Serpentine

by Jonathan Kellerman

  She shivered. “I thought it was ludicrous but of course I’d never say anything. I would catch the nannies raising their eyebrows but they knew better than to insult the boss. And the blondes were all over him. Tony this, Tony that, you’re so cool and out of sight.”

  I said, “Trying to be young and hip.”

  “Trying far too hard. I found it sad. And confusing. Accepting a caricature of my father. But he must’ve liked the attention because he held on to that look for years. All through my adolescence, you’re with something long enough, you get used to it and I did. The world seemed to be going casual, anyway, so it wasn’t that. And eventually, he toned down—more tasteful casual clothes. But the hair and the beard stayed black.”

  Her knuckles blanched around the wheel. “I was a quiet, obedient kid but when I got older—twelve, thirteen—I found myself drawing secret caricatures of him and the blondes. Writing mean-spirited captions. Then I’d immediately shred them and toss them in the trash. That lasted until I was fourteen, fifteen. That’s when his health began giving way. First there were heart issues, then arthritis, he got bowed over and moved more slowly. Basically the aging process, maybe accelerated by fast living. Then, when I was twenty-one—right after my twenty-first birthday, he got cancer. First prostate, which they said was curable, he had surgery and was supposedly cured. But he was never the same—listless, he gained weight. No more blondes, I’m assuming it affected his masculinity. Then, when I was twenty-three, came the stomach cancer, which wasn’t curable. That’s when things got horrific. The pain, wasting away.”

  I said, “You’re a young woman and you’re dealing with it.”

  “I’d just graduated college and was living at home.” She fussed with her hair some more, twisting, tugging. “I never left, just turned inward, found my own space—internal space. That’s when my stories and my art took off—not that I wouldn’t have traded all of that for Father to get well. But he didn’t. And it drove me creatively—I had to have some kind of escape.”

  “Of course.”

  “I really did,” she said. “By the time I turned twenty-four, he was terminal— Would you mind if we go back outside? I’m feeling a little closed-in.”

  * * *

  —

  We left the Mazda and walked to the rear of the unmarked. Valerie Des Barres, paler by several shades, pretended to study the bifurcated sky. Milo and I studied her. He was back to drumming his thigh.

  Her nostrils flared as she inhaled and blew air out audibly. The sound merged with the gentle prod of trees by a brief gust of warm breeze.

  She said, “He was on his deathbed, doctors and nurses were coming in and giving him morphine. My brothers had flown in the previous week thinking this was the end. When it wasn’t, they returned to Chicago. I remember thinking, Father disappointed them again.”

  I said, “Your brothers thought he’d let them down?”

  “Oh, yes. The whole blonde thing offended them profoundly. Whatever respect they’d had for him was gone. Ironically, though, Bill began imitating Father. Or at least that’s how it seems to me.”

  Milo said, “He had a harem of his own?”

  “No, no.” She laughed. “He just really got into chasing women. He’s been married and divorced four times, I can’t tell you how many girlfriends he’s had. But that’s neither here nor there. Yes, they resented Father but I didn’t—I firmly believe I’m being honest when I say that.”

  Her hands folded across her chest. As if realizing the defensiveness that implied, she dropped them quickly, squared her shoulders and stood taller.

  Martyr accepting sacrifice.

  “So,” she said. “Deathbed scene. It’s a Sunday, the nannies are in church. No doctors around, just one of the nurses the hospice sends by but she’s not there in his room, it’s a huge house, who knows where she is? I’d been sleeping in the anteroom next to his bedroom, wanting to be close in case he needed me. I’d set up my drawing table, so it really wasn’t an imposition. There was no point remaining at his bedside, for the most part he was in and out of consciousness. And when he came to consciousness he just moaned in pain. He was down to skin and bones…so…I just couldn’t look at that all day. So there I am in the next room, sketching away, and I hear him croak my name and I rush in. He wasn’t moaning but I could tell from his face that he was in great pain. I said, ‘Let’s get you some medicine.’ He shook his head. Violently. I wasn’t sure what that meant—some sort of higher-level agony throe or he didn’t want any morphine? I was about to get the nurse when he let out this different—this hoarse noise, almost animalistic, and began waving a hand I thought had been too weak to even move. Beckoning me over. I sat on the edge of his bed and held his other hand. It was so frail and cold…he was breathing shallowly, I’m thinking this is it, I’m going to actually see it. Terrifying. Then all of a sudden he raises himself up and puts his lips close to my ear and frees his hand and clamps it around my arm.”

  She touched her right biceps. “I mean clamped. I was amazed at how strong his grip was, his nails were actually biting into my arm but of course I didn’t say anything. He breathed a few times then, clear as day, he uttered the first words he’d spoken in a week.”

  She walked away from us, stopped perilously close to the edge, froze for a moment and returned.

  “Here’s what he said: ‘Bring the devil into your home, you’re the devil’s disciple.’ ”

  Milo scrawled in his pad.

  Val Des Barres shook her head. “What do you say to that? I figured he was delirious but his eyes were suddenly clear and they seemed full of intent. Struggling to communicate. I said something meaningless and mumbly and that really upset him. He actually moved what was left of his body into a full, upright sit, kept squeezing my arm, and waved his other hand in the air. Then he repeated it. Louder. Almost like an evangelical preacher.”

  Milo read. “ ‘Bring the devil into your home, you’re the devil’s disciple.’ ”

  “Word for word, Lieutenant. It’s not something you forget. I convinced myself it was delirium, shoved the whole incident to the back of my head, why wouldn’t I? But now that you’ve told me about Ellie’s mother, I can’t help wondering. Was he talking about something that actually happened?”

  Again, she turned her back on us. “Did he do something evil himself?”

  Milo and I said nothing.

  Val Des Barres said, “And then, at eleven thirty-four p.m., he died.”

  We let the quiet linger, broken by the breeze and a faint, miles-away traffic hum from the grid below.

  “That’s it,” she said. “That’s all of it.”

  Milo said, “We really appreciate your telling us something so difficult.”

  “Does it mean anything? Based upon what you know?”

  “No, ma’am. And a man on his deathbed…”

  “Who knows what the brain cells are doing, I get that. That’s what I keep telling myself. I hope it’s true.”

  She stepped up to Milo. “I needed to get it off my chest. You’re so kind, Lieutenant.” She took his hand, squeezed it briefly, let go with reluctance.

  I wagered on his first comment when we were alone: My week for Mr. Popular. If they only knew.

  He said, “We’ve got no evidence your dad did anything criminal but can you handle a tough question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you ever witness your dad injure any of the blondes?”

  “Never.”

  I said, “When the car went over the side of the road, you weren’t aware of it.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  Milo said, “No investigators ever showed up at your house.”

  “Not that I ever saw. And I’m sure if it did happen, the nannies would’ve shielded me from it.”

  She smiled. “That was my life, the helpless nerdy kid buffere
d from reality. I suppose that’s why I’ve never left.”

  I said, “For the most part the blondes were nice to you.”

  “When there was contact,” she said. “When they started hanging around for prolonged periods, walking to and from the pool and the tennis court in bikinis and skimpy outfits, it embarrassed me. Again, the nannies rushed me along but they didn’t have to. I thought it was gross—all that jiggling. But the funny thing is, I was in so much denial I never consciously associated Father with it. As in, This is what he wants. Pretty stupid, huh? I guess I needed to see him in the best image possible. Even with that ridiculous beard and those clothes.”

  I said, “Were the nannies also tutors?”

  “Was I homeschooled? Oh, no. I went to Evangeline—a girls’ academy over the hill in Studio City. It’s no longer there, got absorbed into Hollyhock and Bel Air Prep decades ago.”

  “So you wouldn’t have been home for a good part of the day.”

  “Did I miss seeing something? It’s certainly possible. All I can tell you is that I never witnessed anything violent or even conflictual. Just the opposite. Father seemed to be happier than he’d ever been, but it was an unsettling happiness for me. As if he was pushing himself too hard to be different. When I was older and learned what was going on in the world out there, I began wondering if that happiness had been helped along. If you know what I mean.”

  I said, “Drugs.”

  “Or alcohol. Or both. He could get spacy-looking and his smiles could get…the best word is flaky. Like he wasn’t really there. I talked to my brothers about it and they laughed at me and said, ‘What do you think? He’s probably stoned out of his gourd.’ But I saw no firsthand evidence of it. No joints or pills lying around and certainly no needles or anything truly gross. There was drinking. Beer, wine, cocktails. But everyone did that. Our home ec textbooks at Evangeline showed well-dressed families sitting around with the parents nursing from Martini glasses.”

  Milo said, “The clan that imbibes together, jibes together.”

  Val Des Barres, still standing close to him, took his hand again. “You’re a witty man, Lieutenant Sturgis. You’ve made this experience tolerable.”

  Then she tiptoed, as if ready to kiss him, thought better of it and settled back on flat shoes.

  Two people blushing.

  I amended my bet. The initial comment would be My week for Mr. Romeo. If they only knew.

  He let some time pass, asked if there was anything else she wanted to say.

  “Just that I hope you find out what happened to Ellie’s mother. No matter where that leads.”

  “You’re a brave woman.”

  “That’s kind but I don’t think so,” she said. “If I was brave, I’d get out more.”

  CHAPTER

  26

  We watched her drive away at twenty miles per.

  Milo wagged a finger. “Don’t say it.”

  “What?”

  “My newfound animal magnetism.”

  I said, “If they only knew.”

  “Hey, don’t dismiss it, either.” He clapped me on the back. “Maybe all the time I’ve been hanging with you, something’s rubbed off.”

  We got back in the car. He backed onto Mulholland and headed west. “Letting the devil in. Think he was talking about himself or one of his femmes getting fatale with Arlette and Dorothy?”

  I said, “Arlette’s death opened up a whole new world for Des Barres. He’d have no motive for thinning the harem but a jealous competitor would.”

  “Coupla blondes take a ride in the Caddy, one comes back.”

  “And even if Des Barres hadn’t played a role in Dorothy’s death, he might have figured it out. Or been told about it. Either way, it sat in his brain for decades. Then he got prostate cancer. If it impacted his sexual drive that might’ve seemed like rough justice. Soon after, his stomach went bad and he became terminally ill. On his deathbed, with the neurons scrambled, he blurted out a veiled confession.”

  “Makes sense. Now try to prove it.”

  As we reached Laurel Canyon, I said, “Someone like Femme, can’t see her just walking away empty-handed.”

  “She blackmailed Des Barres?”

  “Or just lifted trinkets from the mansion and split. It’s an enormous place, with an owner not paying attention, it might not have been that hard.”

  “True,” he said. “When I was starting out I had a burglary case. Holmby Hills, housekeeper gradually stole designer gowns and furs. Took the victim fifteen months to discover it, and by that time the maid was gone.”

  He phoned Petra, got voicemail, asked her to see if she could find any burglary complaints at the Des Barres residence between twenty-five and forty years ago. Clicking off, he sang the chorus from Tom Petty’s “The Waiting” in a rumbly basso. His voice isn’t bad when he pays attention.

  I said, “Maybe there’s a shortcut. Give me Val’s number.”

  * * *

  —

  A male voice, soft, Latin-inflected, picked up. “Des Barres residence.”

  “Sabino? This is one of the men who just met with Ms. Des Barres. Can I talk to her for a sec.”

  “She’s drawing, sir.”

  “Just for a moment.”

  “I dunno.”

  “It’s important,” I said. “Police business.”

  “Hold on. Sir.”

  Moments later, Val came on: “Hi, Lieutenant.”

  “This is Alex,” I said. “He’s driving without distraction.”

  “Oh, of course. What can I do for you?”

  “We’d like to know if your house was ever burgled when your dad was alive.”

  Simple yes-or-no question.

  She said, “I’m not sure.”

  “You were too young to remember?”

  “No, I remember clearly. Father did think something had happened, he was pretty upset. But to my knowledge he never called the police and the issue faded away.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Not that long after your murder—maybe a month or so after? Possibly two, can’t say for sure. I do know I was young.”

  “How long did it take for the issue to fade?”

  “Just a day,” she said. “One night, I heard him cursing, almost growling, went to his bedroom and saw him pawing through his drawers, tossing things all over the place. Not like him, he was extremely meticulous. I asked what was going on and he said someone had taken advantage of him. I asked how. He said, ‘The Seventh Commandment, darling,’ and then he gritted his teeth. I asked who but he just shook his head. The following morning, he told me he’d been wrong, just forget about it.”

  “What did he think was missing?”

  “If he was rummaging in his drawers, it was probably his jewelry. He’d really gotten into chunky gold chains, had boxes of them from Beverly Hills boutiques. Rings, too—diamonds and ruby pinkie rings. After it happened, he eased off a bit on the gaudy stuff. But he never gave it up. Why’s the lieutenant asking?”

  Milo said, “Just trying to be thorough.”

  Another non-explanation.

  Val Des Barres said, “Oh, hi. Of course, being thorough is the only way. By the way, our chat was helpful. For some reason I feel lighter.”

  “That’s great,” he said.

  She and Milo exchanged goodbyes and I hung up.

  He said, “The timing fits. Femme gets rid of Dorothy, sticks around, finally figures snagging the boss is a lost cause, and collects some combat pay.”

  “If Des Barres was implicated in Arlette’s death, he couldn’t very well report a burglary by his accomplice.”

  “Let the devil in…” He redialed Petra. “Forget the previous request, kid. If this all sounds weird, call me and I’ll fill you in.” To me: “Now what?”

 
I said, “Only thing I can think of is trying to identify and find Femme. Maybe starting with the two blondes in the Azalea photo and seeing where that leads.”

  “Put the shot on social media?”

  “That or start old-school—find someone who remembers the club.”

  “Suggestions?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Keep it close to home.”

  * * *

  —

  He took Fountain to La Cienega, continued south to Third Street and the ever-growing megalith that is Cedars-Sinai hospital. Gliding easily, as if moving along a well-worn track, he continued to the emergency drop-off and parked in a No Parking zone. A valet came over.

  “Keys are in the ignition, Armando.”

  “Hi, Lieutenant. Dr. Silverman is here.”

  “Great.”

  “Um, sorry, I have to ask you how long. They’re kind of clamping down on non-essentials.”

  “This is essential, Armando. Homicide case.” Milo slipped him a five.

  “Oh,” said the valet. “Sure, whatever you need, I’ll take care of you.”

  * * *

  —

  The E.R. waiting room was the usual acrid mix of anxiety, resignation, and human secretions. Faces out of Dickens. No one waiting looked in imminent danger, but you never know.

  The triage nurse said, “Hey, Milo. You’re in luck, he just got out of surgery.”

  “Hope his patient’s in luck.”

  She laughed. “She is. Stitched up like a football but nothing serious.”

  We kept going.

  I said, “Everything’s relative.”