Evidence (35 page)

“Why’s
that?”

“Altruism
is nothing more than a mutation of selfishness.”

Milo
crossed his legs. “Sorry, I’m not decoding.”

“I do
what society
says
is nice so I can
feel
nice. What is more
narcissistic than that?”

Milo
pretended to contemplate. “Okay, so, if it wasn’t altruism, it was—”

“What I told you.”

“An
act of meta-ecological cleansing. Hmm.”

“Don’t
play stupid, Policeman. You have enough natural defects, there is no need to
supplement.”

Boxmeister
said, “Ouch. Heil, Helga.”

Milo
uncrossed, scanned his notes again, edged his chair back a few inches. Removing
a handkerchief from a trouser pocket, he wiped his brow. “Getting hot in here,
no?”

Helga
Gemein tugged at her wig. “I am comfortable.”

“To
me it feels hot. I’d think that thing would make it worse for you.”

“What
thing?”

“The
hairpiece. Dynel doesn’t breathe.”

“This,”
she said, “is genuine hair. From India.” He smiled. “So you’re not a hothead.”
Helga snorted and turned away.

Milo
said, “No, I mean that seriously. It’s clear to me that you rely on reason, not
impulse.”

Maria
Thomas leaned forward. “Yes, yes, go for it.”

Helga
Gemein said, “Should I not rely on reason?”

“Of
course you should,” said Milo. “We all should. But sometimes being
spontaneous—”

“Spontaneity
is an excuse for poor planning.”

“You’re
into planning.”

No
answer.

Maria
Thomas was at the edge of her chair. “Easy, now.” Milo said, “Being an
architect, I imagine you’d favor blueprints.” Helga turned to face him.
“Without blueprints, Policeman, even chaos doesn’t work.”

“Even
chaos?”

Up
came the pedantic finger. “There is chaos that emanates from stupidity. Think
of flatfooted policemen in brass-buttoned tunics and tall hats tripping over
themselves. Then, there is corrective chaos. And
that
must be planned.”

“Burning those twigs didn’t result from stupidity,”
said Milo. “You considered every detail.”

“I
always do,” said Helga.

“Always?”

“Always.”

Maria
Thomas punched her fist. “Yes!”

Helga
Gemein sniffed. “This room smells like a toilet.”

“It
does get a little stale,” said Milo.

“How
often do you bring prostitutes here?”

“Pardon?”

“For
your policeman after-hour parties.”

“Must’ve
missed those.”

“Oh,
please,” said Helga. “It is common knowledge what policemen do with women
they’ve dominated. Down on the knees, the man feels so
big.”

Boxmeister
said, “I must work in the wrong division.”

Maria
Thomas shot him a sharp look. He shrugged.

Milo
said, “The cops do that in Switzerland?”

Helga
said, “If you are interested in Switzerland, buy a plane ticket. Good-bye,
Policeman. You have bored me enough, I am going.”

But
she made no attempt to stand.

Milo
said, “Going?”

“Twigs?
Brush clearing? What is that, a penalty? I will pay you.”

“Out
of that cash in your purse?”

“Since
when is it a crime to have money? America worships money.”

“No
crime at all. But six thousand’s a lot of cash to be carrying around.”

Helga
smirked.

Thomas
said, “That was pure rich kid. This one’s never been told no.”

Helga
said, “What is the amount of my fine?”

Milo
said, “I’m not sure of the penal code on twigs yet. We’re still checking.”

“Well, do it quickly.”

“Soon
as the district attorney lets me know, I’ll get the paperwork going. Meanwhile,
let’s go over this act of cleansing.”

“Not
again, no, I will not.”

“I
just want to make sure I understand.”

“If
you do not understand by this time, you are hopelessly defective.”

“Anything’s
possible,” said Milo. He shuffled papers, knitted his brows, stuck out a
tongue, hummed a low tune. “You’re sure you don’t want more water?”

“I
still have.” Eyeing the cup he’d brought her five minutes in.

Boxmeister
said, “Garsh, Gomer, when you gonna call for a hayseed and a spittoon?”

Milo
said, “Okay, you can drink that.”

Helga
Gemein picked up the cup, sipped it empty. Power of suggestion.

Turning
point in the interview.

She
put the cup down. Eyes still on his notes, he said, “So … you planned and
burned the twigs all by yourself. Tell me how you did it.”

“The
fine is insufficient penance?” said Helga, smirking again. “In America, money
fixes everything.”

“Even
so, ma’am. We like to have all the facts.”

“The
facts are: As an architect with a strong background in structural engineering,
I have a thorough understanding of structural vulnerability. I located the
inherent structural defects of that garbage heap, set devices precisely,
operated a remote timer, and watched as everything turned to dust.”

“So
you were right there.”

“Close
enough to bathe in heat and light.”

“A
few houses down?”

“I
didn’t count.”

“But
you parked the motorcycle three blocks away.”

Blue
eyes sparked. “How do you know I drive a motorcycle?”

“It
was spotted and reported.”

“So you know the answer to your question. So do not
waste my time.”

“Like
I said, we need to verify,” said Milo. “For our report, so we can let you go
and be done with all this.”

“Proper
procedure,” said Helga. “Enabling you to pretend competence.”

“You
know about procedure.”

Helga
arched an eyebrow.

Milo
said, “That old joke? Hell is the place where the Italians establish procedure
and the Swiss are in charge of design?”

“Hell,
Policeman, is the place Americans gorge themselves to unconsciousness and
delude themselves to mindless optimism.”

“Never
heard that version,” said Milo. “But you have to admit, the Swiss are darn good
at design—who makes the best watches? Speaking of which, let’s talk about those
timers. Where’d you get them?”

“From
Des.”

The
quick reply caught him off-guard. He covered with a prolonged nod. “Des
Backer.”

“No,
Des Hitler—yes, Des
Backer
. I want to go and pay my fine and be gone.”

“Soon,”
said Milo. “What else did Des supply you with?”

“Everything.”

“Meaning—”

“You
have invaded my studio, you know what is there.”

“The
fuses, the wiring, the vegan Jell-O. Des knew about all that because he was …”

“He
claimed to be an anarchist.”

“Claimed?
You think he was faking?”

“Des
indulged himself.”

“Des
and women.”

“He
was not a serious person.”

Milo
said, “Where’d you two meet? An anarchist convention—guess that’s kind of an
oxymoron, huh?”

Helga said, “In a chat room.”

“Which
one?”

“Shards.net.”

“As
in broken glass?”

“As
in broken
universe,”
she said. “It has closed down. Anarchists are not
good at self-perpetuation.”

“Poor
organizational skills,” said Milo. Silence.

“So
you met online … Des being an architect must’ve made it seem perfect. Though
the combination is kind of odd. Building up and destroying.”

“There
is no contradiction.”

“Why’s
that?”

“As I
told you, everything depends on context. But anyway, I am not an anarchist, I
do not join movements.”

“So
you’re a …”

“I
am,” said Helga Gemein, with the first smile I’d seen her offer, “myself.”

Milo
fiddled with his papers some more, feigned confusion. “Kind of a one-woman
truth squad … So you met Des online and the two of you decided to burn some twigs.”

“I
decided.”

“He
was your supplier,” said Milo. “Knew where to get equipment. That was the real
reason you hired him. The real reason you established your firm.”

Silence.

“Nice
shell,” he went on, “for explaining your presence in L.A., giving you a reason
to be hanging with Des. Covering expenses—fifty thousand in cash? Who’s the
real source of all that money, your father?”

No
response.

“The
road trip to Port Angeles, Helga. Nice, crisp bills in two suitcases. The kind
you get fresh from a bank. The kind that gets released when one bank talks to
another.”

Helga Gemein poked a finger under her wig. “I
would
like some water.”

Milo
collected his papers and left. Alone, Helga fooled with the hairpiece some
more, massaging the top of the glossy black strands, working a finger joint
under the hem and poking around.

Don
Boxmeister said, “What, she’s got cooties? Maybe we should’ve strip-searched
her.”

Maria
Thomas said, “What I said still stands, Don: No sense alienating her right off,
he needs something to work with. And it’s paying off, she admitted
premeditation.” Several pokes at the BlackBerry. “I’m needed back in an hour,
hope he can nail the bitch soon.”

Helga
straightened the wig, turned, leaned on the table. Sat and planted her boots on
the floor. Her eyes closed. Her head swayed.

“What
the hell’s she doing?” said Boxmeister. “Some kind of meditation?”

I
said, “Probably dissociation. Putting herself somewhere else is her default
strategy.”

Milo
returned with a small cup of water. Helga didn’t acknowledge him, but her eyes
opened when he said, “Here you go,” and placed it in front of her.

He
put on reading glasses, reviewed his notes. She eyed him, finally sipped.

“Okay,
tell me about the trip to Port Angeles.”

She
touched a fringe of wig. “I engaged in tourism. The great lifeblood of American
pseudo-culture.”

“A
pleasure trip.”

“I
have been to Disneyland, as well.”

“Guess
I don’t need to ask if you liked it.”

“Actually,”
she said, “it was quite pleasing in its own repugnant way. Consistent.”

“With
vulgar American culture?”

“With
a world devoid of reason.”

He
harrumphed. Slid a couple of sheets toward her. “This is your
registration form from the Myrtlewood Inn in Port
Angeles. And this is your car rental receipt.”

“I
stayed at a nice hotel,” she said. “So?”

“You
and Des Backer both stayed there. You took separate rooms, the staff remembers
you paying for both. They also recall seeing you and Des at breakfast
together.”

Guesses.
Good ones. Helga Gemein frowned. “So what? I already told you I got my
equipment from him.”

“It
was a purchasing trip.”

“Sightseeing,
then some purchasing.”

“Why’d
you give Des your car and rent another vehicle for yourself?”

“Because
we were not together.”

“As…”

“As
being together.”

“Did
you drive up together?”

“I
drove, he flew.”

“So
no one at the office would suspect anything.”

“I
wanted to drive,” said Helga. “He wanted to fly. He wanted to visit his
family.”

“What
did you do when he was visiting?”

“I
shopped.”

“For
timers and fuses?”

“Among
other things,” said Helga.

“What
things?”

“Clothing.”

“Find
some bargains?”

“Jeans,”
she said, stroking one shapely thigh. “Black jeans on sale.”

“You
drove because you couldn’t risk an airport security check with fifty thousand
dollars in two suitcases.”

Helga
took several seconds to respond. “If you know so much, why are you wasting my
time?”

“That darn old procedure thing. I need to hear it from
you.”

“All
because of twigs?”

“Afraid
so. They were big twigs. Owned by an important person.”