Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

Huge change from Dr. Anton Des Barres’s corporate photo.

Maxine said, “Your guy.” A statement, not a question.

I nodded. “Where’d you find this?”

“A book on L.A. called Be-Inns. Two n ’s, as in hostelries. Self-published deal on SoCal nightlife during the period you’re interested in. I’d exhausted all the criminal leads on Des Barres. As far as I can tell, he never hung out with hoods, nor was he implicated in high crimes and misdemeanors. So I did what I always do: fan out and try subsidiary sources. Starting with acquainting myself with the company headshot you sent me, memorizing the layout of his features and seeing if I could spot it somewhere else. Usually it leads nowhere, this time it didn’t. The book was in pretty bad shape, self-published, cheaply made, literally falling apart. I tried phone-shooting this image, wasn’t happy with the result, and did a few runs on the department Xerox machine. This is the best I came up with.”

“Appreciate the effort, Maxine. Who’s the author?”

“Alastair Stash, obviously a pseudonym. I wouldn’t bother looking for another copy, Alex. I tried and it’s not on the Web, any academic library or vintage dealer. I got my copy years ago when Acres of Books went out of business and I drove down to Long Beach and scrounged through their discount pile. Marginal junk that I boxed up and stored in my garage. I kept telling myself I’d go through it but never did.”

“Amazing.”

“What is?”

“That you connected the headshot to this.”

“Really? To me it was kind of obvious. Cosmetics change but basic dimensions stay the same. I’m flipping through pages and he jumped out at me. He looks sauced, no? Deliciously dissolute. What’s his story?”

“Probably a midlife crisis fueled by big bucks.”

The pizza arrived. Maxine nibbled. “So you can’t tell me anything, yet?”

I said, “There’s not much to tell you beyond a possible location. B.H. club called The Azalea.”

She lifted the photo and showed me the back.

Single line in black marker, Maxine’s assertive block lettering:

PROB. AZALEA CLUB, RODEO DRIVE 35–40 YRS AGO.

“How’d you figure it out?”

“The book identified it as being on Rodeo and the only place that fit was The Azalea. Just to make sure, I looked at some shots from an old design mag in the research library. Same wallpaper in what they called The Chic Room. Subtle, huh? Unfortunately I haven’t turned up any serious criminal activity at the place. Just a reputation for cheesy disco music, major-league boozing, and minor-league doping. The clientele was rich guys hanging with younger chickadees. Which fits your guy.”

I flipped the photo and studied the three women with Des Barres. Trio of blurry faces under long, straight platinum-blond hair. Strapless dresses: black, red, yellow.

Poor resolution wasn’t enough to hide the truth.

I’d never seen the two faces to Des Barres’s left but Black Dress to the right was Dorothy Swoboda.

I squinted and searched for nuance through the freckling.

The other two women beamed drunkenly but Dorothy’s expression was the same borderline grim as in the forest shot with Stanley Barker.

I’d assumed that was due to tension between her and Barker. Maybe it was just her emotional default.

At first glance, not a fun gal—the contrast to the smiling duo was stark. That hadn’t stopped Anton Des Barres from recruiting her to his harem. Puzzling, because what older men usually like in younger women is nonstop cheer and worship, genuine or not.

Just as with the Des Barres kids, Dorothy Swoboda was making no effort.

I examined the entire photo again. Red and Yellow wore gems too huge to be real at their ears and suspended from gold chains. Dorothy wore a single necklace.

Question marks filled my head. I felt my face tighten up.

Maxine said, “What?”

I pointed. “This is our victim.”

“You’re kidding. Amazing. Let me look at her.”

She fiddled in her bag for a pair of reading glasses, studied as if examining a relic. “Kind of a sourpuss. She must’ve been a sexual genius.”

“I was wondering what her secret was.”

“That’s what comes to my mind, Alex. Of course, vaginal virtuosity only goes so far, because men live for constant novelty. And with his setup, Des Barres would have plenty of that. Maybe he got tired of her and she didn’t take well to rejection—somehow threatened him—so he got rid of her.”

She shifted to Des Barres’s face. “He doesn’t look like a guy burdened by inhibition…notice the exact same hairdo on all of three of them. Obviously, wigs. Obviously, at his behest. It’s like they’re blow-up dolls. He’s into control.”

She chuckled. “Pardon my veering into your territory.”

“Veer away, Maxine. You’re making sense.”

“Oh, good. Historians are known for being self-appointed experts on everything…so he decides to dump her permanently. Shoot her, burn the car, push it off a cliff. Not a pretty ending. Guy like him probably collected insurance.”

She returned the photo and I studied Dorothy’s face some more, came up with nothing, and turned to the smiling blondes. Dorothy looked early to midtwenties. The others were younger, maybe even late adolescents.

Assuming the woman on the horse meant anything, could either of them have served as a calculating assassin?

Immature, impressionable, bowled over by wealth and possibility? Absolutely.

But no sign of hostility in this shot. No sideward, hostile glance at Dorothy, just glossy, intoxicated glee. The same went for Anton Des Barres, dull-eyed and slack-lipped.

Dorothy’s cool sobriety stood out. A party she’d opted out of.

I placed the photo in the leather briefcase I take to court, thought about what I hadn’t told Maxine, fought the urge to make up an excuse and leave. Instead, I listened as she griped enthusiastically about the pathetic emotional stamina of the undergrads foisted upon her.

She’d said the same thing last year.

I said, “It’s gotten worse?”

“It’s nonstop devolution, Alex. The batch I got this semester is allergic to facts and feels entitled to unearned adoration. We’re talking the emotional musculature of blind cave worms.”

I laughed. “Are the grad students any better?”

“Worse. They think they’re Nobel winners who accidentally missed the flight to Sweden. And in answer to your next question, don’t get me started on my colleagues. When utterly compelled to, I go to faculty meetings and listen to incessant bitching about times never being more dire. Apparently we’re nudging Armageddon. Which is absurd for people supposedly knowledgeable about the past. The Dark Ages, anyone? Plagues and despots and life expectancies in the thirties? The problem is academics are students afraid to graduate, so their grasp on reality is for shit. On top of that, my so-called peers haven’t a clue what it’s like to live under Orwellian nightmare communism like my dad did before he deserted his post and sneaked across the DMZ to the South.”

“Didn’t know that about him. Heroic.”

“More like desperation,” she said. “Unfortunately, it only reinforced his lifelong sense of caution. And now I’ve run up a serious therapy bill with you.”

“Professional courtesy.”

“Thanks. But there’s still tit for tat, info-wise.”

“You bet.”

I watched her nibble. Just when I figured I could leave gracefully, she said, “One promising phenomenon is that comedians are getting roundly ticked off about being told what to think and say. Spread enough ridicule out there, I suppose norms could eventually change. Meanwhile, I soldier on. How about you? Any effect on your work? Not the Milo cases, the clinical stuff.”