a certain style.”

I said, “His preference or Tony’s?”

“Obviously Tony’s, because look at the three of us. It’s basically a uniform.”

“Did Sterling furnish their wigs?”

“I have no idea. They already knew Tony, were living in his house. Benicia called it a palace. Said he was a really nice guy, put girls up in luxury and didn’t ask anything in return.”

Third inspection of the photo. “Wow, this is a blast from the past. Do you know who the other girl is?”

“Dorothy Swoboda,” said Milo. “She’s who we’re looking into.”

“I knew her as Dot. Grumpy Dot... so why the interest in Benicia?”

“Cold case, we look for any connecting threads.”

“You got the photo and went online and found her,” said Victoria Quandt.

Not asking the obvious question: Is someone looking for me? But maybe not obvious; Bella Owen hadn’t posted about a long-lost cousin, she’d responded to Milo’s general description.

No reason to mention Owen. Time for focus.

He said, “That’s exactly what happened, Vicki, and we got a response from a distant relative of hers. But they don’t know much of anything. So when you got in touch, it was a big deal. Again, thanks.”

Vicki Quandt recrossed her legs without the rest of her budging. “More connecting threads?”

Milo nodded.

“So you’re assuming Dot was the murder victim.”

“That was the official conclusion.”

“Yes, it was,” said Quandt. Shapely, glossed lips formed the knowing smile of an older, more sophisticated sibling. Oh, you stupid kids.

Milo said, “You had your doubts?”

“I got the heck out of that place two days after the car blew up. You do know about the car.”

“Tony Des Barres’s Cadillac.”

“Big land yacht,” she said. “With Dot inside. Allegedly, as you guys say on TV.” She focused on Swoboda’s face, frowned, returned the photo.

I said, “You’ve always had your doubts.”

Victoria Quandt looked up at tree branches. Patches of sky glinted between the boughs like aquamarines. Her body tensed. She did some slow breathing but didn’t look more relaxed.

“Okay, I’ll tell you what I think if you swear to keep me out of it. If you come back and bug me, I’ll shut you out completely.”

“Fair enough,” said Milo.

“Doesn’t matter if it is or it isn’t, that’s the deal. You need to understand: I have an amazing life. Married to the same wonderful man for thirty-three years — and yes, I met him at The Azalea. Two kids, both married, one’s a lawyer, the other’s an entrepreneur. Two amazing grandkids, I want for nothing. So I probably shouldn’t even have agreed to meet you. Why upset the apple cart?”

Milo and I stayed silent.

She tried more breathing. Shook her head. “I have more than doubts about the official version. I have logic. Because Dot had been mad at Benicia for weeks before it happened, don’t ask me why, I have no idea. They seemed to be an item — not sexually — more like a package deal, showed up together, hung out together. But not as equal partners, Dot called the shots and Benicia obeyed like a slave. It wasn’t hard to dominate Benni — that’s what we called her. She was meek, submissive, and, trust me, no genius. Curvy, cute as a button, peaches-and-cream complexion, little Kewpie doll voice but dull as they come and not an inch of spine to her. Dot took advantage of it, boy did she. Basically she used Benicia as a handmaiden, and Benicia never complained, not a peep.”

I said, “Did using her include anything sexual?”

“Not that I saw or heard,” said Victoria Quandt.

“I was thinking between Benni and Des Barres.”

“A threesome? Ha.” Several beats. “Okay, you probably won’t believe what I’m going to tell you but it’s true. Nothing sexual went on in that place. Nothing. That was what was so weird about it. Here’s Tony, richer than God, he’s got an amazing place, tons of great-looking girls parading around in bikinis and skimpies and no one got touched. We all talked about it, traded notes, same story. All the poor guy wanted was to sit around and listen to classical music, read, work on his business books or whatever, while one of us kept him company and got him snacks and fixed him cocktails. Lots of cocktails, he was a Sazerac guy. It was this complicated deal — soaking sugar cubes with a special bitters and crushing it, three ounces of rye, then absinthe — which was illegal back then — rubbed into the glass and you’d pour it out. He could put away three, four, even five of those and by the end of a session, he’d be out. Maybe that’s why he lost interest in doing the deed, too much alcohol. Whatever the reason, that’s the way it was.”

She laughed. “Like a convent but the nuns were hot.”

I said, “Why do you think it wasn’t Dot who perished in that car?”

“Because Benni disappeared the same time she did. Not hours later, the same time.”

“They both left in the Caddy.”

“Can’t prove it but I’d bet on it. Like I said, they were a twosome. Pete and repeat. It’s not like Benni could just wrap her stuff in a sheet and walk away. And no way Benni could’ve set something up like that. She didn’t even know how to drive. Could barely read and write — really, guys, mentally challenged.”

I said, “Dot, on the other hand.”

“Cold bitch. But smart. Unfriendly to everyone except Tony. And Benni, when she needed something from her. But even then it was like she was playing at being nice. Not the sexy swagger she took with Tony — she was good looking, dynamite figure, I’ll grant her that. Really knew how to use what she had.”

“Coming across alluring even though Tony wasn’t into sex.”

“Who knows?” said Vicki Quandt. “Maybe with her he was. She did seem to be his favorite, he spent more time with her than anyone else.”

Milo said, “Did that cause jealousy?”

“Are you kidding? We were thrilled. Getting dolled up in a blond wig to go into Tony’s bedroom, mix Sazeracs, and listen to Beethoven or whatever wasn’t scary but it sure was boring. And so was the rest of the day. Sitting around doing nothing? Some of the girls complained they weren’t getting any you-know-what. That’s why in general, they didn’t stick around. I mean I was already climbing the walls and I’d only been there three weeks. You’d think you were entering the Garden of Eden, the place was gorgeous. But it ended up just what I said, a weird convent. Except with no vows and no obligations other than to be adorable.”

I said, “Tony called it the harem?”

“No, we did. Tony was a decent guy, shy, we heard he’d lost two wives, was really broken up over the second, she fell off a horse.”

“Did he talk about that?”

“Never. The extent of conversation with Tony was you’d come in, he’d be in a robe on his bed and say, ‘You look lovely, my dear. Could you please lower the volume and fashion me a Sazerac.’ Fashion. He was totally old school. Wore ascots.”

I said, “Did Dot and Benni ever talk about a baby?”

“Whose?”

“Either of theirs.”

“There was one?” she said. “No, it was never mentioned. A baby, wow — obviously before they got there. You have no idea whose?”

Milo said, “We’re far from knowing anything. So how long had Dot and Benni been there when you arrived?”

“No idea. Probably more than just a few weeks. They did seem comfortable. Especially Dot. She could act like she owned the place. And she’d taken the Caddy before. Several times.”

“For what?”

“No idea,” she said. “It wasn’t like Tony’s prized possession. He had a slew of other vehicles — this little James Bond Aston Martin, another English sports car, a... Bristol, I think. Plus another Caddy — an Eldorado convertible. And an old Chevy that the girls used when they wanted to go into town. Bumpy ride.”

“But Dot got the Caddy.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Now that I think about, she was the only one. At least that I saw.”

“It was common for the girls to drive back and forth.”

“If they wanted to. It wasn’t prison,” said Vicki Quandt. “Till it started to feel like prison. Same old same old, you’re constantly looking at yourself in the mirror to make sure you look your cutest. Not just for Tony, for the other girls. Maybe even more for them.”

“Competitive atmosphere.”

“Not out in the open. More of... that was just the way it felt. We were thrown together, a bunch of girls who happened to look good and couldn’t figure out how they’d ended up there. You want to hear something strange? We started getting our periods at the same time.”

Menstrual synchrony was a known fact, for animals as well as humans. I said, “Wow.”

“Bizarre,” she said. “Looking back, the whole experience was bizarre. One of those things you do when you’re young then forget about and move on. I was fortunate to meet Sy a week after I left. And yes, I’ve told him everything. Because there’s nothing to hide. Would you believe that when I met him I was a virgin?”

Milo and I nodded.

“You’re bobbing like you do believe but you probably don’t. Whatever you want to think, it’s true. And that’s all I have to say and that’s the end of this, bye, guys.”

Springing up quickly, she pointed to the blanket and, when we stood, rolled it up hastily and hurried to her Bentley.

The car started up with a purr but jerked and made an unpleasant noise as she fumbled with the transmission.

Then a smooth exit as two hundred grand of steel and chrome vanished.