Serpentine

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.”

I said, “Is it possible Twohy took a turn for the worse?”

“That was my first thought, Doc. But then she would’ve stuck around and talked to a doctor, right? She was only in his room for a few minutes, so I’m figuring something more... I don’t know, interpersonal?”

Milo said, “No sense guessing.”

We left Boudreaux downstairs and climbed the steps. A round landing led to two open doors and one that was closed. Milo knocked softly, got no reply, turned a white porcelain doorknob that gave.

Cracking the door, he peeked in, curled his finger in a signal to follow, and stepped in.

Big bedroom, maybe twenty feet square, with high, hand-plastered ceilings, broad-plank oak floors, and vintage moldings. An open doorway to the left fed to an anteroom and a walk-in closet. A half-open door revealed a white-tiled bathroom.

Avocado-colored, gold-tasseled drapes were drawn over the windows. An off-kilter plastic lamp sat on one of two Ikea nightstands, oozing sickly chartreuse light. Next to the lamp sat a tissue box, a noise machine switched off, and several wads of used paper.

Enough space to house a king bed. Or two. Ellie had rented a queen with a cheap-looking slatted headboard, had added no other furniture.

The bedcovers were thin gray chenille that revealed the tight nautilus curl of her body. She’d wrapped herself in the flimsy cloth and drawn the covers over half her head.

A few strawberry strands laced the pillow. Medium-sized woman but the position made her look small, childlike.

Childhood is the essence of powerlessness. Yet for some reason, when we feel helpless, we try to time-travel in reverse.

Milo stepped close. “Ellie?”

Nothing. Then a sniffle followed by a nearly inaudible moan.

“It’s Milo, Ellie. I’m here with Dr. Alex.”

Prolonged silence. The hiss of a long sigh. Another moan as she labored to shift from her side to her back. Giving us a full view of her face but no emotional entrée: Her eyes remained clamped tight.

“Take your time, Ellie.”

As if rebelling, she puffed her lips, propped herself up, opened her eyes and studied the bedcovers. Her face looked eroded as if scrubbed by an overly zealous char. Strangely pretty in a waifish way.

Her lips worked a few seconds before producing sound. “Sorry.”

Milo said, “For what?”

She sat up higher, dared eye contact. “For being a baby.”

“How so, Ellie?”

“Mel didn’t tell you?”

“He said the visit to the hospital made you upset but he has no idea why.”

She shifted some more, finally attained a full sit, bracing herself against the too-low headboard. No upper back or neck support. She scooted forward. The covers fell to her waist.

She wore street clothes, a black knit top with white trim around the neckline. Part of a leg protruded. Jeans.

No energy to change when she got home. Collapsing the moment she had privacy and hoping for gray chenille sanctuary. Red-rimmed eyes said that hadn’t happened.

Milo perched on the edge of the bed.

Ellie said, “Mel asked but I didn’t answer him. Rude. Sorry about that, too.”

“Can’t see anything you need to be sorry for.”

Quivery smile. “According to him I have lots to be sorry for.”

“Brannon?”

She reached for the tissue box, snagged a chunk, and covered her eyes.

I’d been trained in strategic silence. So had Milo. The same goal: getting people to talk.

It didn’t work. Ellie Barker said nothing.

Milo smiled down at her. Every inch, the benevolent uncle.

I smiled, too. Ellie kept her eyes on Milo, never looked my way.

“Do I have to spell it out?” she said. “He dumped me. Right there in the hospital.”

“Sorry,” said Milo.

“So was I. So there it is, I’m pathetic. Yet another character flaw, apparently I have many.”

“He told you that?”

She folded her arms across her chest.

Milo said, “He suffered a serious injury, maybe he’s not thinking straight.”

“He got shot in his back, not his brain, Lieutenant. Oh, he meant it, Brannon always says what he means. I’m stupid for being taken by surprise. Since we moved down here he’s been different.”

“How so?”

“All the usual warning signs that I of course ignored. Distant, restless, distracted — not there. When he told me today, I asked him if there was someone else. He laughed and said how could there be, he was too busy running. That was his real love. His damn marathons.”

“Huh.”

“Huh, indeed — what an asshole!”

Her right hand flew to her lips and covered them. She let it drop. “I can’t believe I just said that. I told myself not to sink to a low level.”

I said, “I’m pretty sure you can be pardoned.”

Her head swung toward me. “Can I? I suppose I can. But I don’t like myself when I’m angry.”

Back to Milo. “Do you know what he said about what you’re doing? That I was obsessed and had no mental space for him. That it stressed him out. This from someone who’s gone all day churning his legs. I said, Bran, you’re never here. He said, That’s not the point. When I am here I need you to be and not running off on a wild-goose chase.”

Milo said, “Sounds kinda narcissistic.”

“You think? Someone who obsesses on his body twenty-four seven? Stretching, running, push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups? Drinking smoothies that smell like pond water? Then he said I shouldn’t even be interested in my mother. She abandoned me, I needed to move on.”

“Narcissistic and sensitive.”

“So what does that make me? A gullible idiot.”

I said, “It makes you someone in a relationship.”

She swiveled toward me again. Held her gaze. Hard eyes and mouth. Back to the same distrust I’d seen all along. Oh, well.

“Doctor,” she said, as if reminding herself why she resented me. Suddenly, her features softened and she threw up her hands. “I’m sure you’ve noticed I haven’t been super-warm to you. Sorry about that, too. If Lieutenant Sturgis thinks enough of you to work with you, I should go with the plan. It’s just that my experiences with shrinks — ’scuse me, therapists — haven’t been so great.”

I said, “Understandable.”

She smiled. “That was eminently therapeutic — sorry, I know you’re being kind. Anyway, in the back of my head I always knew he’d do this. He’s got issues.”

Milo said, “Drugs and alcohol.”

“You know?”

“I research people related to cases.”

“Does that include me?”

“You bet.”

“What’d you learn?”

“Nothing you didn’t tell us.”

“I’m boring, huh?”

“I prefer non-criminal. So the Roadrunner blames you for looking into your mother’s death?”

“The Roadrunner?”

“Meep meep.”

She burst into laughter. Reached for a tissue and wiped her eyes. “And of course, he blames me for his getting shot and he’s probably right about that.”

“Actually, he’s pretty wrong, Ellie.”

“Pardon?”

He told her about the arrest.

“A jealous psycho? How bizarre. Part of me wants to rush over right now and let him know. At least one thing you accused me of is pure bull.”

To me: “That would be pretty pathetic, huh? As if it would change anything.”

I said, “Do you want anything to change?”

“Now that,” she said, “was eminently therapeutic. Of course you’re right, I’ve probably known all along it was wrong — he was wrong for me. Why I even started with him... I’m so confused.”

Casting off the covers, she swung her feet over the mattress, inhaled, exhaled, and stood.

“I’m going to make some coffee.”

Milo said, “Make some for us, too.”

Mel Boudreaux was reading his phone in the entry hall. Sports scores. He clicked off.

Milo said, “You mind waiting in the kitchen, amigo?”

Boudreaux said, “Don’t mind at all, ready for a snack.”

He followed Ellie in but emerged a few moments later in the lead. Carrying coffee, cups, and accoutrements on a tray.

Long legs covered a lot of ground. She hurried to keep up. “You really don’t have to, Mel.”

“Need the exercise.” Boudreaux placed the tray on the living room coffee table, saluted, and returned to the kitchen.

Ellie said, “I’ll pour. Cream, sugar?”

Milo said, “Two blacks.” He sipped. “Good stuff.”

“Fazenda Santa Inês from Brazil.” She flinched. “Brannon used to like it.”

“Used to?”

“He got fanatical about training and gave up caffeine.”

“Fun guy.”

“He was,” she said. “At the beginning.” Her face began to crumple.

Milo reached for one of the clean hankies he keeps in his jacket pocket. But, again, she composed herself and put down her cup.

“That deputy chief — Martz — called me and asked if I was happy with your progress. Like she was checking up on you. I hope I didn’t put you in a weird position.”

“Nah, business as usual.”

“I told her I was happy. But if you do have something new, I wouldn’t mind hearing about it. Maybe a little more data than the last time?”

Milo placed his own cup near hers. “We’ve uncovered some minor question marks but nothing close to evidence. If you’re up to it, I have more questions for you.”

“Sure. What?”

“The necklace you showed us. Your father told you your mom left it behind?”

“No, what he told me was he bought it for her, I assumed she left it. How else would Dad have it?”

“Did she leave anything else behind?”

Her eyes slid to the right. “The dress. The one she wore with the necklace in that forest photo. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t think it was important. Also, I wear the necklace once in a while but never the dress. It’s in a zip bag in a storage locker back home. Could it be relevant?”

Milo said, “In terms of the murder, highly unlikely. If at some point we get past that and want to learn more about your mom’s background, a label in the dress could theoretically help.”

“It does have a label and I was thinking the same thing so I tried to do some research on my own. The manufacturer was Jenny Leighton, Fort Lee, New Jersey. They were in business until twenty-four years ago. Even with my garment-biz connections, I couldn’t find out if they sold locally or jobbed nationwide. That’s the way it is with the rag trade. Here, today, gone...” She smiled. “If you want, I can fly up and bring the dress back.”

“Not necessary.”

“You think it’ll be another dead end.”

“I wouldn’t call it high priority.”

“Fair enough. So what are those minor question marks you mentioned?”

“We learned something curious about the necklace.”

He withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his jacket.

The photo from The Azalea.

Reluctant to get into details with Ellie but willing to reveal her mother with Des Barres and two other women?

Then as he handed it past me I caught a glimpse. The copy he’d made in the station blanked out Des Barres and the other two blondes.

She studied the image. Her eyes got wet. Several tears got loose. “This is only the second photo I’ve seen of her. She’s wearing a wig... where was it taken and how’d you get it?”

“A nightspot in L.A. It was in a pamphlet about L.A. nightlife but don’t try to find another copy. I did and zilch.”

A mix of truths and lies. He’s good at that. So am I. Deceit in service of the greater good.

Ellie said, “A nightspot in Hollywood?”

“Don’t know.” What a tangled web we weave...

“The necklace,” she said. “I get it. If she left it when she came to L.A., what’s it doing in L.A.?”

“Exactly.”

“So she came and went more than once.”

“Only thing we can think of.”

“Hmm,” she said. “So maybe it wasn’t a onetime thing. Maybe they had problems from the beginning. And maybe Dad didn’t like her dangling him back and forth. So when she comes back the last time he said enough and took back the gift he gave her. The dress, too — maybe that was also a gift? Or she tossed it in his face.” Sad smile. “It is a pretty ugly dress. Listen to me. Hypothesizing.”

Milo said, “Join the club.”

“A bad relationship,” she said. “But he saved the necklace and the dress. Maybe he still missed her.”

Maybe a trophy.

“The going back and forth — does it change anything?”

Unwilling to grasp the implications of Stan Barker’s rage after repeated abandonment.

Milo said, “Not really, we’re just trying to clarify details.”

She reexamined the photo. “A party wig and a party dress but she doesn’t exactly look festive... just the opposite. Same as in the forest shot. That always struck me. How serious she was.”

That made me wonder about something. I filed it for later.

Ellie’s eyes remained on the photo. “In the forest, I assumed they already weren’t getting along. But here she is without Dad and she’s got the same expression... unless, maybe he was here? In the club? Is that possible?”

Milo said, “Did he ever mention going to L.A. with her?”

“Never. But he didn’t talk about those days. I mean it’s possible he was there, right? They had a date. Trying to patch up — though I don’t know why she’d wear a wig... whatever. He went to the bathroom or something when the photo was taken? Maybe by one of those table-hopping photographers who charged per shot?”

“Anything’s possible, Ellie.”

She tapped the photo. “This little number, bare shoulders and all that... she really was beautiful. Despite not having fun. The truth is, Daddy was a good man but he wasn’t much fun.”

She looked at Milo. “Sorry for running on with stuff that doesn’t lead anywhere.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “And thanks for being patient.”

“Do I have a choice? Sorry, that was snippy. I should be thanking you for your patience. Grateful for whatever you find. Like this. Another view of her. May I keep it?”

“All yours.”

We stood and she did the same. Circling the coffee table, she hurried to Milo, stood on her tiptoe, and kissed his cheek. A millimeter from his lips. He was caught off-guard but he smiled.

She turned to me, weighing etiquette equity — Can I kiss one and not the other — versus gut reluctance: The cop’s working for me. What’s the shrink actually doing?

I tried to get her off the hook by adding space between us and smiling.

She got it. Smiled back.

Then she danced over and kissed me, too.

As we drove away from the house, I said, “She’s pretty enamored of you.”

“Poor kid,” he said.

He cruised past the spot where Twohy had been shot without giving it a glance, waited for the non-fatal left turn on Los Feliz.

“Probably best in the long run,” he said. “Brannon bailing. Guy lacked substance, she’s vulnerable, deserves better.”

From angry conscript to protective uncle.

“I never saw much depth in him,” I said. “You’re right about vulnerability. She’s in self-protective mode, doesn’t see the possibility that Dorothy was with another man and Barker came to L.A. and killed her. Something else: When she called it ‘the forest photo,’ I wondered if it was taken in the same park where Barker tumbled. Maybe a place he and Dorothy went repeatedly so he returned there to die.”

“Suicide due to guilt?”

“That or his life just hadn’t worked out. It makes more sense than some phantom killer chasing him down years after doing Dorothy. Who’d know about the place other than him?”

“How about her L.A. boyfriend — pillow talk and all that.”

“Seventeen years later?” I said. “And what’s the motive?”

“True,” he said. “If Barker did kill her, he stayed mad rather than guilty? Exploding on Ellie and telling her Mom was a slut.”

“A strumpet.”

“ ’Scuse me. Am I making sense?”

“Rage can coexist with guilt. Or fluctuate depending on what else is going on in a person’s life.”

“Barker’s life doesn’t sound like a hoot,” he said. “No other relationships, Ellie gives him teenage shit and then leaves for college. So he goes back to the park and does a swan dive? Or maybe has one of the accidents you guys say really aren’t — getting all emotional, distracting himself, stumbling and tumbling.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Great. Do I get my Ph.D.? Hey, look at the pace car.”

Brief lapse in four lanes of two-way traffic. He made the left, barely avoiding a thundering Corvette.

“Goddamn hot dog. Guy obviously ran a light and jumped the gun.” We coasted down the hill.

“If Barker’s our bad guy,” he said, “and inflicted capital punishment on himself, you see any link to Arlette? Or Seeger’s motorcycle crash?”

I said, “Accidents do happen.”

“Nothing with Freudian overtones?”

“If I come up with anything, you’ll be the first to know.”

We stopped at the light at Franklin, waiting behind a dozen other cars.

“A world of possibilities, no evidence,” he said. “Translation: hell.”

His pocket got musical, the cellphone beeping manically paced violin music.

He fished it out. “Sturgis.”

“Lieutenant, it’s Val Des Barres.”

“Hi, what’s up.”

“I’m sure you’re busy, don’t want to bother you. But if you do get some time in the near future, perhaps we could chat?”

“About what, ma’am?”

“I’d rather discuss it in person.”

“Okay. I can be there in twenty minutes or so.”

“Right now?” she said.

“If it’s not a problem.”

“I guess. Sure, why not. But let’s not do it at the house. I’d prefer to meet you down the road where it happened.”

Milo said, “Like I told you, we’re not sure where that is.”

“The approximate spot, then. If that’s not a problem.”

“Not at all, we’ll pick you up.”

“No need,” she said. “Call or text when you get there and I’ll come down. What are you driving?”

“A green Chevy Impala.”

“Okay, then. I hope I’m doing the right thing.”

Click.

The light turned green. Milo said, “Can I dare to hope?”

“Maxine says without optimism, there’s nothing.”

“Maxine’s a smart woman, so for the time being, I’ll go with that.”

“My optimism doesn’t count?”

“You’re biased,” he said. “You care.”