Джонатан Келлерман: Serpentine

“What about familial DNA? All those public-access genealogy files you hear about? Like what they use now to catch killers.”

“If we have something to match, we’ll use every possible method,” said Milo.

“Thanks. I have to say this is the first time I feel I’m being taken seriously. You have my contacts—phone, email.”

“Got them from Deputy Chief Martz.”

“No idea who that is but thank him for me.”

“Her. Sure.”

“I’m down here for as long as you need me.”

“Where’s your home base?”

“I own a house in Napa that I’m renting out. I have a one-year lease on this place.”

I said, “Why Los Feliz? Any personal connection?”

“I wanted somewhere reasonably close to where…it happened. There were no vacancies up on Mulholland, and this place cropped up for a reasonable rent. I’m not even sure where exactly it happened. If you find out, could you tell me?”

Milo said, “Okay. I should tell you this is a safe neighborhood but a few blocks south it can get rough.”

“Oh. Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind.”

We stood. Ellie Barker pressed forward to shake Milo’s hand. Making sure she got hold of it.

“Whatever happens, Lieutenant, thank you so much. At least I’ll know I had a professional working for me—no, that came out wrong. You’re not my employee.”

Milo smiled.

“At least I hope you don’t feel that way,” she said. “I want you to do your job unobstructed by me or anyone else. You’ll be working to discover the truth and I’m sure that’s important to you, why else would you choose your career?”

A glance at me. “You, too, of course.”

Before we got to the door, a latch turned and it swung open. A man in blue shorts and a white sweat-soaked T-shirt surged in wiping his face with a purple cooling cloth. Fitness watch around his wrist, water bottle clipped to his waistband, earbuds running to a phone that sagged a pocket.

Breathing audibly. He saw us, stopped short, clamped his lips and flared his nostrils.

Out came the earbuds.

Ellie Barker said, “Hon, this is Lieutenant Sturgis and he brought a consulting psychologist. Guys, Brannon Twohy, my still-significant other.”

The man said, “Still?”

She pecked Twohy’s cheek. He bore it without response. She massaged his biceps. “I’m giving you props for endurance, hon. My doing the quest and all that.”

Twohy shrugged. “Is what it is.” He draped an arm over her shoulders but left his hand floating in the air, an odd detachment.

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.”