Evidence (32 page)

“All
of a sudden?”

“Better
late than never.”

“Well,”
I said, “Moghul’s good with veggies.”

“I
was thinking tandoori lamb, spinach with cheese, maybe some lobster.”

“Someone’s
bred low-cholesterol sheep and crustaceans?”

“So I
lied. Sup with your true love.”

I
hung up, talked to Robin.

She
said, “Like there’s a choice? Grill’s still cold, anyway. Go.”

By
six forty, Milo and I were sifting through GHC’s download history and every bit
of e-mail generated during the architectural firm’s brief life.

Bettina
Sanfelice and Sheryl Passant had spent most of their
screen
time searching eBay and discount fashion sites and gossip blogs. Both of them
loved Johnny Depp.

Judah
Cohen hadn’t logged on once.

Marjorie
Holman had used her keyboard sparingly: researching green architecture sites,
news outlets, checking her finances, which were as conservative and modest as
John Nguyen had reported.

Using
a separate screen name, she’d arranged regular trysts with six different men,
among them “mannyforbush” at forbushziskin-shapiro.net.

Helga
Gemein and Desmond Backer conducted infrequent but telling exchanges. Cyber pen
pals during working hours, they typed away as they sat in the communal office.

The
correspondence was focused: coolly exchanged information about explosives,
incendiary devices, the goals and techniques of eco-terrorism, nostalgic
reflections about ugly days gone by.

Milo
had cited the Baader-Meinhof gang while spinning for Judge LaVigne, but the
reference was prophetic: One week prior to the killings of Desmond Backer and
Doreen Fredd, Helga Gemein had invoked the murderous German band eight times.
Describing them, without a trace of irony, as “refreshingly nihilistic and
efficient.”

Helga:
the wonder years. my regret is having been born too late.

Backer:
for me it was the weathermen. if only, huh?

Helga:
knowing which way the wind blows.

Backer:
bill and bernadette and now they’re mainstream sell-outs.

Helga:
inevitable. blood thins.

Backer:
good old days blood was thick and hot the wind was gonna blow hard and hot.
emphasis on blow. lol.

Helga:
again, that? with you, it’s always carnality.

Backer:
got something better lol too bad it’s not with u.

Helga:
from what I see you’ve got your hands full.

Backer:
hands and other body parts. lol.

Helga:
enough i don’t lol about stupidity.

Backer: meant to talk to you about that.

Helga:
about what?

Backer:
ur state of mind.

Helga:
my mind is fine.

Backer:
ur never

Helga:
what’s to
about?

Backer:
hmmmm … how about big go-boom?

Helga:
that? one small step.

Backer:
for the elimination of mankind?

Helga:
wish I believed in god.

Backer:
why?

Helga:
i could say god-willing.

Milo
put the pile aside, squared the corners. “Creepy.”

I
said, “There’s a flirtatious quality to it. Initiated by Backer, but she went
along with it.”

“Guy
never stopped trying. Guess his batting average proved it was a good strategy.”

“Except
with Helga.”

“The
one who got away,” he said. “She’s a cold one, Alex.”

“She’d
contemplated becoming a nun. Maybe she’s one of those people with a low libido.
Or she decided to suppress her urges.”

“Or
she’s doing it with another guy and decided to be loyal.”

“Helga
and Hoodie?” I said. “It’s possible, but I’ll bet sex is low priority for her.”

He
smiled. “I could tell you about nuns.”

“The
joys of parochial school?”

“Some
of them were angels, greatest women I ever met. A few were monsters, about as
warm and cuddly as Helga. Can you imagine her with a metal-edged ruler? Guess
she found her own religion. First commandment: Lose the hair.”

“In a
lot of cultures, hair’s a symbol of sensuality. Fundamentalists tend to cover
their women and keep their own hair short. Buddhist
monks
shave their heads. It’s all about pruning vanity and focusing on nirvana.”

“Sista
Skinhead aiming for a no-people nirvana. She finds common ground with Mr. Happy-face
horndog. Poor fool had no idea Helga was using him.”

He
flicked the transcripts. “I think I finally get Backer doing Doreen at Borodi.
There never was any distinction between business and pleasure, for ol’ Des it
was all about fun.” Shaking his head. “In flagrante destructo.”

He
locked up, we took the stairs down, passed the clerk out front, and were at the
door when a shout brought us to a halt.

The
clerk stood and brandished the phone. “Call for you, Lieutenant Sturgis.”

“Who?”

A
hand clamped over the receiver. Near-whispered reply: “God, delivering the
tablets from Mount Sinai.”

“That
was Moses.”

“Whatever,
here, take it.”

Milo
accepted the phone. “Sturgis—evening, sir … Yes I did… Yes, he did… I see…
Thank you, sir … I hope so, too, sir.”

He
hung up. The clerk said, “Is he mad? He sounded mad when I told him you weren’t
in your office.”

“He’s
peachy.”

“Good,
good, I’m hearing bad talk about budget cuts. I’m new and I really need this
job.”

“I’ll
put in a good word for you.”

The
clerk brightened. “You could do that?”

“If
the topic comes up.”

Leaving
the man to puzzle that out, we left the station and stepped out into warm night
air. Cruisers pulled in and out of the staff lot. A uniform stood near the
fence, smoking and texting on his iPhone. A shabby-looking man stepped out of
the bail-bond office
half a block up and slouched
toward Santa Monica. A woman walking her dog saw him and crossed the street.
When she spied the badge clipped to Milo’s jacket pocket, she relaxed.

Traffic
hummed. The air smelled like hot tar.

Milo
breathed in deeply, spread his arms wide. “I
love
when something finally
happens.”

“Weinberg
changed his mind?”

“Screw
Weinberg, that was no chief with a small c.”

“His
Holiness?”

“In
all his celestial glory. Turns out
he
thinks putting Helga’s face on the
news is a
capital
idea. As long as it ‘leads somewhere and you don’t end
up making me look like a histrionically overreacting conspiracy-nut paranoid
schizo loony-tune.’”

“Congratulations,”
I said. “Now all you have to do is get that passport photo.”

“Already
delivered to the networks,” he said.

“Palace
guards move fast.”

“You
bet,” he said, lighting up a cigar. “Miss Skinhead debuts at ten. Sports and
weather to follow.”

Robin
and I watched the news in bed, Blanche wedged between us, dozing and
alternating between snorts and squeaks, flicks of her left bat-ear.

The
story was the final segment of a slow news day. Someone not looking for it
might’ve missed it.

Twelve
seconds total, half of that featuring a cloudy passport shot of a barely
recognizable Helga Gemein with blunt-bangs black hair. No mention of
nationality, terrorism, murder. Just a woman considered a “person of interest”
in an arson case, anyone with information was requested to call Lieutenant
Miller Sturgis at…

“Now
on to tonight’s caught-in-the-act feature, with celebrity heiress Roma Sheraton
found shopping for jeans on Robertson with no makeup and looking as if she just
woke up on the wrong side of the bed! For more on that, here’s entertainment
reporter Mara Stargood.”

I
clicked off.

Robin
said, “Miller Sturgis?”

“Even the chief has limitations.”

The
phone rang.

I
said, “She looked like Bettie Page.”

Milo
said, “How’d you know it was me?”

“The
ring tone was kind of weepy and the receiver sagged.”

“Ghost
of Salvador Dalí. Yeah, it’ll probably come to nothing.”

But
he was wrong.

By
ten o’clock the following morning, fifty tips had come in. Only one was good,
but who needed quantity when you had quality?

Hiram
Kwok operated a secondhand furniture store on Western Avenue between Olympic
and Pico. The hipper-than-thou, vintage-craving renaissance that had sparked La
Brea’s discount case-goods emporiums had eluded Western. Half the block’s
storefronts were dark, shuttered, or blocked by accordion gates.

Kwok’s
space was a pack rat’s paradise crammed with velveteen and carelessly gilded
almost-wood, chipped crockery, limp lamp shades, ratty furs, fake Tiffany glass
that didn’t even come close. A barely negotiable aisle had been cleared through
ceiling-high stacks of treasure.

Kwok
was fiftyish, thin and hollow-cheeked, with sparse gray hair and nicotine
teeth. A photo of a handsome Asian kid in full-dress Marine Corps regalia hung
above the Formica folding table Kwok used as a desk.

Milo
said, “Your boy?”

Kwok
said, “Over in Iraq right now, they say he’s coming home next month, then
heading to Dubai. Guess we got to protect them Arabs.”

“You
must be proud of him.”

“He
has a head for business, knows computers. I wanted him to take over so I can
retire but he said it put him in a bad mood.”

“Business?”

“Being
around too much junk. So you’re here about her, huh?
What
a bitch, no big shock she did bad things. Come on, I’ll show you her place.”

Leading
us through the shop, he encountered the sides of a disassembled crib, shoved
them aside, continued to the back door.

We
exited into a pitted alley that looked out to block walls of neighboring
properties. A Toyota Camry took up one slot of Kwok’s three-space lot.
HIRAM
on the license plate. Multiple alarm warnings on the side windows, heavy-duty
crook-lock on the steering wheel.

More
security than the mansion on Borodi.

Kwok
continued walking south, stopped at the rear of the adjoining shop.

No
cars, no painted slots; weeds poked through the pavement. Most of the back wall
was a corrugated aluminum garage door. Manual, a pull handle, bolted by a
serious combination lock.

Hiram
Kwok said, “She keeps no regular hours but is in and out all the time. I always
knew when she was here because she was an inconsiderate pain in the butt,
leaving her car parked so it stuck out into my area. Look at the layout, she
had tons of her own space, why the hell did she have to invade mine? And when
her buddies were around, it became a worse problem. I asked her nice at first,
she looked at me like I was retarded, finally moved the car. But the next time,
same damn thing. Over and over, like she was trying to annoy me.”