Serpentine

by Jonathan Kellerman

  He pushed a button. New connection.

  “Sturgis.”

  “This is Dr. Des Barres. I remember her because she didn’t even try.”

  “Try what?” said Milo.

  “To ingratiate herself.”

  “The other women did.”

  “Not effectively, but they tried.”

  “In what way?”

  “Fake smiles and unctuous voices for my sister, honey, this, sweetheart, that. For my brother and me—and for my father, of course—it was batting the lashes and shaking their you-know-whats. Tacky, the bunch of them.”

  Milo said, “Dorothy Swoboda didn’t do any of that.”

  “That’s the only reason I remember her. It was as if she felt confident in her situation.”

  “What situation was that?”

  “I don’t know—maybe thinking she was the Queen Bee houri.”

  I scrawled entitled on a Post-it and showed it to Milo.

  He spoke the word.

  Dr. Anthony Des Barres said, “Exactly. Entitled and arrogant.”

  Milo said, “That kind of attitude could cause resentment. Did she have any enemies?”

  “How would I know, Lieutenant? I was barely around and when I was, my thoughts weren’t on whatever drama my father had put himself in. I concentrated on spending the minimum amount of time there and then getting back to my studies.”

  “So no one you know of—”

  “What do you want me to say? That I saw her and one of the other houris engage in a claws-out catfight? It’s not beyond the realm of possibility, these were gold diggers not debutantes. Father probably would’ve liked that—being fought over. But I never witnessed anything remotely like that.”

  Milo said, “So Ms. Swoboda’s goal was being your father’s favorite.”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth, Lieutenant. I don’t know that, I’m inferring.” Tony Des Barres let out a derisive laugh. “If they had brains they’d have realized he had no intention of developing a relationship with any of them.”

  “He told you that.”

  “Do you people get paid to be thick? No, he didn’t tell me that. His actions made it obvious. If you want domesticity you don’t assemble a bunch of sluts.”

  “Got it,” said Milo. “So the other women jockeyed for position by sucking up to you and your sibs but Dorothy Swoboda didn’t.”

  “She couldn’t have cared less.” Snide noise that might’ve been a chuckle. “There you go, you’ve solved it. Another houri bumped her off. Now if—”

  “Your brother said she could get seductive with him.”

  “Bill thinks he’s God’s gift to women, he’s been married four times. And in answer to your inevitable question, no she didn’t do that with me. I’m the last person to think I’m God’s gift to women. Would you like to know why?”

  “Please.”

  “I’m gay,” said Anthony Des Barres. “Does that shock you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ll bet. You people aren’t known for your tolerance.”

  Click.

  Milo put the phone down, flexing his fingers as if letting go of a hot frying pan. “Sssss. What do you think?”

  I said, “He just floated the other women as potential suspects, but if Dorothy did have a chance of being Des Barres’s chosen one, she’d have been a bigger threat to the heirs.”

  “Follow the money.”

  “Val was a kid, Bill still a teenage preppie, but Tony was a legal adult most likely to appreciate the consequences.”

  “Dr. Genius just gave himself a motive.”

  I said, “And if he was still closeted, Dorothy could’ve posed a double threat—capturing Dad’s heart and informing on Son Number One.” I smiled. “Of course, you intolerant law enforcement types wouldn’t understand that.”

  He cracked up. “What was I gonna say? Feel your pain, sourpuss? Take a look at some internet photos I pulled up, medical galas and such.”

  I scrolled through four images, each featuring small clutches of partygoers. Two of the affairs were black-tie, the others, business attire.

  Dr. Anthony Des Barres was a tall, broad, heavy-jawed man with a steel-colored crew cut and a pugnacious jaw. A hyphen of thin lips completed the disapproving-elder look. Beyond serious; grim. Hollywood would’ve cast him as a drill sergeant.

  The exception to his crankiness was one shot where he stood next to a slender, younger Asian man identified as Richard Hu, M.D. The two of them pressed close together, Hu beaming boyishly as Tony Des Barres managed a pained semi-smile.

  Milo said, “Like he was weaned on vinegar. Look at his size, gotta be in my league.”

  I said, “Young adult thirty-six years ago and easily able to overpower a woman.”

  “Plus he’d have access to Daddy’s car. And remember: Dottie was killed in July.”

  “Summer vacation,” I said. “He could’ve been home from college.”

  “He gets back to the manse, doesn’t like what he sees, has words with the Queen Gold Digger and it goes far, far south. I ran a search on him, hoping for anything anger-related, but no dice. No priors, period, not a single complaint to the medical board or any online griping. Which nowadays qualifies you for sainthood. Just the opposite, his patients love him. Apparently when it comes to varicose veins, he’s a miracle worker. With an excellent bedside manner.”

  I said, “Maybe he knows how to compartmentalize.”

  “Dr. Nice at work, something else when you get his goat?”

  Or, I thought, bringing up his childhood had simply been a trigger for bad memories, nothing more. But no sense getting any more analytic; at this point it led nowhere.

  I nodded and left it at that.

  Milo pocketed his phone. “What do you think about the brothers living near each other but not talking much? Tony’s dig about Bill thinking he’s God’s gift to women.”

  I said, “Could you use Bill to learn more about Tony? At this point, I wouldn’t risk it. The same goes for giving Valerie another try. They could still be a cohesive trio, in which case everything will blow up in your face.”

  He gave a resigned shrug. “I was hoping you’d contradict what I already figured. Any other ideas?”

  “You could search for someone outside the family who remembers the harem days. Maybe a friend of Des Barres’s wives.”

  He drummed his knees with his fingers. “Helen died of natural causes but with the pattern of accidents, concentrate on Arlette the Horsewoman, maybe one of her gal-pals had suspicions.”

  He left the office, came back chomping on an apple, sat on the battered leather couch. “I was also thinking it’s time to have a sit-down with Ellie.”

  “Reassuring her?”

  “More like seeing if there’s more she remembers. I had it set up for ten tomorrow but you’re busy till noon. If I move it, can you make it?”

  Out came the phone.

  Before “Sure” had left my mouth, he punched a preset. “Ellie? Need to move it to two thirty.”

  CHAPTER

  20

  At two the following day, he picked me up in the Impala, newly redolent of refried beans and hot sauce, and drove to Los Feliz. A couple of blocks into the leafy enclave where Ellie Barker had chosen to rent, he pulled to the curb.

  “Here’s the place.”

  We got out and looked. A man had been shot here three days ago but you’d never know it.

  Nice houses, well-tended lawns, not a speck of blood on the sidewalk. Time alone didn’t explain that. No rain had fallen, neither cops nor techs do cleanup. I’d been to scenes where body fluids had lingered for weeks.

  Peering closely revealed some lightening of the concrete. Scour marks, a citizen effort.

  Milo said, “Like it never happened.”

&n
bsp; I said, “Pride of ownership.”

  “Leads to janitorial inequality.” He examined a screen shot Petra had sent him and continued to a ten-foot mock orange fronting a neat white colonial. No obvious entry from the street, but parting the bush’s branches revealed a cave-like space.

  We stepped in. Roundish, four feet square, only a foot higher so we both needed to hunch.

  Natural hollow created by the mock orange seeking sunlight. Tough posture for the long run but someone able to sit or squat comfortably would’ve been fine. And once sequestered, a stalker would be safe from view and able to sight through the shrub’s lacy growth.

  Perfect hunter’s blind.

  The prey, easy; giving himself away with shuffling and hard breathing.

  Milo and I inspected the cavity. Not a shred of evidence left behind. Someone taking the time to clean up faultlessly.

  We returned to the car and drove on.

  Nothing different at Ellie’s residence until Milo pushed the bell and the door opened on a black man the size of a defensive tackle wearing a blue blazer and gray slacks. Iconic Security embroidered in gold above the breast pocket. The jacket had been left open, advertising the chunky handle of a black plastic automatic in a black mesh shoulder holster.

  The guard’s eyes scanned us rapidly. Inspection over, he smiled but didn’t move or speak.

  Milo said, “Lieutenant Sturgis.”

  “Expecting you, sir. You don’t mind showing some I.D.”

  Statement of fact, not a request.

  Out came the badge.

  “Nice. I got to sergeant.” He turned to me. “You’re the doctor?”

  “Alex Delaware.”

  “Sorry for the inconvenience but you don’t mind showing some I.D.”

  Quick read of my driver’s license. “Thanks again and excuse the formality but regs are regs.”

  Milo said, “Understood. Glad you’re here, friend. Name?”

  “Melvin Boudreaux.”

  “Louisiana?”

  “Born in Baton Rouge,” said Boudreaux, “but moved to SoCal as a kid, worked El Monte PD eleven years. C’mon in, there’s a pitcher of iced tea. Had some, it’s good.”

  Boudreaux held the door as we entered the house and crossed to the living room. Before closing the door, he checked out the street, then stationed himself in the entry hall.

  Ellie was seated in the same chair. The coffee table was set with a pitcher of amber liquid, plastic glasses, napkins, a paper plate of cookies.

  Since I’d seen her in the hospital, she’d lost skin tone and color. Maybe some weight, as well, though a baggy dress clouded that assessment. The dress was dust-colored printed with pale-pink flowers. On her feet were brown rubber bath sandals. No sign of the serpentine necklace. No adornment at all, not even a watch.

  We sat on the couch. Milo said, “How’s Brannon doing?”

  “Better?” she said, turning it into a question. “So far no infection, which was the main danger. I’m hoping to get him home in a couple of days. He’s miserable about not running.”

  “Tough when you’re active.”

  Biting her lip, she glanced at Mel Boudreaux. “I’m okay, Mr. B. Have some lunch, there’s that pasta and pizza in the fridge.”

  Boudreaux said, “Yes, ma’am,” and left for the kitchen.

  Milo said, “Good step, hiring him.”

  Ellie said, “I had to, the first day—alone here—was terrifying. I didn’t eat or sleep. So there was no choice. He seems very competent. Do you know the company? I guess I should’ve asked you before?”

  “I don’t but that doesn’t mean anything. Private security isn’t part of my world.”

  “Yes, I’d imagine,” she said. “The people you deal with weren’t careful. Not that there was any reason for Brannon to be careful. Who’d imagine?” She placed her hands in her lap. Sat there, like a kid waiting for a reprimand. When none came, she said, “Have you given more thought to whether it’s related to my mother?”

  Milo shook his head. “Whatever the reason, protecting yourself is a good idea.”

  “I got the referral from the firm we use at our factories—the firm I used to use when I ran the company. I took your advice and told them it needed to be local and they said Iconic’s got a branch office right here in Hollywood, they do a lot of entertainment security. I also checked out references. Real ones, not online blurbs that can be faked Then I made calls to some CEOs I know. They come highly recommended…I still can’t believe it happened. It feels weirder now than right after. Is that normal, Dr. Delaware?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good…not that it matters. I suppose. Being normal. You feel what you feel and have no control. Right now I’m feeling pretty powerless. So what kind of feedback do you have for me, Lieutenant—and yes, I remember you said it was limited.” An almost-smile stretched and made the grade. “Don’t worry, my expectations are realistic.”

  Despite the claim, her shoulders bunched as she scooted forward.

  Milo said, “Before we get into that, is there anything else you’ve remembered since we last spoke?”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything, Ellie. Even if you think it’s too trivial to mention—maybe a remark your dad made before he passed? About your mom, their relationship, why she left?”

  She edged back. “No, he never said much of anything, just that she’d left us behind.”

  That sounded like blame. I said, “Did he have any resentment about that?”

  “None at all,” she said, too quickly. Then she colored. “Okay, I’m lying. But only partially. For the most part, he really wasn’t emotional about it. But there was one time—only one time, so I’m not sure how relevant it is.”

  Her spine was pressing against the chair-back. Full retreat but nowhere else to go. She looked from side to side, then down at her lap. “It was my fault, I was badgering him.”

  “About your mom?”

  “No, about something stupid—who remembers? This was back when I was in my rebel-without-a-cause stage, determined to torment him every way I could think of.”

  The corners of her eyes filled with moisture. She used a napkin to dry them. “I really put him through it.”

  I said, “How old were you?”

  “Fourteen, fifteen—even part of thirteen got messed up. I think of those years as the hurricane season, they must’ve been hellish for him.” Deep sigh. “I didn’t say anything about this when we first met because I didn’t want to make her sound bad. But…”

  We waited. She poured tea. Didn’t drink it. Pincer-grasped a cookie between thumb and forefinger, examined it, rotated it, put it down. “Oh, what the hey, might as well give you all the gory details. Back then, I wasn’t just truant, I was a major pain-in-the-ass stoner, hanging with other stoners, basically toking up all day.” Looking to the side. “Sometimes using more than weed.”

  Waiting for a reaction. We gave her none. She shook her head. “Also…I was having sex with boys. Bad boys. Stupid boys. Doing everything I could to mess up my life.”

  I said, “But your grades stayed good.”

  She’d told us that but the memory seemed to jar her. “How do you know that?”

  “You said so.”

  “I did? My brain must be rotting—well, that’s true, I did everything wrong but still got all A’s. I attribute it to school being mostly a waste of time. I could read fast, had a good attention span, and those days I had an excellent memory. And even when I was slutting it up, I kept college tucked in a corner of my brain. Like, one day this is going to end and I’ll make something of myself. Anyway, I was rarely in class but ended up scoring in the school’s top three achievement test scores. That really ticked off the administration.”

  I said, “Confronting them with their essential uselessnes
s.”

  She burst into laughter. Looked at me in a new way. Maybe this guy isn’t out to drill my skull.

  “Ha ha, probably. Meanwhile, Dad’s at his wit’s end, no matter how many times he tried to explain things rationally and patiently, I did what he didn’t want. One day, he just lost it and started screaming at me. I was wasting my life, being an idiot, behaving like a strumpet—he actually used that word, strumpet. I thought it was hilarious, like something out of Monty Python. I laughed in his face and that did it. He turned purple—I mean literally, not just flushed, purple. And all dark around the eyes. It was bizarre. Like seeing a new creature morph.”

  She laughed again. Softly. Sadly. “Of course being grokked out of my head didn’t help my perception. There I was, barely able to maintain and he’s purple. He started coming at me, like this.” Shoving her face forward and balling her fists.

  The memory leached color from an already pallid face. “I was terrified. He’d never hit me, not even close, but this was different, I’m thinking you’ve lit a match, stupid, now you’re going to get burned. I backed away but he kept coming and now his lips are shaking and his eyes are bulging and I’m freaking one hundred percent out but I can’t move any farther because I’m up against the kitchen wall. So I screamed. This insane, banshee shriek, I couldn’t believe it came out of me. And he stopped. As if he knew a bad thing was on the verge of happening—something that couldn’t be reversed.”

  Twisting in her chair, she began to cry, used the napkin, crumpled it, hung her head. “He had this look on his face, like I was disgusting. I’d stopped screaming but inside I was still freaking out. Then this creepy grin crept onto his face. His teeth weren’t great, he grew up poor. I remember thinking how brown and crooked they looked at that moment. Feral, you know? Then, as if someone had twisted a dial, he shrugged and said, ‘Like mother, like daughter,’ turned his back on me, and left. The next day when I got home I found his bedroom door locked and a note on my bed saying he’d registered me at Milrock, I could either go or find somewhere else to live.”

  “Tough love,” said Milo.

  “I deserved it. Sorry for not telling you the first time.”