Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

I said, “Be interesting to see if Arlette Des Barres’s file is there. If it’s also missing, you’ve got capital I interesting.”

“Problem is, Arlette’s file wouldn’t end up there under any circumstance. Angeles Crest jurisdiction is split between the forest service and the Sheriff’s. I have no idea where they keep their relics or if they hold on to stuff, period. Top of that, she was tagged accidental from the get-go so there’d be no real investigation.”

He tilted the glass toward the bottle. “Maybe a half pour.”

Robin obliged. “More steak, as well?”

He smiled and pecked her cheek. “No thanks, Jez.”

“Then how about we open another bottle and take it out back? Nice warm night, we can watch the fish.”

Milo looked at me. “You got yourself a girl with good values.”

We were sipping silently by the pond’s rock edge when his phone interrupted. This time I recognized the ringtone. The first four notes of Debussy’s “Clair de Lune,” over and over. Some sort of rotating classical algorithm cooked up in a Silicon Valley lab full of tone-deaf geniuses.

Robin covered one ear. “Sacrilegious, slicing it up like that.”

He said, “Sorry. Lemme snuff it.” Quick look at the screen. “Petra. Gotta take it.”

Hoisting himself from the pond bench, he walked a few feet away. Did a lot of listening and returned looking shaken.

“She just picked up a shooting on Franklin. Ellie’s boyfriend.”

I said, “Offender or victim?”

“Victim. Serious condition, in surgery at Hollywood Pres. Gotta go.”

Robin said, “Both of you?”

I said, “Don’t see what I can add.”

“The poor girl. First her mom, now her boyfriend? If anyone can use emotional support, it’s going to be her.” She squeezed my arm. “I release you for the public good. With enough wine in me, I’m ready to make the sacrifice.”

As we headed down the stairs, Milo said, “How much have you imbibed?”

“Glass and a half.”

“Three for me.” He cleared his throat. “I also had a beer before I got here. Mind driving? Time it’ll take to get there, I can clear my head.”

CHAPTER 15

The drive to Hollywood Presbyterian Medical Center is one I can pull off in my sleep. It’s a venerable institution planted at Vermont and Fountain. Around the corner from the Western Peds campus on Sunset, where, as a newly licensed psychologist, I’d spent long days on the cancer ward.

I drove to the parking valet where Milo police-tagged my dashboard and told the attendant, “Leave it here, worth your while.”

He badged us through the lobby and we headed for the ICU. The waiting room was full of miserable-looking people, as ICU waiting rooms always are. A nurse at the desk was prepared for Milo’s badge.

“Second room to your right.”

“How’s Mr. Twohy doing?”

“You’d have to ask the doctor that.”

—

Second room to the right was windowless, off-white, and sterile, set up with scarred furniture. A space accustomed to bad news.

The look on Ellie Barker’s face said she’d heard plenty. She sat on a hard-pack, fake-leather sofa between Petra and Petra’s partner, Raul Biro. Brown sweats, maybe of her own design, bagged on her. Her complexion was one shade grayer than the room, her hair tied back carelessly with a red rubber band.

She saw us but didn’t move or speak. Both detectives nodded.

Petra was her usual tailored self, this suit, black crepe. I’ve never seen Raul when his dense black hair isn’t brushed back and sprayed perfectly in place and his suit’s not a masterpiece of tailoring. Despite the blood and gore he encounters routinely, he favors light shades of featherweight twill and remains spookily stain-resistant. Tonight’s one-button was cream-colored gabardine over a starched white shirt and a massively knotted raw-silk tie the color of Japanese eggplant.

Milo and I pulled up two facing chairs.

Ellie said, “Thanks for coming.”

Milo said, “Of course.”

She shifted to me. “You probably think I need help.”

Just like the first time we’d met, cool to my presence. She’d spoken of being a difficult teen and I wondered if Stan Barker’s attempts to deal with the issue before sending her away had led her to some bad therapeutic attempts.

Milo said, “We here to support you, Ellie.”

“Thanks. Sorry, don’t mean to be snippy.” She lowered her eyes to her hands.

Petra said, “Let’s step outside, guys.” Unspoken signal to Raul.

He said, “I’ll be here with you, Ms. Barker. Anything you need, let me know.”

Ellie said, “I’m okay, really.” Then she burst into tears.

Raul had a tissue already in hand. A good detective prepares.

—

The three of us walked up the nearest hallway, passed nurses and doctors hurrying by, finally found a quiet stretch.

Petra said, “Looks like I couldn’t avoid your case.”

Milo said, “You think this is related to Swoboda?”

“It’s not an attempted robbery and given what you’ve told me about the file going missing, I can’t exclude it. Maybe someone really doesn’t want this dug up.”

“How did it go down?”

Petra said, “Twohy got shot coming back from a run. He’s a serious runner, has been working on speed goals for next year’s marathon.”

I said, “When we met him he was aiming for eight fast miles.”

“According to Ellie he reached that goal yesterday and decided to dive right in for nine. When I ran seriously I always heard it was important to rest, but maybe he’s at a different level.”

“More like driven,” I said.

Milo said, “More like a bad decision. What was his route?”

Petra said, “Out of his neighborhood, turn east on Los Feliz Boulevard, past the park, into Atwater and beyond. He got nailed four blocks from home. Before they prepped him for surgery he was conscious and in a lot of pain, staff didn’t want me around. I got them to allow me a minute. Nothing substantive.”

I said, “Fatigued and probably dehydrated. Easy target.”

“Easy and unobservant. I asked if he saw anyone or anything. Negative. He got shot from behind, single entry wound in his lower back, exit right below his rib cage, probably small caliber.”

Milo said, “Who called it in?”

“A neighbor heard the gunshot and came out with his own firearm. He’s a vet, knows the diff between a weapon and a car backfiring. Fortunately for Twohy, he also knows first aid and stanched the wound while he 911’d.”

“Hero of the story.”

“Ninety-four-year-old hero, we’re talking World War Two.” She checked her own notes. “Herman Lieber, retired accountant.”

Milo copied.

Petra said, “Feel free to talk to him but I doubt he’ll have anything to add. We’re still not sure where the shooter was stationed, there’s mature foliage and trees all over, plenty of places to use as a blind. Just got a call from the scene, so far no casing, so maybe a revolver or we just haven’t found it yet. That’s it so far. Someone lay in wait, popped out and popped Twohy. What does that sound like to you?”

Milo said, “Personal.”

I said, “Was it up close and personal?”

“Not so much,” she said. “No scorch marks. CSI’s best guess is ten, fifteen feet away.”

I said, “Lucky shot in the dark.”

“I thought so, too, Alex. It is pretty dark, nearest streetlight is up a ways.”

“If it was an execution, why only one in the back? Once Twohy was down, a headshot would’ve sealed the deal.”

Petra said, “Maybe Mr. Lieber opening the door scared the bad guy away.”

I said, “Maybe.”

Both of them looked at me.