Evidence (34 page)

“Living
like a nun,” said Milo.

Kammen
said, “Your boy Backer, though, he watched four dirty movies, ordered steak and
shrimp cocktail, and raided the bar for all kinds of goodies. Not exactly two
peas in a pod.”

“They
had enough rapport to do bad stuff, Chris.”

“Sounds
like your typical marriage.”

I
said, “How many rental car companies do you have in Port Angeles?”

“All
the majors and a couple of minors. Why?”

“Be
good to know if either Backer or Helga used a hired vehicle.”

“The
sister said Backer was driving her car.”

“She
wasn’t with him when he gave his sister the suitcases. They could’ve gone their
separate ways.”

“Ah,”
said Kammen. “Okay, I’ll check that out—stay on the line, maybe I can do it
fast.”

Four
minutes later: “Call me Speedy Gonzales, Myrtlewood Inn’s got Avis on the
premises. Ms. Helga rented a Chevy Cobalt during her one-day stay. It’s going
to take a while to find out how much mileage she put on but I can do it, if you
want.”

Milo
said, “Much appreciated, Chris. I’ll keep you informed.”

“This
is starting to be fun.”

I
said, “Separate cars means Helga could’ve followed Backer to the storage bin.
Once she got hold of the key, getting the money was a breeze. She didn’t even
need to bully him to get it: They worked in the same office, Backer, ever
sociable, goes off to lunch with his female friends. Helga, ever the loner,
stays behind and goes through his desk or a coat pocket, makes a mold.”

“Then
why the gun rape?”

“Everyone’s
got their own notion of fun.”

Milo
said, “Lord, I want a date with this girl in a small, bright room.”

A
warrant for Helga’s financial transactions revealed little. She’d canceled the
Amex account within days of the Port Angeles trip, no others had shown up under
her name.

I
said, “Daddy keeps vaults full of crisp bills. Maybe the department will fly
you to Zurich.”

He
phoned Gayle Lindstrom, asked for a probe of GGI-Alter Privatbank.

She
said, “I’ll try but good luck, those places are tighter than missile silos.”

“Still
nothing at the airport?”

“I’m
not into secrets, Milo. If there was, I’d tell you.”

He
hadn’t told her about the storefront on Western. When I asked why, he said, “At
this point, all she can do is complicate matters. Any suggestions on tracing
Ms. Hellish?”

“I’m
wondering if she’d chance a road trip. She wouldn’t exactly blend into middle
America.”

“Helga
in the heartland—sounds like a movie.”

“The
exception,” I said, “being Vegas.”

“Yeah,
a three-headed albino monkey would blend in there, it’s Fugitive Central. Okay,
I know a U.S. marshal, maybe Helga will materialize at the craps table at
Caesars. If not, you’re probably right, she’s still in town. Hopefully sooner
or later she’ll return to her bomb shop.”

“My
vote’s for sooner.”

“Because
you’re my pal?”

“Because
it’s her house of worship.”

Gayle
Lindstrom phoned to say she’d talked to her bosses about probing the bank.
Given past dealings with the Swiss government over Nazi gold and looted wartime
accounts, the best guess was years of wrangling.

Milo
said, “Nothing like neutrality.”

“What
we were able to do,” she said, “is institute passport scans
of the entire Gemein family, to build a conspiracy case
should you ever find Helga. This whole thing is making the Bureau nervous.”

“The
fact that Doreen was your paid stooge and she used you?”

“Used
my predecessors,” said Lindstrom. “My goal on this one is being seen as outside
the loop.”

At
five forty-three p.m., Milo ate junk food at his desk, preparing for the
beginning of his alley shift.

He
had a mouth full of packaged burrito when Sean Binchy called.

“Got
her, Loot! Cuffed and in the back of my car, she went down real easy!”

Helga
Gemein, in all-black and her Bettie Page wig, parked her Buick carelessly,
barely clearing Hiram Kwok’s area. She had her key in the lock of the bomb
factory when Sean Binchy took her from behind.

Shouting
“Police” and drawing her arms back, Binchy used long-fingered bass-player’s
hands to secure her wrists, had the cuffs on within seconds.

Helga
said, “All for twigs?”

Binchy
patted her down lightly and spun her around. “Twigs?”

Helga’s
look said he was beyond help.

By
the time Moe Reed arrived from the opposite end of the alley, Sean had her in
the rear seat of his unmarked, belted in. She glared through the window.

Reed
said, “Excellent, bro.” Opened the door to get a better look.

Helga
said,
“You
look like a storm trooper.”

Reed said,
“And you’re an expert on that. You didn’t think to change your appearance?”

“Why would I?”

“You
look just like on the news.”

“What
news?”

“The
TV broadcast.”

“TV,”
said Helga, “is garbage. I don’t waste my time.”

Two
hours later, she sat in a West L.A. interrogation room, as bored as she’d been
when Milo spieled off Miranda. A group watched from next door: Binchy, Reed,
Don Boxmeister.

The
guest of honor: Captain Maria Thomas, a tweed-suited, blond-coiffed,
well-spoken aide to the chief.

The
last few minutes had been spent discussing the Western Avenue rental, which
Helga dismissed as
“my studio.”

“For
what?”

“Conceptual
art.”

“Those
fuses—”

“For
a collage.”

“What
kind of collage?”

“You
couldn’t hope to understand.”

Milo
hadn’t bothered to ask her where she was living. A rental-agency key was traced
to a house in Marina del Rey. Del Hardy had gone there with a crew of cops.
Five flat-screens but no cable or satellite hookup in place. No computer,
either, but drawers full of paper included a trove of e-mails. Everything in
German, which Hardy sent for translation to Hollenbeck Division Detective Two
Manfred Obermann.

Hardy
said, “Guess who she’s renting the place from, Alonzo Jacquard.”

Milo
said, “Doctor Dunkshot? He have any idea who his tenant is?”

“He’s
coaching in Italy, everything went through an agency. Ms. Friendly paid up
front in cash, just like with the storefront. Funny choice for her, the place
is tricked out way past vulgar, pure Alonzo—trophy room, six fully stocked wet
bars, disco room, stripper’s pole,
home theater, racks
of the kind of DVDs I wouldn’t keep out in the open. Great view of the water,
though. But she had the drapes drawn, is sleeping in a small guest room near
the service porch, might as well be in a convent. Except for the toys.”

“What
kind of toys?”

“I’m
a churchgoing man, Milo, don’t make me go into detail.” Chuckle. “Let’s just
say the latex lobby likes her.”

Milo
said, “You’re sure they’re not Alonzo’s toys?”

“No,
these were definitely hers, all girlie stuff.” Hardy sighed. “Alonzo, man he
was talented. Too bad he wasn’t around to sign an autograph for my kid.”

Milo
asked a few more questions about art.

Helga
answered each with “Don’t waste my time, you are ignorant.”

Captain
Maria Thomas said, “She’s breathtakingly arrogant.”

Boxmeister
said, “That could work for us, no? She thinks she’s in charge, doesn’t lawyer
up.”

Thomas
checked her BlackBerry. “So far so good, but he hasn’t gotten into serious
stuff.”

Milo
made a show of putting on reading glasses, dropping papers, retrieving them.
“Um … okay … so… how about we talk about the house on Borodi—”

Helga
cut him off: “Blah blah blah.”

“The
house on Borodi Lane, where—”

“Blah
blah
blah
blah
blah.”

Milo
grinned.

“Something
is funny, Policeman?”

“Blah
blah blah is one of
my
favorite phrases.” Helga rotated a finger in the
air. “Is that supposed to give us commonality?”

“I
don’t imagine commonality would be possible between us.”

“Oh?”

“You despise people,” said Milo. “Most of the time I
consider myself part of the human race.”

“I
despise people?” said Helga.

“So
you said the first time we met.”

“You,
Policeman, need to stop decoding literally.”

Milo
snapped his fingers. “I
knew
I should’ve paid attention in metaphor
class.”

Helga
ran a manicured finger under chopped black bangs. “A policeman who has studied
the dictionary.”

“Started
with
A
and working all the way to
B
. Unfortunately, I kinda got
hung up on
boom.”

Helga
didn’t answer.

Milo
said, “The house on Borodi—”

“I
burned some twigs. So what?”

“Twigs.”

“A
heap of rotting wood, a monstrosity. I did the world a favor.”

“By
burning down the house—”

“Not
a house,” Helga corrected. “Ruins. Twigs. Garbage. Monstrosity. Shit. I
cleansed in the name of aesthetic righteousness, structural integrity,
epistemological consistency, and meta-ecology.”

“Meta-ecology.
Didn’t get even
close
to that in the dictionary.”

“It
won’t be in there. I constructed it.”

“Ah.”

Helga
Gemein held up the rotating finger. “It means stepping back from trivial
components of the gestalt that endow the system with no functional autonomy.”

Milo
said, “Looking at the big cosmic machine, not the cogs.”

Helga
studied him. “You can’t hope to understand because you are American and
Americans are all religious.”

“We’ve
got a few atheists.”

“In
name only, Policeman. Even your atheists are religious because American faith
is infinite. The suckling pig that never stops offering its flesh.”

“I’m not sure I’m—”

“You
people have convinced yourself possibilities are endless, endings are happy,
puzzles are to solved, the future is an advertising jingle, your way of life is
sacred, might makes right. If Americans would tear themselves away from their
twigs and their shit and use their eyes and ears and noses to
dissect
reality, they would alter their cognitive structure.”

Maria
Thomas muttered, “And become clinically depressed like Europe.”

Helga
said, “Americans are the domesticated pets of the world. Submissive and eating
their own shit. Until they turn vicious and then we have war.”

Boxmeister
said, “Talk about a cuckoo clock.”

Thomas
said, “I’ve been to Interpol conferences. She’s just another spoiled Euro-trash
brat.”

“But
maybe a little whack, too?” Boxmeister nudged me. “What do you think, Doc?”

Thomas
said, “Bite your tongue, Detective, and don’t answer, Dr. Delaware. It’s going
to be pain enough dealing with a foreign national, last thing we need is
diminished capacity.”

Milo
was saying, “So burning the twigs was an act of cleansing.”

“Refuse
removal.”

“Taking
out the garbage.”

Helga’s
blue eyes narrowed.

Milo
said, “Wouldn’t
altruism
be a better word?”

Two
sleek, black-nailed hands clenched. “It would be a
stupid
word.”