Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

I said, “A love rival.”

“That’s where my head went. Arlette died a year before Dorothy showed up. What if Des Barres started playing around while he was still married? Before he went all harem. He hooks up with a young lovely, she gets Dollar Sign Fever and sets her sights on being Wife Number Three. Only problem is, Number Two’s alive and kicking, so Dreaming Girl decides to clear the deck.”

“If so, it didn’t work. Des Barres never married again. But maybe she settled for a position in the harem, figuring it was temporary. Especially if it was a prime slot.”

“Meaning?”

“Top girl. What Tony Junior felt Dorothy was aiming for.”

He smiled sourly. “A pecking order.”

“There always is,” I said.

“Among women?”

“Among people.”

“Ah. Don’t tell the internet I just asked that.”

“I don’t know, man, you’re making me feel kind of uncomfortable.”

I flashed jazz hands. He flashed a new flavor of smile. Weak around the edges—preoccupied.

A few minutes later, he said, “Arlette’s in the way of Dreamy’s aspirations so she saddles up and takes action. Ride in, act nonchalant, strike up a conversation, and shove or yank Arlette off. She’s waiting for the marriage proposal but ol’ Tony Senior goes in a whole new directions and now there’s serious competition in the form of Dorothy. One fake accident worked, why not another. Now all I have to do is I.D. Ms. Maleficent.”

The auto queue opened suddenly and stayed that way. Muttering, “The Red Sea parts,” he eased onto the freeway and merged.

I said, “The scenario fits Dorothy’s murder but I can’t see any tie-in to P. J. Seeger’s motorcycle crash or Stan Barker’s tumble.”

“Why not? The same thing we’ve suggested all along. They both got too close to the truth.”

“Femme fatale clearing the decks years later? And years apart? As far as we know neither Barker or Seeger—anyone for that matter—made a connection to a woman living in the mansion. Du Galoway came the closest, and he didn’t suspect anyone but Des Barres.”

“Which, now that you mentioned it, could be righteous, Alex.”

“Des Barres collaborated on both murders.”

“Guy had enough charisma and dough to corral a harem. So what the hell do I do now?”

“More archaeology.”

—

As we passed into Glendale, he said, “All the time it’s taking, maybe we shoulda eaten.”

Before I could answer, his phone tooted horrific abuse of Handel’s Messiah. He glanced at the screen. “Martz. She’s been bugging me for a progress report. You’d think my ignoring her would be enough.”

Placing the phone between us on the bench seat, he speed-dialed and switched to speaker.

A male voice said, “Deputy Chief Martz’s office.”

“Lieutenant Sturgis returning her call.”

Throat clear. “ Three calls according to my records, Lieutenant.”

“And you are?”

“Sergeant Schifter.”

“Glad you keep good records. She in?”

“Not at this moment.”

“Tell her I called with a regress report.”

“Pardon?”

“Regress, Sergeant. It’s the opposite of progress.”

Click. Wolf-grin.

I said, “You must’ve been fun to teach in grade school.”

“Actually, I was the soul of obedience and conformity.”

I laughed.

“No, really. By grade four I knew I was different but didn’t really understand it and figured I should keep my mouth shut. I was so quiet the teachers told my parents I needed to be ‘brought out.’ How’s that for irony? What about you? Model kid?”

“I liked school.”

“Big shock. Straight A’s, why not.”

“More than that,” I said. “It was safe. Then I’d go home.”

CHAPTER 23

We rolled up to my house eighty-eight tedious minutes later. Nearly an hour and a half of stop-and-go to cover twenty miles.

Milo turned off the car. “You mind making some coffee? I’m gonna be up for a while trying to figure things out.”

“No prob.”

We trudged up the stairs to the terrace and I unlocked the door.

Robin was in the living room reading Acoustic Guitar. She’d changed out of her work clothes into a black cowl-necked sweater, charcoal tights, and red flats. A collection of bangle bracelets decorated one wrist, the watch I’d given her last Christmas banded the other.

She sprang up and hugged me, gave Milo a cheek peck.

I said, “You look gorgeous. Where’re we going?”

Milo straightened from petting Blanche. “Have fun, kids.” He turned to leave.

Robin held him back by his arm. “You look worn out. You both do. I was thinking something simple, burgers, sushi, whatever. Join us, Big Guy.”

“You’re an angel but I’ve got something protruding here.” He reached around to the small of his back. “Oh, yeah, it’s a fifth wheel.”

“Poor baby. C’mon, let’s get nutrition.”

I said, “Heed her wise counsel.”

Robin said, “Exactly. He does and look how well he’s weathered the onslaught of time.”

—

I drove the three of us to a place at the top of the Glen. Japanese fused with Italian, which translated to crudo coexisting with sashimi, pizza dating teppanyaki, and what seemed like random pairings labeled “what the chef’s into tonight.”

The waiter said, “Hey, guys, I’m Jaron and I’ll be your server. I advise the eel. She won Chopped with it.”

Milo said, “Let’s start with a beer.”

“No worries. We’ve got a great selection of imported—”

“Miller’s fine.”

“Um…I think we have that. You, ma’am?”

Robin said, “Knob Creek Old Fashioned.”

I said, “Oban 14, neat, ice on the side.”

“That’s…”

“Single-malt scotch.”

The waiter said, “Wow, you guys know your bevs.” He read back the order, corrected the errors. Out came a handheld device. “Okay, guys. Eel will go great with all those drinks.”

Milo said, “Bumper crop on slithery things, huh?”

Robin said, “Poor little orphan elvers.”

Jaron said, “Pardon?”

Her smile, beautiful and wide, dismissed him.

The drinks were followed by a torrent of small plates, the quantity dictated by Milo, back in fine form. He tucked in immediately as Robin looked on like an approving mother.

I fiddled with my chopsticks.

She said, “You okay, honey?”

“Thinking.”

Milo said, “About what?”

The honest answer was too many suspects and no real progress.

I said, “Another scotch.”

—

Dessert was a pair of scorched cedar shingles each containing three scoops of ice cream decorated with a juniper sprig. On one slab, chewy Japanese mochi: green tea, red bean, sesame. The other featured gelato “infused” with “organic Buddha’s fingers citron, winter melon, and a breeze of chianti.”

More geographic meld; world peace should be so easy.

I said, “Nicely curated.”

Milo said, “What the hell does that mean?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

He used a tiny shovel-shaped spoon to slice off some red bean. Tasted. Considered. “Different texture. Pretty good. Actually, good.”

Robin said, “They make ice cream out of everything in Japan. Including raw horsemeat.”

“C’mon.”

“Really.”

“Jesus. Where’d you pick up that nugget?”

I said, “I’m guessing Misota Metaru.”

She gave me a thumbs-up.

Milo said, “Who’s that?”

I said, “Mister Metal, big-time guitar god in Tokyo. She works on his gear.”

“Guy comes all the way here to get his stuff fixed?”

Robin said, “He lives in Thousand Oaks. His real name is Mitchell Mandelbaum.”