Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

“Man, your leavings are better than most people’s meals.”

Robin and I do try to eat well but a while back we realized we’d begun to buy groceries with him in mind.

He chewed as he tried Dr. Anthony Des Barres’s phone. Listened and shook his head.

“  ‘If I do not answer I’m likely in surgery, if it’s an emergency dial 911.’ Let’s try Brother Lawyer.”

A hearty, melodious voice picked up at the other end of William Des Barres’s cell. “This is Bill. My sister said you’d be calling.”

“Did she tell you what it was about?”

“Something about one of Dad’s harem gals disappearing years ago.”

“Her name was Dorothy Swoboda.”

“Means nothing to me, Lieutenant. When that period of Dad’s life was in full gear, I was at Phillips Andover. It’s a prep school in Massachusetts.”

“All the way across the country.”

“I was an idiot jock, sir. Hockey, ice and field. Water polo, soccer, lacrosse. Opportunities in L.A. were lacking. Also, I didn’t approve of what was happening to Dad. Before Val’s mother died, he’d been pretty much a regular dad.”

Milo said, “Val’s mother, not yours?”

“Correct. Arlette was Dad’s second wife,” said Bill Des Barres. “My mom—and my brother’s—was Helen. She died when we were young, and Dad married Arlette pretty soon after and had Val. None of that evil-stepmom business, Arlette was great to us, became our functional mom. She was British and refined and soft-spoken.”

He cleared his throat. “When she died it meant we’d been orphaned twice. We weren’t little kids, I was fifteen, Tony was nineteen, but still.”

“And then your dad changed.”

“Took him a while, but yes. I rarely came home, ended up at Yale, then U. of Chicago Law because my brother was in med school there. Both of us stayed in Illinois. The only thing we regretted was being so far from Val, she was a cute kid. But she claimed Dad was taking great care of her, said she was fine.”

“Did you have your doubts?”

A beat.

“How should I put this?” said Bill Des Barres. “Dad basically was a good guy. Like most fathers back then, he worked all the time. But after Arlette’s passing he started taking more time for himself. Brought them in, first for overnights, then days, then some were sticking around longer. Using the pool, sunning themselves. I wondered about the effect on Val but to be truthful, I didn’t lose sleep over it. I was a self-centered adolescent. And like I said, Val never complained, she always seemed happy.”

“Still does.”

“What can I say, Lieutenant. My sister’s got one of those inherently sunny dispositions. She could’ve turned out to be a total spoiled brat but she didn’t because materialism was never her thing. Give her paper and pencil and she’s humming along. She’s super-talented, writes and illustrates books, did a couple of animation movies—anyway, in terms of this Dorothy whatever, can’t help you.”

“Could I email you a picture of her?”

“It’s not going to change anything,” said Des Barres.

“Would you mind, anyway?”

“Why not, go for it.”

“Really appreciate it, sir. Thanks for your time, sir.”

“Got plenty of it, Lieutenant. Kids are married and moved out, wife’s off on a bird-watching tour of Central America, dog’s ancient, sleeps and farts all day.”

—

Milo emailed the forest shot. Seconds later, his phone played Handel.

Bill Des Barres said, “I guess I spoke too soon, I actually do recognize her. Minus the hair, she was blond, they all were. What I remember is she tended to…how shall I say this…use various body parts to be noticed.”

“Seductive.”

“Not specifically with me, just an overall manner. A lot of them were like that but she stood out because she seemed to be taking it seriously—no smiles, no flirtatiousness. Like wiggling around was her assignment.”

“Aimed at your father.”

“No one else to target,” said Bill Des Barres. “He was sowing a whole lot of wild oats. Kind of a delayed reaction, I guess.”

“To what?”

“Getting married young, working like a dog since he was a kid, putting himself through school all the way to Ph.D. I guess he had a right to kick loose.”

“Any idea where he met all these women?”

“Not a clue. Maybe cocktail lounges in fancy hotels? It’s not like you could log on and click a picture—look, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about Dad. He never did anything inappropriate in front of us. Not once. It was just a party scene and it was his time and money to spend. Did it bug me? Sure. The changes in Dad were a little unsettling. But that’s not really why I left. I just wanted to do my own thing.”

He chuckled. “If anything, the girls would’ve been an incentive to stick around, right? All those bathing suits by the pool, who needs Playboy ?”

—

Milo put down his phone. “Am I the only one hearing ambivalence?”

I said, “Complicated childhoods for both of them. So now you know Dorothy was definitely there. Small steps.”

Chomp chomp. “Bathing suits by the pool, place like that there’s got to be a pool house or cabanas. Got your phone handy?”

As he consumed, I google-earthed an aerial view of the property, studied the image, and showed it to him.

He pointed to an aqua-colored rectangle. “Big pool. And yeah, this block has to be ye olde changing rooms…and this one, further back…servants’ quarters?”

“Or a guesthouse.”

His finger traveled. “Here’s the tennis court…the building behind that is probably a garage…and all the way back here looks like a belt of trees. Plenty of places to get the job done.”

He returned the phone, got up and paced. Sat back down. “Any suggestions?”

I said, “Just to be thorough. I’d like to know how Des Barres’s wives died.”

CHAPTER 14

Milo’s detective I.D. turbocharged a county records search, but it still took time. By the time the coffee I’d brewed was ready, he’d copied the info in his pad.

Helen Archer Des Barres had died fifty-one years ago at Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital. Age, forty-two. Epithelial carcinoma of the ovaries.

Arlette Melville Des Barres had died thirty-seven years ago in Angeles Crest National Forest.

Age, thirty-five.

Accident, unspecified.

I said, “Interesting.”

He said, “I call your interesting and raise.”

—

Obtaining the details was an ordeal. Starting with the coroner’s office, he endured voicemail at the extension of his favorite pathologist, Dr. Basia Lopatinski, then tried the main desk at the crypt. That left him alternating between being put on hold and talking to people unable or unwilling to help him.

“Damn turnover,” he said. “Everyone I used to work with has retired. Except Basia.”

I thought, The price of enduring.

He tried Basia a second time. She picked up, characteristically buoyant, listened to his request.

“That long ago? Best I can do is probably just a summary like on the Swoboda woman.”

“I’ll take what I can get, Basia.”

“Are the cases related?”

“She’s the wife of a guy Swoboda was living with. Died a year before Swoboda.”

“Hold on…okay, here it is,” she said. “Fatal equine accident, multiple skull fractures, brain bleed. Sounds like she fell off a horse in Angeles Crest.”

“Where specifically in Angeles Crest?”

“Doesn’t say. I know bad guys like to dump bodies out there but isn’t that usually biker-types and gangsters? Did she associate with either?”

“Don’t know much about her, Basia, but unlikely. Anything suspicious about the death?”