Serpentine

Chapter 7

I heard from him at eleven thirty a.m. the following day.

“Petra got more info, the angel. I offered her a repast but she had a big breakfast, all she wants is ice cream. Hour and a half, McConnell’s on the boulevard, if you can make it.”

“It’ll be nice to see her,” I said.

“You bet, form and function. The PC squad comes knocking, I never said that.”

The ice cream parlor sported white brick walls, golden hardwood floors, and a spotless freezer case. The ground floor was for ordering and takeout, the eat-in tables upstairs.

I’d taken a while to find parking, arrived to find D III Petra Connor spooning something from a cup as Milo, his back to me, assaulted an unseen target with rapid scooping motions. The only other patrons were a large group of Nordic tourists eating and talking gutturally and guffawing, all in slo-mo.

Petra’s one of Hollywood Division’s best homicide investigators, promoted via fast-track based on smarts, dependability, and an eye for detail honed during her civilian career as a commercial artist.

Her model-thin frame, ivory angular face, and gleaming black hair created an interesting, borderline-comical counterpoint to Milo’s rumpled bulk and assorted convexities. She was dressed, as usual, in a tailored dark pantsuit, this one charcoal, mandarin-collared, buttoned to the neck. An oversized black knit leather bag rested in her lap. When there’s a gun in your purse, you don’t leave it dangling over your chair.

She saw me and finger-waved. Milo turned around for a moment, resumed eating. The object of his fury was a hot fudge sundae topped with pineapple, maraschino cherries, and sliced almonds.

I pulled up a chair. He said, “You didn’t order?”

“I’m fine.”

Petra said, “This is Turkish Coffee, Alex. Has a real coffee taste.”

“Maybe also real caffeine,” said Milo. “If you’re flagging.” He squinted at me.

“Wide awake. What’s up?”

Milo said, “Ms. Ace came through with data.”

“That makes it sound like more than it is,” said Petra.

“It’s a start, kid.” He turned to me. “My guess about an audit was right. Found one bemoaned in the police union rag, just before Seeger got the case. And turns out Seeger is recalled by an old-timer.”

Petra said, “I knew a guy, Maurice Jardine, went off the job fifteen years ago pushing seventy and is alive and well in Desert Hot Springs. I called him, he’s got a sharp memory and his impression of Seeger fits Milo’s. Slow-moving, slow-thinking, unlikely to solve anything but an obvious.”

I said, “Does Jardine have any memory of Swoboda?”

“None,” she said. “Seeger never mentioned the case and there were definitely no meetings on it.”

Milo said, “Bureaucratic housecleaning leads to a low-priority bullshit-assignment.” He wiped his lips and looked at Petra.

She said, “Jardine also remembered the next link in the chain, Dudley Gallway. Who he thought was Gall-o-way, but couldn’t be sure.”

Milo said, “Plenty of lousy spellers in the department so I checked both of them. Nada.”

Petra said, “Guy’s probably not worth talking to anyway, Jardine said he was a new transfer from somewhere, totally green, didn’t stick around long.”

“Are we sensing a pattern, Alex? Whatever was done is probably irrelevant. And no paper on Gall-whoever might mean he’s also dead. I did look for a certificate and didn’t find one but if he met his maker overseas there might not be.”

Petra smiled and spooned ice cream. “Tell him your hypothesis.”

“What — nah, what’s the diff?”

She put her spoon down and turned to me. “I’ll do my best to quote faithfully, Alex.” She lowered her voice to basso. “ ‘Guy probably bit it south of the border after years of tequila, vanilla, fiestas, and siestas.’ ”

I pretended to study the sundae. “Vanilla your thing? Looks like chocolate to me.”

Milo said, “German chocolate with cookie bits, if you must know.”

Petra said, “However...”

Milo groaned.

She said, “I learn so much from my superiors, Alex. The lieutenant informs me that in Spanish idiom, vanilla can also mean ‘sex.’ ”

I said, “Really. Never knew fun on the beach was your fantasy.”

Milo said, “I’m talking a theoretical individual, not personal vida loca.”

We both looked at him.

He said, “Think what you like but I sack out too long on la playa, the Coast Guard gets called out on a beached whale.”

“Aw,” said Petra, touching the top of his hand. “Nothing fish-like about you. You’re a man of earthy substance.”

“Whales are mammals, kid, but I’m not gonna quibble seeing as I owe you for taking the time.”

“Consider it an even trade.”

“What’d you get out of it?”

“It’s what I didn’t get,” she said. “Swoboda died on my patch, there but for the grace.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

Another hand pat. “I commiserate, I really do. Being ordered around by brass monkeys isn’t a — ahem — day at the beach.”

Fighting back laughter, she ate a third of a spoonful of ice cream. “Though it might’ve been cool working with Ellie Barker. What’s she like?”

Milo said, “Why?”

“You said she was the brains behind Beterkraft. I love their stuff, wear it when I run, Spin, hike, anything active. Super-comfortable, flattering, moisture-wicking.”

“You sweat?”

“It’s been known to happen.”

“Well,” he said, “if you feel like opening some serious pores, I can ask the brass monkeys to—”

“That’s kind, sir, but no thanks. However, should additional questions regarding miscellaneous details arise in the future, feel free to have your people call my people. Assuming the proper forms have been filled out in triplicate.”

Milo extended his arm in a flourish. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how she ended up a superstar.”