Serpentine: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Poor baby. C’mon, let’s get nutrition.”

  I said, “Heed her wise counsel.”

  Robin said, “Exactly. He does and look how well he’s weathered the onslaught of time.”

  * * *

  —

  I drove the three of us to a place at the top of the Glen. Japanese fused with Italian, which translated to crudo coexisting with sashimi, pizza dating teppanyaki, and what seemed like random pairings labeled “what the chef’s into tonight.”

  The waiter said, “Hey, guys, I’m Jaron and I’ll be your server. I advise the eel. She won Chopped with it.”

  Milo said, “Let’s start with a beer.”

  “No worries. We’ve got a great selection of imported—”

  “Miller’s fine.”

  “Um…I think we have that. You, ma’am?”

  Robin said, “Knob Creek Old Fashioned.”

  I said, “Oban 14, neat, ice on the side.”

  “That’s…”

  “Single-malt scotch.”

  The waiter said, “Wow, you guys know your bevs.” He read back the order, corrected the errors. Out came a handheld device. “Okay, guys. Eel will go great with all those drinks.”

  Milo said, “Bumper crop on slithery things, huh?”

  Robin said, “Poor little orphan elvers.”

  Jaron said, “Pardon?”

  Her smile, beautiful and wide, dismissed him.

  The drinks were followed by a torrent of small plates, the quantity dictated by Milo, back in fine form. He tucked in immediately as Robin looked on like an approving mother.

  I fiddled with my chopsticks.

  She said, “You okay, honey?”

  “Thinking.”

  Milo said, “About what?”

  The honest answer was too many suspects and no real progress.

  I said, “Another scotch.”

  * * *

  —

  Dessert was a pair of scorched cedar shingles each containing three scoops of ice cream decorated with a juniper sprig. On one slab, chewy Japanese mochi: green tea, red bean, sesame. The other featured gelato “infused” with “organic Buddha’s fingers citron, winter melon, and a breeze of chianti.”

  More geographic meld; world peace should be so easy.

  I said, “Nicely curated.”

  Milo said, “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  He used a tiny shovel-shaped spoon to slice off some red bean. Tasted. Considered. “Different texture. Pretty good. Actually, good.”

  Robin said, “They make ice cream out of everything in Japan. Including raw horsemeat.”

  “C’mon.”

  “Really.”

  “Jesus. Where’d you pick up that nugget?”

  I said, “I’m guessing Misota Metaru.”

  She gave me a thumbs-up.

  Milo said, “Who’s that?”

  I said, “Mister Metal, big-time guitar god in Tokyo. She works on his gear.”

  “Guy comes all the way here to get his stuff fixed?”

  Robin said, “He lives in Thousand Oaks. His real name is Mitchell Mandelbaum.”

  “Huh. I’m visualizing black ninja p.j.’s on stage.”

  “It varies. Last time was a set of antique Japanese armor. He looked like Darth Vader.”

  “All that metal,” he said. “I’d worry about electrocution.”

  “I’ve mentioned it to him,” she said. She crossed her fingers.

  He said, “You lead a different life, kiddo.”

  “Only vicariously. Mostly I’m in a room all day sawing and gluing.”

  He regarded the spoon, mumbled “too damn small” and put it down. “Raw horsemeat.” He looked at me. “Must be our day for quadrupeds.”

  I drummed a horse-hoof clop on the table.

  Robin said, “What does that mean?”

  I explained.

  She said, “Maybe another fake accident? Interesting.”

  Milo clutched his head. “That word again.”

  Robin looked at me.

  I said, “He’s developed an allergy to ‘interesting.’ ”

  “Ah. I think you can get shots for that.”

  He laughed, fiddled with the sprig, licked his lips. “No aftertaste of Trigger, so far, so good.” Eyeing what was left of the ice cream. “You guys full?”

  Robin said, “All yours.”

  “Why not?” he said. “All in the name of recycling.”

  When he’d finished every dollop, she said, “I don’t want to give you a migraine but can I ask a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “You always say you start with the victim. Since the case started I’ve heard a lot about suspects but not much about her.”

  “That’s ’cause there’s not much to know, kiddo, can’t even get biographical basics.”

  “Mystery woman,” she said. “Hiding something?”

  “She ended up in California, which is where everyone comes to reinvent, so good chance. Does it tie in to her murder? Who the hell knows? All I can work with is facts on the ground. They keep piling up but nothing’s really clarifying.”

  I said, “Making it worse, Ellie has no early memories. She was a baby when the relationship with her stepdad began and a toddler when Dorothy walked out.”

  Robin said, “Leaving a little kid behind to hook up with a rich guy? Not exactly a world-class woman.” Metal in her voice. Her relationship with her own mother had always been a challenge.

  I said, “The older Des Barres brother said other women in the mansion tried to ingratiate themselves with him and his sibs. Dorothy didn’t bother. Just the opposite, she was aloof.”

  “She sounds pretty unlikable.”

  Milo said, “Worst type of victim.”

  “Why?”

  “Too many potential enemies.”

  “Do you think she just landed in L.A. and started hunting for a sugar daddy? Or had she been involved with Des Barres before?”

  “Good question,” said Milo. “They keep popping up, too.”

  He drained his beer.

  Robin said, “One more thing?”

  “Hit me.”

  “Ellie’s boyfriend getting shot. If the goal was to dissuade her, why not simply target her? And if there really was a woman on horseback bumping off the competition, she’d have to be, what—late fifties minimum, more likely sixties by now. It’s hard to see someone like that lurking in the bushes. How, for that matter, would she even know about the investigation?”

  “The Des Barres sibs know about it, thanks to me, and rich folk are used to delegating. Val Des Barres’s butler has a bit of a record, so I watched him for a couple of days. So far the worst thing he’s done is glide through a boulevard stop.”

  He caught the waiter’s eye and mouthed, Check.

  This time I got there first with a credit card.

  “Aw c’mon.”

  “Nope.”

  “At least let me do the tip.” He began to reach for his wallet.

  Robin placed her hand on his. “We’re your support group. Accept the love.”

  The following morning at ten, I got a text from Maxine Driver.

  Found something but probably not useful.

  Open to anything. Can you send?

  Not great condition, might be better to hand over in person.

  Name the time and place.

  An hour, the pizza place?

  Perfect. Thanks, Maxine.

  You’ll find a way to pay me back.

  * * *

  —

  The “pizza place” was Gipetto’s, a student hangout on Westwood Boulevard, two blocks south of campus. Questionable beer by the pitcher was the star, ever
ything else, the supporting cast.

  I’d have sprung for somewhere nicer but Maxine has a thing for pizza. The basic American pie, nothing designer. Her Korean-immigrant parents forbade it when she was small.

  I’d asked what they were worried about.

  “Anything new.”

  I arrived first. At eleven in the morning the place was nearly empty, a few groggy-looking sophomores praying to their phones.

  A waitress who was probably their peer came over. “Oven just got to the right temp, orders won’t be ready for fifteen minutes, maybe twenty.”

  “No problem. Large mushroom whenever.”

  “Cool attitude,” she said. “Are you a prof? I’m looking for a comfortable elective.”

  “At the med school across town.”

  Shrug. “That doesn’t help me.”

  * * *

  —

  At ten after, Maxine strode in carrying an oversized tan leather bag and wearing a black wrap dress swirled with purple and a string of pearls too large to be real.

  She’s a tall, slim woman just turned forty but looking younger, pretty without the self-consciousness of someone who’s traded on her looks. She wears her hair in a flapper-type bob that fits her fascination with the past.

  L.A.’s criminal past, in particular, a topic that stymied the History Department because she refused to infuse her conclusions with “analyses of contemporary hot-button topics.” Instead, she plugged away like a true scholar, piling up more awards and peer-review publications than could be ignored, making tenure unavoidable.

  Her life’s work also baffled her parents. (“Bad people should be forgotten.”) Another insult added to the familial injury Maxine had inflicted by forsaking premed. Marrying a physician had blunted the issue but hadn’t erased it. (“I’m sure they’re convinced David will leave me for someone younger and appropriately obedient, I’ll be poor and be unable to take care of them.”)

  She waved as she approached. “Did you order?”

  “The usual.”

  “Excellent.” We shook hands and she sat. “How’s it going on the case?”

  “It’s not.”

  “Sorry. Like I said, this is unlikely to change that.”

  Out of the bag came a brown, marbleized folder. Out of the folder came a page-sized color photo that she slid across the table.

  Back in the pre-digital days, photographs could be stunningly sharp when developed by pros in darkrooms, clouded and blurry when amateurs clicked their Brownies and Polaroids or pretended to comprehend their Nikons. Acid-laced paper, ultraviolet rays, and the passage of time didn’t help.

  This was clearly an amateur effort, deteriorating to white space at the edges and blunted further by enlargement. A few pinpoints of missing pigment freckled sections of the subjects.

  Four subjects, seated at a bright-red table loaded with massive cocktails in tulip glasses, the liquids within garishly tinted. The wall behind the quartet was silver foil patterned with flowers. Crude, unidentifiable, blue and mustard-colored blossoms.

  Older man, one younger woman to his right, two others to his left.

  His face was the least damaged. Ironic because time had done just fine on its own.

  Hatchet face covered by coarse, slack, too-tan skin. Marsupial pouches tugged at bleary, heavily lidded eyes. Thinning hair was brushed back Dracula-style and tinted the same unlikely matte black as a pointy goatee. A chunky gold link chain hung across the hairless triangle created by three undone buttons of a pink-and-orange paisley shirt.

  Huge change from Dr. Anton Des Barres’s corporate photo.

  Maxine said, “Your guy.” A statement, not a question.

  I nodded. “Where’d you find this?”

  “A book on L.A. called Be-Inns. Two n’s, as in hostelries. Self-published deal on SoCal nightlife during the period you’re interested in. I’d exhausted all the criminal leads on Des Barres. As far as I can tell, he never hung out with hoods, nor was he implicated in high crimes and misdemeanors. So I did what I always do: fan out and try subsidiary sources. Starting with acquainting myself with the company headshot you sent me, memorizing the layout of his features and seeing if I could spot it somewhere else. Usually it leads nowhere, this time it didn’t. The book was in pretty bad shape, self-published, cheaply made, literally falling apart. I tried phone-shooting this image, wasn’t happy with the result, and did a few runs on the department Xerox machine. This is the best I came up with.”

  “Appreciate the effort, Maxine. Who’s the author?”

  “Alastair Stash, obviously a pseudonym. I wouldn’t bother looking for another copy, Alex. I tried and it’s not on the Web, any academic library or vintage dealer. I got my copy years ago when Acres of Books went out of business and I drove down to Long Beach and scrounged through their discount pile. Marginal junk that I boxed up and stored in my garage. I kept telling myself I’d go through it but never did.”

  “Amazing.”

  “What is?”

  “That you connected the headshot to this.”

  “Really? To me it was kind of obvious. Cosmetics change but basic dimensions stay the same. I’m flipping through pages and he jumped out at me. He looks sauced, no? Deliciously dissolute. What’s his story?”

  “Probably a midlife crisis fueled by big bucks.”

  The pizza arrived. Maxine nibbled. “So you can’t tell me anything, yet?”

  I said, “There’s not much to tell you beyond a possible location. B.H. club called The Azalea.”

  She lifted the photo and showed me the back.

  Single line in black marker, Maxine’s assertive block lettering:

  PROB. AZALEA CLUB, RODEO DRIVE 35–40 YRS AGO.

  “How’d you figure it out?”

  “The book identified it as being on Rodeo and the only place that fit was The Azalea. Just to make sure, I looked at some shots from an old design mag in the research library. Same wallpaper in what they called The Chic Room. Subtle, huh? Unfortunately I haven’t turned up any serious criminal activity at the place. Just a reputation for cheesy disco music, major-league boozing, and minor-league doping. The clientele was rich guys hanging with younger chickadees. Which fits your guy.”

  I flipped the photo and studied the three women with Des Barres. Trio of blurry faces under long, straight platinum-blond hair. Strapless dresses: black, red, yellow.

  Poor resolution wasn’t enough to hide the truth.

  I’d never seen the two faces to Des Barres’s left but Black Dress to the right was Dorothy Swoboda.

  I squinted and searched for nuance through the freckling.

  The other two women beamed drunkenly but Dorothy’s expression was the same borderline grim as in the forest shot with Stanley Barker.

  I’d assumed that was due to tension between her and Barker. Maybe it was just her emotional default.

  At first glance, not a fun gal—the contrast to the smiling duo was stark. That hadn’t stopped Anton Des Barres from recruiting her to his harem. Puzzling, because what older men usually like in younger women is nonstop cheer and worship, genuine or not.

  Just as with the Des Barres kids, Dorothy Swoboda was making no effort.

  I examined the entire photo again. Red and Yellow wore gems too huge to be real at their ears and suspended from gold chains. Dorothy wore a single necklace.

  Question marks filled my head. I felt my face tighten up.

  Maxine said, “What?”

  I pointed. “This is our victim.”

  “You’re kidding. Amazing. Let me look at her.”

  She fiddled in her bag for a pair of reading glasses, studied as if examining a relic. “Kind of a sourpuss. She must’ve been a sexual genius.”

  “I was wondering what her secret was.”

  “That’s what comes to my mind, Alex. Of cou
rse, vaginal virtuosity only goes so far, because men live for constant novelty. And with his setup, Des Barres would have plenty of that. Maybe he got tired of her and she didn’t take well to rejection—somehow threatened him—so he got rid of her.”

  She shifted to Des Barres’s face. “He doesn’t look like a guy burdened by inhibition…notice the exact same hairdo on all of three of them. Obviously, wigs. Obviously, at his behest. It’s like they’re blow-up dolls. He’s into control.”

  She chuckled. “Pardon my veering into your territory.”

  “Veer away, Maxine. You’re making sense.”

  “Oh, good. Historians are known for being self-appointed experts on everything…so he decides to dump her permanently. Shoot her, burn the car, push it off a cliff. Not a pretty ending. Guy like him probably collected insurance.”

  She returned the photo and I studied Dorothy’s face some more, came up with nothing, and turned to the smiling blondes. Dorothy looked early to midtwenties. The others were younger, maybe even late adolescents.

  Assuming the woman on the horse meant anything, could either of them have served as a calculating assassin?

  Immature, impressionable, bowled over by wealth and possibility? Absolutely.

  But no sign of hostility in this shot. No sideward, hostile glance at Dorothy, just glossy, intoxicated glee. The same went for Anton Des Barres, dull-eyed and slack-lipped.

  Dorothy’s cool sobriety stood out. A party she’d opted out of.

  I placed the photo in the leather briefcase I take to court, thought about what I hadn’t told Maxine, fought the urge to make up an excuse and leave. Instead, I listened as she griped enthusiastically about the pathetic emotional stamina of the undergrads foisted upon her.

  She’d said the same thing last year.

  I said, “It’s gotten worse?”

  “It’s nonstop devolution, Alex. The batch I got this semester is allergic to facts and feels entitled to unearned adoration. We’re talking the emotional musculature of blind cave worms.”

  I laughed. “Are the grad students any better?”

  “Worse. They think they’re Nobel winners who accidentally missed the flight to Sweden. And in answer to your next question, don’t get me started on my colleagues. When utterly compelled to, I go to faculty meetings and listen to incessant bitching about times never being more dire. Apparently we’re nudging Armageddon. Which is absurd for people supposedly knowledgeable about the past. The Dark Ages, anyone? Plagues and despots and life expectancies in the thirties? The problem is academics are students afraid to graduate, so their grasp on reality is for shit. On top of that, my so-called peers haven’t a clue what it’s like to live under Orwellian nightmare communism like my dad did before he deserted his post and sneaked across the DMZ to the South.”