Serpentine

CHAPTER 1

My best friend, a seasoned homicide detective, is a master of discontent.

Some say Milo Sturgis enjoys the cold comfort of a sour mood.

Grumbling, grimacing, and mumbled curses peak during the muddled middle of murder investigations, when promising leads break their promises. He always gets past it; his solve rate is near-perfect. Which is why his bosses tolerate the biliousness, messages ignored, memos tossed in the trash unread.

I ve come to think of Milo as allergic to obedience, wonder if it s rooted in his rookie days when gay cops didn t exist in the department and he had to look over his shoulder and write his own rulebook.

But I could be wrong. Temperament s a strong factor in determining personality so it could just be the way he is. I wonder what his baby pictures look like. Imagine him as one of those infants who look as though they ve been weaned on sour pickles.

Like a lot of things, we don t talk about it.

He doesn t call me in on all of his cases, just the ones he terms different once he s gotten his bearings. This time, he didn t wait.

I picked up his phone message when I returned from an eight a.m. run up Beverly Glen. Misery lusts for company, I m coming over. If it s a problem, text me.

I left the door unlocked and headed for the shower. Before I took two steps, the bell rang.

He d called from the road.

Open.

He barreled through, convex gut leading the way, head lowered, bulky shoulders piled up around his neck like a muscular shawl.

A charging bull if a bull could find an aloha shirt that fit.

He took a moment to stoop and pat the head of my little French bulldog, Blanche, murmured, At least someone s smiling, and continued toward the kitchen.

Blanche cocked her head and looked up at me, expecting clarification. When I shrugged and followed him in, she gave a world-weary sigh and padded along.

Milo s usual thing is to raid the fridge and assemble snacks worthy of construction

Jonathan Kellerman