Evidence (38 page)

“Telling
it like it is, sir.”

“Why
no strip?”

“At
that point, my emphasis was on getting rapport with Gemein.”

“Plus,”
said the chief, “even a super-sleuth like you couldn’t conceive the bitch would
hide anything under her wig. Talk about an overblown sense of drama. Lucky for
all of you, I managed to block
the press-scum when
they started up the trash-vacuum. They live to tear us down, Sturgis, because
they’re useless pieces of crap. They’ve also got the attention spans of
decorticate garden slugs. I recently devised what I think is a tasteful and
adroit method of handling press cretins.”

Out
of a jacket pocket came a sterling-silver card case, conspicuously monogrammed
with his initials. A single, deft button-push sprang the lid. Inside were pale
blue business cards. He removed one, passed it across the table.

Heavy-stock
paper, elegant engraving. Three lines of type.

Your Opinion Has Been Duly Received

With Great Enthusiasm
.

Fuck You, Very Much
.

“Excellent,
sir.”

“Let’s
have that back, Sturgis. I’m still not sure if the wording’s right.”

The
chief resumed eating. The side salad was half a head of ice-burg lettuce. Thin,
pallid lips curled as his knife reduced it to coarse-cut coleslaw. Spearing a
few green shreds, he masticated with relish, as if undressed greens were a sinful
indulgence.

“In
any event, Ms. Gemein’s ludicrous act of self-destruction appears to be
receding from the public’s attention span, ergo, no need to throw anyone under
the bus.”

“Thank
you, sir.”

“So
tell me, Dr. Delaware, why’d the bitch snuff herself?”

“Hard
to say.”

“If
it was easy, I wouldn’t be asking you. Theorize like you’re getting paid for
it, I won’t hold you to your answer.”

I
said, “She may have been living with a serious underlying depression for a long
time.”

“Poor
little rich girl? From what I hear she wasn’t the sniffly, breast-beating
sort.”

“Not a passive depression. She reacted like some men
do, with hostility and isolation.”

“Men
with borderline personality disorder?”

“That’s
one possible diagnosis.”

“Depressed.”
He put down his fork. “What kind of family has a suicide, doesn’t give a fuck?
Not a squawk from Zurich. Which is good for us, these are über-rich people, all
we need is a lawsuit. I had D.C. Weinberg call them personally in Switzerland,
do his Colin Powell bit—august authority plus diplomacy. The mother thanked him
for letting her know, like he was informing her about the weather, then she
handed the phone off to the old man who did the same damn thing. Polite,
unemotional, no questions, send the body when we’re finished with it. What a
bunch of coldhearted fucks, guess that could depress you. You think that’s why
she didn’t have sex, Doctor? Shaved her damn hair off—that was a good phrase,
by the way, Sturgis. Self-abasement. I’m going to work that into a speech one
day. You’re saying this mess was all the result of not enough Prozac, Doctor?”

“I’m
saying depression could’ve been her base state and she tried to give her life
meaning by taking on a mission.”

“Burning
down that ridiculous heap of wood to avenge her sister, that whole tribal thing
whatchamacallit …”

Milo
said,
“Sutma.”

“Sounds
like kama sutra,” said the chief. “Something out of a National Geographic
special. Then again, we live in
multicultural
times, so far be it from
me to disparage stupid primitive customs. Okay, she went on a mission, fucked
up, offed herself out of shame. I’ll go with that. You see her for the turret
murders?”

“Can’t
say for sure, sir, but my gut says no.”

The
chief ate more lettuce. “Anyone have a feel for whether Prince Teddy’s dead or
alive?”

Milo
said, “No, sir.”

“What’s
your
plan
on the turret murders?”

“No
plan yet, sir.”

“Then develop one and do it quickly. I’ve got a case I
want you to deal with. Gang scum in Southwest Division sucking the federal
tit—gang prevention grant. Which is like pedophiles getting paid to run a
preschool. I’ve got reason to believe the money’s being used to buy heavy
artillery.”

“Southwest
Division needs my help?”

“I
determine who needs what. You’ve got two weeks to close the turret murders
before it goes in the fridge.” Manicured fingers lifted a quarter of sandwich.
“Don’t like your steak?”

“It’s
great, sir.”

“Then
wolf it down the way you usually do. Couple of refreshing burps and you’re on
your way to Van Nuys to check out that hangar.”

“The
Sranilese embassy granted permission?”

“Forty-eight
hours of ignoring our reasonable request, plus exigent danger? Fuck them,
Sturgis.
I
grant permission.”

Beautiful
afternoon at Van Nuys Airport.

No
security lines, no delays or other indignities. This was the Mont Blanc of
travel, all private, every happy sojourner owning or leasing one of the
spotless white jets luxuriating on the tarmac.

Quiet
afternoon, a single craft ran its engines. Citation X as sleek as an Indy car.
Porters hurried to fill the hold with a dolly-ful of Vuitton luggage as a
well-fed, sunglassed family of four boarded. Thirtyish mother, fiftyish father,
two kids under ten. Everyone in suede.

The
luxury terminal backing the runways was nestled in greenery. So were the three
other luxury depots we’d passed. The hangars sat at the north end of the
airport, monumental toy chests.

The
bomb squad was waiting at Hangar 13A when Milo and I arrived. Familiar faces
from the search at Helga’s house and her workshop, all the tech toys in place,
ready for a replay.

New
dog today, a beautifully groomed flat-coated retriever named Sinead who stood
patiently at her handler’s side, emitting the confidence that comes from good
looks and serious talent.

Milo
said, “Okay to pet her, Mitch?”

The handler said, “Sure.”

A big
hand stroked the dog’s head. Sinead purred like a cat. “She’s a solo act?”

Mitch
said, “She’s the only one we can trust because she won’t get distracted by jet
fuel and such.”

“Good
nose, huh?”

“The
best,” said Mitch. “We already did the outside perimeter. Clean. Let’s go
inside.”

Sinead
was in and out within seconds. The bomb squad followed up with a detailed
search, declared the hangar safe, motioned us in.

The
interior was smaller than the house on Borodi, but not by much, with
twenty-foot ceilings, a carpeted floor, and cedar paneling. At the center sat a
navy-blue Gulfstream 5. Numbers on the tail conformed to Sranil’s international
designation. One of three planes registered to the island, all belonging to the
royal family. A gold-painted crest on the door showcased the Sranilese flag:
palm fronds, a crown, three stars in a single horizontal row.

Behind
the jet were stacks of wooden crates piled ten feet high. Milo had officers
lower a few to the ground, began prying them open.

Mikimoto
pearls in the first. Thousands of them in velvet-lined boxes. The next three
contained plastic-wrapped fur coats with an emphasis on sable. Crate number
four was devoted to a four-foot-wide Tiffany chandelier: hollyhocks in a riot
of color and luminosity.

Five
and six: gold ingots. Onward to platinum jewelry. Tapestries. Paintings, mostly
of the sweet-domestic-scene variety. Old Master etchings, more gold, bags of
loose-cut diamonds.

One
of the cops said, “We get a finder’s fee?”

Milo
put down his crowbar, walked to the opposite end of the hangar where, blocked
by the jet’s mammoth body, a fleet of cars sat under navy-blue covers. Same
royal insignia on each.

Removing
the cloths revealed a red Ferrari Enzo, a black Bugatti Veyron, a lime-green
Lamborghini convertible, a silver Rolls-Royce Phantom limousine. Behind the
limo, a white Prius.

“Oh, man,” said the same cop. “I shoulda been born in
Saudi Arabia.”

“Sranil,”
said another.

“Whatever,
dude. This level of bling, call me Hussein and circumcise me with a dull knife
and no anesthesia.”

“The
first time didn’t hurt enough?” said his buddy.

Another
officer said, “Heard they didn’t leave much to work with.”

“You
heard wrong, dude. Ask your wife.”

Laughter.

The
first cop said, “What’s with the hybrid, looks like a zit on the Roller’s
butt.”

“Probably
got a solid-gold engine block, dude. Or maybe some serious tuning—can I pop the
hood, Loo?”

Milo
held up a restraining palm. Circled the cars, gloved up. Smoked windows on each
vehicle, but unlocked doors. He opened the Prius’s driver’s door and stopped.

We
rushed over.

A cop
said, “Oh, Jesus, that’s rank.”

Two
skeletons took up the rear of the hybrid, huddled, embracing, a duet of
interlocking bones. To my eyes, not a staged pose; the natural instinct to draw
together when faced with the worst news of all.

Milo
aimed his flashlight on the bones and I peered around his bulk. Cottony blond
tufts fuzzed the smaller skull, darker strands greased the other.

Femurs
and tibias pressed together, fingers entwined.

Eternal
lovers.

Milo
said, “Two bullet holes in each skull, forehead and under the nose.”

“Execution,”
said the cop who’d asked for a look under the hood. “And they made ’em watch.”

Milo
continued to work his flashlight. “There’s some skin, mostly at the lower
extremities, looks leathery.”

“Mummification,” said another cop. “This place is
humidity-and temperature-controlled, probably slowed the decomp but didn’t
block it.”

“Whoa,
dude, someone’s been watching
Forensic Files.”

“Loo,
how long do you think they’ve been there?”

Milo
said, “We’ll wait for the coroner on that but my guess is a couple of years.”

“Makes
sense, Loo. Security guy didn’t remember seeing anyone here and he’s been on
the job eighteen months. As opposed to the next one over, that’s Larry
Stonefield’s little Porsche garage, Larry likes to drive a different car every
day, his crew’s in and out all the time.”

“Fifteen?
Gimme one, dude, I’m happy.”

“Gimme
one of those
boxes
, my girlfriend would kill for a millionth of what’s
inside.”

“Good
choice of words, dude.”

Milo
aimed his flashlight at the skeleton’s feet, poked his head in deeper, emerged.
“All sorts of crust and stains on the carpet. If they weren’t done in the car,
they were done nearby. Okay, let’s get this place roped off.”

Mitochondrial
DNA comparison of bone marrow from the blond skeleton and Helga Gemein’s corpse
confirmed that Dahlia Gemein had never made it to Sranil.

Identification
of the second victim wasn’t established, might never be, as if anyone wondered.
The government of Sranil had lodged a formal complaint regarding unauthorized
entry to the hangar, demanded immediate return of the plane, the crates, the
dark-haired skeleton. Invoking diplomatic privilege and bringing in a
supporting army of faceless men and women from the State Department.

“Must
be my lucky week, Sturgis,” said the chief. “I get to see you twice.”

“I’m
the lucky one, sir.”

The
chief touched his rear. “Feels nice to be licked. So in come
the ill-fitting suits with their small-print weapons. We
get the female skeleton, the rest goes back to sutma-land. Do I look upset,
Sturgis?”

“No,
sir.”

“Diplomats
are amoral, rim-jobbing worms, not worth my time. If the president called, I’d
tell him the same thing.”

“I’m
sure you would, sir.”

“Think
about elections, Sturgis: Some sociopath spends hundreds of millions of dollars
for a six-figure job. That’s some serious psychopathology, right, Doctor?”

I
smiled.

The
chief said, “He thinks I’m kidding. Anyway, to hell with the Feds, to hell with
the sultan, to hell with that filthy lucre Teddy was stockpiling. Lot of good
it did him. Though I guess I can’t blame the sultan for not wanting to be
bankrupted by all that spending.”

Milo
said, “And Dahlia?”

“Wrong
place, wrong time. Or maybe they don’t like blondes in Sranil.”

“So
we’re finished.”

“With
international affairs, we are, and the clock’s still ticking on the turret
murders. Twelve more days, then off you go to Southwest.”