Evidence (30 page)

“About
people from Sranil.”

“Superstitious
peasants. Cannibals, rituals. You know?”

“Scary,”
said Milo.

“Really
scary, so I stopped thinking about it. I would’ve called her family but I
didn’t know how to reach them. I figured if she stayed away long enough, they’d
do something.”

“Even
though her parents wanted her gone.”

“She
just said that,” said Ati Meneng. “It probably wasn’t even true. Families love
each other. Like her sister, Dahlia said they were different but they still
loved each other.”

“The
serious sister.”

“Dahlia
said she even thought about becoming a nun then she became an architect, built
houses.”

“Speaking
of houses,” said Milo. “Do you remember the address of Dahlia’s?”

“Never knew the address, Dahlia always drove me there
and took me home. She liked to drive real fast, said in Germany there were
roads with no speed limits, she used to go a hundred miles an hour.”

“What
neighborhood was the house in?”

“Brentwood.”

“Could
you find it?”

“For
sure.”

Milo
stood. “Let’s do it.”

“Right
now?”

“Can’t
think of a better time, Ati.”

The
house that evoked Ati Meneng’s “That’s it!” was a mini-colonial wedged between
two much larger Mediterraneans. Twenty-minute drive from the station, nice
section of Brentwood, a short walk to the Country Mart.

One
symmetrical story was faced with white clapboard. Lead-pane windows were grayed
by curtains and sideburned by black shutters. A red door was topped by a
fanlight. The lawn was compact and trimmed, the empty driveway spotless.

Two
blocks away was the vacant lot Helga Gemein had given her partners for her
nonexistent residence. Milo said, “You’re sure, Ati?”

“Totally.
I remember the door. I told Dahlia a red door could mean good luck in Asia.
Dahlia laughed and said, ‘I don’t need luck, I’m adorable.’”

“Okay,
thanks for all your help. Detective Reed will take you back.”

She
turned to Reed. “You can just take me to my car. Or we could have lunch, I
could call in sick.”

Reed’s voice was flat. “Whatever you want.”

Ati
Meneng said, “I guess I’m hungry, they’ll probably yell at me, anyway.”

Milo
ran the address. Taxes were paid by Oasis Finance Associates, an investment
firm in Provo, Utah. A call there elicited the guarded admission from the controller
that the owners were “non-U.S.-citizens who wish to retain their privacy.”

“Swiss
or Asian?” said Milo.

“Pardon?”

“Swiss
or Asian, which is it?”

“This
is important?”

“It’s
a murder investigation, Mr. Babcock. The victim’s a woman named Dahlia Gemein.”

“Gemein,”
said the controller. “Then you already know.”

“I’ll
take that to mean Swiss.”

“You
never heard it from me.” Milo clicked off.

I
said, “Daddy Gemein’s held on to the house two years after Dahlia disappeared.
Maybe it’s the family’s West Coast getaway, as in sister gets to live here,
too.”

Milo
said, “Kinda cute and traditional for Helga, but with Daddy paying the bills,
she’s flexible.” Gloving up, he loped up the driveway, paused to peer through
windows, continued to the garage, tried the door. Locked, but he managed to
budge it an inch from the ground, squint through the crack.

Standing,
he dusted himself off. “Little red Boxster, red motorcycle, looks like a
Kawasaki. Be interesting if either was spotted on or near Borodi.”

He
called Don Boxmeister, gave him the info.

Perfect
timing; the arson squad’s canvass was in full swing and a red bike had been
spotted the day before the fire. Three blocks west of Borodi, parked illegally
on a particularly dark section of street. The neighbor who’d seen it hadn’t
bothered to call it in. Boxmeister’s
other nugget was
forensic: Initial analysis of residue found at the scene was consistent with
vegan Jell-O, and scorched wires suggested electronic timing devices.

Milo
gave Boxmeister Ati Meneng’s story, then hung up and searched the inside cover
of a notepad where he keeps a list he doesn’t want on his computer: phone
numbers of cooperative judges. Each time he begins a new pad, he recopies
meticulously.

Running
his finger down the small-print, back-slanted columns, he said, “This is your
lucky day, Judge LaVigne.”

LaVigne
was available in chambers and Milo went full-bore, making more of the blond
jogger than was justified by the facts, labeling the red Kawasaki as
“rock-solid physical evidence.” Emphasizing Helga Gemein’s virulent hatred for
humanity and evasive behavior when initially questioned, he tossed in
speculation about international terrorist links, maybe even neo-Nazi
connections.

“Exactly,
Your Honor, like Baader-Meinhof, all over again. Meaning the house—and I’m
looking at it right now—could be a source of weapons, explosives, bomb timers,
all of which has been implicated in the arson as well as the multiple murders.
Top of that, the suspect may already be gone, we really need this warrant now.”

It
was as good a performance as I’ve seen and within seconds, he was winking and
giving the thumbs-up. “Love that guy, he’ll draft it himself, all I need to do
is get it picked up and filed.”

A
call to Sean Binchy took care of the trip to the criminal courts building.
Binchy was still at Manny Forbush’s law office, soon as he had the dupes of
GHC’s hard drives he’d head downtown.

We
waited for the locksmith and the bomb squad and the explosives dogs. Milo’s
cell battery was depleted and he switched to my car phone to get his messages.
Lots of bureaucratic trash and one that mattered: Officer Chris Kammen of the
Port Angeles, Washington, police department.

Kammen’s
basso rattled the hands-off speaker. “Hey, how’s it going? We went over to that
storage unit at four a.m. These people are neat-freaks, just about the most
organized junk pile I’ve ever seen.
Which is why I’m
confident telling you there are no suitcases full of money. Not behind the
piano or anywhere else.”

“You’re
kidding.”

“Wish
I was,” said Kammen. “Fortunately for you, the facility’s got after-hours video
that actually works. Unfortunately for you, it doesn’t tell much. At eleven
forty-three p.m. a male Caucasian in a dark hoodie used a key to gain entry and
came out ten minutes later carrying what my grandma would call two stout
valises. I’m getting a copy of the tape to send you, but trust me, it’s not
going to accomplish diddly. All you got is shadows and blur, the hood covers
his face completely.”

“How
do you know he’s Caucasian?”

“White
hands.”

“He
didn’t bother gloving,” said Milo. “Apparently not.”

“Maybe
that’s because finding his prints in the bin wouldn’t be suspicious.
Mrs
.
Flatt was really nervous about
Mr
. Flatt finding out she held on to
them. Maybe he did.”

Kammen
said, “I wondered the same thing so first thing I did was look Flatt up, and
trust me, it’s not him. He’s a
big
boy, six six, used to play basketball
for P.A. High, power forward, good outside shot, I remember the name now. We
used the gate as a frame of reference to get a measure on Hoodie and he’s
closer to five ten.”

“Definitely
a male?”

“Why?
You got a bad girl in your sights?”

“Square
in our sights. Looks like she burned down the big house early this morning.”

“The
same one?” said Kammen. “Where the bodies were?”

“Yup.”

“Whoa,
it’s complicated out in L.A. What time did the house fry?”

“Three
a.m.”

“Then
Hoodie’s not your torch, no way he could be here close to midnight and get back
in time. You can’t get a direct flight out of here
that
late and even if you made it to Seattle, what with drive time and airport time
and two-plus hours of fly time? I’ll send you the tape so you can judge for
yourself, but this is a guy. Unless your bad girl has broad shoulders and
humongous hands and walks like a guy.” Chuckle. “Then again, you’re in L.A.”

Milo
said, “I’m sure you’re right, but our girl does have theoretical access to a
private jet.”

“Oh,”
said Kammen. “Yeah, you’re
L.A
. But even so, it would be a hell of a
squeeze. Tell you what, though, I’ll call general aviation at our airport, see
who flew in and out and from where.”

“Thanks.”

“Hell
of a thing, someone beating us to the storage bin. We would’ve gone in at a
normal time but we didn’t want the husband to show up. Can’t help it if the
gods weren’t smiling. Bye.”

The
car grew silent.

I
said, “Two people do the murder, two people manage the arson and recover the
money. Maybe Helga’s not as antisocial as she claims.”

“Dick
and Jane murder duet?”

“Down
from a quartet. Helga paid Backer and Doreen to torch Teddy’s real estate. Gave
them a cash deposit, meaning the total payment might have been more.”

“Six-figure
job, no shortage of motivation,” said Milo. “Helga hires them but in the
process learns enough about arson to make the two of them unnecessary and gets
rid of them. Then she sends her buddy to get the dough back. How would she know
where Backer stashed it?”

“That’s
the kind of info a fellow might divulge when bargaining for his life. Or
watching his girlfriend get raped by a gun. Same for the location of the
storage locker key. If Backer was carrying it on his person, that made it even
easier.”

“Helluva
lot of effort to burn down a heap of wood.” Reaching back, he retrieved his
attaché case, found the Gemein family photo.

I
said, “Helga lied to everyone about applying for the Kraeker expansion
contract. The place means something to her, maybe because
that
party was the last time the family was together. As cold as she is, she loved
her sister. Dahlia may have been the only person she ever loved. Take that
away, you focus your anger, destroy what you can.”

“Sutma
. For all we know, Helga’s got a secret religious
side, gets off on visions of Teddy never entering heaven.” He studied the shot
some more. “Look at how they’re positioned: Dahlia’s standing away from the
rest of them.”

“But
she’s also standing closer to Helga than to Mom.”

“Maybe
that’s ’cause Mom looks like she’s got all the charm of frozen halibut. Dad, on
the other hand is more … cod. And Helga’s our shark.” Grinning. “How’s that for
dime-store psychoanalysis? What I’m wondering is whether the revenge plot is
Helga’s thing or a family affair.”

“We
can’t eliminate Mom and Dad’s involvement, and one way or the other it’s family
money that funds Helga’s lifestyle. Dahlia’s, too, including this house, which
is immaculately maintained. Be interesting if the neighbors remember any of the
Gemeins living here.”

“We’ll
start canvassing soon as the house is cleared.” Another glance at the little
colonial. “Only thing missing is the picket fence.”

Checking
his watch, he followed up with the bomb squad. They were a couple of minutes
away, arriving with high-tech toys and three of their best canines.

A
couple of minutes turned into fifteen. Then, twenty-five. Milo fidgeted,
smoked, made another call. One of the high-tech toys needed last-ditch
tinkering. Milo spat out an expletive, bounded out of the car, and began
knocking on doors. I caught up.

Ten
minutes later, three neighbors had confirmed that Helga Gemein lived in the
house, but they’d seen no sign of any other occupants.

A rangy
woman sucking on a pink Nat Sherman said, “She changes her looks. One day it’s
blond, the other day it’s brunette, next time it’s red. I figured her for an
actress, or trying to be.”

Back
at the car, Milo said, “Whole collection of wigs. So why the hell would she
shave her head in the first place?”

“Maybe a rite of self-denial,” I said.

“Giving
up hair for Lent?”

“Or
until she got the job done.”

The
bomb squad arrived, checked out the perimeter, returned to the front. The red
door was unlocked and pushed open with a long pole, everyone standing back.

No
explosion.

A
lieutenant stuck his head in, ventured inside, came out giving the thumbs-up.

The
dogs ambled in. The dogs were interested.

Dahlia
Gemein was gone but the house remained hers in spirit.

Lacy
linens, pastel walls, a cheerful country kitchen that looked as if it had never
been used. Cute little wicker tables were crowded with cute little glass
figurines; clear preference for dolphins and monkeys. Half a dozen amateurishly
daubed, pale blue abstractions bore a
Dahlia
signature. A tiny golden
sun dotted the
i
.