I nodded. “Good instincts, Ellie.”
“We’re not just talking cruel,” she said. “We’re talking evil. An evil, horrible, amoral slut just like Dad told me that time…okay, enough, I don’t want to waste precious breath on her.”
She stopped. “Oh, no. Is she alive?”
Milo said, “No, and she reached a very unpleasant end.”
“Such as?”
“She was terminally ill and starved to death, alone and abandoned.”
“Well that’s pretty unpleasant,” she said. “When and where?”
“No need to get into details, Ellie. Like you said, wasted breath.”
I slid a sheet from the thin stack on the couch and handed it to her. The Azalea photo, everything cropped but an enlargement of Benni Cairn’s smiling face.
“This is her?” she said, sniffing. “She’s pretty…so young…kind of pure-looking…her eyes look soft. Yes, I can see the vulnerability…look at that smile. She thinks she’s got a future.”
Rush of tears. Another study of the image.
“I don’t see a resemblance…maybe I look like my father. You think there’s a good chance I can locate him?”
Milo said, “No way to know but if you’re interested, it’s worth a try.”
“Why not, it’s come this far,” she said. “Okay, can you get me one of those ancestral geneticists? I don’t want to make the wrong decision like I did with those slicksters who wasted my money.”
I handed her another piece of paper. “This is a referral from a pathologist at the coroner’s office who’s been extremely helpful. She’s worked with him before and says he’s first-rate.”
She said, “William Wendt, Ph.D., genetic counseling and forensic geneaology…impressive sounding…I guess I could learn something I didn’t want to know but it’s better than wondering. May I keep the photo?”
“Of course.” I passed a third sheet over. “Here’s the match between your DNA and Nancy’s.”
“Strattine…the link is maternal. What’s my real name?”
“Holcroft.”
“Eleanor Holcroft.” She smiled. “Sounds like something out of Jane Austen…I think I’ll stick with Barker, Dad was my everything…maybe I’ll use Holcroft as my middle name.”
She burst out laughing. “Maybe I’ll dye my hair blond and start talking in a Texas accent and learn to ride horses and eat a lot of barbecued brisket.”
I said, “A world of opportunities.”
“Yeah, this could get interesting.” Full smile. “Thanks so much. Both of you. As long as we’re being earth-shattering is there anything else?”
Nothing you need to know.
Milo said, “Nope, that’s it, Ellie. It’s been good working on this.”
“Really? Even though you were pushed into it?”
“Like the doctor just said, opportunities. I like learning and you’ve been a peach.”
“What a lovely thing to say.”
She stood, this time gracefully. Shook her hair loose and straightened her spine and held her head high. “You’re a peach, too—both of you are.”
She laughed. “We’re a regular fruit basket. Let me see you out.”
* * *
—
At the door, Milo said, “Oh, yeah, Deirdre’s safe returning to her house.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Ellie Barker. “Right now we’ve got some trips scheduled. Santa Barbara, tomorrow, then we’ll keep going to San Simeon. With Mel. Even though we are safe, he’s a great driver and he’s got a beautiful singing voice.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“A good plan,” she said. “Places I wanted to see, anyway.”
CHAPTER
44
We hadn’t told her about the box.
Finding it hadn’t resulted from ace detective work during the search of the house Du Galoway and Martha Dee Ensler had shared for twelve years. It filled the middle drawer of the nightstand where her medications sat.
Fifteen inches long, a foot wide, hardwood covered in genuine crocodile hide dyed green. A bilious shade slightly lighter than the bedcovers and the serpentine necklace.
Milo said, “Reptiles. No comment, too easy.”
The interior of the box was lined in amber velvet. On the inside lid was the incised gold stamp of a luxury goods store in Brentwood, long defunct.
The contents, like the house, neat and organized.
Chronological order.
At the bottom was the Lolita article from Dark Detective protected by a plastic bag. On top of that, two similarly shielded articles from The Jefferson Parish Times in Metairie, Louisiana, and the Houston Chronicle, both brief accounts of homicides stingy on details.
Sharing space in that bag were a set of silver and turquoise cuff links and a half-used matchbook from The C’mon Inn, Bissonnet Street, Houston.
The victims were middle-aged men, a salesman and an accountant, found shot to death in their cars on the outskirts of town. The first crime had occurred when Martha Ensler was nineteen, the second two years later, making her release from the girl’s reformatory at eighteen likely.
“Getting right back in practice,” said Milo.
The next trophy was the Pasadena Star-News article on Arlette Des Barres’s fatal horse tumble. Here, someone had annotated in the margin. A single word in red ink, the kind of ragged cursive that results from inadequate schooling.
Neeeiiigh!!!!
After that: the L.A. Times account of a dead woman burned in a car on Mulholland Drive.
Sizzle!!!!
Nothing for five years and three months, when the San Francisco Chronicle reported the shooting deaths of a well-to-do couple, both physicians, in the book-lined den of their Orinda, California, house. A trove of jewelry and art, taken along with cash and bearer bonds from a safe.
The victims had been last seen having cocktails in the company of another “well-dressed, middle-aged” couple, as yet unidentified.
Milo did follow up on that one. Still open.
Four years and eleven months after that was a clipping on a strikingly similar couple-slaughter in Portland, Oregon. This time the victims were two male antiques dealers who’d been together for twenty-eight years.
Unsolved.
Another stretch of quiet, then a plastic bag containing a key, later identified as operating Phil Seeger’s motorcycle. No one at the scene of Seeger’s “accident” had wondered about the lack of such.
A year after that: a hefty gold chain in a smaller bag. Engraved on the underside of the clasp: Tony.
Repeat burglary of Anton Des Barres’s jewelry. Maybe an anniversary gift to herself, or she’d somehow learned he was terminally ill and vulnerable. She’d somehow gained entry to the mansion—my guess was an old key she’d taken during the first heist—and made a smooth exit.
Let the devil in…
Unlike the others, she’d left Des Barres alive. Maybe because he was ill and in pain and she enjoyed the notion of him suffering.
I wondered if she’d stood in the doorway to his bedroom and, despite that, considered it.
The final souvenir was the coverage of Dr. Stanley Barker’s fatal tumble. Written in the margin: Miser. Said no. Paid the ultimate price.
Milo said, “Nothing about a poisoned dog.”
I said, “A throwaway not worth commemorating.”
“What a pair. I’ll call Orinda and Portland, after all this time they probably won’t be able to do anything about it but what the hell. The rest, no need to get into it. Right?”
I said, “Agreed but there are a few other calls that need to be made.”
“To who?”
I told him.
He said, “You mind doing it? I gotta deal with Jen Arredondo. Got a call last night from her d
ad. He’s concerned because she says she’s fine, refused the department shrink, and he thinks better to pay up now and avoid PTSD. If we can convince her, can you hook her up with someone? Even you if you feel like it.”
“I’m too involved, we’ll go the referral route.”
“Fair enough. So you’ll do the other calls?”
“No prob.”
“What a pal—scratch that, no wiseassery, you were the main deal on this one. I mean it. And don’t say aw shucks.”
I said, “Buy me lunch.”
“Like I wouldn’t if you didn’t ask.”
* * *
—
I reached Vicki Quandt at her home in Santa Monica Canyon and told her we’d located a relative who was looking for her.
She said, “I figured that might happen. Who?”
“A woman named Bella Owen. She’s local and was your—”
“No need to get into it,” said Quandt. “It was a long time ago and like I told you, I’ve got my life.”
I said, “Just wanted you to know.”
“And I appreciate that—tell you what, text me her information and I’ll see how I feel.”
* * *
—
Call Number Two: Val Des Barres.
She said, “All ears,” when I told her I had new information. The same kind of quivery inflection we’d heard from Ellie at the onset of the sit-down.
When I finished, she said, “What an utter monster. Thank God she didn’t hurt Father…is Ellie okay? Learning all this. Should I reach out to her?”
“At this point, it’s probably best to let her work it out.”
“I do hope she’s okay.”
“It’s looking positive, Val.”
“I hope so…Father was innocent.”
“He was.”
“Though a bit of a rogue.” She laughed.
No sense telling her about Anton Des Barres’s tastes in female companionship. Her laughter was genuine. Wanting to think of him as a guy with flair.
“That he was, Val.”
“He loved me,” she said. “Whatever made him happy.”
* * *
—
I reached Maxine Driver at her campus office.
She said, “Giving or taking?”
I said, “The former.”
“Goody. Juicy stuff?”
“Oh, yeah. There are things you won’t be able to use but there’s plenty you can. I’m figuring two, three papers, minimum, who knows how many symposia.”
“Awesome,” she said. “To paraphrase the tykes.”
To Faye
Special thanks to Clea Koff and Joy Viray
By Jonathan Kellerman
FICTION
ALEX DELAWARE NOVELS
Serpentine (2021)
The Museum of Desire (2020)
The Wedding Guest (2019)
Night Moves (2018)
Heartbreak Hotel (2017)
Breakdown (2016)
Motive (2015)
Killer (2014)
Guilt (2013)
Victims (2012)
Mystery (2011)
Deception (2010)
Evidence (2009)
Bones (2008)
Compulsion (2008)
Obsession (2007)
Gone (2006)
Rage (2005)
Therapy (2004)
A Cold Heart (2003)
The Murder Book (2002)
Flesh and Blood (2001)
Dr. Death (2000)
Monster (1999)
Survival of the Fittest (1997)
The Clinic (1997)
The Web (1996)
Self-Defense (1995)
Bad Love (1994)
Devil’s Waltz (1993)
Private Eyes (1992)
Time Bomb (1990)
Silent Partner (1989)
Over the Edge (1987)
Blood Test (1986)
When the Bough Breaks (1985)
BY JONATHAN KELLERMAN AND JESSE KELLERMAN
Half Moon Bay (2020)
A Measure of Darkness (2018)
Crime Scene (2017)
The Golem of Paris (2015)
The Golem of Hollywood (2014)
OTHER NOVELS
The Murderer’s Daughter (2015)
True Detectives (2009)
Capital Crimes (with Faye Kellerman, 2006)
Twisted (2004)
Double Homicide (with Faye Kellerman, 2004)
The Conspiracy Club (2003)
Billy Straight (1998)
The Butcher’s Theater (1988)
GRAPHIC NOVELS
Silent Partner (2012)
The Web (2012)
NONFICTION
With Strings Attached: The Art and Beauty of Vintage Guitars (2008)
Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children (1999)
Helping the Fearful Child (1981)
Psychological Aspects of Childhood Cancer (1980)
FOR CHILDREN, WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED
Jonathan Kellerman’s ABC of Weird Creatures (1995)
Daddy, Daddy, Can You Touch the Sky? (1994)
About the Author
Jonathan Kellerman is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than forty crime novels, including the Alex Delaware series, The Butcher’s Theater, Billy Straight, The Conspiracy Club, Twisted, True Detectives, and The Murderer’s Daughter. With his wife, bestselling novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored Double Homicide and Capital Crimes. With his son, bestselling novelist Jesse Kellerman, he co-authored Half Moon Bay, A Measure of Darkness, Crime Scene, The Golem of Hollywood, and The Golem of Paris. He is also the author of two children’s books and numerous nonfiction works, including Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children and With Strings Attached: The Art and Beauty of Vintage Guitars. He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards and the Lifetime Achievement Award from the American Psychological Association, and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in California and New Mexico.
jonathankellerman.com
Facebook.com/JonathanKellerman
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