Milo said, “You mind waiting in the kitchen, amigo?”
Boudreaux said, “Don’t mind at all, ready for a snack.”
He followed Ellie in but emerged a few moments later in the lead. Carrying coffee, cups, and accoutrements on a tray.
Long legs covered a lot of ground. She hurried to keep up. “You really don’t have to, Mel.”
“Need the exercise.” Boudreaux placed the tray on the living room coffee table, saluted, and returned to the kitchen.
Ellie said, “I’ll pour. Cream, sugar?”
Milo said, “Two blacks.” He sipped. “Good stuff.”
“Fazenda Santa Inês from Brazil.” She flinched. “Brannon used to like it.”
“Used to?”
“He got fanatical about training and gave up caffeine.”
“Fun guy.”
“He was,” she said. “At the beginning.” Her face began to crumple.
Milo reached for one of the clean hankies he keeps in his jacket pocket. But, again, she composed herself and put down her cup.
“That deputy chief—Martz—called me and asked if I was happy with your progress. Like she was checking up on you. I hope I didn’t put you in a weird position.”
“Nah, business as usual.”
“I told her I was happy. But if you do have something new, I wouldn’t mind hearing about it. Maybe a little more data than the last time?”
Milo placed his own cup near hers. “We’ve uncovered some minor question marks but nothing close to evidence. If you’re up to it, I have more questions for you.”
“Sure. What?”
“The necklace you showed us. Your father told you your mom left it behind?”
“No, what he told me was he bought it for her, I assumed she left it. How else would Dad have it?”
“Did she leave anything else behind?”
Her eyes slid to the right. “The dress. The one she wore with the necklace in that forest photo. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t think it was important. Also, I wear the necklace once in a while but never the dress. It’s in a zip bag in a storage locker back home. Could it be relevant?”
Milo said, “In terms of the murder, highly unlikely. If at some point we get past that and want to learn more about your mom’s background, a label in the dress could theoretically help.”
“It does have a label and I was thinking the same thing so I tried to do some research on my own. The manufacturer was Jenny Leighton, Fort Lee, New Jersey. They were in business until twenty-four years ago. Even with my garment-biz connections, I couldn’t find out if they sold locally or jobbed nationwide. That’s the way it is with the rag trade. Here, today, gone…” She smiled. “If you want, I can fly up and bring the dress back.”
“Not necessary.”
“You think it’ll be another dead end.”
“I wouldn’t call it high priority.”
“Fair enough. So what are those minor question marks you mentioned?”
“We learned something curious about the necklace.”
He withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his jacket.
The photo from The Azalea.
Reluctant to get into details with Ellie but willing to reveal her mother with Des Barres and two other women?
Then as he handed it past me I caught a glimpse. The copy he’d made in the station blanked out Des Barres and the other two blondes.
She studied the image. Her eyes got wet. Several tears got loose. “This is only the second photo I’ve seen of her. She’s wearing a wig…where was it taken and how’d you get it?”
“A nightspot in L.A. It was in a pamphlet about L.A. nightlife but don’t try to find another copy. I did and zilch.”
A mix of truths and lies. He’s good at that. So am I. Deceit in service of the greater good.
Ellie said, “A nightspot in Hollywood?”
“Don’t know.” What a tangled web we weave…
“The necklace,” she said. “I get it. If she left it when she came to L.A., what’s it doing in L.A.?”
“Exactly.”
“So she came and went more than once.”
“Only thing we can think of.”
“Hmm,” she said. “So maybe it wasn’t a onetime thing. Maybe they had problems from the beginning. And maybe Dad didn’t like her dangling him back and forth. So when she comes back the last time he said enough and took back the gift he gave her. The dress, too—maybe that was also a gift? Or she tossed it in his face.” Sad smile. “It is a pretty ugly dress. Listen to me. Hypothesizing.”
Milo said, “Join the club.”
“A bad relationship,” she said. “But he saved the necklace and the dress. Maybe he still missed her.”
Maybe a trophy.
“The going back and forth—does it change anything?”
Unwilling to grasp the implications of Stan Barker’s rage after repeated abandonment.
Milo said, “Not really, we’re just trying to clarify details.”
She reexamined the photo. “A party wig and a party dress but she doesn’t exactly look festive…just the opposite. Same as in the forest shot. That always struck me. How serious she was.”
That made me wonder about something. I filed it for later.
Ellie’s eyes remained on the photo. “In the forest, I assumed they already weren’t getting along. But here she is without Dad and she’s got the same expression…unless, maybe he was here? In the club? Is that possible?”
Milo said, “Did he ever mention going to L.A. with her?”
“Never. But he didn’t talk about those days. I mean it’s possible he was there, right? They had a date. Trying to patch up—though I don’t know why she’d wear a wig…whatever. He went to the bathroom or something when the photo was taken? Maybe by one of those table-hopping photographers who charged per shot?”
“Anything’s possible, Ellie.”
She tapped the photo. “This little number, bare shoulders and all that…she really was beautiful. Despite not having fun. The truth is, Daddy was a good man but he wasn’t much fun.”
She looked at Milo. “Sorry for running on with stuff that doesn’t lead anywhere.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “And thanks for being patient.”
“Do I have a choice? Sorry, that was snippy. I should be thanking you for your patience. Grateful for whatever you find. Like this. Another view of her. May I keep it?”
“All yours.”
We stood and she did the same. Circling the coffee table, she hurried to Milo, stood on her tiptoe, and kissed his cheek. A millimeter from his lips. He was caught off-guard but he smiled.
She turned to me, weighing etiquette equity—Can I kiss one and not the other—versus gut reluctance: The cop’s working for me. What’s the shrink actually doing?
I tried to get her off the hook by adding space between us and smiling.
She got it. Smiled back.
Then she danced over and kissed me, too.
* * *
—
As we drove away from the house, I said, “She’s pretty enamored of you.”
“Poor kid,” he said.
He cruised past the spot where Twohy had been shot without giving it a glance, waited for the non-fatal left turn on Los Feliz.
“Probably best in the long run,” he said. “Brannon bailing. Guy lacked substance, she’s vulnerable, deserves better.”
From angry conscript to protective uncle.
“I never saw much depth in him,” I said. “You’re right about vulnerability. She’s in self-protective mode, doesn’t see the possibility that Dorothy was with another man and Barker came to L.A. and killed her. Something else: When she called it ‘the forest photo,’ I wondered if it was taken in the same park where Barker tumbled. Maybe
a place he and Dorothy went repeatedly so he returned there to die.”
“Suicide due to guilt?”
“That or his life just hadn’t worked out. It makes more sense than some phantom killer chasing him down years after doing Dorothy. Who’d know about the place other than him?”
“How about her L.A. boyfriend—pillow talk and all that.”
“Seventeen years later?” I said. “And what’s the motive?”
“True,” he said. “If Barker did kill her, he stayed mad rather than guilty? Exploding on Ellie and telling her Mom was a slut.”
“A strumpet.”
“ ’Scuse me. Am I making sense?”
“Rage can coexist with guilt. Or fluctuate depending on what else is going on in a person’s life.”
“Barker’s life doesn’t sound like a hoot,” he said. “No other relationships, Ellie gives him teenage shit and then leaves for college. So he goes back to the park and does a swan dive? Or maybe has one of the accidents you guys say really aren’t—getting all emotional, distracting himself, stumbling and tumbling.”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Great. Do I get my Ph.D.? Hey, look at the pace car.”
Brief lapse in four lanes of two-way traffic. He made the left, barely avoiding a thundering Corvette.
“Goddamn hot dog. Guy obviously ran a light and jumped the gun.” We coasted down the hill.
“If Barker’s our bad guy,” he said, “and inflicted capital punishment on himself, you see any link to Arlette? Or Seeger’s motorcycle crash?”
I said, “Accidents do happen.”
“Nothing with Freudian overtones?”
“If I come up with anything, you’ll be the first to know.”
We stopped at the light at Franklin, waiting behind a dozen other cars.
“A world of possibilities, no evidence,” he said. “Translation: hell.”
His pocket got musical, the cellphone beeping manically paced violin music.
He fished it out. “Sturgis.”
“Lieutenant, it’s Val Des Barres.”
“Hi, what’s up.”
“I’m sure you’re busy, don’t want to bother you. But if you do get some time in the near future, perhaps we could chat?”
“About what, ma’am?”
“I’d rather discuss it in person.”
“Okay. I can be there in twenty minutes or so.”
“Right now?” she said.
“If it’s not a problem.”
“I guess. Sure, why not. But let’s not do it at the house. I’d prefer to meet you down the road where it happened.”
Milo said, “Like I told you, we’re not sure where that is.”
“The approximate spot, then. If that’s not a problem.”
“Not at all, we’ll pick you up.”
“No need,” she said. “Call or text when you get there and I’ll come down. What are you driving?”
“A green Chevy Impala.”
“Okay, then. I hope I’m doing the right thing.”
Click.
The light turned green. Milo said, “Can I dare to hope?”
“Maxine says without optimism, there’s nothing.”
“Maxine’s a smart woman, so for the time being, I’ll go with that.”
“My optimism doesn’t count?”
“You’re biased,” he said. “You care.”
CHAPTER
25
He took Franklin west to La Brea, continued on Hollywood Boulevard, passing the elegant, vintage apartment buildings and newer rectangles that made up the skimpy residential section of the boulevard.
A right onto Laurel rewarded us with congestion due to work crews that weren’t working, followed by a crawl up to Mulholland and a right turn that granted us isolation and clarity.
He sped to the spot Du Galoway had guesstimated, pulled to the left and parked, and we got out of the car.
Interesting sky, the western half a lucid blue so saturated with pigment it bordered on lurid, the eastern section a mirage-like mass of smoke-colored clouds. Probably ocean currents doing half the job. The separation was almost artificial.
Below all that, the Valley was a vast circuit board, brown and white and beige, with dots of coral red where tile roofs sprouted like spores.
Milo phoned Val Des Barres.
She said, “On my way.”
* * *
—
Minutes later, a white Mazda CX SUV appeared from the east, rolling slowly. Val Des Barres stopped five yards from where we stood, stuck her hand out the driver’s window to wave, and pulled over behind the unmarked.
Milo went to open her door. She got there first, smiled and said, “Thanks,” paused for a moment before following us to the edge of the drop.
Sunglasses blocked her eyes. She wore another shapeless dress, no pattern, just green cotton, a dark shade just shy of black, with pockets below the waistline and frilly sleeves. The blue section of the sky was radiating sunlight and it highlighted gray strands in her dark hair, amplifying them, making them glow like electric filament.
She said, “So this is near where it happened.”
“Best guess,” said Milo.
“I’ve probably passed by here—what, ten thousand times? No idea something so horrid ever took place. We have had other incidents. Cars and motorbikes going over, mostly kids speeding in the dark. At night it’s a tough road if you don’t know where you’re going. Did it happen at night?”
“Most likely.”
“But you’re saying this couldn’t have been an accident.”
“Definitely not. What’s on your mind, Ms. Des Barres?”
“Your visit is,” she said. “I can’t seem to get it out of my head. The fact that something so terrible happened to a person who lived with us. The fact that it was Ellie Barker’s mother of all people. She seemed such a sweet person. I can’t help thinking Fate put us together.”
She turned and faced us. In the process, shifting herself inches closer to the edge. Milo guided her away.
She said, “Oh, my—thanks.” Off came the sunshades. Her eyes were soft, searching.
“Why did I call you? Because how can I ignore reality? How can I ignore the fact that this person—Dorothy—may have known my father? When you showed up, I was numb. Then it turned seismic. Emotionally speaking.”
She rubbed the side of her nose. Moved farther from the edge, rubbed again, blinked, folded her lips inward. “I called you, Lieutenant, because I can’t eliminate the possibility that my father was involved in something terrible.”
Milo’s eyes sparked for a second before returning to detective-impassive. During the moment of surprise, the blue half of the sky had turned his green irises aqua.
He tapped his thigh and waited. Valerie Des Barres looked at me. I played statue.
She said, “This is hard for me.”
He said, “Take your time.”
“Time won’t help…it’s too…I’m not saying I have any evidence, it’s just a…it’s more than a feeling.” She licked her lips. “Can we sit in my car? I’m feeling like my balance is slipping.”
* * *
—
Milo sat in the front passenger seat, I took the back and scooted to the right to see as much of Val’s profile as possible.
Tight jaw, the lips folding and unfolding, again. Dainty hands gripping the steering wheel.
She said, “All right, no sense putting it off. You remember what I told you about Father changing after Mother died.”
“Of course.”
“Radical change,” she said. “Looking back, I think he was depressed. I was ten, didn’t think in those terms. I did know he’d changed. Went to work, as usual, came home and did his best to be fatherly but he really c
ouldn’t pull it off. He’d give me a token greeting, a hug, force himself to chat, and then he’d escape to his bedroom or his study, close the door and stay there. Bill and Tony were both away at school, so I spent a lot of time alone. Sometimes I wondered if it was something I’d done. Strictly speaking, I wasn’t neglected, he hired a couple of nannies to take care of me and they were okay.”
I said, “Not much of an endorsement.”
She swung around, surprised. As if she’d forgotten I was there.
“No, it’s not, they were adequate. By the book. All that solitude worked out fine, that’s when I really got into drawing. Sitting in my room all day—but this isn’t about me. It’s about Father. Basically, he left me.”
She turned back to Milo.
“After a few months of that, the other change began. All of a sudden he began going out at night, and in the morning, at breakfast, more often than not, there’d be a woman at the table. Then women, plural. Two or three, sitting around nibbling toast. Blondes, he always liked blondes. My mom was a blonde. She was English, fair-skinned, blue-eyed. Bill and Tony’s mother was American and also blond. So there we were in the morning, Father, blondes, and me.”
Milo said, “That musta been jarring.”
“At first. I got used to it.” Pained smile. “I’m good at getting used to things. They were pretty nice to me, I got a lot of ‘Oh, how adorable.’ ‘Isn’t she the sweetest.’ That kind of thing. My nannies didn’t approve, they were old-school, one was French, the other was German. They’d whisk me away as soon as I finished my cereal. Sometimes Father would take the blondes with him, or he’d leave them behind and they’d be gone by the afternoon. Then that started to change and they’d be around for days. Then weeks.”
She fiddled with her hair. “The biggest changes were the ones Father made to himself. He used to have this cute little mustache. Like David Niven—do you know David Niven.”
Milo said, “The Pink Panther.”
“Sure, there’s that. Also lovely, earlier films like Bonjour Tristesse—I’m a bit of an antiquarian. Anyway, Father’s mustache always amused me. I’d tickle him under the nose and he’d be good-natured about it and pretend to sneeze and I’d just love that. Then all of a sudden he stopped shaving and got all grizzly and then one day he’d trimmed around all the hair and showed up with a rather satanic goatee. Black. Like his hair, he’d begun coloring everything. His attire changed, as well. He’d always been conservative. Suits to work, blazers on the weekend, dress shirt and tie for supper. Now he was wearing brightly colored—okay, garish—silk shirts with buccaneer sleeves, plus tight bell-bottom pants way too young for him and patent-leather shoes with big heels in crazy colors.”
Serpentine: An Alex Delaware Novel Page 17