Serpentine: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Cold case, we look for any connecting threads.”

  “You got the photo and went online and found her,” said Victoria Quandt.

  Not asking the obvious question: Is someone looking for me? But maybe not obvious; Bella Owen hadn’t posted about a long-lost cousin, she’d responded to Milo’s general description.

  No reason to mention Owen. Time for focus.

  He said, “That’s exactly what happened, Vicki, and we got a response from a distant relative of hers. But they don’t know much of anything. So when you got in touch, it was a big deal. Again, thanks.”

  Vicki Quandt recrossed her legs without the rest of her budging. “More connecting threads?”

  Milo nodded.

  “So you’re assuming Dot was the murder victim.”

  “That was the official conclusion.”

  “Yes, it was,” said Quandt. Shapely, glossed lips formed the knowing smile of an older, more sophisticated sibling. Oh, you stupid kids.

  Milo said, “You had your doubts?”

  “I got the heck out of that place two days after the car blew up. You do know about the car.”

  “Tony Des Barres’s Cadillac.”

  “Big land yacht,” she said. “With Dot inside. Allegedly, as you guys say on TV.” She focused on Swoboda’s face, frowned, returned the photo.

  I said, “You’ve always had your doubts.”

  Victoria Quandt looked up at tree branches. Patches of sky glinted between the boughs like aquamarines. Her body tensed. She did some slow breathing but didn’t look more relaxed.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you what I think if you swear to keep me out of it. If you come back and bug me, I’ll shut you out completely.”

  “Fair enough,” said Milo.

  “Doesn’t matter if it is or it isn’t, that’s the deal. You need to understand: I have an amazing life. Married to the same wonderful man for thirty-three years—and yes, I met him at The Azalea. Two kids, both married, one’s a lawyer, the other’s an entrepreneur. Two amazing grandkids, I want for nothing. So I probably shouldn’t even have agreed to meet you. Why upset the apple cart?”

  Milo and I stayed silent.

  She tried more breathing. Shook her head. “I have more than doubts about the official version. I have logic. Because Dot had been mad at Benicia for weeks before it happened, don’t ask me why, I have no idea. They seemed to be an item—not sexually—more like a package deal, showed up together, hung out together. But not as equal partners, Dot called the shots and Benicia obeyed like a slave. It wasn’t hard to dominate Benni—that’s what we called her. She was meek, submissive, and, trust me, no genius. Curvy, cute as a button, peaches-and-cream complexion, little Kewpie doll voice but dull as they come and not an inch of spine to her. Dot took advantage of it, boy did she. Basically she used Benicia as a handmaiden, and Benicia never complained, not a peep.”

  I said, “Did using her include anything sexual?”

  “Not that I saw or heard,” said Victoria Quandt.

  “I was thinking between Benni and Des Barres.”

  “A threesome? Ha.” Several beats. “Okay, you probably won’t believe what I’m going to tell you but it’s true. Nothing sexual went on in that place. Nothing. That was what was so weird about it. Here’s Tony, richer than God, he’s got an amazing place, tons of great-looking girls parading around in bikinis and skimpies and no one got touched. We all talked about it, traded notes, same story. All the poor guy wanted was to sit around and listen to classical music, read, work on his business books or whatever, while one of us kept him company and got him snacks and fixed him cocktails. Lots of cocktails, he was a Sazerac guy. It was this complicated deal—soaking sugar cubes with a special bitters and crushing it, three ounces of rye, then absinthe—which was illegal back then—rubbed into the glass and you’d pour it out. He could put away three, four, even five of those and by the end of a session, he’d be out. Maybe that’s why he lost interest in doing the deed, too much alcohol. Whatever the reason, that’s the way it was.”

  She laughed. “Like a convent but the nuns were hot.”

  I said, “Why do you think it wasn’t Dot who perished in that car?”

  “Because Benni disappeared the same time she did. Not hours later, the same time.”

  “They both left in the Caddy.”

  “Can’t prove it but I’d bet on it. Like I said, they were a twosome. Pete and repeat. It’s not like Benni could just wrap her stuff in a sheet and walk away. And no way Benni could’ve set something up like that. She didn’t even know how to drive. Could barely read and write—really, guys, mentally challenged.”

  I said, “Dot, on the other hand.”

  “Cold bitch. But smart. Unfriendly to everyone except Tony. And Benni, when she needed something from her. But even then it was like she was playing at being nice. Not the sexy swagger she took with Tony—she was good looking, dynamite figure, I’ll grant her that. Really knew how to use what she had.”

  “Coming across alluring even though Tony wasn’t into sex.”

  “Who knows?” said Vicki Quandt. “Maybe with her he was. She did seem to be his favorite, he spent more time with her than anyone else.”

  Milo said, “Did that cause jealousy?”

  “Are you kidding? We were thrilled. Getting dolled up in a blond wig to go into Tony’s bedroom, mix Sazeracs, and listen to Beethoven or whatever wasn’t scary but it sure was boring. And so was the rest of the day. Sitting around doing nothing? Some of the girls complained they weren’t getting any you-know-what. That’s why in general, they didn’t stick around. I mean I was already climbing the walls and I’d only been there three weeks. You’d think you were entering the Garden of Eden, the place was gorgeous. But it ended up just what I said, a weird convent. Except with no vows and no obligations other than to be adorable.”

  I said, “Tony called it the harem?”

  “No, we did. Tony was a decent guy, shy, we heard he’d lost two wives, was really broken up over the second, she fell off a horse.”

  “Did he talk about that?”

  “Never. The extent of conversation with Tony was you’d come in, he’d be in a robe on his bed and say, ‘You look lovely, my dear. Could you please lower the volume and fashion me a Sazerac.’ Fashion. He was totally old school. Wore ascots.”

  I said, “Did Dot and Benni ever talk about a baby?”

  “Whose?”

  “Either of theirs.”

  “There was one?” she said. “No, it was never mentioned. A baby, wow—obviously before they got there. You have no idea whose?”

  Milo said, “We’re far from knowing anything. So how long had Dot and Benni been there when you arrived?”

  “No idea. Probably more than just a few weeks. They did seem comfortable. Especially Dot. She could act like she owned the place. And she’d taken the Caddy before. Several times.”

  “For what?”

  “No idea,” she said. “It wasn’t like Tony’s prized possession. He had a slew of other vehicles—this little James Bond Aston Martin, another English sports car, a…Bristol, I think. Plus another Caddy—an Eldorado convertible. And an old Chevy that the girls used when they wanted to go into town. Bumpy ride.”

  “But Dot got the Caddy.”

  “Hmm,” she said. “Now that I think about, she was the only one. At least that I saw.”

  “It was common for the girls to drive back and forth.”

  “If they wanted to. It wasn’t prison,” said Vicki Quandt. “Till it started to feel like prison. Same old same old, you’re constantly looking at yourself in the mirror to make sure you look your cutest. Not just for Tony, for the other girls. Maybe even more for them.”

  “Competitive atmosphere.”

  “Not out in the open. More of…that was just the way it felt. We were thro
wn together, a bunch of girls who happened to look good and couldn’t figure out how they’d ended up there. You want to hear something strange? We started getting our periods at the same time.”

  Menstrual synchrony was a known fact, for animals as well as humans. I said, “Wow.”

  “Bizarre,” she said. “Looking back, the whole experience was bizarre. One of those things you do when you’re young then forget about and move on. I was fortunate to meet Sy a week after I left. And yes, I’ve told him everything. Because there’s nothing to hide. Would you believe that when I met him I was a virgin?”

  Milo and I nodded.

  “You’re bobbing like you do believe but you probably don’t. Whatever you want to think, it’s true. And that’s all I have to say and that’s the end of this, bye, guys.”

  Springing up quickly, she pointed to the blanket and, when we stood, rolled it up hastily and hurried to her Bentley.

  The car started up with a purr but jerked and made an unpleasant noise as she fumbled with the transmission.

  Then a smooth exit as two hundred grand of steel and chrome vanished.

  CHAPTER

  38

  We shifted to a dim spot under the branches of the largest sycamore.

  Milo said, “All Des Barres wanted was a little company. You believe her?”

  “You think she was sanitizing her own role.”

  “Exactly, a nun, not a houri.”

  I said, “Bikini nun.”

  He laughed.

  I said, “I do believe her. Why would she come forward in the first place? Only reason I can see is a moral compass. Benni’s disappearance has been on her mind for thirty-six years. Enough for her to periodically check out the missing persons sites. Your post solidified her suspicions and activated her. And everything she told us—Sterling Lawrence, The Azalea, her own background—matches what we already know.”

  “Suspicions,” he said.

  “Same as ours. Dorothy shot Benni and passed herself off as the victim. Now the motive’s solidified: just what we thought, wanting to make her escape.”

  “The aspiring Queen Bee looks for a new hive.”

  “Maybe because killing Arlette didn’t have the desired results. Des Barres adored Arlette and unfortunately for Dorothy, he was also a passive alcoholic unwilling to take it to the next level. So she made her plan and lifted some goodies from his safe. Vicki just told us she’d been angry at Benni for a couple of weeks and Benni never fought back. She was used to being Dorothy’s doormat since the two of them left Texas. Dorothy told her they were off on another adventure with an upgrade—the Caddy. A mile down Mulholland, middle of the night, Dorothy pulls over, shoots Benni without warning, and stages a fake accident. Clean break from Des Barres and Barker.”

  He said, “And Ellie. Can’t wait to tell her about her heritage…it does firm up the picture. Unfortunately, it’s not evidence.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” I said.

  “That can be scary or encouraging.”

  “Your plan to have the troops simulate tradespeople makes sense. But you could also try to talk to actual tradespeople: meter reader, postal carrier, maybe FedEx, UPS, any delivery service that comes by regularly. If Dorothy’s living there, someone might’ve seen her, maybe knows what name she’s using. The question is, could they be trusted to keep their mouths shut.”

  “My dominant personality wouldn’t be enough to ensure that, huh?”

  “Person-to-person, sure. Toss in the lure of the internet?” I shrugged.

  He said, “Let me think about it,” and drove away.

  A block later: “Annoying.”

  “What is?”

  “Why the hell didn’t I think of it myself?”

  CHAPTER

  39

  I’d booked one of the new custody evaluations from nine a.m. to two p.m. on Monday, the second from three thirty to six thirty. In-person sessions with children and parents, phone contact with attorneys, schoolteachers, and, in one case, an ex-nanny. With appointments running flush, no time to check messages. I switched my phone off and stashed it in a desk drawer.

  The upside of custody work is the chance to blunt the effects of divorce on kids. The downside is anyone who’s not a kid is assumed to be lying. But the morning went well: children who’d entered the arena well adjusted, parents sincere about keeping that going. Not hard to see the connection. Most important, the lawyers each side had hired were retrievers not attack dogs.

  Feeling energized, I broke for coffee and a sandwich at two fifteen, retrieved an earful of messages from my service, none from Milo. The last was a thinly veiled threat from a pit-bull lawyer representing the husband in the afternoon case. “Hope you’re careful in your wording, Doctor. We examine everything with a fine-tooth comb.”

  Callbacks to the few people who merited a response and a chat with the judge in the afternoon case stretched the time to two forty-five.

  Blanche woke from her nap, waddled in, and looked up at me with soft, beseeching eyes. I took her for an exploration out front, where a pine forest shades the property. Apart from the rare skittish raccoon or possum, a nice place for her to browse and snuffle and do her business. Back inside, I filled her water bowl, had just added some shredded mozzarella to her food when my cell chirped.

  My designation Big Guy on the screen above Milo’s private number.

  “What’s up?”

  “Any new thoughts?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Shame,” he said. “It’s been the typical yawn fest, surveillance-wise. What we’ve learned so far is Galoway’s a homebody. One sighting: Moe spotted him at eleven while doing a pass in a phony plumber truck. Asshole opened the door in his bathrobe, yawned, looked out, stretched, closed it. The only ride in his driveway is the Isuzu. Unless the Jag’s in the shop, it’s probably in his garage. Which is a double, so maybe her vehicle’s also there. If she’s got one. If she lives there. If she’s real. I’m starting to think we’re dealing with a phantom.”

  I said, “Galoway took the time and effort to misdirect us. That says there’s someone worth protecting.”

  “There you go, restoring reality. Alicia’s coming on in an hour, fixed her up with a van, cleaning service stick-on and dark windows. In the end, I decided not to take Arredondo up on her magazine ploy. Turns out she’s three months out of the academy and her dad’s a Rampart Division lieutenant. Instead, I’ve got her riding with Alicia. No postal carrier has showed up, yet, the plan is to chat if it can be done out of eyeshot of the house and the vibe feels right. I called FedEx and UPS and there’s no regular driver who services the block. I asked about the delivery history and got the runaround—client privacy, get a subpoena. Which is pretty lame considering they leave packages out in the open.”

  “How’re Ellie and Deirdre doing?”

  “The odd couple? I just called Boudreaux and he’s out with them at the zoo.”

  “That’s some image,” I said.

  “Ain’t it, though. How’s your day going?”

  “Great.”

  “Really? That happens?”

  * * *

  —

  The afternoon evaluation was the other side of the coin. Not shocking considering the message from the husband’s mouthpiece, whom the judge termed a “bottom-feeding asshole.”

  Adrenaline jet-fueled me and by the time I finished my notes it was seven fifteen and fatigue had finally made a welcome appearance.

  Sounds from the kitchen half an hour ago meant Robin’s workday had ended and she was fixing something. When I showed myself, she said, “Poor baby, dealing with jerks all day?”

  “Half the day.”

  “Charge them extra—stress pay. Will this help?”

  Pointing to a bowl of pasta with meat sauce. Noodles of all shapes and sizes, no reason to get
fussy when you know how to cook.

  I said, “Definitely. This too.” Tapping the bottle of Sangiovese she’d uncorked.

  We ate and drank.

  I said, “You’re the perfect woman.”

  She said, “Still hungry? I say you are.”

  * * *

  —

  By eight thirty, we were in bed, by nine thirty, in our robes, pondside, finishing off the wine. The water gurgled, the fish seltzered the surface, Blanche alternated between growly snores and high-pitched dog-dream bleats.

  Robin said, “Dreaming. Wonder what she sees.”

  “Probably food.”

  “She and Milo could be roommates.”

  “He did okay sitting for her when we went to Denver.”

  “If you don’t count the pound she gained.” She rested her head on my shoulder. “We work too hard.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I keep adding obligations and so do you. It’s not for the money, we don’t overspend and last I checked we were doing fine. So how come?”

  “Want me to answer like a shrink or a person?”

  “Let’s try person.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I have no idea.”

  “Fine. Shrink.”

  “Not a clue.”

  Just before ten p.m., we returned to the bedroom, watched an episode of Foyle’s War, and turned in, holding hands, playing footsie, slowing our breathing.

  Robin said, “We really should try for more leisure, hon.”

  “Let’s,” I said. “We’ll do some planning in the morning.”

  She kissed me. “ ’Night.”

  “ ’Night.”

  A minute later, the phone rang. I ignored it.

  Silence, then a retry.

  Robin said, “That sounds like it could be something.”

  “It’ll keep.”

  “Maybe but you’ll wonder and have trouble conking out.”

  “It’s probably robotic junk, I’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so.”

  Seconds later: another retry.