Evidence (31 page)

Drawers
and closets were filled with expensive clothing, much of it bearing German or
French labels. No family photos, but two nail holes in the center hallway said
something had been removed.

Despite
the girlie décor, the house felt hollow, temporary.

The
dogs had sat down in nearly every room, prompting a five-hour search that
unearthed nothing in the furnished spaces. But a vacuum of an empty bedroom
produced coppery lint among the meager dust. Barely visible to the eye, the
snippets of metal had been sucked up from the crack between the floor and the
shoe molding. The bomb tech’s best guess was granulated waste from clipped
wires and when
the dogs really took a liking to the adjoining
bathroom, a forensic plumber was summoned.

It
didn’t take long for him to find remnants of a petroleum-based gelatinous
substance: rubbery remnants scraped from the drainpipe of the sink.

“Like
someone washed their hands of the stuff,” opined a bomb-squad cop. “Like that
gal in the play, Lady Macbeth.”

Milo
said, “That assumes
our
gal feels guilty. More likely, she just wanted
to be squeaky-clean after a hard day’s work.”

The
bomb guy said, “You’re figuring this was her chem lab?”

“You’re
not?”

“I’d
expect more trace, no matter how well she scrubbed up.”

“The
dogs like it here.”

“The
dogs can sniff half an atom divided by a zillion. She tracks in a molecule,
they’ll react. To me this feels more like the place she came home to after the
chem lab. If I were you, I’d keep looking. Maybe tube your suspect on the six
o’clock and see if anyone recognizes her.”

Milo
phoned Public Affairs. A lieutenant there said, “This is something I’m going to
have to check out with the bosses.”

“Why?”

“Foreigner?
Big money? You really need to ask?”

Ambitious
fingerprinting and DNA swabbing by the crime lab techies continued into the
evening. Plenty of hits in all the expected places, at least six different
print patterns but a predominance of two. If Dahlia and Helga Gemein were ever
found, chemistry would confirm what was already known.

The
VINs of the Boxster and the bike in the garage matched vehicles Dahlia Gemein
had registered three years ago. The paper on both had lapsed. DMV had sent a
couple of reminders before consigning the matter to the black hole of
government records.

Nothing
but oil stains in the otherwise spotless garage. The dogs walked through the
space nonchalantly.

The bomb guy said, “She wanted to set up shop, this
would be a perfect place. I’d
definitely
be looking elsewhere.”

Milo
gave a courtesy call to Gayle Lindstrom, was pleased to get voice mail. He
tried Reed. “Finished with Meneng?”

“Long
finished and back at the station, Loo.”

“How’d
lunch go?”

“I
suggested a coffee shop, she pushed for the Pacific Dining Car on Sixth, ran up
an eighty-dollar bill. Surf and turf, plus all the trimmings but no new info.”

“Big
appetite for a small girl.”

“She
doggie-bagged nearly all of it, talked the whole time about wanting to be an
actress,” said Reed. “I think she gave it all up to you.”

Milo
said, “The good news is one way or the other, you’ll get reimbursed for the
grub. The bad news is ‘the other’ might mean Uncle Milo shelling out.”

“No
way, Loo. It was my decision.”

“You
bet
way, Moses, Uncle Milo takes care of his troops. The
other
good news is
I won’t snitch to Dr. Wilkinson about you chomping steak with a hottie.”

“I
had soda water,” said Reed. “The eighty was all her. She’ll probably get a week
of calories out of that doggie bag. So what do you want me to do next?”

“Start
a real estate search for any properties owned by the sultan of Sranil, we
already know Teddy has nothing obvious on file.”

“Local
or national?”

“Start
local, work your way out. I’m sure His Imperial Poobah is layered up thicker
than a Sherpa in winter, but we need to try. Start with Masterson, tell the
battleax who works the phones that someone’s on the rampage against their star
client, but don’t say who. Also, have Sean do a few drive-bys on Borodi and the
surrounding streets, just in case La Balda returns to the scene.”

“You figure she might’ve gotten a sexual thrill from
the torch?”

“This
was personal, Moses, there’s all kinds of thrills.”

He
got out to check on the crime scene techs. An hour or so more. As he returned
to the car, Officer Chris Kammen rang in.

No
planes from Southern California had flown in last night to the general aviation
section of the Port Angeles airport. Kammen had taken the extra step and
checked with SeaTac: Not a single flight to L.A., Burbank, or Ontario departed
late enough to accommodate the luggage thief’s near-midnight departure from the
storage unit, let alone the drive to Seattle.

“So
you’re definitely dealing with two separate suspects, Hood-boy could’ve blown
into our town at any time. We’re no L.A. but we don’t have the available
manpower to search every dark corner. Specially without what the city council
calls a compelling reason.”

“Fair
enough,” said Milo. “Once I get a suspect, we can cross-reference.”

“Hey,”
said Kammen. “Optimism. I once read about that.”

Milo’s
second try at Public Affairs was met with a secretary’s curt “We’re working on
your request.”

“Working,
how?”

“You’ll
be notified in due time, Lieutenant.”

Clicking
off, he muttered, “Time to pole-vault over their little pea-heads,” and dialed
Deputy Chief Weinberg to press for a news feed featuring Helga Gemein’s photo.
Toning down the spiel he’d given Judge LaVigne, he made it through one sentence
before Weinberg broke in.

“P.A.
already called me. Don’t play games.”

“No
one’s told me anything, sir.”

“Guess
there’s nothing to tell,” said Weinberg.

“The
answer’s no?”

“You
can’t be serious, Sturgis.”

“Given what we found at the house, it seems the next
logical step—”

“A
foreign national? From a prominent family? You’re asking me to create an
international terrorist scare on the basis of
copper
dust?”

“It’s
more than a scare, sir. My suspect’s already killed three people.”

“I
haven’t heard
evidence
linking her to
any
murders. Even on your
arson, it’s all air. A woman jogging? Pardon me if I’m not awestruck. And even
if she
did
do the torch, what does that come down to? Getting rid of an
eyesore the neighbors are happy to see gone. Wire dust and something goopy in a
pipe? For all we know, it’s rubber cement, she liked putting together model airplanes.”

“The
dogs reacted, sir.”

“I
love dogs,” said Weinberg. “But they’re not infallible. What if she spilled
kerosene trying to clean off beach tar? Believe me, that would make them sit on
their little canine rumps.”

“But
in this case—”

“You
can’t seriously expect me to have this woman’s face plastered all over the
evening news based on what you’ve given me. You have nothing concrete against
her and we are
not
talking suicide belts at Disneyland.”

“Okay,
let’s forget the terrorism angle, even the murders, and just describe her as an
arson suspect.”

“You
don’t have enough, Sturgis. Besides, if the arson’s the big deal, I need to be
talking to the arson squad.”

“I
can have Captain Boxmeister make the—”

“If
he asks the same question, I’ll give him the same answer. A few bubbles in a
pipe and some wire shavings add up to crap. Bring me fingerprints, body fluids,
something
serious
before I have embassies driving me nuts.”

“FBI
and Homeland Security think she’s serious enough to look for.”

“They’re
involved?”

“FBI
came to me.”

“Just
like that? All of a sudden those morons have ESP?”

“I
called Homeland for info and they called the Feds—”

“And
you didn’t think to let me know.”

“Sir,
I wanted to wait until I had something substantive to tell you.”

“Then
why the hell are we talking
now?”
“The sum total seems substantive to
me,” said Milo. “Then you need to back away and get some perspective.”
Clenching his jaws, Milo middle-fingered air. “Okay, sir, I’ll keep digging.”

“I
know you’re going to be bad-mouthing me the minute this conversation
terminates, brass is always the big bad enemy,” said Weinberg. “But try—I know
it’s hard, but try anyway—to pull yourself away from the moment and see the
bigger picture. By your own account, this woman comes from megabucks, is a
respected professional, and has no criminal record. What you have on her is
hearsay twice removed. On a good day.”

“Her
sister—”

“Could
very well be alive. What’s your evidence any kind of crime was perpetrated
against the sister? By some oil sheikh, no less. This is the stuff of
migraines, Sturgis. Cut the fantasy and get back to shoe leather. I’m sure
you’ve worn out your share of desert boots.”

Milo’s
gaze dropped to today’s footwear. Crepe-soled, brown sailcloth oxfords, long in
need of resoling. “Anything you say, sir.”

“Don’t
patronize me, Sturgis.”

“Wasn’t
trying to, sir. May I call you should what you deem substantive comes up?”

“Have
I ever been unresponsive to your needs, Detective?”

“No,
sir. I’ll start eroding my shoes and let’s hope nothing gets blown up in the
interim.”

Silence.

“Sir?”

“Let me make something clear,” said Weinberg. “I find
no merit in your request but in the name of esprit de corps, I’m going to talk
to the chief about a news feed. Just in case.”

“In
case what, sir?”

“Porkers
are spotted soaring in the western sky.”

“Thank
you, sir.”

“Think
nothing of it,” said Weinberg. “Because that’s what it’s going to amount to.”

I
hadn’t heard from Milo by ten the following morning, figured the night hadn’t
gone well.

Robin
said, “We’ve got steaks, let’s feed him.”

I
tried all his numbers, got no answer until nearly six p.m. He was curt,
subdued. All business, none of it encouraging.

Gayle
Lindstrom had followed through, with disappointing results: no sign of Helga
Gemein at any airport, commercial or private, nor was she listed on any
passenger manifests.

Moe
Reed’s calls to Masterson had remained unanswered and he’d followed up with a
visit. The firm’s glass doors were locked. If Elena Kotsos or her husband was
on site, they weren’t letting on.

Real
estate searches throughout California had produced nothing. Reed was working on
Nevada, but as the day progressed and government offices closed down, options
were fading.

No
better luck on the lush streets of Holmby Hills, where Sean Binchy had prowled
wearing skater duds. Starting at the wheel of his private drive, an ‘84 Camaro
inherited from his father, then repeating the circuit twice on in-line skates.

I’d
done a drive-by myself, on the way to the station. Huge houses, towering trees,
no people. As if Helga Gemein’s dream of a human-free world had come to pass.

Milo’s
expanded door-to-door had boiled down to reassuring the neighbors they were
safe. A few additional residents had seen Helga entering or exiting the little
white house but no one had exchanged a single word of conversation with the
blond/brunette/redheaded
women they described as “kind
of cold,” “frosty,” “distant,” “off in her own world.”

One
man was sure Helga drove a midsized American sedan, make unknown.
Black,
dark blue, dark gray, I don’t really remember
.

No
one had ever seen Des Backer or Doreen Fredd near the house, ditto Prince
Teddy. Dahlia Gemein’s picture evoked vague recollections of blond and pretty
and cheerful. One neighbor thought she’d favored the red motorcycle.

They’re
sisters? Pretty different
.

Milo
said, “One shred of theoretical hope: Computer lab’s sending over the
transcripts of GHC’s hard drives. Pages of printout, I could use some help
going through it. I figured you and I could grab some dinner at Moghul, go back
to the office and analyze. Unless you’ve got plans.”

“Robin
and I were talking barbecue, I called to invite you.”

“Oh.
Haven’t checked messages. Thanks, but gotta pass.”

“Take
a break for a steak,” I said. “Or two.”

“Appreciate
the offer but I won’t be my usual fun self and I need to watch my cholesterol.”