Serpentine: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “I’ll make copies and get it back to you.” He looked at the photo. “These are your parents?”

  She nodded. “There’s a date stamp on the back. It was taken when I was two, I have no idea where.”

  Milo and I studied the shot. Man and woman standing next to each other, a foot of space between them. The setting somewhere outdoors; diamonds of milk-colored sky speckling the gaps in a green-black curtain of trees. Stout trunks, the ground littered with needles.

  Some sort of conifer forest. Maybe the place where Stanley Barker had scattered Dorothy’s ashes.

  He stood on the right. Midforties, average height, pear-shaped, with sparse dark hair and an owlish face made more so by black-framed eyeglasses. Despite the outdoor setting, he wore a light-blue suit with broad lapels, a white shirt buttoned to the neck, and black, bubble-toed shoes.

  Hands pressed to his sides, forcing a half smile. Not a natural poser.

  The woman was young enough to be his daughter—early to midtwenties. Long-stemmed and taller than Barker courtesy white spike-heeled sandals and bright-red hair assembled in a sprayed, wavy updo that showed off a pale swan neck.

  The face perched on the neck was lean, oval, symmetrical. The right structure for beauty but blocked from beauty by hard eyes and a brittle smile.

  Still, a markedly attractive woman, wasp-waisted and full-busted, with curvy contours emphasized by a maroon dress cinched corset-tight by a broad silver belt.

  This one liked to pose. She’d placed her hands on her hips, cocked her left haunch slightly higher, and positioned her feet at a forty-five-degree angle from each other.

  No jewelry but for a green band worn low around her neck and resting in the hollow above her sternum.

  Neither of them dressed for a forest. Neither of them happy.

  I said, “Looks like the same necklace you’re wearing.”

  Ellie Barker’s fingers climbed to the beads and rested atop them protectively.

  “It’s the only thing I have of hers. Dad gave it to me after we got back.”

  “Back from?”

  “Ice cream. He’d had it in his pocket and when we were back home, he put it on me. He said everything else of hers had been clothing that he’d given to Goodwill. He said he’d bought the necklace for her at an art fair. She didn’t really like it but would wear it when he asked.”

  “Malachite?”

  “Serpentine. Nothing precious, just a rock with minerals—hydrogen magnesium iron phyllosilicate.” She smiled. “I memorized that.”

  Milo took the album, closed it, placed it in his lap.

  Ellie Barker said, “I tried to get the details from the coroner but they said something that far back they don’t keep full files, I was lucky they had that. I said I’d like to know who killed her and they said that’s a police matter. So I went back to the article and it said Mulholland Drive off Coldwater Canyon. I google-mapped and found out one side of Mulholland was Beverly Hills, the other the Hollywood Hills. I tried both police departments, did a lot of waiting while I was on hold. The people I finally spoke to said they’d get back to me but never did. So, again, I gave up. I tend to do that…then I went to that fundraiser.”

  I said, “What was the cause?”

  “Children,” said Ellie Barker. “Kids whose parents had died.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  Milo said, “Any questions before we get going?”

  Ellie Barker continued to play with the green beads. “Do you think there’s a chance?”

  “These old cases are tough unless biological evidence has been preserved. Even then, sometimes all we get is victim DNA. Or there’s offender DNA but it can’t be matched to any database. But let’s see.”

  “What about familial DNA? All those public-access genealogy files you hear about? Like what they use now to catch killers.”

  “If we have something to match, we’ll use every possible method,” said Milo.

  “Thanks. I have to say this is the first time I feel I’m being taken seriously. You have my contacts—phone, email.”

  “Got them from Deputy Chief Martz.”

  “No idea who that is but thank him for me.”

  “Her. Sure.”

  “I’m down here for as long as you need me.”

  “Where’s your home base?”

  “I own a house in Napa that I’m renting out. I have a one-year lease on this place.”

  I said, “Why Los Feliz? Any personal connection?”

  “I wanted somewhere reasonably close to where…it happened. There were no vacancies up on Mulholland, and this place cropped up for a reasonable rent. I’m not even sure where exactly it happened. If you find out, could you tell me?”

  Milo said, “Okay. I should tell you this is a safe neighborhood but a few blocks south it can get rough.”

  “Oh. Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind.”

  We stood. Ellie Barker pressed forward to shake Milo’s hand. Making sure she got hold of it.

  “Whatever happens, Lieutenant, thank you so much. At least I’ll know I had a professional working for me—no, that came out wrong. You’re not my employee.”

  Milo smiled.

  “At least I hope you don’t feel that way,” she said. “I want you to do your job unobstructed by me or anyone else. You’ll be working to discover the truth and I’m sure that’s important to you, why else would you choose your career?”

  A glance at me. “You, too, of course.”

  Before we got to the door, a latch turned and it swung open. A man in blue shorts and a white sweat-soaked T-shirt surged in wiping his face with a purple cooling cloth. Fitness watch around his wrist, water bottle clipped to his waistband, earbuds running to a phone that sagged a pocket.

  Breathing audibly. He saw us, stopped short, clamped his lips and flared his nostrils.

  Out came the earbuds.

  Ellie Barker said, “Hon, this is Lieutenant Sturgis and he brought a consulting psychologist. Guys, Brannon Twohy, my still-significant other.”

  The man said, “Still?”

  She pecked Twohy’s cheek. He bore it without response. She massaged his biceps. “I’m giving you props for endurance, hon. My doing the quest and all that.”

  Twohy shrugged. “Is what it is.” He draped an arm over her shoulders but left his hand floating in the air, an odd detachment.

  Ellie said, “Brannon’s been super-supportive but I’m sure he’s more realistic than me.”

  Twohy didn’t argue.

  He was younger than her, maybe thirty. Tan and rock-jawed with close-set dark eyes uncluttered by curiosity. Deep tan, black and wavy shoulder-length hair.

  “I reek, gotta shower.”

  Ellie said, “How’d it go?”

  “Seven point eight miles, record speed.”

  “Good for you.”

  Twohy said, “Once I get to eight, I’ll be cool.”

  He headed for the stairs, taking two at a time.

  “Brannon gave up his job to come down here with me.”

  I said, “What kind of work does he do?”

  “Marketing. He was working for a consortium of organic vintners in St. Helena, is looking for something here.” She eyed the staircase. “I’d better get up there. He’ll need an Advil for his muscle aches and unless I suggest it, he won’t bother. Thanks, guys.”

  * * *

  —

  Milo drove back toward Los Feliz Boulevard, speeding and alarming squirrels.

  I said, “What now?”

  “Lunch enhanced by finely distilled spirits.”

  “You can drink on this job?”

  “Seeing as it’s not a normal gig? Till I hear different,” he said. “Which I won’t. Who’s gonna rat me out?”

  * * *

  —


  He managed a dubious left across three lanes of Los Feliz, descended south to Franklin Avenue, continued west toward the core of commercial Hollywood. Turning left on Cherokee, he pulled into the rear lot of Musso & Frank.

  Hundred-year-old restaurant managing to thrive in a city that despises longevity.

  The lot’s smaller than it used to be, and good slots are at a premium. Milo’s badge impressed the lot attendant and he eased between a red Ferrari and a silver Porsche turbo.

  He tucked the album under his arm and we entered through the back, the way most people do at Musso. Catching eyefuls of the mammoth stainless-steel kitchen filled with hardworking staff and savory steam.

  A red-jacketed waiter nearly as old as the establishment trudged us to a red leather booth. John F. Kennedy had killed the men’s hat industry because of an oversized cranium too hard to fit, but this place still featured brass hat racks. The clientele was people old enough to remember the restaurant when it was middle-aged and twenty-somethings yearning for something they couldn’t quite figure out.

  The waiter looked at us as if sizing up a bin of produce. “Need menus?”

  “God forbid,” said Milo. “Coupla Martinis, one big unstuffed olive in each, yes to vermouth.”

  “Without vermoot it’s gin. Food to wash it down?”

  “Two orders of sand dabs.”

  “Good.” He left at an even slower pace.

  I said, “Nothing like a pal who takes charge.”

  “You’da picked something better?”

  “Nope.”

  “Besides.”

  “Besides what?”

  “I’m paying.”

  * * *

  —

  The drinks came quickly.

  Milo rolled his olive around, creating glassy swirls in the crystalline liquid before taking an uncharacteristically modest sip. He sat back, smiling. “Nectar of the gods.”

  I said, “I heard the gods preferred Old-Fashioneds.”

  “Only the ones in charge of Hades.”

  I laughed and drank. Crisp as a perfect morning.

  He said, “You are now fortified. Proceed with wisdom.”

  “Give me another look at the photo.”

  He placed the album on the table, flipped it open, and rotated it facing me.

  I said, “Don’t want to read too much into one image but these two don’t look thrilled to be with each other. Combine that with her not taking his name and ending up four hundred miles from home, a trial separation or a complete breakup at the time of her death should be considered.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” he said, tapping the photo. “This is not a lovey-dovey situation. Toss in no marriage and the commitment level’s questionable.”

  “Barker was committed to Ellie.”

  “Like she said, good dad. Maybe because he’d come to love Ellie and Dottie wasn’t a great mom. Cutting out and leaving a three-year-old behind? Or maybe she didn’t leave voluntarily.”

  I said, “Your basic domestic homicide.”

  “Like you said, no love lost in the photo,” he said. “And just playing the odds, who kills women? Guys who supposedly once loved them. Right off the bat, I can see two possibilities: Dottie runs away from Stan out of fear, he tracks her to L.A. and kills her. Or he kills her at home, drives her body far enough to where it’s not gonna be connected to him, and sets her on fire.”

  I said, “And Ellie wouldn’t have been a problem witness, given her age. He could’ve left her with a sitter or a friend. Or he even took her along, sedated, and stashed her in a hotel room while he took care of business.”

  “Poor kid rides with Daddy unaware Mommy’s body is in the trunk? Nasty. However it went down, it worked. Barker was never busted and Ellie’s got no memory of anything.”

  He extracted the olive and ate it. “Just thought of something. According to the Times article, Dottie died on a Saturday night. The guy wouldn’t even have missed work.”

  A basket of sourdough French bread arrived. He buttered two substantial chunks and polished them off. “If we’re right, Ellie’s gonna be real thrilled about the outcome. Then again, that assumes I can prove anything.”

  “Hey,” I said, “the quest is what matters, seeing as you’re out for truth and justice and kindness toward all living things.”

  “God, I hate that.”

  “High expectations?”

  “High-level delusions,” he said. “Like I was anointed after pulling Excalibur out of a rock without throwing my back out.”

  His eyes shifted back to the photo. “She’s cute but kind of brassy-looking, no? Like she knew how to take care of herself.”

  I said, “Check out the pose. Like she’d done some modeling. Or wanted to.”

  He nodded. “Older guy, cute young thing. Maybe she never settled down to blissful pseudo-matrimony and cheated on the Stanster one time too many—hell, maybe she had a boyfriend with her in L.A. and that’s what brought her down here.”

  He took a longer swallow of Martini. “Listen to me, getting all hypothetical.”

  I studied the picture some more. “Not only don’t they look romantic, they don’t seem to fit together.”

  He peered. “Dr. Scrabble and Ms. Cocktail Lounge?” His thumbnail pinged the Martini glass. “For her one of these is a nightcap, for him it’s warm cocoa?”

  “She was a single mother before she met him, unmarried or escaping Ellie’s bio-dad. She could’ve believed she was out for stability but then it got boring and she looked for some excitement.”

  “She parties, Stanley finds out, and boom.”

  “Or,” I said, “Mr. Excitement turned out to be a bad bet.”

  “The boyfriend did her?” he said. “Interesting…some gigolo rips her money and jewels. Which supposedly she didn’t have but are you buying that all she had was that necklace? She looks like a woman who’d go for bling.”

  I said, “Maybe Barker told Ellie there was no bling to avoid uncomfortable questions. As in he killed her and cashed everything in except for the piece he’d bought her.”

  “That she didn’t like. And he bestows upon the kid. That’s a little creepy, no? Putting it on her like some sort of ceremony.”

  I said, “Ellie doesn’t see it that way. The necklace means a lot to her. She wasn’t wearing it when we came in but put it on while fetching herself water. Maybe her own ceremony.”

  “That so?” he said. “Didn’t notice.” He frowned. “Shoulda noticed. Damn—that’s why I wanted you there. You’re like a laser, lighting up corners.”

  I shook my head.

  He said, “What?”

  “Sword, rock, delusions.”

  “Hey,” he said, “you can handle it—and here’s the grub. Time to step into reality.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  We tucked into sand dabs, potatoes, and green beans, topped the meal with lemon meringue pie. It’s not my usual lunch and when we stood, I was fighting torpor.

  Milo looked invigorated. He threw cash on the table and we left.

  Twelve thirty. Enough time to get me home for my appointments. I said so.

  He said, “Oh, that—yeah, sure.”

  As we got in the car, he said, “Maybe this is irrelevant but Ellie also seems to have found herself an odd fit with Runner Boy.”

  “She’s cheerful, he’s borderline grim?”

  “That, too, but I was thinking socioeconomic status. All that money she’s got. I know, a male tycoon with a hard-body girlfriend, I might not notice. So yeah, I’m caught up in convention, but she is serious rich. I found a reference to the sale of her company in Forbes. Quote unquote, ‘less than three hundred million.’ And she’s apologizing about taking Mr. Fitbit away from his nine-to-five. What’s that mean? Low self-esteem?”

&nb
sp; “No accounting for love.”

  “Yeah, yeah, insufficient data. But the way she plays herself down—working hard not to come across mega-loaded. Couldn’t that mean she feels she doesn’t deserve her good fortune?”

  I said, “Or she’s unpretentious.”

  “Huh. Okay, I’m meandering into irrelevant stuff.” He started up the Impala and sped out of the lot.

  “Something else about her bugs me,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t hate her.”

  * * *

  —

  He tuned the radio to citywide police calls and ignored traffic rules. Free of regular police work he had no reason to absorb the never-ending tide of mostly petty crimes other than to block out conversation. Which was fine with me. I was slipping in and out of caloric drowse.

  The dominant calls were 415s. Meaning anything the department viewed as a disturbance. Most frittered out to nothing. Two miles in, I turned down the volume. “What’s next?”

  “You’ll be in your office healing young minds and I’ll be fruitlessly looking for information on the late Ms. Swoboda. Seeing as it’s Hollywood, I already asked Petra to take a look and see if there’re any records. So far zilch. I was hoping that guy at the archive—Jake Lev—could help, but he left the force and, get this, went back to Harvard where he’d dropped out years ago. Go know, huh? Unfortunately the genius they put in his place isn’t Ivy League material. If nothing shows up by tomorrow, I’m going down myself.”

  Checking his Timex. “I’ll get you back easily. Custody cases?”

  “Two,” I said.

  “Pays the bills,” he said. “But I’m still hoping Ellie’ll come through for you as a patient. Less than three hundred mill?”

  “Not going to happen,” I said. “She’s focused on you.”

  “Huh. Yeah, I’m feeling that.” He reached up and touched his shoulder. “Like a pile of boulders right here.”

  * * *

  —

  He got me back with time to spare so I walked to the service porch door, descended to the garden, stopped by the pond to feed the fish and net out some leaves, continued to the casita that serves as Robin’s studio.