Evidence (12 page)

“It’s
a tomb,” said Jody Millan. “Once in a blue moon, you see someone, but the only
two constants are Kotsos and Elena. The only business I’ve seen is rich
foreigners out to lunch, kissing up shamelessly.”

Milo
said, “What kind of rich people?”

“Mostly
Arabs, sometimes they’re wearing those robes and headdresses. Like sheikhs.
Maybe they are sheikhs.”

“Have
you sent Kotsos any other people?”

“Temps,” she said. “Before Elena. Girl’s got a work
ethic, I’ll grant you that.”

“So
Brigid Ochs was the first post-Elena hire.”

“Elena
said business had grown to the point where she needed backup. Because she and
Kotsos were traveling more together.” Head shake. “I pride myself on reading
people well but I really got taken. Everything Brigid told me turned out to be
baloney, down to her Social Security number.” Brightening.
“That
I might
still have. Not that it’s going to help you.”

“Why
not?”

“After
I found out I’d been conned, I ran a trace. The number matches a poor little
girl born the same year Brigid claimed, in New Jersey. A kid who died at age
five. Hold on.”

She
entered a back office, returned with a Post-it. “Here you go, Sara Gonsalves.”

“Did
you confront Brigid?”

“Would’ve
liked to but the number she gave me was disconnected.”

“Where
was her address?”

“Santa
Monica, turned out to be a mail drop and she was long gone.”

“She
died with another person. A man named Desmond Backer.”

“Don’t
know him. Was Brigid involved in criminal activity?”

“There’s
no evidence of that.”

“Well,”
said Jody Millan, “she certainly wasn’t an upstanding citizen.”

We
took the stairs to the sub-lot.

“Brigid
Ochs,” said Milo. “What’s the chance that’s her righteous name?”

I
said, “Whoever she was, she was obviously curious about the Borodi project and
DSD.”

“International
intrigue … okay, time to call in some favors.”

He
flipped through his notepad, found a number, punched and left a vague message
for someone named Hal.

As we got in the car, he tried Moe Reed, got voice
mail, settled for his other occasional D One backup, Sean Binchy, and asked him
to run Brigid Ochs through the databases, including Social Security.

Binchy
phoned back in ten minutes. “Nothing on her anywhere, Loot. There is a Brigitte
Oake, spelled like the tree but with an
e
at the end, incarcerated at
Sybil Brand, awaiting trial for cocaine, possession with intent. Extensive
record for solicitation and drugs, but she’s forty-nine. Social Security was
kind of anal, said the number had been ‘retired’ due to misuse. I tried to get
confirmation about that five-year-old Sara Gonsalves but it’s like she never
existed. For some reason I got the feeling they’d been told not to cooperate,
but maybe I’m being paranoid.”

“Trust
your instincts, Sean.”

“I’m
learning to do that, Loot.”

A
mile before the station, Milo detoured to a taco joint on Santa Monica, inhaled
two burritos slathered “Christmas style” with red sauce and
salsa verde
,
gulped a mega-Coke, then a refill. “All that green talk is making me conserve
energy. Onward.”

No
call-back from Hal the Fed. A note from Binchy said, “No luck on the Internet.”
Milo Googled
Brigid Ochs
anyway, did the same for
DSD Inc
.

Whole
lot of zeros.

I
said, “Maybe it won’t be about high intrigue and Brigid wanted Masterson’s
address list so she could help Backer apply for a job there.”

“Along
the way, the two of them have fun-time in high-end piles of wood?”

“How
do most employees abuse the office computer?”

“Porn.”

“Maybe
plywood was hers.”

He
sat back, twisted an ear until it turned scarlet. “Let’s try Backer’s sister
again.”

He dialed, hung up. “Scott and Ricki and Samantha and
bark bark bark.”

The
206 backward directory yielded a name: Flatt, Scott A.

That
pulled up a one-page family website showcasing the same holiday photos we’d
seen in Backer’s apartment, a few more of little Samantha, now around three,
and travel shots from half a dozen national parks, plus Hawaii, London,
Amsterdam.

Scott
and Ricki Flatt were both elementary school teachers.

I
said, “School’s out of session, they get summers off, could be anywhere.”

“Gonna
be a helluva welcome back.” He spun in his chair, nearly collided with the
wall. Mumbled, “There’s a metaphor for you.”

“Brigid
told the employment agency she’d grown up in the Pacific Northwest. Skillful
liars embed truth in their stories, maybe that part was real and this is about
old friends reuniting. Recalling the good old days when she and Des used to
park under the stars.”

“Under
the stars is one thing, Alex. Why a damn construction site?”

“Maybe
the two of them were wild kids, enjoyed trespassing.”

“Nostalgia,
huh?”

“Reach
your thirties, nothing exciting in your life, nostalgia can take on a certain
charm. Reliving the past could explain Backer going beyond the usual short-term
shag.”

He
phoned 206 information, probed for Backer or Ochs listings. Slammed down the
receiver, shaking his head, called the Port Angeles police and talked to a
friendly, basso-voiced cop named Chris Kammen. Kammen knew nothing helpful,
promised to ask around.

“Booty-calls
for nostalgia’s sake.”

“Strong
chemistry can linger,” I said. “But if Brigid was involved with another man,
chapter two could get complicated.”

“Alleged
Brigid, who knows what her real name is? I’m thinking it’s time to go public.
Any reason I shouldn’t?”

He
was back on the phone to Parker Center before I finished saying, “Not that I
can see.”

Three underlings later, he was transferred to Deputy
Chief Henry Weinberg. The D.C. mainlined smug. “Sounds like you’re nowhere
fast.”

“It’s
a tough one.”

“Thought
that was the kind you liked.”

“Up
to a point.”

“The
point where you’re nowhere fast, eh? I suppose I can find it within myself to
put someone on it but no station’s going to flash a morgue shot on screen, too
damn real for civilians. You have an artist who can make her look alive?”

“I’ll
find one.”

“Do
your homework, first,” said Weinberg. “Then talk to me.”

Milo’s
obvious first choice was Petra Connor, because she’d worked as a commercial
artist before joining the department, had serious talent. A call to her office
at Hollywood Division revealed she was in Cabo for R and R with her live-in,
Eric Stahl. Additional poking around produced the name of Officer Henry
Gallegos from Pacific Division, whose A.A. in art from Santa Monica College
made him Rembrandt. Gallegos was off for the day at Disneyland with his wife
and twin toddlers, but agreed to be in by six p.m. if traffic wasn’t too crazy.

“Nothing
fancy, Lieutenant, right?”

“Just
make it so she doesn’t scare anyone.”

“Broke
my finger last week playing ball,” said Gallegos, “but I can still do pretty
good.”

That
night at home, I checked the late news for the story, got a headful of politics
and natural disasters, a horrific child abuse case that made me turn off the
tube and hope I wouldn’t be asked to get involved.

I
played guitar and read psych journals and hung with Blanche and listened to a
disk of Anat Cohen wailing on her clarinet and saxophones. Replaying “Cry Me a
River” a couple of times because that was a great song, period. Robin and I ate
chicken and mashed potatoes,
took a long bath, did lots
of nothing. When she yawned at midnight, I joined her and managed to stay
asleep until seven a.m.

I
found her eating a bagel and drinking coffee in the kitchen. The TV was tuned
to a local affiliate morning show. Pretty faces prattling about celebrities and
recipes and the latest trends in downloadable music.

She
said, “You just missed that girl’s face in the news.”

“Good
rendition?”

“I
don’t know what she actually looks like but the overall draftsmanship was okay.
In that sidewalk-artist way.”

I
surfed channels, finally found an end-of-broadcast segment. Henry Gallegos
wouldn’t be giving up his day job but the resemblance was good enough.

I
tried Milo’s desk phone. He’d installed the recorded message that thanked
tipsters in an appropriately professional tone and promised to get back as soon
as possible.

The
onslaught had apparently begun.

I
finished a couple of reports, e-mailed invoices to attorneys, took a run,
showered. Milo called just as I was getting dressed.

“Tip-storm?”

“Forty-eight
helpful citizens in the first hour. Including twenty-two flagrant psychotics
and five psychics posing as helpful citizens.”

“Hey,”
I said, “politicians rely on the psychotic vote.”

He
laughed. “Binchy and Reed and I have been talking to a slew of well-meaning
folk absolutely convinced Brigid is someone they know. Unfortunately, none of
the facts fit and they’re all wrong. The only decent bit of possible is a
you-guessed-it anonymous tip from a pay phone. Listen.”

A
burst of static was followed by ambient hum. Rising traffic noise drowned out
the first few words:

“…
that girl. At that unbuilt house.”
Shaky male voice. Old or trying to sound old. Ten-second gap, then:
“She
been with Monte.”

I
said, “Those hesitations sound like fear. It could be real.”

“Too
scared to use his own phone and leave a name, gee thanks.
And
just to keep you current, my most weak-willed judge said
nyet
to
subpoenaing the Holmans’ financials so it’s air sandwich for brunch.”

“Could
you play the message again?”

When
the tape ended, I said, “He knows this Monte well enough to use a name, has
seen her with Monte but doesn’t know her well enough to use her name. Maybe
I’ve been wrong, the two of them had no relationship and this’ll turn out to be
one of those wrong-time, wrong-placers.”

“Bite
your tongue, right now I’m going with Mr. Tipster being too freaked to give me
everything he knows. Damn pay phone—guy was lucky to find one that works.”

“Where
is it?”

“Venice
Boulevard near Centinela. Lots of apartments all around.”

I
said, “He sounded elderly. The pre-cell generation.”

“Brigid’s
been seen at Borodi by herself, maybe she had some connection to it—worked for
one of the subs and she was the one who initiated the tryst with Backer. And
maybe she knew Monte—or he knew her because your guess about a tradesman was
right on. I’m going downtown, get a hands-on with all the permits for the job.
Who knows, maybe it’ll be constructive.”

At
two p.m., he showed up at my house, lugging his scarred vinyl attaché case. The
customary kitchen scrounge produced last night’s chicken and mash, a bottle of
ketchup, stalks of celery in need of Viagra. Everything ingested at warp speed
while standing at the counter then chased with a carton of orange juice. When
he offered Blanche a scrap she turned away.

“Picky?”

“She
doesn’t want to deprive you.”

“Empathic.”

“She
takes the psych boards this year. I’m predicting a pass.”

Stooping
to pet, he sat at the table, unlatched the case. “The general contractor was an
outfit named Beaudry, out in La Canada, they
specialize
in big projects, got a website full of ’em. Not including Borodi.”

“Another
confidentiality agreement?”

“I
pressed a V.P., couldn’t pry a damn thing out, including any subs. And no
knowledge of anyone named Monte. As if he’d tell me different.”

The
attaché case rattled, twitching atop the table like a frog in a nasty
experiment.

He
pulled out his cell phone. “Sturgis … you’re kidding… on my way.” Standing and
brushing bits of chicken from his shirt. “Bit of conflict at the dream palace.”

Scraps
of yellow tape blew in the breeze. Two uniformed patrolmen held Doyle
Bryczinski by his skinny arms. Thirty feet up, another pair of cops restrained
a well-dressed, white-haired man, who wasn’t going down easy. Shouting, one
foot stomping; the uniforms looked bored.

Bryczinski
said, “Hey, Lieutenant. Could you tell them this is my turf?”

Milo
addressed a female officer tagged
Briskman
. “What’s up?”

“This
one and
that
one took issue with each other’s
presence. Loud issue, a neighbor phoned 911. We got it as a 415, possible
assault. When we arrived, they were just about ready to tussle.”