Джонатан Келлерман - Serpentine

Ellie said, “Brannon’s been super-supportive but I’m sure he’s more realistic than me.”

Twohy didn’t argue.

He was younger than her, maybe thirty. Tan and rock-jawed with close-set dark eyes uncluttered by curiosity. Deep tan, black and wavy shoulder-length hair.

“I reek, gotta shower.”

Ellie said, “How’d it go?”

“Seven point eight miles, record speed.”

“Good for you.”

Twohy said, “Once I get to eight, I’ll be cool.”

He headed for the stairs, taking two at a time.

“Brannon gave up his job to come down here with me.”

I said, “What kind of work does he do?”

“Marketing. He was working for a consortium of organic vintners in St. Helena, is looking for something here.” She eyed the staircase. “I’d better get up there. He’ll need an Advil for his muscle aches and unless I suggest it, he won’t bother. Thanks, guys.”

—

Milo drove back toward Los Feliz Boulevard, speeding and alarming squirrels.

I said, “What now?”

“Lunch enhanced by finely distilled spirits.”

“You can drink on this job?”

“Seeing as it’s not a normal gig? Till I hear different,” he said. “Which I won’t. Who’s gonna rat me out?”

—

He managed a dubious left across three lanes of Los Feliz, descended south to Franklin Avenue, continued west toward the core of commercial Hollywood. Turning left on Cherokee, he pulled into the rear lot of Musso & Frank.

Hundred-year-old restaurant managing to thrive in a city that despises longevity.

The lot’s smaller than it used to be, and good slots are at a premium. Milo’s badge impressed the lot attendant and he eased between a red Ferrari and a silver Porsche turbo.

He tucked the album under his arm and we entered through the back, the way most people do at Musso. Catching eyefuls of the mammoth stainless-steel kitchen filled with hardworking staff and savory steam.

A red-jacketed waiter nearly as old as the establishment trudged us to a red leather booth. John F. Kennedy had killed the men’s hat industry because of an oversized cranium too hard to fit, but this place still featured brass hat racks. The clientele was people old enough to remember the restaurant when it was middle-aged and twenty-somethings yearning for something they couldn’t quite figure out.

The waiter looked at us as if sizing up a bin of produce. “Need menus?”

“God forbid,” said Milo. “Coupla Martinis, one big unstuffed olive in each, yes to vermouth.”

“Without vermoot it’s gin. Food to wash it down?”

“Two orders of sand dabs.”

“Good.” He left at an even slower pace.

I said, “Nothing like a pal who takes charge.”

“You’da picked something better?”

“Nope.”

“Besides.”

“Besides what?”

“I’m paying.”

—

The drinks came quickly.

Milo rolled his olive around, creating glassy swirls in the crystalline liquid before taking an uncharacteristically modest sip. He sat back, smiling. “Nectar of the gods.”

I said, “I heard the gods preferred Old-Fashioneds.”

“Only the ones in charge of Hades.”

I laughed and drank. Crisp as a perfect morning.

He said, “You are now fortified. Proceed with wisdom.”

“Give me another look at the photo.”

He placed the album on the table, flipped it open, and rotated it facing me.

I said, “Don’t want to read too much into one image but these two don’t look thrilled to be with each other. Combine that with her not taking his name and ending up four hundred miles from home, a trial separation or a complete breakup at the time of her death should be considered.”

“My thoughts exactly,” he said, tapping the photo. “This is not a lovey-dovey situation. Toss in no marriage and the commitment level’s questionable.”

“Barker was committed to Ellie.”

“Like she said, good dad. Maybe because he’d come to love Ellie and Dottie wasn’t a great mom. Cutting out and leaving a three-year-old behind? Or maybe she didn’t leave voluntarily.”

I said, “Your basic domestic homicide.”

“Like you said, no love lost in the photo,” he said. “And just playing the odds, who kills women? Guys who supposedly once loved them. Right off the bat, I can see two possibilities: Dottie runs away from Stan out of fear, he tracks her to L.A. and kills her. Or he kills her at home, drives her body far enough to where it’s not gonna be connected to him, and sets her on fire.”

I said, “And Ellie wouldn’t have been a problem witness, given her age. He could’ve left her with a sitter or a friend. Or he even took her along, sedated, and stashed her in a hotel room while he took care of business.”

“Poor kid rides with Daddy unaware Mommy’s body is in the trunk? Nasty. However it went down, it worked. Barker was never busted and Ellie’s got no memory of anything.”

He extracted the olive and ate it. “Just thought of something. According to the Times article, Dottie died on a Saturday night. The guy wouldn’t even have missed work.”

A basket of sourdough French bread arrived. He buttered two substantial chunks and polished them off. “If we’re right, Ellie’s gonna be real thrilled about the outcome. Then again, that assumes I can prove anything.”

“Hey,” I said, “the quest is what matters, seeing as you’re out for truth and justice and kindness toward all living things.”

“God, I hate that.”

“High expectations?”

“High-level delusions,” he said. “Like I was anointed after pulling Excalibur out of a rock without throwing my back out.”

His eyes shifted back to the photo. “She’s cute but kind of brassy-looking, no? Like she knew how to take care of herself.”

I said, “Check out the pose. Like she’d done some modeling. Or wanted to.”

He nodded. “Older guy, cute young thing. Maybe she never settled down to blissful pseudo-matrimony and cheated on the Stanster one time too many—hell, maybe she had a boyfriend with her in L.A. and that’s what brought her down here.”

He took a longer swallow of Martini. “Listen to me, getting all hypothetical.”

I studied the picture some more. “Not only don’t they look romantic, they don’t seem to fit together.”

He peered. “Dr. Scrabble and Ms. Cocktail Lounge?” His thumbnail pinged the Martini glass. “For her one of these is a nightcap, for him it’s warm cocoa?”

“She was a single mother before she met him, unmarried or escaping Ellie’s bio-dad. She could’ve believed she was out for stability but then it got boring and she looked for some excitement.”

“She parties, Stanley finds out, and boom.”

“Or,” I said, “Mr. Excitement turned out to be a bad bet.”

“The boyfriend did her?” he said. “Interesting…some gigolo rips her money and jewels. Which supposedly she didn’t have but are you buying that all she had was that necklace? She looks like a woman who’d go for bling.”

I said, “Maybe Barker told Ellie there was no bling to avoid uncomfortable questions. As in he killed her and cashed everything in except for the piece he’d bought her.”

“That she didn’t like. And he bestows upon the kid. That’s a little creepy, no? Putting it on her like some sort of ceremony.”

I said, “Ellie doesn’t see it that way. The necklace means a lot to her. She wasn’t wearing it when we came in but put it on while fetching herself water. Maybe her own ceremony.”

“That so?” he said. “Didn’t notice.” He frowned. “ Shoulda noticed. Damn—that’s why I wanted you there. You’re like a laser, lighting up corners.”