Evidence (33 page)

“What
kind of car did she drive?”

“Buick
LeSabre, 2002, I know the license plate by heart.” Kwok rattled off numbers.
Milo copied.

“I
know it by heart because I called it in to you guys, had to be twenty times.
Know what they told me? Disputes between private property owners needed to be
settled privately. And now she burned something down. You guys need to change
procedures.”

Milo
nodded. “Tell me about her buddies.”

“Two
of ’em, yuppies,” said Kwok. “Mr. Pretty Boy and Miss Pretty Girl in the BMW.
What they were
doing
with her I could never figure out, I even wondered
about a porno shoot, something like that.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a hidden place, having to go in through
the back. And those two looked like actors.”

“Good
looking.”

“Too
good looking,” said Kwok. “Like they spent a lot of time in front of the
mirror. Especially him. Also, the two of them didn’t fit with
her
. She
was like one of those Goths, you know what I’m talking about?”

“All-black
clothes, the wigs,” said Milo.

“That
Bettie Page wig they showed on TV was a favorite. You know who Bettie was,
right? Hottest pinup in the history of the world. Once in a while I find her memorabilia,
sells immediately. The Goth thing, one of my daughters went through that, a
phase, so I know all about it. She was too old—the German—to be acting like
that, but she did.”

“Unlike
the other two.”

“The
other two were preppies—Ken and Barbie, you know? It just didn’t fit. So I
figured porno. Turns out it was even worse, huh?”

A
six-pack photo lineup would’ve been optimal procedure but all Milo had were
photos of Des Backer and Doreen Fredd, hers postmortem.

Kwok
nodded. “Yup, that’s them. So they’re all in it together?”

“Right
now, we’re unraveling their relationship.”

“Bunch
of firebugs planning who-knows-what, right next door, that’s just great,” said
Kwok. “You noticed when you got here that the whole front of her window is
blacked over, from the street it looks closed. We’ve got lots of back-door
tenants here—musicians use the place five to the north for rehearsals, there’s
a girl, they say her brother’s a movie star, I forgot his name, uses hers for a
photography lab. But none of them causes problems. I tried to tell the traffic
cops something was off about her, they couldn’t care less.”

I
said, “Off how?”

“Way
she walked, talked, when I tried to tell her about the parking situation, she
just looked through me. Like I didn’t exist. Like I was nothing to her.”

“When’s the last time you saw her here?”

“Not
for a while, I’d have to say … a month. What exactly did she burn down?”

“We’re
still working on that,” said Milo.

“Meaning
none of my business? Fine, just as long as she doesn’t come back and blow me
up.”

“If
you do see her again, here’s my card, Mr. Kwok.”

“You’re
not going to keep an eye out for her—surveillance?”

“We’ll
be doing everything to catch her, sir.”

Kwok
hadn’t taken the card. Milo held it there.

“You’ll
take me more seriously than those traffic cops?”

“I
already have, sir. Your help is deeply appreciated.”

Kwok
pocketed the card.

Milo
said, “Next time you speak to your son, tell him Dad’s a hero, too.”

Kwok
winced. “I don’t know about that, I’m just being logical. Yeah, I’ll call you.
Who the hell wants her coming back and burning the whole neighborhood down?”

No
sign of Helga Gemein. By the next day, the tips had ebbed to a handful of
useless leads.

Milo
traced ownership of the rented storefront to an elderly couple named Hawes living
in Rancho Mirage. The lease had been negotiated through a commercial brokerage
and the listing broker had since moved to New Jersey.

“Nothing
iffy about the move,” he said. “Broker had just gotten married and hubbie was
transferred to Trenton. Maybe that’s why she got careless. Helga used her own
name but all the backup information she gave was bogus and no one checked.
Also, a full year’s rent in cash, up front, tends to ease the process. I got
permission to search from Ma and Pa Hawes, nice folks, about as radical as
Norman Rockwell, and plenty scared their place was used as a kaboom factory.”

“That’s
confirmed?”

“Bomb
squad found Jell-O ingredients, cookbooks like the one
Ricki
Flatt saw in Desi’s room, Swiss and German newspaper articles on eco-sabotage,
computer searches on Sranil, copper wire, switches, timers with remote
triggers, tools and workbenches to put it all together. Also, a collection of
women’s wigs triple-wrapped in plastic. Fortunately, no booby traps, so we left
everything in place in case Helga comes back, have a twenty-four-hour watch
going on the house and the alley, divided into three-hour shifts. Sean, Moses,
me, Del Hardy because he’s ex-Special Services,
really
has a thing for
terrorists, and eight plainclothes officers.”

“Milo’s
army, courtesy His Munificence.”

“He
loves being divinely right. There’s no reasonable place to park a vehicle in
the alley itself but the Haweses own a whole bunch of other storefronts up and
down the block and some are vacant so we’re stationed on both sides of Helga’s
little lair, she shows up she’s Chopped Misanthrope. The hitch, of course, is
she may already be road-tripping in that Buick, which has been BOLO’d. The tag
numbers Kwok memorized trace back to a stolen truck. Some guy with a car-washing
business, got ripped off eleven months ago when he was in—guess where—Holmby
Hills.”

“She
scouted the neighborhood for a long time,” I said. “She and Hoodie. Her
intention right from the beginning was to be actively involved, not just a
financier. Backer and Fredd were expendable the moment they signed on.”

“Yeah,
she’s a sweetheart. I’ll be in that alley at seven, right now I’m headed over
to Ricki Flatt’s motel because she’s finished all the paperwork on Desi’s body
and I’m driving her to the airport.”

“Beyond
the call,” I said. “Meanwhile, you probe for what she hasn’t told you.”

“You,”
he said, “are immovably skeptical, that’s why we’re pals. Want to come? It
could conceivably get psychological.”

Ricki
Flatt was waiting outside her room, jacket zipped, luggage on the ground.

Milo
jumped out, beat her to the rear car door.

“You
really didn’t need to do this, Lieutenant.”

“We’ll
take streets, freeway’s a bad idea at this hour.”

Moments
later: “How’d it go with the coroner, Ricki?”

“It
took a while, but we’re finally settled. I’ll be able to ship … to have Desi
sent back in two days, spoke to the cemetery in Seattle, where my parents are
buried and they’ve got a plot available. They referred me to a mortician here
who’s handling the logistics as well as the cosmetics. He said there wouldn’t
be that much to do, Desi still looked handsome. Any progress, Lieutenant?”

“We’re
chipping away, Ricki. Oh, by the way, those suitcases are out of your storage
bin.”

“Great,”
she said. “I spoke to Scott this morning and he didn’t mention anything, so
we’re fine.”

“Yes,
you are, Ricki.” A beat. “Unfortunately, we’re not.”

“What
do you mean?”

“Port Angeles police didn’t remove the suitcases. This
guy beat them to it.”

Hooking
his arm, he dangled the copy of the surveillance photo sent by Chris Kammen. As
Kammen had predicted, too blurry to be useful.

“Who
is this?”

“We
were hoping you might know.”

“Me?
Why would I?”

“Could
be someone local.”

“Well
I don’t know,” she said. “I have absolutely no idea.” Squinting. “He took
everything?”

“Sure
did.”

“How’d
he get in?”

“With
a key,” said Milo. “Who besides you and Desi had one?”

“No
one—does Scott know about this?”

“No
reason for him to know. How about Scott? Does he have a key?”

“No,
we rented it to store my parents’ stuff, Scott was always bothering me to get
rid of everything. Someone stole all that money? The same person who murdered
Desi?”

“We
don’t know yet.”

Ricki
Flatt returned the photo. “That’s why you offered to drive me. You think I’ve
held back on you and want to ask more questions.”

“I’m
just informing you of the situation as it stands, Ricki. Only you and Desi had
keys and the guy in the photo obtained one. Do you happen to have yours right
now?”

“I’m
a—of course I do.” Opening her purse, she fumbled, produced a ring, shuffled.
“This one. This is mine. Meaning that person used Desi’s. Meaning he
did
murder Desi. For the money, it’s always about the damn money!”

Burying
her face in her hands, she rocked.

Milo
drove another half a mile. “Ricki, what did Desi tell you about his boss, Helga
Gemein?”

“Her?
This is related to Desi’s job?”

“At this point it’s all questions, not answers, Ricki.
Did Desi talk about Helga? About work, in general?”

“He
liked the job, said it was fun, kind of easy. Said he met her at a convention
and she offered him a job.”

“What
kind of convention?”

“He
didn’t say. Why? Was she involved—oh my God. The time Desi brought the money,
he was traveling with a woman. I didn’t tell you because it slipped my
mind—it’s not like he brought her with him, what happened was after Desi and I
took the suitcases to storage, I asked him to stay for dinner. He said he’d
love to but he needed to get back to his hotel, someone was waiting. The
obvious assumption was a woman because with Desi there was always a woman. I
made a crack, you’re in town for a day, already have a hot date? Normally, he’d
give that cute smile of his. This time, he frowned, said, ‘A hot date would be
the ideal, but don’t lay odds on it.’ Which was unusual for Desi, he was always
so upbeat.”

She
choked back tears. “I remember I actually kind of gloated to myself. Finally,
Don Juan has failed. How petty of me, all those stupid childhood feelings.”

I
said, “What else did he say about this woman?”

“The
only other thing was that the car he was driving was hers, he needed to get it
back to her. Almost as if he was … intimidated by her.”

“The
way you would be by a boss.”

“That’s
what made me think of it right now. Why else would Desi be intimidated by
anyone, let alone a woman, unless she had some kind of power over him?”

That
hadn’t stopped him from propping Marjorie Holman up against a sheet of plywood.

Milo
said, “What kind of car was it?”

“American,
dark, I don’t remember. I really wasn’t paying attention.”

Milo
nudged the file over to me. I thumbed through, found the Internet photos he’d
printed of 2002 Buick LeSabres.

Ricki Flatt said, “Cars aren’t my thing, but sure,
that could be it. This is Helga’s car?”

Milo
said, “It’s similar to hers—hey, look at this, free sailing, it’s good we avoided
the freeway.”

Moments
after he’d carried her bag into the terminal, he was back on the phone with
Chris Kammen.

“I
can narrow the time frame for Backer’s trip, friend. All I need is verification
that either Backer or Helga Gemein registered at one of your hotels.”

Kammen
said, “Friend, huh? Every time I talk to you, my life gets complicated.”

“Thanks,
Chris, I appreciate it.”

Kammen
laughed. “Like I said before, we ain’t Gotham but we also ain’t Mayberry, it’ll
take a while. Who’s this Helga?” Milo filled him in.

Kammen
said, “International terrorism. Now I can brag to my kids about something. Not
that it’s going to help with teenagers.”

His
return call came in before we’d returned to the station. Bass tones vibrated
with triumph.

“I
used logic, figured people from L.A. might want some creature comforts, but
since they were involved in something illegal they might want to stay off the
main drag. We’ve got a place that fits the bill, twenty miles out, set on the
water, real woodsy, they got a spa, honeymoon couples like it. The Myrtlewood
Inn, I’m fixing to take my wife there for our anniversary if she behaves
herself. Anyway, sure enough, Ms. Helga Gemein used her platinum Amex during
that exact time. One-night stay. Or stand, depending on your perspective.”

“Excellent,”
said Milo. “Give me the card number.”

Kammen
read it off. “If your boy Backer was there with her, it was a stay, not a
stand, ’cause she rented two rooms. Paid for both, there’s no record of who
stayed in the other. But whoever it was racked up hours of rent-a-porn. Unlike
Ms. Helga, who didn’t watch a second of
pay-per-view,
probably drank tap water because there were no room service charges, not even
peanuts from the mini-bar.”