Evidence (23 page)

“That
should do it, Sean.”

“One
question, Loot: My dad used to be a contractor before he got into Amway, I
worked summers for him. Nothing fancy, just remodels, room additions. But
whenever the residents weren’t living on the premises, Dad fenced the job
tight, it was my job to check at the end of each day. But that place? Anyone
could walk right in, it was like asking for trouble. Not that there’s anything
left to steal, but still.”

“I
agree, kid. Any theories about why?”

“It’s
almost like whoever owned it had lost interest in the place,” said Binchy. “But
then, why not just sell it, make some money? Maybe they’re rich enough not to
care about a few million, but I just don’t see the point of letting it sit
there. Anyway, I’m sure I’m not telling you anything new, let me go check out
those two thieves.”

When
he was gone, Milo said, “Like we never thought of it. Still, obvious doesn’t
mean irrelevant.”

I
said, “Maybe there’s a body buried there and it has something to do with
Sranil’s culture.”

“As
in?”

“Letting nature take its course, something akin to
Zen.”

“They’re
Muslims, Alex.”

“There
could be something like that in Islam.”

“Letting
a body rot to the point where it can’t be I.D.’d? The lot’s worth eight
figures. Even for a billionaire, that ain’t Lehman stock.”

“The
sultan’s a religious man,” I said. “Articles of faith can go a long way.”

He
faced his computer, pounded keys.

Five
hits later, we were both reading an essay by a Yale scholar of “emergent and
divergent cultural forces” named Keir MacElway, citing the sultanate as an
example of

a
postmodern society where relatively enlightened Islamic mores and laws,
including a liberal and flexible interpretation of
sharia
, have
supplanted a centuries-old, nature-based tribal animist religion. However,
vestiges of prior beliefs and rituals remain, sometimes melding with the modern
Muslim approach. Among these are sun and water rites, the worship of specified
trees and shrubs, and fishing calendars based on astrologic configurations
preserved as nostalgic folktales but revered, nonetheless. In some cases, such
as
sutma
, contracted from the animist
sutta anka enma
—literally
washing away mortal sin—ancient customs persist in Sranilese society.

The
origins of
sutma
remain unclear. McGuire and Marrow (1964) hypothesize
that a passive approach to the treatment of “deserved death” arose as a
reaction to cannibalism, specifically as a means of preventing the consumption
of enemy flesh following battles, because illness had been observed following
cannibalistic victory feasts.

Ribbenthal
(1969) attempts to link
sutma
to Buddhist influence, though evidence of
any extensive interface between Sranilese animism and Buddhism remains evasive.
Wildebrand (1978) attributes the belief to a generalized idealization of nature
and presents as proof the ascendency of
Salisthra
, the guardian spirit
of the forest, to the top of the animist pantheon.

Whatever its roots,
sutma
has proved resilient,
impressively so in an age where other animist elements have ceded dominance to
monotheistic religions. In contrast with Western norms advocating quick burial,
and the Hindu belief in purification through immolation,
sutma
insists
upon unfettered exposure to the elements of any organic material construed as
being linked to maliciousness, insincerity, or sinfulness, in order for the
sinner to gain access to the afterlife. Though not practiced as extensively as
it was by Sranilese island tribes, when the merest accusation of immorality
could lead to prolonged, often demeaning public postmortem displays,
sutma
occasionally emerges when a violent crime has taken place, most commonly in
remote villages, when inhabitants seek out the comfort of
maranandi muru
,
The Old Way.

Milo
saved, printed. Sighed. “Teddy kills a girl in that house so the sultan sees
that goddamn pile of wood as sinful organic material.”

I
said, “He’s making sure his brother reaches the afterlife.”

“Teddy
met up with some family justice?”

“Justice
in this world, compassion for the next.”

He
looked up Professor MacElway’s Yale extension, talked briefly and amicably to a
startled scholar of emergent and divergent cultural forces.

MacElway
confirmed it: In some animist cultures, murderers’ huts were left “fallow.”

Milo
said, “Guess the sultan’s a traditionalist. So where do Backer and Doreen
figure in, to the tune of fifty G’s?”

“What
if Backer and Doreen were paid by someone to burn the place down in order to
jeopardize Teddy’s celestial journey? They couldn’t get to him directly because
he’s either dead or under royal protection back home in Sranil. But knowledge
of
sutma
would present a partial alternative.”

“Keep
the bastard out of heaven. Someone who believes in the old ways?”

“Or
doesn’t, but knows the royal family does. With no ability to
exact physical revenge, keeping Teddy in perpetual limbo
could be a potent psychological second choice. And it would explain why Doreen
hacked into Masterson’s file.”

“Pinpointing
Teddy’s real estate so he can dangle over the pits of hell forever. That’s the
case, they’d have to know something about Sranilese culture.”

“Didn’t
take you long to get the basic facts.”

“The
information age … okay, let’s go with this for argument’s sake: Someone pays
Backer and Doreen fifty G’s to whip up some vegan Jell-O. Then why didn’t they
just do the job? Why keep visiting and using it as a love-nest?”

“That
could’ve started as scoping out the job,” I said. “Figuring out where to stick
the explosives, time their escape. But once there, they decided to mix business
with pleasure. Because that was Backer’s thing: love under the stars in the
company of plywood and drywall and rebar. That might go back to his
adolescence. If he started early as a teenage firebug, sex and kaboom could’ve
formed an interesting mix.”

“Coupla
ex-delinquents warming up the grill with a little body heat.”

“Delinquents
who got away with something spectacular,” I said. “That’s a huge high, and
people who go through tremendously arousing experiences young often develop
intense bonds to those experiences.”

“Pheromones
and accelerant,” he said. “Then ten years of God-knows-what. What do you think
of the fact that Backer turned outwardly respectable but Doreen ended up
selling her body?”

“Maybe
he was less burdened by guilt and she had enough conscience to want to punish
herself. Or he was smarter and better educated, came from an intact, supportive
home, and made smarter decisions. Whatever diverged them, they reunited here in
L.A.”

“Chemistry.”
Smile. “Organic chemistry.”

“For
all we know, despite Backer earning a degree, he never abandoned his sideline
and someone out to avenge Teddy’s victim made
contact.
Unfortunately for him and Doreen, the sultan found out. Their bodies left in
the turret could be a warning to anyone else considering messing with
sutma
.”

He
stood, raised his arms, touched the low ceiling. “Desi and Doreen play with the
big boys, pay for it with a bullet and a choke-out. With time taken out to jam
a bigger gun where it was never meant to go. What’s that got to do with the old
ways?”

“That
was intimidation, just as Jernigan suggested, to control the scene—or to obtain
information. What Doreen and Backer knew, who else was involved. The element of
surprise was a big part of the hit: That sperm stain on Doreen’s thigh suggests
Backer was pulled off her just as he came. They were both overpowered, he was
interrogated, shot, leaving a cowed, terrified Doreen. And just in case that
didn’t impress her, out came the big gun.”

“You
have that way,” he said. “Drawing ugly pictures.”

Perfectly
put. Thousands of sleepless nights proved it. I smiled.

He
got on the phone. “Moses? Busy? Good, c’mere. And start working on your
charisma.”

Moe
Reed said, “Sure.”

Accepting
the assignment to revisit the Indonesian consulate without emotion.

As he
headed for the door, Milo said, “Don’t you want to know why?”

“I
figure something came up on that dead-girl rumor, you want me to press my
source for details.”

“Nothing
came up, Moses.
That’s
why I need you to press.”

“Consulate
closes at four, I’ll be there by three. She comes out by herself, I’ll try to
get some face-time. She doesn’t, I’ll tail her till I get a clean opportunity.”

“What’s
your source’s name?”

“She
wouldn’t say, Loo, and I didn’t push, figured her telling me anything was more
important.”

“Okay,
Moses, like I said, charisma. If you need to buy her a few drinks, tab’s on me.
If it’s a dim, cozy place I promise not to tell Dr. Wilkinson.”

Reed’s love interest was a physical anthropologist in
the bone lab. “Liz is cool. And the girl’s probably Muslim. They don’t drink.”

“Good
point,” said Milo. “Okay, candy’s still dandy.”

“You
want me to go easy or hard on her?” said Reed.

“I
want you to do what it takes to squeeze out every bit of info she’s got on
Prince Teddy and that Swedish girl.”

“I’m
thinking I’ll go real slow, not threaten her unless I’m smelling bullshit, then
it’s full press.”

“Keep
doing that, Moses.”

“Doing
what?”

“Thinking,”
said Milo. “Be the guy who stands out from the crowd.”

I
drove away from the station with Milo in the Seville’s passenger seat,
fidgeting, rubbing his face, growling about L.A. traffic, all those scofflaw
morons who kept cell-phoning, look at that idiot weaving, look at that
brain-dead asshole stopped at a green, what’s a matter, don’t we have a shade
you like, loser?

The
Star Motor Inn sat on a gray block of Sawtelle, between Santa Monica and
Olympic. Ricki Flatt answered the door wearing the same high-waisted jeans and
an oversized black
Carlsbad Caverns
T-shirt. Her hair was loose and
frizzy, her mouth small. Behind her, the bed was made up to military specs.
Images flashed on a TV screen not much larger than my computer monitor.

“Lieutenant.”

“May
we come in?”

“Of
course.”

The
room smelled of Lysol and pizza. No sound from the TV. The show was a cooking
demonstration, a fluorescent-eyed woman so thin her clothes bagged, bouncing
with joy as she stir-fried something. Carrots, celery, and a lump of what
looked like yellow Play-Doh.

One
of Milo’s rules-to-live-by is Never Trust a Skinny Chef. Sometimes he applies
that to detectives. To any profession at random, depending on how the day’s
going.

One time I couldn’t resist and asked about personal
trainers.

He
said, “I’m talking real jobs, not sadists.”

His
mood during the drive had grown progressively more foul. You’d never know it
from the way he handled Ricki Flatt. Sliding a chair close to hers, leaving me
to perch on a corner of the bed, he un-holstered his softest smile—the one he
uses with little kids and old ladies. With Blanche, too, when he thinks no one’s
looking.

“Get
any sleep, Ricki?”

“Not
much.”

“Anything
you need, please tell me.”

“No,
thanks, Lieutenant. Did you get into the storage unit?”

“Haven’t
heard back from Port Angeles PD yet.”

“I
just hope Scott doesn’t find out I held on to the money.”

“I
explained that to them.”

“It
makes me nervous—having it in my possession.”

“It’ll
be out of your life soon.”

“Is
it drug money, Lieutenant?”

“No
evidence of that.”

“I
really don’t see it. Desi was never into drugs.”

Milo
shifted closer. “Ricki, we’re working
really
hard to figure out who
murdered Desi, but honestly, we’re knocking our heads against the wall. If I
ask you questions you may find upsetting, can you handle them?”

“Questions
about what?”

“Desi’s
early days. When he was seventeen.”

“That
far back?”

“Yes.”

Ricki
Flatt’s eyes tangoed. “You’re talking about the Bellevue fire.”

Milo
began to blink, managed, somehow, to curtail the reflex. He moved even closer
to the bed. “We need to talk about the Bellevue fire, Ricki.”

“How’d
you find out?”

“Doing
our homework.”

“Someone’s murdered, you go into their childhood?”

“We
go as far back as we need to.”