Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

“Maybe she arrived this morning with her own bolt cutters, saw the gate open, and walked right through.”

“Meanwhile, Rutger’s snarfing bubbly and liver, making himself easier to ignite… so who killed Backer and Doreen? The sultan’s hit squad or Helga herself because she learned how to go kaboom from hanging with them, decided they were expendable?”

“If Helga is involved, I don’t see her acting alone. Overpowering two people by herself, even with two guns, would be tough for a woman, even a strong one. And using a gun to rape Doreen doesn’t fit.”

“Everyone says she hates people, Alex.”

“Even so,” I said. “That scene reeked of male.”

“Helga’s more social than she lets on, has a pal? Or this whole damn theory’s one big house-mansion of cards.”

He phoned Captain Don Boxmeister at the arson squad, left a message. Followed up with a call to Special Agent Gayle Lindstrom, connected, gave her a recap, asked her to research Helga Gemein.

She said, “Is she a Swiss citizen or Austrian? It makes a difference, tactically.”

“They both extradite, Gayle.”

“They do, but the Swiss make it a lot more difficult. Prying out a Swiss citizen is going to be hell.”

“I don’t know where her passport’s from.”

“Either way,” said Lindstrom, “she could be already gone.”

“Sitting in the International Terminal as we speak, Gayle. So how about dispensing some of your guys in dark glasses and walkie-talkies?”

“I’ll get an airport check going soon as I hang up. Including private charters, seeing as Daddy’s a money-mover. Give me the name of his bank.”

He flipped through his pad. “GGI-Alter Privatbank.”

Lindstrom said, “Sounds fancy. Soon as you snag those computers, make sure I get a full copy of the hard drives.”

“Done and you’re welcome, Gayle. Once you get hold of her passport info or anything else, get on the horn A-sap.”

“Done and you’re welcome. I’ll give your regards to Hal.”

“He takes your calls, does he?”

“Must be my feminine mystique.”

Sean Binchy was dispatched to pick up the computers.

Moe Reed answered his page, alert and focused. “I’m right across the street, my source came to work this morning but she was with a bunch of other girls and I couldn’t isolate her. She’s due out soon for lunch.”

Milo said, “Don’t waste time on subtle, Moses, just pull her aside. What I need to know is how sure she is about the Swedish thing. Even if she says she is, ask her could it be ‘Swiss.’”

He explained why.

Reed said, “Blond is blond, huh? I’ll nab her as soon as I see her, Loo.”

A search using ggi alter privatbank Zurich gemein helga , and family as keywords, paid off.

Embedded among German-, French-, and Italian-language business sites was a single photo, dated six years ago. One of many snapped at a fund-raiser for the Kraeker Gallery’s exhibit of outsider art, featuring well-fed, well-groomed people in black tie and gowns.

One thumbnail off to the right. Milo enlarged it two inches square: Banker George Gemein, his wife, Ilse, daughters Helga and Dahlia.

Both parents, bespectacled, ramrod-straight, unsmiling. Helga matched their stance, the obedient child. Even with a honey-colored schoolgirl bob and a baby-blue gown trimmed in lace, she came across grim, disapproving.

Dahlia Gemein appeared several years younger than her sister. Shorter and curvier than Helga, she sported a conspicuous tan, a headful of ash-blond waves, a saucy grin. Defying the family commitment to good posture, she cocked a hip and slouched forward, threatening to spill ample bosoms out of her blood-red, skintight sheath. Bejeweled fingers held the stem of a cobalt-blue cocktail.

The only Gemein caught drinking, she’d separated herself physically, standing half a foot apart.

The clan. The mutation.

Milo switched to NCIC, ran a search on dahlia gemein , pulled up nothing there or on the Doe Network, any MP or crime file. But the Web spat back another photo dated the same year as the Kraeker gala, snapped at the record launch party of a rapper named ReePel. Malibu party house, Broad Beach. I’d heard about the place. Closed down after a torrent of neighbor complaints.

In that one, Dahlia Gemein wore a pink string bikini and stood flanked by two men in flowered bathing shorts: the guest of honor, obese and cornrowed, and a baby-faced, muscular Asian man identified as Teddy K-M.

Milo shot a fist into the air. Flipped through his pad and shouted, punched the air harder. “Dig this, Alex: K-M as in Tariq Ku’amah Majur. Something real.”

He studied the shot. “Girl like this isn’t going to be a throwaway, someone’s bound to report her missing. So why isn’t she in the database?”

“Maybe someone forgot to enter it.”

“Human error? Oh, come now.”

A call to Missing Persons revealed that Dahlia Gemein’s disappearance had never been reported. Follow-ups everywhere else confirmed the same.

Milo slumped. “For all we know, she’s not missing. She and Teddy fell in love, she went back to Sranil with him, is living the life of a princess, and there goes Helga’s motive.”

He checked with Moe Reed. “Your source out yet?”

“Out and right here, Loo. See you in about twenty.”

Ati Meneng was tiny, gorgeous, terrified.

She looked ten years younger than the twenty-nine listed on her driver’s license, took up so little space that Milo put her in his office and had room to spare.

Standard California license, no special consulate perks. She typed documents in the secretarial pool.

She had on a cinnamon-colored pantsuit that covered everything but hands and face. The office was warm but that didn’t stop her from shivering. Tilting her head, she created a glossy sheet of blue-black hair that masked her face. “I still don’t know why I’m here.”

Milo said, “Just what I told you, Ati. You’re helping us and we really appreciate it.”

“There’s nothing I can help you with.”

Milo wheeled his chair closer. “This doesn’t need to be stressful, Ati.”

I sat just inside the open door. Moe Reed stood behind me. Young guy with a fondness for Aqua Velva. My father had slapped it on religiously, cursing as the alcohol ignited booze-inspired shaving nicks.

If Reed was breathing, I couldn’t hear it.

Milo said, “Is it okay if I call you Ati?”

Murmurs from behind the hair curtain.

“What’s that?”

“Call me what you want.”

“Thanks, Ati. First off, we’re sorry we had to take you away in the middle of work but this is a murder investigation. If you have problems with your boss, I can talk to him.”

“No, don’t. I don’t know about murder.” Crystalline voice, no accent.

Milo said, “How long have you been living in L.A., Ati?”

Hair slithered away like glycerine on glass, revealing a flawless oval face, pouty-lipped, ruled by enormous black eyes. “All my life.”

“Where’d you grow up?”

“ Downey.”

“How’d you come to work at the Indonesian consulate?”

“They advertised in an Indonesian paper. Needed someone who knew Dutch, my parents speak Dutch in the house.”

“How long have you been working there?”

“Like nine months.”

“And before that?”

“A bunch of places.”

“Such as?”

“Why is that important?”

“Just trying to get to know you, Ati.”

“Why?”

Milo rolled back a few inches. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Tell me about some of your previous jobs.”