Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

She walked away from us, stopped perilously close to the edge, froze for a moment and returned.

“Here’s what he said: ‘Bring the devil into your home, you’re the devil’s disciple.’ ”

Milo scrawled in his pad.

Val Des Barres shook her head. “What do you say to that? I figured he was delirious but his eyes were suddenly clear and they seemed full of intent. Struggling to communicate. I said something meaningless and mumbly and that really upset him. He actually moved what was left of his body into a full, upright sit, kept squeezing my arm, and waved his other hand in the air. Then he repeated it. Louder. Almost like an evangelical preacher.”

Milo read. “ ‘Bring the devil into your home, you’re the devil’s disciple.’ ”

“Word for word, Lieutenant. It’s not something you forget. I convinced myself it was delirium, shoved the whole incident to the back of my head, why wouldn’t I? But now that you’ve told me about Ellie’s mother, I can’t help wondering. Was he talking about something that actually happened?”

Again, she turned her back on us. “Did he do something evil himself?”

Milo and I said nothing.

Val Des Barres said, “And then, at eleven thirty-four p.m., he died.”

We let the quiet linger, broken by the breeze and a faint, miles-away traffic hum from the grid below.

“That’s it,” she said. “That’s all of it.”

Milo said, “We really appreciate your telling us something so difficult.”

“Does it mean anything? Based upon what you know?”

“No, ma’am. And a man on his deathbed…”

“Who knows what the brain cells are doing, I get that. That’s what I keep telling myself. I hope it’s true.”

She stepped up to Milo. “I needed to get it off my chest. You’re so kind, Lieutenant.” She took his hand, squeezed it briefly, let go with reluctance.

I wagered on his first comment when we were alone: My week for Mr. Popular. If they only knew.

He said, “We’ve got no evidence your dad did anything criminal but can you handle a tough question?”

“Sure.”

“Did you ever witness your dad injure any of the blondes?”

“Never.”

I said, “When the car went over the side of the road, you weren’t aware of it.”

“I wasn’t.”

Milo said, “No investigators ever showed up at your house.”

“Not that I ever saw. And I’m sure if it did happen, the nannies would’ve shielded me from it.”

She smiled. “That was my life, the helpless nerdy kid buffered from reality. I suppose that’s why I’ve never left.”

I said, “For the most part the blondes were nice to you.”

“When there was contact,” she said. “When they started hanging around for prolonged periods, walking to and from the pool and the tennis court in bikinis and skimpy outfits, it embarrassed me. Again, the nannies rushed me along but they didn’t have to. I thought it was gross—all that jiggling. But the funny thing is, I was in so much denial I never consciously associated Father with it. As in, This is what he wants. Pretty stupid, huh? I guess I needed to see him in the best image possible. Even with that ridiculous beard and those clothes.”

I said, “Were the nannies also tutors?”

“Was I homeschooled? Oh, no. I went to Evangeline—a girls’ academy over the hill in Studio City. It’s no longer there, got absorbed into Hollyhock and Bel Air Prep decades ago.”

“So you wouldn’t have been home for a good part of the day.”

“Did I miss seeing something? It’s certainly possible. All I can tell you is that I never witnessed anything violent or even conflictual. Just the opposite. Father seemed to be happier than he’d ever been, but it was an unsettling happiness for me. As if he was pushing himself too hard to be different. When I was older and learned what was going on in the world out there, I began wondering if that happiness had been helped along. If you know what I mean.”

I said, “Drugs.”

“Or alcohol. Or both. He could get spacy-looking and his smiles could get…the best word is flaky. Like he wasn’t really there. I talked to my brothers about it and they laughed at me and said, ‘What do you think? He’s probably stoned out of his gourd.’ But I saw no firsthand evidence of it. No joints or pills lying around and certainly no needles or anything truly gross. There was drinking. Beer, wine, cocktails. But everyone did that. Our home ec textbooks at Evangeline showed well-dressed families sitting around with the parents nursing from Martini glasses.”

Milo said, “The clan that imbibes together, jibes together.”

Val Des Barres, still standing close to him, took his hand again. “You’re a witty man, Lieutenant Sturgis. You’ve made this experience tolerable.”

Then she tiptoed, as if ready to kiss him, thought better of it and settled back on flat shoes.

Two people blushing.

I amended my bet. The initial comment would be My week for Mr. Romeo. If they only knew.

He let some time pass, asked if there was anything else she wanted to say.

“Just that I hope you find out what happened to Ellie’s mother. No matter where that leads.”

“You’re a brave woman.”

“That’s kind but I don’t think so,” she said. “If I was brave, I’d get out more.”

CHAPTER 26

We watched her drive away at twenty miles per.

Milo wagged a finger. “Don’t say it.”

“What?”

“My newfound animal magnetism.”

I said, “If they only knew.”

“Hey, don’t dismiss it, either.” He clapped me on the back. “Maybe all the time I’ve been hanging with you, something’s rubbed off.”

We got back in the car. He backed onto Mulholland and headed west. “Letting the devil in. Think he was talking about himself or one of his femmes getting fatale with Arlette and Dorothy?”

I said, “Arlette’s death opened up a whole new world for Des Barres. He’d have no motive for thinning the harem but a jealous competitor would.”

“Coupla blondes take a ride in the Caddy, one comes back.”

“And even if Des Barres hadn’t played a role in Dorothy’s death, he might have figured it out. Or been told about it. Either way, it sat in his brain for decades. Then he got prostate cancer. If it impacted his sexual drive that might’ve seemed like rough justice. Soon after, his stomach went bad and he became terminally ill. On his deathbed, with the neurons scrambled, he blurted out a veiled confession.”

“Makes sense. Now try to prove it.”

As we reached Laurel Canyon, I said, “Someone like Femme, can’t see her just walking away empty-handed.”

“She blackmailed Des Barres?”

“Or just lifted trinkets from the mansion and split. It’s an enormous place, with an owner not paying attention, it might not have been that hard.”

“True,” he said. “When I was starting out I had a burglary case. Holmby Hills, housekeeper gradually stole designer gowns and furs. Took the victim fifteen months to discover it, and by that time the maid was gone.”

He phoned Petra, got voicemail, asked her to see if she could find any burglary complaints at the Des Barres residence between twenty-five and forty years ago. Clicking off, he sang the chorus from Tom Petty’s “The Waiting” in a rumbly basso. His voice isn’t bad when he pays attention.

I said, “Maybe there’s a shortcut. Give me Val’s number.”

—

A male voice, soft, Latin-inflected, picked up. “Des Barres residence.”

“Sabino? This is one of the men who just met with Ms. Des Barres. Can I talk to her for a sec.”

“She’s drawing, sir.”