Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

“I figured by seven you might be up.”

“It’s six. I’m in Saigon.”

“Sorry.”

Another yawn. “I’ll cope. I assume this is about that girl—Ellie whatever?”

“Barker.”

“So Milo did get assigned.” She chuckled. “How’d he take that?”

“He’s a pro.”

“Meaning he’s ticked off. But so goes reality. Any progress to report?”

“He just started.”

“Meaning no,” she said. “So what do you imagine I can do for you?”

“Ellie Barker described meeting another woman at the Comfort Zone fundraiser—”

“And?”

“What’s her name?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“Don’t have her number.”

“What’s this about?”

“Can’t get into that, yet.”

“But you can call me at six?”

“Given your initiative in getting the process going, I thought you’d be pleased to help.”

“You…are something. Okay, fine, I did get the ball rolling, can’t complain about it bouncing back. Her first name was Val, never met her before, don’t know her surname. She was some kind of movie person, was sitting between me and that poor girl. We traded places because I said I might be able to help. I’m a people-pleaser and I always follow through.”

I said, “A movie person.”

“I knew she wasn’t an actress,” said Bauer, “because she didn’t have that actress thing going on and I never heard of her. I asked her what aspect—this was after the whole murder discussion, we were having dessert—and she said she wrote and produced. That could mean anything, right? More often than not it’s rich kids dabbling and she has money from somewhere. Donated twenty thousand at the luncheon. I’d tell you what I gave but it’s none of your business.”

“I’m sure you were generous. Thanks. Bye.”

“Wham bam?” she said.

“Unless you’ve got something to add.”

“I do not. And no need to contact me again unless you’ve got a progress report. I don’t know either of them from Adam, did a good deed and am not committed nor involved in their issues. Know the difference? With a ham-and-eggs breakfast, the chicken’s involved but the pig’s committed.”

—

With a trip to the archive scheduled tomorrow and total autonomy, I figured Milo would avoid his office. But he didn’t answer his cell so I tried his desk and got him.

“Had to clear paper, just about to leave.”

I said, “Stay in your seat,” and told him about Valerie Des Barres.

He said, “The guy’s daughter…ol’ Du might actually be onto something? Except if she thought Daddy was involved in murder, why would she encourage Ellie to dig?”

“Maybe it’s been an issue for her, too. She’s a few years older than Ellie, would’ve been around eight or nine at the time Swoboda went over the cliff. Easily old enough to have seen something and hold on to the memory. What if she’s been carrying around disturbing memories from her childhood? All of a sudden, Ellie’s sitting next to her at a fundraiser and telling her a story that shocks her. It would’ve seemed like massive karma.”

“She’s one of those moral compass types, wants the truth at all costs?”

“She seems to devote herself to good works. I don’t want to demean altruism but it can be a form of atonement.”

“Any idea where she lives?”

“Her website says L.A.”

“Let’s find out where she pays property tax.”

I sat through a couple minutes of keyboard clicks.

He said, “Here we are, the Valerie Antonia Des Barres Trust…well, look at this. We’ve already been there. Today.”

“The gated place on the corner of Marilyn.”

“None other, according to the plat map. That’s like…three and a quarter acres of ancestral soil. So whatever feelings she has for the old man, she’s okay with living in his manse. Ready for a drop-in tomorrow, say nine?”

“Instead of the archive?”

“Way instead, I’m allergic to dust.”

“Since when?”

“Now.”

CHAPTER 12

Same trip as yesterday, different route.

Milo was racing the Impala’s engine as I came down the stairs. Before I had my seatbelt on, he hurtled down the old bridle path leading to my gate and gunned toward the Glen.

I said, “Galoway’s driving inspired you?”

He eased up on the gas, hooked a left. “So what approach do I take with Val?”

“Hard to say until we’ve met her.”

“I thought about calling her first but with zero info beyond her DMV data—forty-six, brown, blue, wears glasses—I couldn’t come up with anything. So no sense losing the surprise factor. And if she’s not in, maybe I can impress a servant to get past the gates and give the place a once-over.”

A mile later: “Ellie texted me as I drove over. Wishing me luck, happy face emojis for good measure. Think she’s really that nice?”

“Why wouldn’t she be?”

“ ’Cause I’m a cynical bastard. I didn’t get back to her. The way things are looking, no sense getting too cozy.”

—

We reached the green gates of the Des Barres estate thirty-five minutes later. Milo maneuvered close to a left-hand call box and jabbed a button.

Dial tone on speaker, five rings before a female voice said, “Yes?”

“Ms. Des Barres?”

“Who’s this?”

“Lieutenant Milo Sturgis, Los Angeles Police.”

“Oh. About those robberies. Thanks, one sec, please.”

Movement several feet above the box to the right caught my eye. An eyeball lens partially concealed by the hedge rotated silently.

I mouthed, Camera. Milo fished in his pocket.

The voice said, “Lieutenant, just to be careful could you please show your credentials to the camera above the box? It’s a round white dealie on the right but you can probably just stick your hand out and rotate it a smidge. See it?”

“I do, ma’am.”

Flash of shield. The gates swung open.

—

Midway up the cobbled drive, a short, thin, dark-haired woman appeared, walking a black and tan hound on a loose leash. Valerie Des Barres wore a shapeless brown and rust-splotched batik dress and white sneakers. Brown hair was streaked with gray and cut in a jaw-length pageboy. She waved at us merrily. The dog’s tongue lolled and its tail wagged.

“Good start,” said Milo. “For the nanoseconds it’s gonna last.”

He inched the car up and stopped next to her. Up close, her skin was smooth and soft-looking, almost juvenile, the blue of her eyes deep and languid.

“Thanks for coming, Lieutenant. I forgot to send in the neighborhood watch card, it’s good you used the list.”

Milo smiled. “Want a ride?”

Valerie Des Barres said, “Tempting but I need the exercise. Keep going, I’ll catch up.”

Woman and dog watched as the Impala resumed climbing. Another wave, another wag. Milo’s lips worked ferociously, growling something that ended with “Right?”

I said, “Didn’t hear the rest of it.”

“Another nice one. Cop’s curse.”

—

The road’s final curve was the sharpest, turning the appearance of the house into a visual surprise. Two generous stories topped by a bell tower rose above a gazania lawn planted with sycamores, scarlet-blossoming crepe myrtles, and Aleppo pines. A flagstoned parking area could accommodate twenty more vehicles than the three in sight: dusty, long-bed pickup with a lawnmower in the back, Mazda SUV, Toyota Corolla.

Four men in khakis and pith helmets snipped and raked and swept. The mansion’s front door was wide open, enlarged visually by the short stature of the sixtyish Hispanic man standing in the opening.

White shirt, dark slacks, waving at us. When we reached him, he said, “Welcome,” as if he meant it. Behind him, a stocky, kerchiefed woman in her forties mopped the green onyx floor of an entry hall the size of a starter apartment. A deco ebony table in the center of the onyx sported a vase full of crepe myrtle branches. Earbuds played something that pleased the maid and made her head bob, but she paused long enough to smile.