Evidence (26 page)

“Political.
That sucks. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to keep a lid on that part of it, no
sense getting the neighbors thinking al-Qaeda’s lurking near their tennis courts.”

“Good
idea,” said Milo. “Especially because all I’ve got are guesses.”

I
said, “How was the body positioned?”

“There
was no body, Doc. Just bones and ashes and some dental plates.”

“Did
the fire move it?”

Boxmeister
thought. “That high up, probably not.”

“Where
in the turret was it found?”

“Right
in the middle.”

“Not
near the stairs?”

“Was
he trying to escape? Doesn’t look like it.”

“Quiet
killer,” I said. “Rutger had no idea.”

“Or
he knew but couldn’t do a damn thing about it. No traces of a cell phone were
found.”

Milo
said, “Phone would’ve survived the blast?”

“Some part of it probably would,” said Boxmeister.
“Tell you one thing, I’m going to look into the composition of that liver can.
Anything that can survive something like this, I’m stockpiling.”

A
woman’s voice, argumentative, caused the three of us to turn.

A
young brunette in the grip of a female officer pointed at Milo. Slim,
long-haired, the house-sitting daughter who’d spotted Doreen Fredd on Borodi.

Amy…
Thal. She wore a red silk robe over pajamas and fuzzy pink slippers. Protested
as the cop held her back.

Milo
jogged over, excused the officer, returned with Thal. High-intensity lights
turned her freckles to Braille dots.

“Don,
this is Ms. Thal, a cooperative neighbor. Amy, Captain Boxmeister from the
arson squad.”

Boxmeister
said, “I’d shake your hand but mine’s filthy.”

Amy
Thal rubbed the arm the cop had held. “I tried to explain to her that I knew
you, had something to say. It’s not like I’m some lookyloo, this is my frickin’
neighborhood.”

“Sorry,”
said Milo. “What’s up, Amy?”

“I
saw another woman I didn’t recognize. Yesterday, jogging past this place at
least three times.” Sniffing burnt air. “This is crazy, what’s going on,
Lieutenant?”

“Tell
me about the woman.”

“Blond,
long hair, tight bod. She looked like a runner, at the time I didn’t think much
of it but now I’m wondering. Because she kept running back and forth and why do
that when there are all sorts of interesting runs you can take? I mean, cross
the street and go by the Playboy Mansion, or Spelling’s old place, go down to
Comstock and run around the park. Why keep passing back and forth? I mean it’s
suspicious, right?”

“Three
times,” said Milo.

“Three
times I saw, Lieutenant, could’ve been more. I was in the living room, stretched
out on the couch, reading. Generally, it’s real quiet, so anything that moves
you notice. Yesterday, I saw a huge coyote, just ambling past, like he owned
the street.”

“Was there anything strange about her?”

“She
seemed kind of intense. But that’s runners, right? I wouldn’t have given it a
second thought. But now? What do you guys think?”

“We
think we appreciate your coming forth, Amy.”

Boxmeister
nodded. “Anything more you can say about what she looked like, ma’am?”

“Black
tights, bare tummy, sports bra. Decent face, at least from a distance. Maybe
real boobs but with a sports bra, I can’t be sure.”

Milo
said, “What kind of blond?”

“Ultra,”
said Amy Thal.

“Platinum?”

She
nodded. “Long and shiny—and no ponytail like most girls do when they run. She just
let that sucker flap in the breeze. Like ‘Look at me, I am
soooo
silky.’
She reminded me of that comedy thing a while back, my dad used to love to watch
them, my mom always got pissed off because she thought it wasn’t humor that got
his interest. The Swedish Bikini Team. I think they sold beer or something.”

Don
Boxmeister said, “Old Milwaukee.”

Amy
Thal said, “It was years ago, I was a kid. Dad loved them. This girl was like
that. Okay, I’d better get on the horn, tell Mom and Dad to keep enjoying Paris.”

Milo
thanked her. She gave his wrist a sudden squeeze, turned and left.

Boxmeister
said, “Nice ass, like to do a hand-count of those freckles. Too bad her info’s
useless. Hottie jogging in Holmby, big shock.”

“Don,
the girl this prince is reputed to have offed was Swedish.”

“Oh
…” Boxmeister’s smile was sheepish. “Back up the tape, erase. Our firebug’s a
lady out for personal revenge? Then how do your first two vics figure in?”

“Like
you said, they could’ve been in it together. Or she was a family member of the
Swedish vic, hired them, they got killed, she decided to finish the job.”

“You’re
seeing
her
as why they got killed? That’s kinda thin.”

Milo
didn’t answer.

Boxmeister slapped his back. “Look on the bright side,
be nice to have a good-looking suspect in the box, for a change. Just in case
Blondie has nothing to do with it, though, I’ll be doing it old-school, combing
the files for any serious pro torches recently paroled or released. Let you
know if I come up with something, and you find anything pointing to Anita
Ekberg, you call me pronto.”

We
watched him leave.

Milo
said, “How early do you think diplomat types get to work?”

The
Swedish consulate rents space on the seventh floor of a high-rise at Wilshire
near Westwood. Consular assistant Lars Gustafson was at his desk at eight
thirty, took Milo’s call with puzzlement but agreed to meet in an hour.

“Out
in front, please, Lieutenant.” The faintest trace of accent.

“Any
reason we can’t come up?”

“Let’s
enjoy the nice weather. I’ll be there promptly.”

“How
will I know you?”

“I’ll
do my best to look Swedish.”

Milo
hung up. “Aw shucks, thought I’d get a look at the furniture. Bet it ain’t
IKEA.”

We
were in place by nine twenty-five, watching the revolving door accept people
dressed for business.

At
nine twenty-nine a.m., a throng emerged and dispersed. The man who stayed
behind was around thirty, tall, athletically built, wearing a fitted brown
suit, yellow shirt, butterscotch shoes.

Blond and blue-eyed, but his hair was kinky, his skin
milk-chocolate, his features those of a Masai warrior.

“Mr.
Gustafson?”

“Lars.”
Energetic pump, flash of diplomatic teeth custom-made for news conferences and
lunch with genteel old ladies. “I have researched your issue, Lieutenant. There
have been no complaints by any Swedish citizen—at home, or here—regarding
missing persons or homicides. I did find a case involving a Danish citizen who
was thought to have disappeared in San Diego. However, she showed up and the
matter was resolved. A love triangle, no royalty involved, Muslim or otherwise,
thank heavens.”

“The
Muslim thing bothers you.”

Gustafson
smiled. “Nothing bothers us, we are neutral. The Danes, on the other hand …
remember those Mohammed cartoons?”

“That
why you didn’t want us up in your office?”

“No,
no, heaven forbid, gentlemen—please forgive me if I seemed unwelcoming, but the
consul general felt police officers could serve as a distraction.”

“From
the daily challenge of stamping visas.”

Gustafson
kept smiling but the wattage went out of it. “We do attempt to be useful,
Lieutenant. Next week, we’re hosting a dinner for over two dozen Nobel
laureates. In any event, I have nothing to tell you. Good luck.”

Milo
took out his pad. “How about some details on the Danish case.”

“A
woman named Palma Mogensen was working as an au pair for a family in La Jolla
when she met an American marine in Oceanside. Unfortunately, she was already
married to a Danish man and after she stopped returning her husband’s e-mails,
he showed up.”

“Things
get nasty?”

“Oh,
no,” said Gustafson. “Everyone talked it out and the couple returned to
Copenhagen.”

“Civilized,”
said Milo.

“We try to be good influences, Lieutenant.”

“You
and the Danes.”

“All
of us who must contend with endless night. It breeds a certain patience.”

Gustafson
headed back toward the revolving door, managed to sidle in as the mechanism
remained in motion.

Milo
said, “Swedish, Danish—time for a pastry.”

We
found a coffee shop in the Village. Two bear claws and a crème-filled chocolate
eclair for him, a coffee for me. Later, we were back in the station parking
lot.

“Jogging,”
he said. “Sports bra. This is gonna be another washout day.”

He
was wrong.

One
message slip atop his computer. Barely legible scrawl. He squinted, put on
reading glasses. Frowned. “Now it’s
Mrs
. Holman wanting a meeting.”
Punching numbers. “Ms. Holman, Lieutenant Sturgis, I got your—about
that?
Really. Why don’t you tell me what it is you… Sure, we can meet but if you
could just fill me in before—you sound upset, Ms. Holman… Yes, of course we
appreciate leads, I can be there in thirty, forty minutes, that work for you? …
Fine, then. You’re sure there’s nothing you can—all right, then, Ms. Holman,
I’m on my way.”

He
placed the phone in its cradle as if it were breakable. “That’s one very
uptight architect and her voice says she’s been working on the gin.”

“She
knows something about the fire?”

“Claims
to but wouldn’t say what. I guess I should call Boxmeister. I guess I won’t.”

Another
pretty day at the canals.

Marjorie
Holman was out on her front porch, wearing a black sweater and slacks and
looking like a model for a high-end retirement community.

Next to her stood a tall, white-haired, goateed man
close to seventy. His gaunt frame was a wire hanger for a black suit and
turtleneck.

Milo
muttered, “Looks like a funeral.”

No
sign of Professor Ned Holman.

His
wife waved us up impatiently. The man in the black suit didn’t budge, even when
we were two feet away. His eyes were blue and world-weary. Stick limbs, a long
neck, and a beak nose evoked an egret. Mournful bird on a bad fishing day.

“This
is Judah Cohen,” said Holman. “My former partner.” Husky voice; the slight
slurring Milo had picked up over the phone.

“Mr.
Cohen.”

“Lieutenant.”
Cohen studied the floorboards. “What’s on your mind, Ms. Holman?” She hooked a
thumb. “Inside.”

No
trace of her husband or his chair on the ground floor. Milo said, “Professor
Holman okay?”

“Ned?
He’s at the doctor, one of his checkups. I use a special-needs van service
because I never know how long it’s going to take.”

Marching
to the sink, she poured Sapphire and ice cubes into a glass. “Anyone joining
me—Judah, how about you? Glenlivet?”

“Not
today, thanks,” said Cohen. He sat on the edge of an overstuffed sofa. Shifted
position, cupped his hands over a bony knee. From the look in his eyes, nothing
would make him comfortable.

Holman
returned with her drink, perched next to Cohen. “Judah and I have some serious
suspicions Helga had something to do with that fire.”

Cohen
winced.

It
didn’t get past Holman. “Would you care to take over, Judah?”

“You’re
doing fine, Marjie.”

“So
we’re together on this.”

“We
are.”

“Well,
then, onward. As I told you the first time, Helga boondoggled us—got us to
leave some very nice professional situations under
pretense
of establishing a groundbreaking green-architecture firm. She claimed that her
father was a wealthy industrialist, owned a shipping company, money was
not
going to be a problem. However, money turned out to be a
serious
problem. As in, Helga did nothing but talk, failed to follow through on
financing the firm. At the time, Judah and I were puzzled. Now it becomes
clear: Helga never had any sort of serious intention. Judah and I were part of
a cover-up.”

Milo
said, “Of what?”

“I’ll
get to that.” Holman sipped an inch of gin. “I need to do this in an organized
manner, Lieutenant … where was I? The ruse… one day, Helga announced that
funding hadn’t developed, she was disbanding the firm, returning to Germany,
have a nice day.” Turning to Cohen.

He
said, “Bit of a shock.”

“You
always were the master of understatement, dear. Basically, Helga played us for
the fools we apparently were.”

Cohen
said, “No sense beating ourselves up. Helga had valid credentials and her
technical knowledge was solid.”