Evidence (28 page)

“Either
way,” said Lindstrom, “she could be already gone.”

“Sitting
in the International Terminal as we speak, Gayle. So how about dispensing some
of your guys in dark glasses and walkie-talkies?”

“I’ll
get an airport check going soon as I hang up. Including private charters,
seeing as Daddy’s a money-mover. Give me the name of his bank.”

He
flipped through his pad. “GGI-Alter Privatbank.”

Lindstrom
said, “Sounds fancy. Soon as you snag those computers, make sure I get a full
copy of the hard drives.”

“Done
and you’re welcome, Gayle. Once you get hold of her passport info or anything
else, get on the horn A-sap.”

“Done
and
you’re
welcome. I’ll give your regards to Hal.”

“He
takes your calls, does he?”

“Must
be my feminine mystique.”

Sean
Binchy was dispatched to pick up the computers.

Moe
Reed answered his page, alert and focused. “I’m right across the street, my
source came to work this morning but she was with a bunch of other girls and I
couldn’t isolate her. She’s due out soon for lunch.”

Milo
said, “Don’t waste time on subtle, Moses, just pull her aside. What I
need
to know is how sure she is about the Swedish thing. Even if she says she is,
ask her could it be ‘Swiss.’”

He
explained why.

Reed
said, “Blond is blond, huh? I’ll nab her as soon as I see her, Loo.”

A search using
ggi alter privatbank Zurich gemein
helga
, and
family
as keywords, paid off.

Embedded
among German-, French-, and Italian-language business sites was a single photo,
dated six years ago. One of many snapped at a fund-raiser for the Kraeker
Gallery’s exhibit of outsider art, featuring well-fed, well-groomed people in
black tie and gowns.

One
thumbnail off to the right. Milo enlarged it two inches square: Banker George
Gemein, his wife, Ilse, daughters Helga and Dahlia.

Both
parents, bespectacled, ramrod-straight, unsmiling. Helga matched their stance,
the obedient child. Even with a honey-colored schoolgirl bob and a baby-blue
gown trimmed in lace, she came across grim, disapproving.

Dahlia
Gemein appeared several years younger than her sister. Shorter and curvier than
Helga, she sported a conspicuous tan, a headful of ash-blond waves, a saucy
grin. Defying the family commitment to good posture, she cocked a hip and
slouched forward, threatening to spill ample bosoms out of her blood-red,
skintight sheath. Bejeweled fingers held the stem of a cobalt-blue cocktail.

The
only Gemein caught drinking, she’d separated herself physically, standing half
a foot apart.

The
clan. The mutation.

Milo
switched to NCIC, ran a search on
dahlia gemein
, pulled up nothing there
or on the Doe Network, any MP or crime file. But the Web spat back another
photo dated the same year as the Kraeker gala, snapped at the record launch
party of a rapper named ReePel. Malibu party house, Broad Beach. I’d heard
about the place. Closed down after a torrent of neighbor complaints.

In
that one, Dahlia Gemein wore a pink string bikini and stood flanked by two men
in flowered bathing shorts: the guest of honor, obese and cornrowed, and a
baby-faced, muscular Asian man identified as Teddy K-M.

Milo
shot a fist into the air. Flipped through his pad and shouted, punched the air
harder. “Dig this, Alex: K-M as in Tariq Ku’amah Majur. Something
real.”

He studied the shot. “Girl like this isn’t going to be
a throwaway, someone’s bound to report her missing. So why isn’t she in the
database?”

“Maybe
someone forgot to enter it.”

“Human
error? Oh, come now.”

A
call to Missing Persons revealed that Dahlia Gemein’s disappearance had never
been reported. Follow-ups everywhere else confirmed the same.

Milo
slumped. “For all we know, she’s not missing. She and Teddy fell in love, she
went back to Sranil with him, is living the life of a princess, and there goes
Helga’s motive.”

He
checked with Moe Reed. “Your source out yet?”

“Out
and right here, Loo. See you in about twenty.”

Ati
Meneng was tiny, gorgeous, terrified.

She
looked ten years younger than the twenty-nine listed on her driver’s license,
took up so little space that Milo put her in his office and had room to spare.

Standard
California license, no special consulate perks. She typed documents in the
secretarial pool.

She
had on a cinnamon-colored pantsuit that covered everything but hands and face.
The office was warm but that didn’t stop her from shivering. Tilting her head,
she created a glossy sheet of blue-black hair that masked her face. “I still
don’t know why I’m here.”

Milo
said, “Just what I told you, Ati. You’re helping us and we really appreciate
it.”

“There’s
nothing I can help you with.”

Milo
wheeled his chair closer. “This doesn’t need to be stressful, Ati.”

I sat
just inside the open door. Moe Reed stood behind me. Young guy with a fondness
for Aqua Velva. My father had slapped it on religiously, cursing as the alcohol
ignited booze-inspired shaving nicks.

If Reed was breathing, I couldn’t hear it.

Milo
said, “Is it okay if I call you Ati?”

Murmurs
from behind the hair curtain.

“What’s
that?”

“Call
me what you want.”

“Thanks,
Ati. First off, we’re sorry we had to take you away in the middle of work but
this is a murder investigation. If you have problems with your boss, I can talk
to him.”

“No,
don’t. I don’t know about murder.” Crystalline voice, no accent.

Milo
said, “How long have you been living in L.A., Ati?”

Hair
slithered away like glycerine on glass, revealing a flawless oval face,
pouty-lipped, ruled by enormous black eyes. “All my life.”

“Where’d
you grow up?”

“Downey.”

“How’d
you come to work at the Indonesian consulate?”

“They
advertised in an Indonesian paper. Needed someone who knew Dutch, my parents
speak Dutch in the house.”

“How
long have you been working there?”

“Like
nine months.”

“And
before that?”

“A
bunch of places.”

“Such
as?”

“Why
is that important?”

“Just
trying to get to know you, Ati.”

“Why?”

Milo
rolled back a few inches. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No,
thanks.”

“Tell
me about some of your previous jobs.”

“Mostly
temps.”

“Don’t
like to be tied down to anything long-term?”

“Temps
are what I could get while I auditioned.”

“You’re
an actress?”

“I thought I was.”

“No luck,
huh?”

Black
hair swung. “I did some commercials for Asian cable. I thought I could model
downtown for petites, but they said I was too small for even that.”

“Tough
gig, the audition circuit,” said Milo.

“Every
stupid girl thinks she can do it.”

“That
include Dahlia?”

Pouty
lips separated on white teeth slick with saliva. Brown hands the size of a
ten-year-old’s met each other and clenched hard.

Ati
Meneng said, “You found her?”

“Would
that surprise you?”

“I
just didn’t think it would ever happen.”

“Why’s
that?”

“People
like that,” said Ati Meneng. “They get away with things.”

“People
like who?”

Silence.

Milo
said, “People like Prince Teddy?”

Long,
slow nod. “I didn’t know who he was. Later, I found out.”

“How
did Dahlia meet him?”

“I
don’t know.”

Milo
said, “Dahlia was your friend but you don’t know?”

“I
don’t know exactly. That’s why I talked to you—to him—in the first place.
Because I
do
care, she
was
my friend.”

“Tell
me what you do know, Ati.”

“My
parents can’t find out,” she said. “They think all my temp jobs were
secretarial.”

“They
won’t, I promise.” Silence.

Milo
said, “You did some other things besides secretarial.”

“I
wasn’t getting any secretarial jobs so I registered at a website, okay? Asian
Dolls. It’s not what it sounds, they just linked visiting businessmen with
presentable young ladies suitable to be taken to social events.”

That sounded like a direct quote.

Milo
said, “Helping them feel at home.”

“Mostly
it was Japanese guys,” said Ati Meneng. “When Japanese girls were available,
they got first dibs, but when they weren’t it opened up to all the girls. They
were mostly nice. The guys, I mean. Older.”

“Mostly.”

“I
never had problems, it was totally a positive experience for me. It was an
honest business, the woman who ran it, Mae Fukuda, died a few years ago, her
kids didn’t want to keep it going. Some of those other businesses are sleazy.
That’s why I’m at the consulate, totally bored.”

“Asian
Dolls,” said Milo. “That wouldn’t seem to include Dahlia.”

“Dahlia
didn’t need to work, she had tons of money.” Gazing at the floor. “Okay, I know
how I met her. A party. After that, we started to hang out. She got me into
some cool places.”

“What
kind of cool places?”

“VIP
rooms at clubs, private parties—like at the Playboy Mansion, we went to three separate
parties at the Playboy Mansion, it was incredible. Hef wasn’t there, he let
them use his house to raise money for charity. We got to swim in the Grotto.”

“Where’d
you meet Dahlia?”

“A
club in Chinatown.”

“Which
one?”

“Madame
Chiang’s.”

Milo
said, “Hill Street, in the big mall, right? Big restaurant downstairs, upstairs
banquet room.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Great
dim sum at lunch, it closed down a few years ago.”

“If
you say so.”

“So
how’d you come to be there, Ati?”

“It
was a business party, jewelry. I went with a businessman from Cambodia. He gave
me a gold chain to keep. Mostly he talked to other jewelers and I could do what
I wanted.”

“Who else was at the party?”

“Jewelry
guys. Armenians, Israelis, Chinese, Persians. Some white guys. The speaker was
a white guy. From the mayor’s office, or something like that, welcoming the
jewelry business to L.A.”

“What
brought Dahlia there?”

“She
was with one of the white guys. He sold watches.”

“Remember
his name?”

“Never
knew it,” said Ati Meneng. “Older, white hair, fat. Swedish, like her.”

“Dahlia
told you she was Swedish?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Actually,
she was Swiss.”

Huge
black eyes expanded to cartoon proportions. “Yeah,
that’s
what it was.
You probably think I’m stupid.”

“It’s
an easy mistake to make,” said Milo. “Dahlia didn’t like to talk about it.
Being Swiss.”

“Why
not?”

“She
said it was a boring place to live, that’s why she sometimes said she was from
other places.”

“Such
as?”

“I
don’t remember. Maybe Sweden—maybe that’s where I got it. She only told me
about being Swiss after we hung out for a while. The guy she was with that
night, she said she knew him from back home, he was a big watch dealer, knew
her father because her father collected watches, had hundreds of them in little
boxes that kept moving to keep them winded. She was at the party to do him a
favor. The watch guy.”