Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

“This is a reach but what if it didn’t matter if Twohy died?”

“He may very well end up dying,” she said. “What are you getting at?”

“If the goal was to scare Ellie off, a serious wounding might be enough.”

Petra considered that.

Milo’s frown said he didn’t want to. “Or,” he said, “this has zero to do with Ellie and everything to do with Twohy.”

Petra said, “Ellie doesn’t know anyone who’d hate him.”

“That may or may not be relevant, kiddo. They haven’t been going together that long, come from different circles.”

“Twohy has a secret life? I guess anything’s possible, obviously I need to learn more about my vic. But what Alex is saying about wounding could be right.” She grinned. “He often is right, no?”

“So I’ve been told.”

She said, “Let’s go with the warning thing, just for argument’s sake. Who knows about your investigation?”

“Bunch of politicians including the mayor, Martz and her boss, and the third D to try to solve it. I’m voting for Martz.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice. Seriously.”

“Don’t know if Ellie told anyone but from our perspective, all that’s left is a rich lady from Montecito who we know from another case. She’s the one who revved up the politicos. Plus two of Des Barres’s heirs that we know about: daughter and son. There’s another son but we haven’t talked to him yet.”

Petra said, “Dredging up Dorothy threatens them?”

Milo frowned. “At this point, that’s a giant leap. The daughter was actually at the fundraiser where Ellie made contact with Bauer. When we spoke to her a couple days ago, she was open, didn’t seem bugged by our questions. Same for the brother we spoke to right after.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “Still, we’re talking two days later and Twohy gets ambushed. Plenty of time to put something together.” Her turn to jot. “Names?”

“Valerie Des Barres, William Des Barres. The one we haven’t contacted is Anthony. She lives here, the sons are in Illinois. William’s a lawyer, Anthony’s a doctor.”

“Where’s here?”

“Daddy’s former mansion,” he said. “Where Dorothy also lived.”

“Whoa,” said Petra. “Contracting a shooter from Illinois is feasible, but keeping it local sounds a lot easier. What if the daughter faked being chill? What else do you know about her?”

“Writes and illustrates kiddie books, comes across like a female Mr. Rogers.”

I said, “How would she know where to find Twohy?”

“Did she and Ellie exchange addresses at the fundraiser?”

Milo said, “I doubt it, don’t want to bring it up now. Could get Ellie needlessly freaked out.”

Petra tapped her pad against her thigh. “Kiddie books. She make money at it?”

“Probably not. She self-publishes.”

“Not Dr. Seuss but lives in a big house,” she said, “so we’re likely in trust-fund territory. The world finding out Daddy was a homicidal letch could threaten her on multiple levels. I have to say, guys, she doesn’t dis interest me. I have your okay to contact her?”

“If you don’t mind, hold off,” he said. “For your sake and mine.”

“What’s my sake?”

“If she is dirty, no sense alerting her. For now, I’d rather do a loose surveillance on her place, see if anyone interesting goes in and out. You know how contract kills usually go. No slick movie hit man, some loser who needs dough. It’s a huge property, we saw a gardening crew and a butler-type houseman but there could be more guys in and out.”

“Who do you see surveilling, you or me?”

“I can do it.”

“Hoped you’d say that. Are we talking live-in staff?”

“Probably not the gardeners but maybe the butler. I’ve only got a first name—Sabino—but I can try to cross-ref with the address. If he turns out to have a record, it gets kicked up several notches.”

Petra copied the name. “Wouldn’t that be something? The butler did it? Heck, if I get lucky my next call-out will be on a dark and stormy night.”

I cleared my throat.

Milo said, “Unless you’re coming down with a cold, I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Here’s the thing,” I said, “everyone who knows about the Swoboda investigation—from Martz to Galoway—helped it along. Even Val Des Barres, by switching seats with Ellie so she could talk to Bauer. I think her openness was real and I didn’t pick up any sense of threat on her part. Also, with social media, a whole lot of people could know Ellie’s personal info, especially if she posted about her mother. And I’ll bet Twohy’s got a serious online presence, maybe to the point of charting his runs.”

Petra whipped out her phone. “The Web Deities. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Milo said, “Job stress. Clogs the neurons.”

CHAPTER 16

We hovered around Petra’s phone.

Ellie Barker’s cyber-engagement was minimal. No photos, nothing about the search for her mother’s killer. Maybe leaving the world of e-trade made the computer a reminder of work that she wanted to escape. Or she just liked her privacy.

Brannon Twohy, on the other hand, had no concept of privacy.

Scores of photos of him. Scuba diving, skiing, paragliding, zip-lining, usually bare-chested.

His main thing, though, was trumpeting his running triumphs down to the second. Every race for the past two years memorialized, complete with dates, places, stats, and photographs.

The most recent data dump had been posted at six p.m. today, reporting on his nine-mile speed goal, which he intended to expand regularly as a pathway to making the top twenty in next year’s L.A. Marathon.

Included was a map of tonight’s run, complete with a red line tracing the route from the house he shared with Ellie to a destination 0.6 miles past Atwater Village.

“the magic 4.5 each way, let’s go for warpspeed!”

Milo said, “Jesus, he might as well have put a target on his back.”

I said, “He didn’t feel threatened. Tonight was a first attempt.”

Petra said, “Use a gun, all it takes is one. What a mess. So what, we’re back on Twohy being the target not as a surrogate for Ellie?”

Milo said, “Who the hell knows?”

She nodded. “I’m thrashed and I still need to revisit the scene. You sticking around?”

“Just to say goodbye.”

“To your client,” she said. “And my interested party.”

—

When we got back to the room, a surgeon in scrubs was leaving.

R. Chopra, M.D.’s shoulders were stooped. Dark crescents tugged his eyes downward.

Hard to gauge anything from his expression.

Petra introduced herself and asked Twohy’s status.

He said, “No major organ damage, the big risk at this point is infection.”

“He’ll survive.”

“Probably.”

Milo said, “Lucky man.”

Chopra said, “If you don’t include getting shot. The bullet nicked his dorsal ribs, bounced around, and exited here.” He fingered a spot well to the right of his own navel. “Missed the diaphragm by a millimeter, tore up a bunch of fascia and muscle. Very lean guy, if he was fat, he could’ve had a bit of liposection.”

Eyeing Milo, then yawning.

Milo said, “A little flab coulda cushioned him, huh? So much for my gym membership.”

Chopra’s mouth opened and closed. “Gotta go, Officers.”

Petra said, “Any guesses about the bullet, Doctor?”

“Not a pathologist,” said Chopra. “You didn’t find it?”

“Not yet. When we see bouncing around, it’s usually small caliber.”

“If you know, why ask me.” He hurried off.

Milo patted his own midriff. “Guess the charm offensive didn’t work.”