Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

“Coupla ex-delinquents warming up the grill with a little body heat.”

“Delinquents who got away with something spectacular,” I said. “That’s a huge high, and people who go through tremendously arousing experiences young often develop intense bonds to those experiences.”

“Pheromones and accelerant,” he said. “Then ten years of God-knows-what. What do you think of the fact that Backer turned outwardly respectable but Doreen ended up selling her body?”

“Maybe he was less burdened by guilt and she had enough conscience to want to punish herself. Or he was smarter and better educated, came from an intact, supportive home, and made smarter decisions. Whatever diverged them, they reunited here in L.A.”

“Chemistry.” Smile. “Organic chemistry.”

“For all we know, despite Backer earning a degree, he never abandoned his sideline and someone out to avenge Teddy’s victim made contact. Unfortunately for him and Doreen, the sultan found out. Their bodies left in the turret could be a warning to anyone else considering messing with sutma .”

He stood, raised his arms, touched the low ceiling. “Desi and Doreen play with the big boys, pay for it with a bullet and a choke-out. With time taken out to jam a bigger gun where it was never meant to go. What’s that got to do with the old ways?”

“That was intimidation, just as Jernigan suggested, to control the scene-or to obtain information. What Doreen and Backer knew, who else was involved. The element of surprise was a big part of the hit: That sperm stain on Doreen’s thigh suggests Backer was pulled off her just as he came. They were both overpowered, he was interrogated, shot, leaving a cowed, terrified Doreen. And just in case that didn’t impress her, out came the big gun.”

“You have that way,” he said. “Drawing ugly pictures.”

Perfectly put. Thousands of sleepless nights proved it. I smiled.

He got on the phone. “Moses? Busy? Good, c’mere. And start working on your charisma.”

Moe Reed said, “Sure.”

Accepting the assignment to revisit the Indonesian consulate without emotion.

As he headed for the door, Milo said, “Don’t you want to know why?”

“I figure something came up on that dead-girl rumor, you want me to press my source for details.”

“Nothing came up, Moses. That’s why I need you to press.”

“Consulate closes at four, I’ll be there by three. She comes out by herself, I’ll try to get some face-time. She doesn’t, I’ll tail her till I get a clean opportunity.”

“What’s your source’s name?”

“She wouldn’t say, Loo, and I didn’t push, figured her telling me anything was more important.”

“Okay, Moses, like I said, charisma. If you need to buy her a few drinks, tab’s on me. If it’s a dim, cozy place I promise not to tell Dr. Wilkinson.”

Reed’s love interest was a physical anthropologist in the bone lab. “Liz is cool. And the girl’s probably Muslim. They don’t drink.”

“Good point,” said Milo. “Okay, candy’s still dandy.”

“You want me to go easy or hard on her?” said Reed.

“I want you to do what it takes to squeeze out every bit of info she’s got on Prince Teddy and that Swedish girl.”

“I’m thinking I’ll go real slow, not threaten her unless I’m smelling bullshit, then it’s full press.”

“Keep doing that, Moses.”

“Doing what?”

“Thinking,” said Milo. “Be the guy who stands out from the crowd.”

I drove away from the station with Milo in the Seville’s passenger seat, fidgeting, rubbing his face, growling about L.A. traffic, all those scofflaw morons who kept cell-phoning, look at that idiot weaving, look at that brain-dead asshole stopped at a green, what’s a matter, don’t we have a shade you like, loser?

The Star Motor Inn sat on a gray block of Sawtelle, between Santa Monica and Olympic. Ricki Flatt answered the door wearing the same high-waisted jeans and an oversized black Carlsbad Caverns T-shirt. Her hair was loose and frizzy, her mouth small. Behind her, the bed was made up to military specs. Images flashed on a TV screen not much larger than my computer monitor.

“Lieutenant.”

“May we come in?”

“Of course.”

The room smelled of Lysol and pizza. No sound from the TV. The show was a cooking demonstration, a fluorescent-eyed woman so thin her clothes bagged, bouncing with joy as she stir-fried something. Carrots, celery, and a lump of what looked like yellow Play-Doh.

One of Milo’s rules-to-live-by is Never Trust a Skinny Chef. Sometimes he applies that to detectives. To any profession at random, depending on how the day’s going.

One time I couldn’t resist and asked about personal trainers.

He said, “I’m talking real jobs, not sadists.”

His mood during the drive had grown progressively more foul. You’d never know it from the way he handled Ricki Flatt. Sliding a chair close to hers, leaving me to perch on a corner of the bed, he un-holstered his softest smile-the one he uses with little kids and old ladies. With Blanche, too, when he thinks no one’s looking.

“Get any sleep, Ricki?”

“Not much.”

“Anything you need, please tell me.”

“No, thanks, Lieutenant. Did you get into the storage unit?”

“Haven’t heard back from Port Angeles PD yet.”

“I just hope Scott doesn’t find out I held on to the money.”

“I explained that to them.”

“It makes me nervous-having it in my possession.”

“It’ll be out of your life soon.”

“Is it drug money, Lieutenant?”

“No evidence of that.”

“I really don’t see it. Desi was never into drugs.”

Milo shifted closer. “Ricki, we’re working really hard to figure out who murdered Desi, but honestly, we’re knocking our heads against the wall. If I ask you questions you may find upsetting, can you handle them?”

“Questions about what?”

“Desi’s early days. When he was seventeen.”

“That far back?”

“Yes.”

Ricki Flatt’s eyes tangoed. “You’re talking about the Bellevue fire.”

Milo began to blink, managed, somehow, to curtail the reflex. He moved even closer to the bed. “We need to talk about the Bellevue fire, Ricki.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Doing our homework.”

“Someone’s murdered, you go into their childhood?”

“We go as far back as we need to.”

Ricki Flatt picked at the bedcovers.

Milo said, “The fire’s been on your mind. That’s what you meant by political.”

“Not really,” she said. She hugged herself. Rocked. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I’m not trying to be evasive, but I just can’t accept the fact that my brother was some sort of paid arsonist. But fifty thousand… that’s why I didn’t sleep last night. And the Bellevue house was huge and so was where Desi was… I can’t bring myself to say it. Where it happened .”

“Two huge houses,” said Milo.

“I drove by last night in a cab. To that place. Even with just the framework I could tell it was massive. I kept telling myself it meant nothing, what connection could there be?”

“Tell me what you know about the Bellevue fire, Ricki.”

“That boy-Vince. He wasn’t murdered, he burned himself up, it was basically an accident.”

“Van Burghout.”

“Van,” she said, trying on the name.

“You didn’t know him well?”

“I’m sure I saw him if he came to the house with Desi but he never registered. Desi was popular, there were always kids over. And when the fire happened, I was at college.”

“Out of town?”