Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

“Time for some ska punk, Sean.”

“Pardon?”

“Play a CD, go back to your roots. It’ll lighten the journey.”

“I’ve got a bunch of downloads. Third Day, MercyMe, Switch-foot. That’s all faith-based, Loot.”

“I could use some faith right now, Sean.”

Milo returned to the screen, broadened his search to female victims throughout Europe, had plodded through a nonproductive list when Delano Hardy stuck his head in and handed him a message slip. “Showed up in my box.”

“Thanks, Del.”

“Why I get your stuff is beyond me, we’re nowhere near each other alphabetically.”

“It’s happened before?”

“Last week,” said Hardy. “Bunch of solicitations for those fictitious charities pretend to be raising money for cops and firemen. Those, I tossed.”

“Thanks again, Del.”

“Hey, you’d do the same for me.”

Hardy left and Milo read the slip. Sat up and punched air and said, “Welcome back, Teach. Backer’s sister Ricki is home from Yosemite and wishes to talk.”

I said, “Recess is over.”

Ricki Flatt’s voice said she was expecting bad, but not that bad.

Milo tried to be gentle but there’s no easy way and she wept for a long time. He stretched to turn the volume down on the conference setting, but it was already on low.

She said, “Oh, God, Desi. I don’t understand. Was it a mugging? Some random thing?”

Tensing up, I was sure, on “random.”

Milo heard it, too; his eyebrows climbed. “We’re still trying to sort things out, Ms. Flatt, so anything you can tell us would be helpful.”

“You’re in L.A. What could I tell you?”

“Did your brother have any enemies, ma’am?”

“Of course not.”

Ratcheting up her pitch on “not.”

“Ms. Flatt, your brother didn’t die alone. A woman was with him and we still haven’t identified her. If we knew who she was, it would speed up the investigation. I know this is a tough time for you, but if I could scan her photo and e-mail it to you, that would help.”

“Of course, do it,” said Ricki Flatt. “I’m sitting here and not moving. Not even to unpack.”

Ten minutes later: “Oh my God, that’s Doreen!”

“Doreen who?”

“What was her last name… Doreen… Fredd. Two d ’s, I think. Though how I remember that I couldn’t tell you. She and Desi knew each other back in high school. When we lived in Seattle, that’s where Desi and I grew up. Her nose is different-smaller-but it’s definitely her.”

“Anything romantic between them?”

“They were more like friends, but I really can’t say. I’m three years older than Desi, didn’t get into his personal business.”

“Doreen Fredd.” Milo entered the name into the databases. “What else can you tell me about her, Ms. Flatt?”

“She and Desi used to go hiking together. They all did-a group of kids, they liked the outdoors. One time, I was already in college, visiting home for midsemester break, Desi and his hiking group came in and Doreen had poison ivy, or some bad rash. Our dad tended to her, he was firefighter with paramedic training-but you don’t care about that. You’re saying Desi was dating her in L.A.?”

“There appears to be a romantic connection.”

“Doreen,” she said. “And she’s also… my God.”

“Anything else you want to tell us, Ms. Flatt?”

“Not really.” Tight voice, for the third time.

“Nothing at all, ma’am?”

Silence.

“Ms. Flatt?”

“What happened to Desi, was it in any way political?”

Milo sat up. “Political, how?”

“Forget that, I’m not making sense. Do you need me to identify the body, Lieutenant?”

“No, ma’am, we know it’s your brother and verification can be made using photos, but I would like to talk to you some more-”

“I’ll come out,” she said. “To handle… arrangements. I’ve done it before. My parents. I never thought I’d be doing it for my baby brother -how did you connect Desi to me?”

“Phone messages, ma’am.”

“Oh. That must’ve been the times Desi called to talk to Sam-my daughter. If I can catch a flight, I’ll leave tonight, Lieutenant… I’ll have to make sure Scott’s okay with that… oh God, I’m going to have to explain to Sam. This is unreal.”

“Ms. Flatt, could you please clarify that remark about it being political?”

Silence.

“Ma’am?”

“Let’s talk in person, Lieutenant. I’ve got so many things to do.”

NCIC had nothing to say about Doreen Fredd. Neither did DMV, Social Security, any other port in cyberspace.

“Still a phantom.” Milo logged off. “And Sister Ricki gets all squirrelly about ‘something political.’ This is starting to smell real bad, Alex.”

Turning to his phone, he punched numbers so hard the apparatus jumped. “Hal, this is Milo. For the third time. Is it my breath or are you on some sort of overpriced taxpayer junket and can’t be bothered to help the locals? I’ve got a name for my Jane Doe, no thanks to you. Doreen Fredd .” Spelling it with exquisite, enraged enunciation. “And guess what, Hal, even with that, she’s a ghost, not even an SSN. So now I’m thinking your not calling back isn’t negligence, it’s proactive deception. Which is bullshit, Hal. You owe me big-time on that Aeromexico thing and I need you to come through. All in the name of God, Country, and my ready access to the chief, Hal. Who will not be happy to learn that no good deed has, yet again, gone unpunished.”

Slam. He slumped. “Ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”

I said, “Ready access to the chief?”

“The federal government understands entitlement. Ends justifies the means. Political… the obvious link is Teddy but what the hell would a newly graduated architect have to do with Sranil?”

“Maybe he had a previous life.”

“As what, a super-spy?”

“As something political,” I said. “Or maybe, given his libido, he’d partied with Teddy’s alleged victim, whom he met through Doreen. The two of them cooked up the blackmail scheme, leaned too hard and paid for it.”

“Pretty damn stupid to think they could go up against someone that powerful.”

“How much of your job revolves around smart people, Big Guy? And Backer being involved could explain how Brig-Doreen ended up at Masterson. Teddy’s name doesn’t appear on any of the Borodi paperwork, but that design journal listed the firm’s involvement in a ‘pied-à-terre’ for a foreign owner. Backer was an architect, that’s his type of reading material.”

“He does background, Doreen worms her way in to get the details. The two of them somehow send a message to Tariq or the sultan, one of them makes a call and a local pro is hired.”

“Or even someone flown in for the job.”

“Morons,” he said. “Thinking they could play in that league. Then they have the nerve to go up there again for fun under the stars. Fouling the rich bastard’s nest in the process. Freud’s probably got a name for that, huh?”

“Der payback.”

Tight lips parted slightly, emitting something close to a smile. He pressed psychic delete and turned grim again. “Desi and Doreen, hugging a tree. P-L-O-T-T-I-N-G.”

At six twenty, just as we were leaving for dinner, John Nguyen dropped in.

The deputy D.A. was dressed for court in a navy pinstripe, white shirt, blue tie, American flag lapel pin. Four evidence boxes were stacked on a wheeled luggage rack. Nguyen’s posture was as straight as ever, but his eyes drooped.

“John, what’s up?”

Nguyen unclasped the top case, pulled out a sheaf of printouts, and dropped it on Milo’s desk. “Mr. and Mrs. Holman’s financials. You owe me.”