Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

“Kids under stress aren’t concerned with pseudo-suffering.”

“Pseudo-suffering. I like that. Maybe I’ll find a way to work it into something. Want credit?”

“Take it all.”

“Believe me, I will, Alex. And you will let me know once the case resolves?”

“Love your optimism, Maxine.”

Something Milo had said to me countless times.

Maxine said, “What else is there?”

—

The moment I was back in the Seville, I phoned Milo’s cell. “Where are you?”

“The office. What’s up?”

“I’m looking at a photo of Des Barres with Dorothy at The Azalea. She’s wearing the serpentine necklace. Barker told Ellie she left it behind when she left. This shows she had it in L.A. so either Barker lied and he took it from her, maybe when he killed her. Or she traveled between Danville and here at least once.”

“When was the photo taken?”

“It’s undated.”

“How’d you come up with it?”

“Maxine did.” I filled him in.

He said, “God bless Maxine. Two other women, huh? Either of them shooting daggers at Dorothy?”

“The equestrian assassin? No, it’s a friendly, boozy scene. Except for Dorothy. She looks fetching but serious and sober.”

“Nonconformist,” he said. “That can get you in trouble.”

“Maxine suggested her sexual skills outweighed a failure to worship Des Barres. If that’s true, it could’ve worn thin.”

“What’d Maxine think about the necklace?”

“I didn’t tell her.”

“Why not?”

“Trying to keep the information flow minimal.”

A beat. “Good idea. I want to see the photo. Where are you?”

“Ten minutes from you if you arrange parking.”

“You will be cheerfully and promptly VIP’d.”

CHAPTER 24

Pooh-bah parking translated to Milo waiting by the gate to the staff lot and inserting his card as I drove up.

He bowed and scraped. “Second aisle, midway down. Sir. Better yet, I’ll accompany you, how’s that for service?”

He opened the passenger door and got in.

I said, “Babysitting for a few yards?”

“Got the photo in your briefcase? You can have cookies and milk.”

—

We walked through the lot, crossed Butler Avenue, and entered the station.

I gave him the photo as we climbed the stairs.

“Yeah, Dottie does look serious. Sexual acrobatics, huh?”

“That was Maxine’s theory,” I said. “Or maybe the others tried too hard and she stood out by playing hard to get.”

“Trying to make herself the goal,” he said. “Instead, she became prime prey.”

“On the way over, I thought of something. Stan Barker, then Des Barres, both older men, one prosperous, one rich. If she made repeated trips down here, there could be others.”

“What we wondered about in the beginning—some L.A. boyfriend. Popular in life, nightmare victim in death.”

—

His office door was wide open. Slouching the one step it took to get to his desk, he collapsed onto a groaning swivel chair. Piles of paper crowded the computer, neatly stacked but higher than usual.

Using the solo assignment to ignore bureaucratic torture.

He swept the highest pile into the trash with clear pleasure. Took the photo, was gone for a few minutes, came back with the original and a copy, both of which went into a blue folder. Unlabeled but the same covers as a standard murder book. Old habits.

“If I don’t look daisy-fresh,” he said, “it’s because I spent a whole bunch of the evening and night watching Sabino Chavez. He left the house once at eight p.m., bought a bag of something at a liquor store on Sunset, returned and never reappeared. From what I’ve seen so far, Val never leaves. Thrilling bunch, huh?”

His desk phone rang. “Sturgis…oh, hi…go ahead, at this point I’ll believe anything, kiddo.”

He listened for a long while, body stiffening and leaning forward, as if torturously winched.

“That is nuts. Okay, thanks for filling me in. She know? You want to tell her or should I? No prob. Good work. Onward.”

He hung up, shaking his head.

“That was Petra. She just made an arrest in Brannon Twohy’s shooting. Turns out, nothing to do with Ellie. A psycho runner signed up for the same race.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Sounds so stupid, I wish I was. Seems there was another shooting yesterday evening, one of the top-rated entrants, Ethiopian, long history of marathon victories. Poor guy was doing his thing near the Observatory in Griffith Park and got nailed in the thigh. Through-and-through, missed the femoral artery, but I don’t imagine he’ll be competing this year.”

“Just like Twohy.”

“ Unlike Twohy, this time there were onlookers who’d come to watch the Ethiopian, including a bunch of firefighters and off-duty cops. The shooter was behind some trees but had to show himself as he ran away. He got chased and tackled and cuffed. Another Hollywood D caught the case, talk about a gimme. Petra heard about it, put it together, and got to co-interview the suspect who crumpled like wet toilet paper. Weapon was an old revolver, Russian manufacture, the idiot’s daddy’s Vietnam souvenir.”

“How old’s the idiot?”

“Twenty-nine. And listen to this: grad student at the U. on leave for personal problems.”

I muttered, “Blind cave worms.”

“What?”

“Professional jealousy gone to the extreme.”

“Except the fool’s never been close to Twohy’s league, even farther from the Ethiopian’s. Blames it on a shin splint, if I ran I’d care about what the hell that is. So getting rid of a coupla top seeds would do nothing for him. Petra kept working that, finally got his motive. Quote unquote: fighting athletic inequality.”

“Oh, God.”

“Trust me, amigo, God is also baffled. Anyway, it boils down to the usual: pathetic loser with a firearm. His public defender’s already talking about a mental health plea.” He laughed. “Want me to recommend you as a consultant?”

“Not if the PD wants confirmation.”

“Wouldn’t that be a hoot? You get paid to evaluate the asshole then send in a report that demolishes their strategy? Anyway, I’m gonna let Ellie know.”

He dialed, got voicemail, left a message. “Maybe she’s over at the hospital, I’ll try later.”

Seconds later, his phone rang. “Here she is.”

“Hi, there, kid— Oh, hey, Mel, you’ve got her phone? That so? Any idea why? Hmm. I just got some news on him…you think she’s okay for that? Okay, we’ll give it a try.”

I said, “Boudreaux answers her phone?”

“Apparently he does when she’s up in her bedroom crying.”

—

Melvin Boudreaux answered the door looking less cop-like and more concerned friend.

As he closed the door behind us, he said, “What’s the news on the boyfriend?”

Milo summed up the arrest.

Boudreaux said, “Nutcases everywhere. One thing less to worry about, this might be the end of the gig.” Eyeing the stairs.

Milo said, “What’s going on with her?”

“It started after she went to see him in the hospital. I’m waiting in the hall, there, she comes out looking upset but not like she wants to talk about it. It stayed like that during the ride home, moment we get here, she starts bawling and runs up the stairs. I go up and ask her if everything’s okay. Which, looking back, was a dumb-ass question. She says, ‘I’ll be fine, don’t worry,’ through the closed door. So I head downstairs and hear her letting out the sobs.”

Boudreaux shook his head. “She took the time to reassure me. Say one thing, this gig is different.”

Milo said, “How so?”

“I’m with rich people constantly. They’re like anyone else, some are nice, some are obnoxious. But I never met anyone as nice as her.”