Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

“Did you report her missing?”

“She wasn’t missing, she was with him .”

“You suspected he’d hurt her.”

“I didn’t think so at the beginning. I just… I don’t know, maybe it was his brother but I was too afraid to say that. His being a sultan, who’d believe me?” Looking at Reed. “I didn’t think you’d believe any of it, period. Mostly I forgot about it, then you showed up and it was like something clicked inside my head, you know?”

Milo said, “You told Detective Reed about a Swedish girl but you didn’t use Dahlia’s name.”

“I didn’t-I wasn’t sure. It’s not like I was still thinking about it. I used to think about it. Then it stopped. Then he showed up… I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, no, you did great, Ati. We really appreciate it. Now tell us everything you know.”

“That is everything.”

“Dahlia definitely planned to return to L.A.”

“We had plans,” said Ati Meneng. “A whole day, soon as she got back. First we were going to the Barney’s warehouse sale and have lunch at this café at the Santa Monica Airport-that’s where the sale is. Then we were having dinner at the Ivy-not the beach, the one on Robertson. Then we were going dancing. But she never came back. And she left her car at her house and when I looked in through the window, all her stuff was still in there.”

“You went over because you were worried.”

Tears turned the black eyes to pond-stones. “I kept calling. Her cell was disconnected, she had no more Internet for IM’ing, her house was dark. My mind started running. I mean I liked him the couple of times I met him, but I didn’t really know him. And what my parents said, that started to bother me.”

“About people from Sranil.”

“Superstitious peasants. Cannibals, rituals. You know?”

“Scary,” said Milo.

“Really scary, so I stopped thinking about it. I would’ve called her family but I didn’t know how to reach them. I figured if she stayed away long enough, they’d do something.”

“Even though her parents wanted her gone.”

“She just said that,” said Ati Meneng. “It probably wasn’t even true. Families love each other. Like her sister, Dahlia said they were different but they still loved each other.”

“The serious sister.”

“Dahlia said she even thought about becoming a nun then she became an architect, built houses.”

“Speaking of houses,” said Milo. “Do you remember the address of Dahlia’s?”

“Never knew the address, Dahlia always drove me there and took me home. She liked to drive real fast, said in Germany there were roads with no speed limits, she used to go a hundred miles an hour.”

“What neighborhood was the house in?”

“Brentwood.”

“Could you find it?”

“For sure.”

Milo stood. “Let’s do it.”

“Right now?”

“Can’t think of a better time, Ati.”

The house that evoked Ati Meneng’s “That’s it!” was a mini-colonial wedged between two much larger Mediterraneans. Twenty-minute drive from the station, nice section of Brentwood, a short walk to the Country Mart.

One symmetrical story was faced with white clapboard. Lead-pane windows were grayed by curtains and sideburned by black shutters. A red door was topped by a fanlight. The lawn was compact and trimmed, the empty driveway spotless.

Two blocks away was the vacant lot Helga Gemein had given her partners for her nonexistent residence. Milo said, “You’re sure, Ati?”

“Totally. I remember the door. I told Dahlia a red door could mean good luck in Asia. Dahlia laughed and said, ‘I don’t need luck, I’m adorable.’”

“Okay, thanks for all your help. Detective Reed will take you back.”

She turned to Reed. “You can just take me to my car. Or we could have lunch, I could call in sick.”

Reed’s voice was flat. “Whatever you want.”

Ati Meneng said, “I guess I’m hungry, they’ll probably yell at me, anyway.”

Milo ran the address. Taxes were paid by Oasis Finance Associates, an investment firm in Provo, Utah. A call there elicited the guarded admission from the controller that the owners were “non-U.S.-citizens who wish to retain their privacy.”

“Swiss or Asian?” said Milo.

“Pardon?”

“Swiss or Asian, which is it?”

“This is important?”

“It’s a murder investigation, Mr. Babcock. The victim’s a woman named Dahlia Gemein.”

“Gemein,” said the controller. “Then you already know.”

“I’ll take that to mean Swiss.”

“You never heard it from me.” Milo clicked off.

I said, “Daddy Gemein’s held on to the house two years after Dahlia disappeared. Maybe it’s the family’s West Coast getaway, as in sister gets to live here, too.”

Milo said, “Kinda cute and traditional for Helga, but with Daddy paying the bills, she’s flexible.” Gloving up, he loped up the driveway, paused to peer through windows, continued to the garage, tried the door. Locked, but he managed to budge it an inch from the ground, squint through the crack.

Standing, he dusted himself off. “Little red Boxster, red motorcycle, looks like a Kawasaki. Be interesting if either was spotted on or near Borodi.”

He called Don Boxmeister, gave him the info.

Perfect timing; the arson squad’s canvass was in full swing and a red bike had been spotted the day before the fire. Three blocks west of Borodi, parked illegally on a particularly dark section of street. The neighbor who’d seen it hadn’t bothered to call it in. Boxmeister’s other nugget was forensic: Initial analysis of residue found at the scene was consistent with vegan Jell-O, and scorched wires suggested electronic timing devices.

Milo gave Boxmeister Ati Meneng’s story, then hung up and searched the inside cover of a notepad where he keeps a list he doesn’t want on his computer: phone numbers of cooperative judges. Each time he begins a new pad, he recopies meticulously.

Running his finger down the small-print, back-slanted columns, he said, “This is your lucky day, Judge LaVigne.”

LaVigne was available in chambers and Milo went full-bore, making more of the blond jogger than was justified by the facts, labeling the red Kawasaki as “rock-solid physical evidence.” Emphasizing Helga Gemein’s virulent hatred for humanity and evasive behavior when initially questioned, he tossed in speculation about international terrorist links, maybe even neo-Nazi connections.

“Exactly, Your Honor, like Baader-Meinhof, all over again. Meaning the house-and I’m looking at it right now-could be a source of weapons, explosives, bomb timers, all of which has been implicated in the arson as well as the multiple murders. Top of that, the suspect may already be gone, we really need this warrant now.”

It was as good a performance as I’ve seen and within seconds, he was winking and giving the thumbs-up. “Love that guy, he’ll draft it himself, all I need to do is get it picked up and filed.”

A call to Sean Binchy took care of the trip to the criminal courts building. Binchy was still at Manny Forbush’s law office, soon as he had the dupes of GHC’s hard drives he’d head downtown.

We waited for the locksmith and the bomb squad and the explosives dogs. Milo ’s cell battery was depleted and he switched to my car phone to get his messages. Lots of bureaucratic trash and one that mattered: Officer Chris Kammen of the Port Angeles, Washington, police department.

Kammen’s basso rattled the hands-off speaker. “Hey, how’s it going? We went over to that storage unit at four a.m. These people are neat-freaks, just about the most organized junk pile I’ve ever seen. Which is why I’m confident telling you there are no suitcases full of money. Not behind the piano or anywhere else.”