Serpentine

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Petra said, “Val realizes Ellie could be talking about her dad? Feels like throwing up in her mouth but figures it’ll go nowhere. Then Bauer takes over and it gets bad.”

  Milo said, “If so, she coulda been ready for us, what we saw was well rehearsed. Next step call one or both of her big brothers. Raking up the past could pose the same risk for them. Or she handles it herself.”

  I said, “After you sent Dorothy’s photo to Bill, he could’ve said he had no idea. Instead he said he didn’t know her but he did recognize her as a harem member.”

  “Strategy,” said Petra. “Guy’s a lawyer, used to scheming. We see that in suspects who are smart or think they are, right? Be semi-cooperative and you come across innocent. And sometimes it works. Besides, there’s no evidence. What would Dorothy’s presence in the house thirty-plus years ago prove? So it pays to play along, maybe learn details of the investigation.”

  I said, “But then why shoot Twohy?”

  Both of them frowned.

  Milo said, “Maybe that wasn’t Bill’s decision.”

  Petra said, “Kiddie-Book arranged a hit on her own?”

  “Or she talked to Dr. Tony, her other brother, and he was more action-oriented. I’ve tried the guy three times and he still hasn’t called me back. It’s too late in Illinois but I’ll give it another go tomorrow.”

  Petra said, “I’m going to synchronize with Raul then head over to the scene.”

  “See you, kid.”

  She yawned. “Wish I felt like a kid.”

  * * *

  —

  The Seville was where we’d left it. Milo handed the valet a bill that evoked joy, got into the passenger seat, and removed the placard from my dash.

  I drove toward the Vermont exit.

  He said, “Good thinking on my part, having you drive.”

  “Still feeling the wine?”

  “Not a whit. Time to work. Onward, coachman.”

  * * *

  —

  Vermont Avenue is one of L.A.’s longest streets, stretching twenty-three miles from Los Feliz down to the Wilmington Harbor. There’s nothing pretty about most of it but darkness has a way of concealing defect, and being able to glide through a dim, latent Vermont as Milo made notes in his pad was strangely soothing.

  That lasted half a block until I turned west on Sunset, a street that never calms down.

  Hospital Row dominates huge swaths of Sunset real estate, with all the ambulance din and peripheral anxiety that entails. Next come the Scientologists massing in and around their cathedral, a former hospital now painted cobalt blue and topped by a massive sign and a crucifix.

  L. Ron Hubbardsville eventually gave way to grim blocks of dope fiends buying, selling, and bartering, wild-eyed unfortunates lost in various states of fantasy, homeless encampments you can smell from the curb, and, farther west, the liveliest stretch of all, the Strip, which mixes all of the previous with hipsters and party creatures and adolescents out way too late.

  None of that stopped Milo’s pencil. When he stopped writing and began thinking, I said, “You okay with some music?”

  “Why not?”

  I switched on my favorite Stan Getz tape.

  He said, “Definitely why not.”

  As I continued west, he swapped the pad for his phone and began logging onto one database after another, cursing silently when Bluetooth went out, muttering, “Finally,” when connection resumed. “Nothing…nothing…et cetera…”

  I’d just passed the Roxy, now sadly dark, and pulled to a stop at the Sunset–Doheny light when he shouted, “Finally!” and held out the tiny screen.

  Small print. Before I had a chance to decipher, the light turned green. I drove on.

  “As the TV bobbleheads say, here’s the recap: A Sabino Eduardo Chavez is listed on Val Des Barres’s IMDb page as the caterer on her second animation. Not exactly a tough gig, feeding toons. So she met him dishing out grub and hired him. But the main thing is NCIC knows him, too. Convictions for larceny and theft, jail time in Riverside…twenty-six and…twenty-eight years ago. Yeah, I know, ancient history, he’s totally repentant and completely rehabilitated. On the other hand, Alex, he coulda just gotten better at avoiding arrest. Whatever the case, he’s no virgin and parts of Riverside are serious gang territory. You want a shooter, you could do worse. Speaking of which, let’s see about our shooting victim.”

  Two blocks into Beverly Hills: “Well, look at this. Mr. Twohy outdid Mr. Chavez and was busted four times…little run of naughtiness three to six years ago. One marijuana possession and three booze DUIs. Only one conviction, for the third deuce. He pled to misdemeanor, paid a fine. Maybe ol’ Sabino shoulda used his lawyer.”

  “A substance history could explain Twohy’s approach to running.”

  “Trading one addiction for another? Eight miles today, nine miles tomorrow, ten, eleven, blah blah blah? And by the way, here’s my route, look at me, everyone, I’m sober.”

  “What I meant was he might be trying to stay healthy and structuring his life so he doesn’t relapse.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Maybe that, too.”

  * * *

  —

  No further conversation or revelations until I pulled past my gate and parked alongside the Impala.

  He said, “Thanks for the best Uber in town. Val’s estate isn’t easy to watch but I’ll figure out something. I get lucky, Mr. Chavez goes somewhere interesting. That doesn’t happen, there’s all that panoramic view.”

  He stretched. “You know, it’s kinda nice making my own schedule. What’s on your agenda?”

  “Busy all day,” I said.

  “With?”

  “New patients.”

  “Custody messes?”

  “Two of those plus a trauma case.”

  He winced. “A kid got hurt? Badly?”

  “Car crash, no physical injuries but plenty of emotional issues.”

  “Oh, man,” he said. “Glad he has you to talk to.”

  “Eighteen months old,” I said. “Doesn’t talk much.”

  “A baby? So what the hell do you do?”

  “Observe, build trust, try some play therapy, then some incompatible response training.”

  “Which is?”

  “Teaching new ways to process what scares you.”

  “A baby can do that?”

  “Quite well,” I said. “Anger and fear don’t usually coexist in kids. If you can teach them to get mad at what frightens them, it can drive out anxiety.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Maybe that’s why I’m never anxious, didn’t grow up. You work with the little ones a lot?”

  “More often than most psychologists.”

  “Because…”

  “I don’t mind not talking.”

  “Huh. That a hint?”

  I laughed. “No.”

  “The technique,” he said. “You invented it?”

  “The research was in place. I put stuff together.”

  “Eighteen months old. Phew.”

  He got out of the car. “Thanks for your time, amigo. Let me ask you. When I call do you sometimes think it’s pain-in-the-ass complicated?”

  “Never.”

  He looked at me.

  I said, “Not once.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  I spent the next two days with children under stress. The custody cases weren’t the worst I’d seen but neither were they ideal. Nice, well-balanced kids; I’d work hard to keep it that way.

  The eighteen-month-old trauma victim was a chubby, black-eyed girl named Amelia with a surprisingly quick smile. Good temperament; a plus. When her mother, a five-eight, hundred-pound graphic designer named Lara, warily introduced me as a doctor, she said, “Da-ka.”

  The collision had s
prained Lara’s shoulder and ankle. The latter was swaddled by an elastic bandage, and every step was clearly painful. As was the session we’d had last week when I’d taken a history.

  This morning, she said, “She keeps waking up. This has been hell.”

  I said, “Sorry for what you’ve been through.”

  “Not sorrier than me.” She began playing with her phone, leaving Amelia to toddle around the office.

  I keep toys to a minimum, using the few that play a role in therapy. For a child this age, the playhouse would do. I’d positioned it in the center of the floor, and it didn’t take long for Amelia to get to it.

  Cheerful and relaxed as she sat down and began exploring. Good sign.

  Then she spotted the miniature cars in the garage, shrank back and hugged herself. A run to her mother ended with a swing up to the maternal lap.

  “See what I mean? She freaks out. Just getting here in the loaner was an ordeal.”

  I picked up the cars. “It’s understandable.”

  “You really think you can help her?”

  “I do.”

  “Hard to believe,” she said. “But my lawyer said try. He also said you’ll document everything for the case.”

  Amelia looked at her.

  I said, “Bad cars,” and tossed them onto the floor.

  Amelia’s gaze switched back to me.

  “Bad,” I said, louder. Extending a foot and kicking the vehicles.

  “Bah,” she said. Looking to her mother for guidance.

  Lara folded her arms across her chest. “What would you like her to do, now?”

  I picked up the cars and tossed them again. Amelia scampered off the sofa and did the same.

  Her mother said, “Really? Again?”

  I said, “Bad bad cars. You can throw them again.”

  I pantomimed a toss.

  Another glance at her mother.

  Lara rolled her eyes. “If he says so.”

  Amelia turned to me, turned doubtful by her mother’s tone. I retrieved the toys and threw them nearly to the far wall. “Bad cars!”

  Inhaling and squeezing her hands into tiny fists, Amelia ran over and aped my motions. Picked the cars up. “Bah bah bah.”

  She began breathing hard.

  “That’s okay? The way she’s panting.”

  I nodded.

  “If you say so.”

  We watched as Amelia went through car-assault eight more times. I use hard-plastic miniatures able to take the abuse. Sometimes I spackle and repaint the wall.

  By the time Amelia left the office, insistent upon walking unaided, one of the cars was clutched in her tiny hand.

  Her mother said, “That’s the doctor’s.”

  I said, “That’s okay, now it’s Amelia’s.”

  Swinging the vehicle overhead, the child trotted away, laughing. Her mother muttered, “Go know.”

  I walked them out of the house and down to a Mercedes of Beverly Hills loaner SUV.

  Amelia’s mother opened a rear passenger door and said, “Okay.”

  Amelia hesitated for a second, then climbed in and allowed herself to be buckled in. All the while passing the toy from hand to hand.

  “Ooom, bah bah bah.”

  I said, “Oom va-roooom.”

  She tittered then broke into a giggle fit.

  Lara smiled despite herself. Before she got behind the wheel, she faced me, biting her lip.

  I said, “A question?”

  “So that’s it?”

  “No, we’ll need more sessions. In the meantime, don’t do anything different. But if she does want to get mad at the cars, don’t stop her.”

  Amelia began humming.

  “Okay…maybe this will actually be useful. I guess.”

  Amelia said, “Vuhooom!”

  Lara said, “Um, do you do eating disorders?”

  CHAPTER

  19

  At eight p.m., Milo called my private line and asked if I was still “healing miniature psyches.”

  “Free now but tied up until noon tomorrow. Progress?”

  “Nah, I’ve just got something I want you to hear.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Hear as in verbal exchange, then we discuss. Not over the phone.”

  I was tired, had planned to finish my paperwork then unwind with Chivas and my guitar gently weeping. But he sounded needy and Robin had returned to her shop and would be working late tweezing minuscule inlay onto the mandolin’s sound-hole rosette.

  Her guess: back by nine. Eleven was more likely.

  I said, “I’ll leave the door open.”

  * * *

  —

  I was at my keyboard when he tapped on the doorframe. The playhouse was still in the center of the room.

  “That for me?”

  “If you can handle deep psychic exploration.”

  “Sounds like my nightly sleep pattern.”

  He plopped onto the battered leather couch, leaned forward, and began examining the house. “Kinda Beaver Cleaverville. Do I get to pick a favorite room? And don’t say the kitchen.”

  “What, then?”

  “Bypass the process and head straight for the outcome. The dining room.”

  He removed a steak the size of a toenail. “For plastic, this stuff looks pretty good, but the portions? Tsk…is this broccoli or cauliflower…or a lawn cutting from Dad’s mower?”

  I saved the file I was working on, double-checked, and logged off just as he was plucking a Mom-doll out of the house. “Apron and bouffant hair?”

  I said, “I bought it when I started in practice.”

  “Maybe you should update. Mama with skinny jeans and a coupla tattoos?” He rotated the doll. “Is her name Susan or Mary Jane? Is she still true to her sorority?”

  “Sorry,” I said, “patient confidentiality. How’s Twohy?”

  “Still in the hospital, nothing new to say. In terms of the crime scene, Petra doesn’t know for sure where the shooter hid but she’s got a good guess. Indentation in some brush twenty feet from where Twohy fell. Unfortunately, no footprints. Or casing, maybe it was a revolver.”

  He held up the doll. “Back to Formica and TV dinners for you, Suzy.”

  I said, “Did you have time to watch the mansion?”

  “Briefly, still can’t figure a good way to do it, road’s too open, traffic’s too thin. I used the Porsche to blend in, did some drive-bys seven to ten a.m. and four to seven p.m., figuring those were the likely times Sabino or some other employee would be coming or going. No one came or went except for FedEx delivering what looked like boxes of books. Top of that, Martz called me yesterday emphasizing I was to report to her and no one else. Meaning I can’t request backup from Moe or Sean or Alicia. Now the topic for discussion.”

  He triggered his phone. Two beeps were followed by a deep male voice.

  “This is Dr. Des Barres.”

  “Doctor, Lieutenant Sturgis.”

  “You, again? I got your messages and ignored them because I’m busy and have nothing to say to you.”

  “If you could just—”

  “You misled my service, saying it was an urgent call.”

  “It kind of is, Doctor.”

  “It kind of isn’t,” said Anthony Des Barres. “False premises. Not right, Lieutenant. Goodbye.”

  “Sorry, sir, no harm intended but if you could give me just a second? Your brother and sister did.”

  “A second to do what?” said Anthony Des Barres. “What in the world do you think I can tell you?”

  “Did they fill you in?”

  “I haven’t talked to my brother. My sister said something about a woman who lived with our father umpteen years ago.”

  “And was murdered dur
ing that time.”

  “That’s supposed to concern me because…”

  “It may not concern you at all, Doctor. The case has been reopened and I’m trying to gather background information.”

  “By operating scattershot? If I went about my job that way I’d never get any work done.”

  “You’re a surgeon?”

  “Vascular surgeon,” said Anthony Des Barres. “I take apart blood vessels and put them back together again. I don’t ask my patients about their childhoods or their ears or their rectums. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got reality to attend to.”

  “The woman in question was named Dorothy Swoboda.”

  “That means nothing to me.”

  “I sent your brother a photo and he thought he recognized her. Could I do the same with you?”

  “You’re serious,” said Des Barres.

  “It won’t take long, sir.”

  “Then can we put this to bed? I don’t like talking about them.”

  “Who?”

  “My father’s houris. It wasn’t a great time for us, seeing him change after my mother died.”

  “Running a harem.”

  “I said ‘houris,’ didn’t I? I believe it’s the root of ‘whore.’ ”

  “Not a classy bunch.”

  “Hah. Cheap types traipsing in and out of the house. A flesh parade. I was in college but my sister was a little kid. What kind of environment do you think that was for her? If I could’ve taken her with me I would’ve, but a dorm isn’t exactly the right place for a ten-year-old.”

  “The home environment affected your sister?”

  “I’m not a psychiatrist.” A beat. “I’m not saying Valerie needs one, she’s doing fine. Goodbye.”

  “That photo?”

  “Email it.”

  “Where, please?”

  Des Barres rattled off a Gmail address. “Do not send it to my office. If you do, I’ll lodge a complaint. I cannot have my staff distracted.”

  Click.

  I said, “Angry man.”

  Milo shook his head. “You’d think people would learn what hostility sets off in detectives. Now listen to this.”