Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

Lindstrom glared. “Don’t play with me. Am I repeating stuff you already know?”

“It came up on her external exam at the morgue. Why’d Doreen want her nose nubbed all of a sudden?”

“What do you think? ‘I’m scared, I need to change my appearance.’”

“Des Backer’s sister recognized her even with the nose.”

“So why didn’t she go for something that really worked? Like I said, hindsight’s twenty-ten. For all I know, she just wanted to look cuter and use our tax dollars to pay for it.”

I said, “Surgery, then recuperation. A few more months of delay.”

“By the time she got talking, over a year had passed. It started off promising, she spit out all sorts of horrendous stuff. Including nonsense about an interface between domestic eco-nuts and foreign terrorists, some major Armageddon conspiracy. But like I said, it all dead-ended.”

Milo said, “She give you anything righteous?”

“Like most liars she spiced up her bullshit with morsels of reality. Piddling stuff, but just enough to keep us going.”

“Like what?”

“False reports of endangered species sightings in order to halt public projects-phony DNA smeared on trees, that kind of thing. Nonviolent fish-huggers setting out in canoes and cutting up nets, greenies perched in old, venerable trees so they wouldn’t get chopped down for shopping centers. Which-off the record-I can’t say bothers me. Giant redwood gets that old, for God’s sake, let it live out its golden years in peace. And when I drive through miles of clear-cut dirt where a forest used to be, it doesn’t make me feel patriotic. In any event, Doreen snitched minor league, nothing came of it, but it took us a while to chase down all her bum leads.”

“Did you go back and question her about the dead kid in Bellevue?”

“You bet we did,” said Lindstrom. “She never wavered from her initial story: She was snugly bed-a-bye at Hope Lodge the night it happened, was sure none of her pals were involved, they’d never do something like that.”

“She did mention Backer being her travel companion,” I said.

“But she didn’t incriminate him in anything, Doctor. In fact, each time we brought his name up, she made him out to be Johnny Appleseed, not some maniac firebomber. Still, we checked him out and like you said, he was in architecture school, channeling his green impulses in a socially acceptable manner.”

Milo said, “How soon after you gave her deep cover did she split?”

“She’s been off our screen for thirty months, two weeks, and three days,” said Lindstrom. “You want hours and minutes, I’ll go back to my federal cubicle and use a calculator. I was assigned her file-and others-a little over a year ago, have been staring at her face with nowhere to go. All of a sudden, there she is on the evening news and I just about spew my Lean Cuisine. Your artist did a pretty good job.”

“My name was on the screen, too, Gayle. So instead of picking up the phone, you tell Hal to stonewall.”

“No choice, the directive came from on up.”

When Milo didn’t respond, she said, “Like it’s different with you?”

“I’m sensing a theme here, Gayle. Everyone does it as a defense.”

“What do you want from me?” said Lindstrom. “Flash back to your Hollywood D all roofied up with her legs spread and guess what, you won’t find a trace of those dirty pictures anywhere on the Web. Any written record of the operation, period. What comes from on top filters down to the peons. Our job is to clean up messes.”

“Fine,” said Milo. “Kafka’s God and we’re all cockroaches. But even bugs know how to be social. Why did your bosses want to obstruct me?”

“They wanted to make sure everything was squared up before we interfaced.”

“As in cleaning Doreen’s file of anything useful so as not to look stupid?”

“As in getting my own facts straight. As in a sudden trip to Seattle yesterday morning in a coach seat next to a snoring fat guy.”

“If I hadn’t bugged Hal, would we be sitting here, Gayle?”

“I can’t answer theoretical questions,” said Lindstrom. “Point is, I’m here and I told you what I know about Doreen. If it helps you close her out, I’ll celebrate along with you. Because one of my assignments is to get her the hell off my desk.”

“Then write a bullshit report. I’m a cockroach enabler.”

“First enable some more. As in telling me what you can about Doreen’s murder.”

“Doreen and Backer were enjoying sexual congress in a big house and got surprised in the act.”

“Ouch,” said Lindstrom. “Mode?”

“He was shot once in the head, probably a.22, she was strangled.”

“Forensics?

“His and her prints in expected places, no one else’s, nothing at Backer’s crib. No crib at all for Doreen, because some unnamed government agency helped her go bye-bye and let her stay underground even after she screwed them. Why, once you realized she’d conned you, didn’t you put her factoids back in place?”

“It’s not done that way.”

“She was an embarrassment, so no sense calling attention to her before the next begging session at Congress.”

“Whatever,” said Lindstrom. “I really wish you’d stop bitching, because I didn’t cause any of this. All I’m after is enough data to write her damn epitaph. What else do you have?”

“Nada.”

She toed her bag closer. “I did some checking and the owner of the property might be of interest.”

“Really,” said Milo. Grinning, his hands had curled into massive flesh-mitts, pink and glossy and twitching. Like a pair of Christmas hams revivified by some mad scientist.

Gayle Lindstrom watched them, fascinated.

Milo stood. “Special Agent Lindstrom, I believe we’re through here.”

“Oh, Jesus,” she said. “What’s with you?”

“First you say you’ve told me everything, then you toss in your own little morsel to spice up the bullshit. Unlike the Bureau, I don’t have years to put up with gamers.”

Lindstrom’s jaw jutted. “I never used the word everything .”

“Well, that sure clarifies it,” he said, heading for the door.

Gayle Lindstrom said, “I am not gaming you. I didn’t say anything in the beginning because I assumed you knew about the owner. After you didn’t say anything, I thought you didn’t so I told you, okay?”

Silence.

“I didn’t think I had to spoon -feed you basic-”

“Who owns the property, Gayle?”

“You really don’t know?”

Milo smiled.

“C’mon,” said Lindstrom. “Just like you, I’m a salaried employee far from the top of the food chain. You want to keep picking at me, I can’t stop you, but it won’t close your double homicide. You want me to go first, fine? Prince Tariq of Sranil, aka Teddy.”

Milo sat back down. “More coffee, Gayle? We’re nothing if not hospitable.”

Lindstrom gaped. “Not that it matters, but I only learned about him right before I came over here. You don’t consider him a suspect. Not directly, I mean. He’s back in Sranil.”

Milo said, “He’s alleged to have killed another girl.”

Lindstrom sat up. “Who, where, when?”

“Don’t know, don’t know, around two years ago. It’s still at the rumor level, a foreign national, maybe a party girl, maybe Swedish.”

“Who’s your source?”

“Someone who heard a rumor.”

“Who?”

Milo shook his head. “We’ve got secrecy issues, too. For all I know, it’s baloney but the timing’s right: just when construction stopped on Teddy’s shack. And he rabbited back home right after.”

“Then Doreen ends up there.” Lindstrom shook her head. “I’m not seeing any obvious link.”