Evidence (17 page)

“Never
heard of it. And …”

“The
government is one of Masterson’s clients—major medical center still on the
drawing board. Given how intimidated everyone seems by the gag agreement and
the rumors of DSD being Middle Eastern, I went searching for petro-VIPs who’d
lived in L.A. within the last ten years, co-referenced with Masterson. No Arabs
came up but Asian royalty did: Prince Tariq of Sranil, aka Teddy. By
Forbes’s
last count his older brother, the sultan, is worth twelve billion. The
country’s Muslim, so maybe that’s the source of the
confusion. According to the blogosphere, Teddy came here five years ago to go
to law school, got called back to Sranil around two years ago. That fits the
Borodi construction schedule perfectly.”

“Why
was he called back?”

“The
prevailing wisdom is he partied too much, spent too much of his brother’s
money. And guess what: The sultan’s name is Daoud—he’s the sixth of seven
Daouds in the royal line—and his palace’s official name is Dar Salaam Daoud.”

“DSD
… got a full official name for Teddy?”

I
pulled out my notes. “Tariq Bandar Asman Ku’amah Majur.”

He
swiveled, logged onto the department’s database. “Like he’s gonna be in
here—well looky
here!
Still on the books for … I’m counting twenty-six
parkers and three speeders. Most are on the Strip … here’s one in B.H.—North
Beverly Drive … another on Rodeo … Dayton … the shopping district… five
different vehicles … Ferrari, Lamborghini, Rolls … wonder why he didn’t weasel
out of it using diplomatic immunity.”

“Maybe
he didn’t want to bother. Or he got booted back home before the traffic nazis
came after him.”

“Too
many toys, huh? Sultan controls the purse strings?”

“Seems
to, and there could be a personality conflict. The sultan’s devout, shows
relative restraint for someone that wealthy.”

“Only
a dozen Rolls-Royces?”

“Three,
according to the royal website,” I said. “And two are classics he inherited
from his grandfather. But we’re not talking the simple life. The royal palace
is something out of a storybook—think Taj Majal on steroids.”

“That
mean a turret?”

“Whole
bunch of turrets. The royal site also claims the sultan opens the place to the
public several times a year. Same for his yacht—used for charitable
fund-raisers. And a hefty percentage of oil profits gets reinvested in
infrastructure and hospitals. I can’t judge the truth of any of that, because
freedom of the press is nil. But the sultan could
have
good reason to share the wealth. Two competing rebels groups are camped in the
jungles of Indonesia, itching to get their hands on his fossil fuel. One bunch
thinks he’s insufficiently religious, the other’s Maoist. So far, they’ve spent
more time beheading each other, but it pays to be careful.”

“Bread
and circuses,” he said. “Brother Teddy’s profligate ways would be bad P.R.”

“Ergo
confidentiality pledges. It’s clearly in Masterson’s best interest to keep the
sultan happy. The Sranil project is one of their biggest: massive health-care
complex, a med school, state-of-the-art research labs, luxury residential
towers for imported doctors and nurses. A complete city based on health care,
really. Phase One is an oncology center. I called my old department head at
Western Pediatric and he’s actually been to Sranil as a consultant. Described
the island as a strange place—skyscrapers rising from the sand, everything
spookily clean and organized, but relatively primitive tribes still living in
the central jungle. He also told me the sultan has personal motivation for that
cancer center: One of his children was diagnosed with neuroblastoma as an
infant, sent to England for treatment but died. There’s no reason to believe
any of his other kids will get sick but the sultan’s being careful.”

“Help
your own, buy some international goodwill in the process, keep the savages from
your door,” he said. “So what’s Prince Teddy doing with himself nowadays?”

“Since
he returned, he’s completely off the radar.”

“Anything
come up about why the Borodi property hasn’t been sold?”

“Maybe
the sultan hasn’t gotten around to it.”

“Twelve
bil,” he said, “what’s twenty million, give or take?” He swung his feet off the
desk. “Interesting, Alex. Thanks, appreciated. The question is …”

“Does
it relate to the murders.”

A
knock on the doorjamb made us both turn.

Moe
Reed said, “I might’ve found something on DSD.”

Milo said, “Dar Salaam Daoud.”

Reed’s
eyes got big. “So you know about the murder.”

“What
murder?”

“The guy
who owned the property on Borodi.” Flipping pages of his pad. “Tariq Asman
allegedly killed someone. If my source is credible.”

Milo
eyed the young detective. “I’d invite you in, but you’ve been pumping too much
iron and those biceps won’t fit.”

The
three of us moved to an empty interview room still reeking of intimidation.
Milo made sure the taping system was off, shoved the table into the center,
drew curtains across the mirror.

“Let’s
hear it, Moses.”

Reed
said, “I called embassies in D.C., got nowhere until I reached the Israeli
embassy and some guy barks, ‘DSD? That’s not Arab, it’s Sranil.’ When I asked
what Sranil was, he hung up. So I went online, learned about Sranil. Including
the fact that the Indonesians don’t like it, worry it could be used one day as
a base for insurgents. So I figured maybe I could take advantage of that and
went over to the Indonesian consulate. It’s a suite in an office building in
Mid-Wilshire, you’d never know from the outside. The front office was full of
cute girls, friendly, smiling, all of them shined me on, claimed they’d never
heard of Sranil. So I leave and when I get to my car, one of the girls runs out
and says, ‘I’ll tell you about that place but don’t come back.’ Real nervous
and she’s taken off her I.D. badge. Anyway, she made it clear she doesn’t like
the Sranil tribe, they were barbaric heathens before they became Muslims, the
sultan pretends to be some righteous religious dude, meanwhile he’s covering up
for his brother Tariq, who’s a major lowlife. She says that’s what you’re here
about, right? Which takes me by surprise but I say sure. That’s when she gets
into it, telling me how there’s a rumor Tariq killed some foreign party girl in
L.A., it got covered up, he split. I tried to get details out of her but she
said she had no firsthand knowledge, it’s just what she heard.”

“Heard
where?”

“Around,” said Reed. “That’s all she’d say.”

“And
she doesn’t like Sranil.”

“So
she could be badmouthing them, sure. I couldn’t find anything on the Web about
any murder.”

“Foreign
girl as in non-Asian?” said Milo.

“As
in European, she thought Swedish, but couldn’t pinpoint. Think it means
anything, Loo?”

Milo
filled him in on my research.

“Interesting,”
said Reed. “But I’m not seeing any obvious link to the Borodi murders.”

“Me
neither, Moses, but the fact that our female vic was snooping in Masterson’s
files and Masterson’s in cahoots with the Sranilese government is a start.
Let’s try to find out if the rumor about Prince Tariq has any substance. Look
at unsolveds during the period he lived in L.A. Spread a wide net but focus on
foreign female vics.”

I
said, “Our female victim was a good-looking woman. She could’ve been a party
girl, too.”

“Friend
of the victim,” said Reed. “Maybe she’s foreign, herself, and that’s why she faked
her identity—some sort of immigration issue.”

Milo
said, “Cheap clothes says maybe the party was over, maybe she was aiming for a
big score. The Borodi site definitely interested her. In addition to going
there with Backer, she was spotted hanging around by herself.”

“What
if the site was a previous crime scene, Loo? Tariq brought a girl up there and
something went wrong—could’ve even been an accident, she falls down the stairs,
or out of a window hole. Or he really is a scumbag. Either way, he’s gone but
Brigid knows what happened, decides to profit.”

“If
she knew where it happened, why bother to snoop in the files?”

“Okay,
maybe she knew about the place in general, but needed details,” said Reed. “Or
she was searching for other real estate Tariq owned, thinking he might be back
and she could get to him.”

I said, “Blackmail could be involved but there could
also be a personal component. Avenging a friend. That would explain her
bringing Backer up there to have sex.”

Milo
said, “Screw you, Tariq. So to speak. But they got spotted. Twelve bil would
make it easy to hire a high-grade hit man. Sultan’s already rescued Baby Bro
from one murder, what’s a couple more ten thousand miles away?”

Reed
said, “Plus, he’s a dictator, used to having his way.”

I
said, “A dictator who opens his palace to the peasants because he knows he’s on
shaky sand. A fuss about Teddy murdering a girl and getting away with it could
shift the sands uncomfortably.”

Milo
got up, paced. “It’s a great story and I hope to hell it’s wrong because how
could we ever get to someone like that? There’s also the same big question: If
Borodi was a crime scene, why hasn’t the sultan unloaded it? And why have a
lame, unarmed wimp guard it part-time?”

Reed
said, “What if the body’s buried there?”

“All
the more so, Moses. Dig it up, dump it, move on. Why hold on to the place?”

Reed
had no answer for that and neither did I.

I
pulled out my cell phone. Seconds later, I was hanging up from a frosty chat
with Elena Kotsos. “She’s certain Brigid wasn’t European. ‘Pure American.’
Which she clearly considers an insult.”

Milo
sat back down. “Moses, stretch that net to the entire state. And thanks for
coming up with this. You done good.”

“It’s
my job, Loo.”

“Hey,
kid, remember what I always tell you.”

“Take
all of the credit, none of the blame.”

“Better
than Prozac, lad. Now be off.”

Milo
ran image searches for the sultan and Prince Tariq. Two smallish men who
resembled each other, with boyish faces, cleft chins, thin, precise mustaches.
Full regalia, both of them smiling. Determination in the sultan’s eyes. Despite
the show of perfect white teeth, discomfort in his brother’s.

Milo
printed, kept surfing.
female Scandinavian murder victim u.s
.

A
young woman from Goteborg missing three years seemed promising. Inge Samuelsson
had worked as a bar hostess in various European and Asian cities, tried Las
Vegas, vanished. But the final citation was happy news: She’d shown up in New
Zealand, living on a commune, tending sheep.

“Lucky
her,” said Milo. “South Pacific, plus all that lanolin.”

The
phone rang. Sean Binchy said, “Hey, Loot, finally got employment records out of
Beaudry. They really stonewalled until I threatened to go to the press, call
them Constructiongate.”

“Creative,
Sean.”

“I
was actually joking, but they bit. A couple of suits went into an
office and they must’ve called a lawyer because they came
out announcing the gag agreement didn’t apply to subcontractors, they’d give me
names when they found them but it would take a while, there was no central
list. I said you guys do government projects, I’ve got friends at INS, they’re
pretty interested in illegals working construction. And they went back to check
again and said, ‘Guess what, we do have a list.’ Problem is, they keep all
their old records in Costa Mesa. I’m heading there right now, but with traffic,
it’s going to be a while.”

“Time
for some ska punk, Sean.”

“Pardon?”

“Play
a CD, go back to your roots. It’ll lighten the journey.”

“I’ve
got a bunch of downloads. Third Day, MercyMe, Switch-foot. That’s all
faith-based, Loot.”

“I
could use some faith right now, Sean.”

Milo
returned to the screen, broadened his search to female victims throughout
Europe, had plodded through a nonproductive list when Delano Hardy stuck his
head in and handed him a message slip. “Showed up in my box.”

“Thanks,
Del.”

“Why
I get your stuff is beyond me, we’re nowhere near each other alphabetically.”

“It’s
happened before?”

“Last
week,” said Hardy. “Bunch of solicitations for those fictitious charities
pretend to be raising money for cops and firemen. Those, I tossed.”

“Thanks
again, Del.”

“Hey,
you’d do the same for me.”

Hardy
left and Milo read the slip. Sat up and punched air and said, “Welcome back,
Teach. Backer’s sister Ricki is home from Yosemite and wishes to talk.”

I
said, “Recess is over.”

Ricki
Flatt’s voice said she was expecting bad, but not that bad.