Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

I said, “Whoever she was, she was obviously curious about the Borodi project and DSD.”

“International intrigue… okay, time to call in some favors.”

He flipped through his notepad, found a number, punched and left a vague message for someone named Hal.

As we got in the car, he tried Moe Reed, got voice mail, settled for his other occasional D One backup, Sean Binchy, and asked him to run Brigid Ochs through the databases, including Social Security.

Binchy phoned back in ten minutes. “Nothing on her anywhere, Loot. There is a Brigitte Oake, spelled like the tree but with an e at the end, incarcerated at Sybil Brand, awaiting trial for cocaine, possession with intent. Extensive record for solicitation and drugs, but she’s forty-nine. Social Security was kind of anal, said the number had been ‘retired’ due to misuse. I tried to get confirmation about that five-year-old Sara Gonsalves but it’s like she never existed. For some reason I got the feeling they’d been told not to cooperate, but maybe I’m being paranoid.”

“Trust your instincts, Sean.”

“I’m learning to do that, Loot.”

A mile before the station, Milo detoured to a taco joint on Santa Monica, inhaled two burritos slathered “Christmas style” with red sauce and salsa verde , gulped a mega-Coke, then a refill. “All that green talk is making me conserve energy. Onward.”

No call-back from Hal the Fed. A note from Binchy said, “No luck on the Internet.” Milo Googled Brigid Ochs anyway, did the same for DSD Inc .

Whole lot of zeros.

I said, “Maybe it won’t be about high intrigue and Brigid wanted Masterson’s address list so she could help Backer apply for a job there.”

“Along the way, the two of them have fun-time in high-end piles of wood?”

“How do most employees abuse the office computer?”

“Porn.”

“Maybe plywood was hers.”

He sat back, twisted an ear until it turned scarlet. “Let’s try Backer’s sister again.”

He dialed, hung up. “Scott and Ricki and Samantha and bark bark bark.”

The 206 backward directory yielded a name: Flatt, Scott A.

That pulled up a one-page family website showcasing the same holiday photos we’d seen in Backer’s apartment, a few more of little Samantha, now around three, and travel shots from half a dozen national parks, plus Hawaii, London, Amsterdam.

Scott and Ricki Flatt were both elementary school teachers.

I said, “School’s out of session, they get summers off, could be anywhere.”

“Gonna be a helluva welcome back.” He spun in his chair, nearly collided with the wall. Mumbled, “There’s a metaphor for you.”

“Brigid told the employment agency she’d grown up in the Pacific Northwest. Skillful liars embed truth in their stories, maybe that part was real and this is about old friends reuniting. Recalling the good old days when she and Des used to park under the stars.”

“Under the stars is one thing, Alex. Why a damn construction site?”

“Maybe the two of them were wild kids, enjoyed trespassing.”

“Nostalgia, huh?”

“Reach your thirties, nothing exciting in your life, nostalgia can take on a certain charm. Reliving the past could explain Backer going beyond the usual short-term shag.”

He phoned 206 information, probed for Backer or Ochs listings. Slammed down the receiver, shaking his head, called the Port Angeles police and talked to a friendly, basso-voiced cop named Chris Kammen. Kammen knew nothing helpful, promised to ask around.

“Booty-calls for nostalgia’s sake.”

“Strong chemistry can linger,” I said. “But if Brigid was involved with another man, chapter two could get complicated.”

“Alleged Brigid, who knows what her real name is? I’m thinking it’s time to go public. Any reason I shouldn’t?”

He was back on the phone to Parker Center before I finished saying, “Not that I can see.”

Three underlings later, he was transferred to Deputy Chief Henry Weinberg. The D.C. mainlined smug. “Sounds like you’re nowhere fast.”

“It’s a tough one.”

“Thought that was the kind you liked.”

“Up to a point.”

“The point where you’re nowhere fast, eh? I suppose I can find it within myself to put someone on it but no station’s going to flash a morgue shot on screen, too damn real for civilians. You have an artist who can make her look alive?”

“I’ll find one.”

“Do your homework, first,” said Weinberg. “Then talk to me.”

Milo ’s obvious first choice was Petra Connor, because she’d worked as a commercial artist before joining the department, had serious talent. A call to her office at Hollywood Division revealed she was in Cabo for R and R with her live-in, Eric Stahl. Additional poking around produced the name of Officer Henry Gallegos from Pacific Division, whose A.A. in art from Santa Monica College made him Rembrandt. Gallegos was off for the day at Disneyland with his wife and twin toddlers, but agreed to be in by six p.m. if traffic wasn’t too crazy.

“Nothing fancy, Lieutenant, right?”

“Just make it so she doesn’t scare anyone.”

“Broke my finger last week playing ball,” said Gallegos, “but I can still do pretty good.”

That night at home, I checked the late news for the story, got a headful of politics and natural disasters, a horrific child abuse case that made me turn off the tube and hope I wouldn’t be asked to get involved.

I played guitar and read psych journals and hung with Blanche and listened to a disk of Anat Cohen wailing on her clarinet and saxophones. Replaying “Cry Me a River” a couple of times because that was a great song, period. Robin and I ate chicken and mashed potatoes, took a long bath, did lots of nothing. When she yawned at midnight, I joined her and managed to stay asleep until seven a.m.

I found her eating a bagel and drinking coffee in the kitchen. The TV was tuned to a local affiliate morning show. Pretty faces prattling about celebrities and recipes and the latest trends in downloadable music.

She said, “You just missed that girl’s face in the news.”

“Good rendition?”

“I don’t know what she actually looks like but the overall draftsmanship was okay. In that sidewalk-artist way.”

I surfed channels, finally found an end-of-broadcast segment. Henry Gallegos wouldn’t be giving up his day job but the resemblance was good enough.

I tried Milo ’s desk phone. He’d installed the recorded message that thanked tipsters in an appropriately professional tone and promised to get back as soon as possible.

The onslaught had apparently begun.

I finished a couple of reports, e-mailed invoices to attorneys, took a run, showered. Milo called just as I was getting dressed.

“Tip-storm?”

“Forty-eight helpful citizens in the first hour. Including twenty-two flagrant psychotics and five psychics posing as helpful citizens.”

“Hey,” I said, “politicians rely on the psychotic vote.”

He laughed. “Binchy and Reed and I have been talking to a slew of well-meaning folk absolutely convinced Brigid is someone they know. Unfortunately, none of the facts fit and they’re all wrong. The only decent bit of possible is a you-guessed-it anonymous tip from a pay phone. Listen.”

A burst of static was followed by ambient hum. Rising traffic noise drowned out the first few words:

“… that girl. At that unbuilt house.” Shaky male voice. Old or trying to sound old. Ten-second gap, then: “She been with Monte.”

I said, “Those hesitations sound like fear. It could be real.”

“Too scared to use his own phone and leave a name, gee thanks. And just to keep you current, my most weak-willed judge said nyet to subpoenaing the Holmans’ financials so it’s air sandwich for brunch.”