Serpentine

by Jonathan Kellerman

  * * *

  —

  I ran my own search for Anton Des Barres. Got immediate gratification in the latest quarterly report of a corporation called ADB-Tec and Research.

  The company’s “mission” was “ultra-precision manufacture of high-grade scalpels, clamps, cannulas, stylets, trocars, endoscopes, elastomeric balloons, catheters, and arthroscopes.”

  Now a subsidiary of a Taiwan-based conglomerate called Healing Hands, Ltd., ADB operated satellite facilities in Singapore, Stockholm, and, most recently, Dubrovnik, Croatia.

  Des Barres’s name came up in a two-paragraph Company History exposition.

  ADB, founded in 1962 by Dr. Anton Venable Des Barres, a California Institute of Technology–trained mechanical engineer, achieved rapid renown by dependably supplying the U.S. military with the highest-quality surgical instruments available anywhere in the world. So admired were ADB’s field kits during the Vietnam War that the company was entrusted with writing “Mil-Specs”—military specifications—for a variety of surgical implements, an honor that persisted for decades.

  Dr. Des Barres’s motto, Puritas, Salus, Virtus—Latin for “Purity, Safety, and Efficacy”—has remained the company’s operating principle. Originally situated in Los Angeles, the company moved to Franklin Park, Illinois, where manufacturing operations have since ceased but administrative offices remain: Accounting, Marketing, Sales Supervision, and Human Resources. Specific purchase orders are handled by each manufacturing facility, however inquiries regarding corporate liaisons and promotions should be directed to Franklin Park…

  Between the paragraphs was a color headshot of a man with a long, seamed face thatched by a head of full white hair. Black suit, white shirt, black tie, a taut smoothness to the face that said professional retouching. Anton Des Barres’s eyes were pale and sharply focused, his nose an off-kilter beak that shadowed a dark pencil mustache.

  Below the photo were the bracketed dates of the founder’s birth and death. Des Barres had passed away nineteen years ago at the age of sixty-two.

  The scenario I’d suggested didn’t seem unlikely: a dying man reaching out for answers.

  If that was true, a living relative might have something to say. I ran a search using Des Barres’s surname alone and came up with three likelies.

  Anthony Des Barres, M.D., practiced vascular surgery in Winnetka, Illinois. William Des Barres, Esq., practiced estate and trusts law in Highland Park, Illinois. Both towns were affluent suburbs of Chicago a brief drive from ADB Corporate Headquarters in Franklin Park.

  Promo photos showed two beefy men in their mid- to late fifties. A strong resemblance and logic made brotherhood a cinch. So did an overall similarity to Anton Des Barres’s facial structure when you accounted for the extra flesh common on adults of the postwar, ample-food era.

  Excellent candidates for contact, but Valerie Des Barres of Los Angeles, California, no neighborhood or photo provided, was a more geographically convenient target.

  Her name brought up the IMDb database, where she was listed as executive producer of three animated TV movies shown on a family-friendly channel.

  Muffy Comes Home.

  Muffy Finds a Friend.

  Lionel Roars but No One Hears.

  The next reference linked me to an author’s website.

  * * *

  —

  Valerie Des Barres was a narrow-shouldered, dark-haired woman with a pinched but pretty face and a hesitant smile. Younger than Anthony and William—midforties.

  She described herself as “an artist and activist passionate about children’s growth and development” whose interests had led her to write eleven books for preschoolers in as many years. All had been released by Muffy Press. I found no other authors on the company’s list, suggesting self-publication.

  Six Muffy books starred a streetwise squirrel, three featured Lionel Van Noise, a cheeky, high-volume raven, and the most recent two, released three years ago, described the adventures of Lady Hildegard, a once-pampered Maltese separated from her family by a yacht wreck and forced to make her way through an urban jungle closely resembling Lower Manhattan.

  For each column, Valerie Des Barres was listed as both author and illustrator. Samples of her artwork revealed vibrant, eye-catching watercolors. Serious talent, well beyond a vanity project.

  The bottom of the Books page posted sales links and the assurance that proceeds were “donated wholly to charity.” The final line was a small-print list of “suggested nonprofits recommended by Muffy, Lionel and Lady H. But the choice is yours.”

  I returned to IMDB and found the name of the production company that had put the trio of films together. Muff-Li Ltd. Likely another self-fund.

  The books had garnered a scatter of online reviews, most praising the gentleness of the story lines. One anonymous rater panned Lionel Puffs Up His Treasure Chest for the bird’s “classical male abrasiveness.”

  Pushing away from the computer, I poured coffee in the kitchen and carried it back to my office, wondering if Valerie Des Barres’s interest in child welfare had ever led her to one of L.A.’s most deserving nonprofits: the children’s hospital where I’d trained then worked for a decade.

  I spent the next hour talking to doctors, nurses, child activity specialists, and social workers at Western Pediatric Medical Center, made a last stab at the Development Office. No one had heard of Valerie Des Barres.

  Not a total surprise; there are rich neighborhoods throughout L.A. but the concentration of wealth is highest on the Westside and the hospital’s scruffy East Hollywood location sometimes puts Westsiders off.

  Years ago, while I was working in Hematology-Oncology, my boss had ordered me to train a group of “highly motivated” Junior Leaguers from Pasadena to serve as volunteers. I’d spent a month with what seemed to be an enthusiastic bunch of young matrons only to have the project fall apart because the women decided the half-hour drive was “too intense.”

  I shifted west and tried contacts at the U. med center in Westwood. Same result.

  Logging back onto Valerie Des Barres’s website, I scrolled down to the organizations “recommended” by her characters.

  Aprendemos, a group in Modesto that provided after-school tutoring to the children of migrant workers.

  The supplies funds of five PTAs in South Central and East L.A.

  The Comfort Zone, a San Francisco group providing “toys, recreational opportunities, and emotional support to bereaved youngsters.”

  That made me wonder. Ellie Barker had talked to a woman, a San Francisco fundraiser for children whose parents had died, before Andrea Bauer had taken over. I didn’t have Ellie’s number but I did have Bauer’s.

  Her voicemail said, “Traveling somewhere.” Her Facebook page said Asia.

  I looked up time differences between L.A. and the Far East. China, Hong Kong, and Singapore were fifteen hours later, Japan, sixteen.

  Four p.m. here meant seven to eight a.m. in what used to be called the Orient. If Bauer wasn’t an early riser, she could learn to be flexible.

  * * *

  —

  She answered her cell sounding cloudy. “Who?”

  “Alex Delaware. We met on the—”

  “Oh. The psychologist.” Yawn. “Why would you be calling me at this hour?”

  “I figured by seven you might be up.”

  “It’s six. I’m in Saigon.”

  “Sorry.”

  Another yawn. “I’ll cope. I assume this is about that girl—Ellie whatever?”

  “Barker.”

  “So Milo did get assigned.” She chuckled. “How’d he take that?”

  “He’s a pro.”

  “Meaning he’s ticked off. But so goes reality. Any progress to report?”

  “He just started.”

  “Meaning no,” she said
. “So what do you imagine I can do for you?”

  “Ellie Barker described meeting another woman at the Comfort Zone fundraiser—”

  “And?”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Don’t have her number.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Can’t get into that, yet.”

  “But you can call me at six?”

  “Given your initiative in getting the process going, I thought you’d be pleased to help.”

  “You…are something. Okay, fine, I did get the ball rolling, can’t complain about it bouncing back. Her first name was Val, never met her before, don’t know her surname. She was some kind of movie person, was sitting between me and that poor girl. We traded places because I said I might be able to help. I’m a people-pleaser and I always follow through.”

  I said, “A movie person.”

  “I knew she wasn’t an actress,” said Bauer, “because she didn’t have that actress thing going on and I never heard of her. I asked her what aspect—this was after the whole murder discussion, we were having dessert—and she said she wrote and produced. That could mean anything, right? More often than not it’s rich kids dabbling and she has money from somewhere. Donated twenty thousand at the luncheon. I’d tell you what I gave but it’s none of your business.”

  “I’m sure you were generous. Thanks. Bye.”

  “Wham bam?” she said.

  “Unless you’ve got something to add.”

  “I do not. And no need to contact me again unless you’ve got a progress report. I don’t know either of them from Adam, did a good deed and am not committed nor involved in their issues. Know the difference? With a ham-and-eggs breakfast, the chicken’s involved but the pig’s committed.”

  * * *

  —

  With a trip to the archive scheduled tomorrow and total autonomy, I figured Milo would avoid his office. But he didn’t answer his cell so I tried his desk and got him.

  “Had to clear paper, just about to leave.”

  I said, “Stay in your seat,” and told him about Valerie Des Barres.

  He said, “The guy’s daughter…ol’ Du might actually be onto something? Except if she thought Daddy was involved in murder, why would she encourage Ellie to dig?”

  “Maybe it’s been an issue for her, too. She’s a few years older than Ellie, would’ve been around eight or nine at the time Swoboda went over the cliff. Easily old enough to have seen something and hold on to the memory. What if she’s been carrying around disturbing memories from her childhood? All of a sudden, Ellie’s sitting next to her at a fundraiser and telling her a story that shocks her. It would’ve seemed like massive karma.”

  “She’s one of those moral compass types, wants the truth at all costs?”

  “She seems to devote herself to good works. I don’t want to demean altruism but it can be a form of atonement.”

  “Any idea where she lives?”

  “Her website says L.A.”

  “Let’s find out where she pays property tax.”

  I sat through a couple minutes of keyboard clicks.

  He said, “Here we are, the Valerie Antonia Des Barres Trust…well, look at this. We’ve already been there. Today.”

  “The gated place on the corner of Marilyn.”

  “None other, according to the plat map. That’s like…three and a quarter acres of ancestral soil. So whatever feelings she has for the old man, she’s okay with living in his manse. Ready for a drop-in tomorrow, say nine?”

  “Instead of the archive?”

  “Way instead, I’m allergic to dust.”

  “Since when?”

  “Now.”

  CHAPTER

  12

  Same trip as yesterday, different route.

  Milo was racing the Impala’s engine as I came down the stairs. Before I had my seatbelt on, he hurtled down the old bridle path leading to my gate and gunned toward the Glen.

  I said, “Galoway’s driving inspired you?”

  He eased up on the gas, hooked a left. “So what approach do I take with Val?”

  “Hard to say until we’ve met her.”

  “I thought about calling her first but with zero info beyond her DMV data—forty-six, brown, blue, wears glasses—I couldn’t come up with anything. So no sense losing the surprise factor. And if she’s not in, maybe I can impress a servant to get past the gates and give the place a once-over.”

  A mile later: “Ellie texted me as I drove over. Wishing me luck, happy face emojis for good measure. Think she’s really that nice?”

  “Why wouldn’t she be?”

  “ ’Cause I’m a cynical bastard. I didn’t get back to her. The way things are looking, no sense getting too cozy.”

  * * *

  —

  We reached the green gates of the Des Barres estate thirty-five minutes later. Milo maneuvered close to a left-hand call box and jabbed a button.

  Dial tone on speaker, five rings before a female voice said, “Yes?”

  “Ms. Des Barres?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Lieutenant Milo Sturgis, Los Angeles Police.”

  “Oh. About those robberies. Thanks, one sec, please.”

  Movement several feet above the box to the right caught my eye. An eyeball lens partially concealed by the hedge rotated silently.

  I mouthed, Camera. Milo fished in his pocket.

  The voice said, “Lieutenant, just to be careful could you please show your credentials to the camera above the box? It’s a round white dealie on the right but you can probably just stick your hand out and rotate it a smidge. See it?”

  “I do, ma’am.”

  Flash of shield. The gates swung open.

  * * *

  —

  Midway up the cobbled drive, a short, thin, dark-haired woman appeared, walking a black and tan hound on a loose leash. Valerie Des Barres wore a shapeless brown and rust-splotched batik dress and white sneakers. Brown hair was streaked with gray and cut in a jaw-length pageboy. She waved at us merrily. The dog’s tongue lolled and its tail wagged.

  “Good start,” said Milo. “For the nanoseconds it’s gonna last.”

  He inched the car up and stopped next to her. Up close, her skin was smooth and soft-looking, almost juvenile, the blue of her eyes deep and languid.

  “Thanks for coming, Lieutenant. I forgot to send in the neighborhood watch card, it’s good you used the list.”

  Milo smiled. “Want a ride?”

  Valerie Des Barres said, “Tempting but I need the exercise. Keep going, I’ll catch up.”

  Woman and dog watched as the Impala resumed climbing. Another wave, another wag. Milo’s lips worked ferociously, growling something that ended with “Right?”

  I said, “Didn’t hear the rest of it.”

  “Another nice one. Cop’s curse.”

  * * *

  —

  The road’s final curve was the sharpest, turning the appearance of the house into a visual surprise. Two generous stories topped by a bell tower rose above a gazania lawn planted with sycamores, scarlet-blossoming crepe myrtles, and Aleppo pines. A flagstoned parking area could accommodate twenty more vehicles than the three in sight: dusty, long-bed pickup with a lawnmower in the back, Mazda SUV, Toyota Corolla.

  Four men in khakis and pith helmets snipped and raked and swept. The mansion’s front door was wide open, enlarged visually by the short stature of the sixtyish Hispanic man standing in the opening.

  White shirt, dark slacks, waving at us. When we reached him, he said, “Welcome,” as if he meant it. Behind him, a stocky, kerchiefed woman in her forties mopped the green onyx floor of an entry hall the size of a starter apartment. A deco ebony table in th
e center of the onyx sported a vase full of crepe myrtle branches. Earbuds played something that pleased the maid and made her head bob, but she paused long enough to smile.

  The small man pointed to a great room on the left, said, “Make yourselves comfortable,” and left.

  Milo muttered, “Freaky-happy.”

  * * *

  —

  No rental furniture, here. The mammoth space was set up with more period deco: velvet-and-rosewood sling chairs, macassar occasional tables, geometrically patterned couches, plus the mirrored pieces from the forties decorators call Hollywood Regency.

  I knew that because a house I’d visited while working a custody evaluation last year had been furnished with tons of the stuff, the father, a manic, spike-haired film producer, interrupting a tirade against his actress soon-to-be ex to educate me about his exquisite taste. Then back on track, ranting. (“She’s got no clue about synchrony or glamour. I like the way the Brits spell it, with a u.”)

  That prince had bought everything as a package at the behest of his “noted designer, she’s been in Architectural Digest twice.” These pieces looked original to the Des Barres mansion.

  For all the difference in scale, another Spanish with the same layout as Ellie Barker’s rental, the entry leading to a staircase. These steps were padded by a Persian runner moored by brass rods and railed in sinuous, hand-carved ebony.

  Scaled for an embassy, some notable making a dramatic entrance.

  The small man returned with two tall glasses. Ice water, lime slices floating on top. A bow and he was gone.

  It took a while before Valerie Des Barres entered the house, flushed and mouth-breathing in time with the hound’s panting. The dog strained at the leash. The man in the white shirt materialized and took it.

  “Thanks, Sabino. One second, guys, let me throw some water on my face.”

  She scooted across the onyx.

  I said, “Nice place.”