Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

“You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was,” said Kammen. “Fortunately for you, the facility’s got after-hours video that actually works. Unfortunately for you, it doesn’t tell much. At eleven forty-three p.m. a male Caucasian in a dark hoodie used a key to gain entry and came out ten minutes later carrying what my grandma would call two stout valises. I’m getting a copy of the tape to send you, but trust me, it’s not going to accomplish diddly. All you got is shadows and blur, the hood covers his face completely.”

“How do you know he’s Caucasian?”

“White hands.”

“He didn’t bother gloving,” said Milo. “Apparently not.”

“Maybe that’s because finding his prints in the bin wouldn’t be suspicious. Mrs . Flatt was really nervous about Mr . Flatt finding out she held on to them. Maybe he did.”

Kammen said, “I wondered the same thing so first thing I did was look Flatt up, and trust me, it’s not him. He’s a big boy, six six, used to play basketball for P.A. High, power forward, good outside shot, I remember the name now. We used the gate as a frame of reference to get a measure on Hoodie and he’s closer to five ten.”

“Definitely a male?”

“Why? You got a bad girl in your sights?”

“Square in our sights. Looks like she burned down the big house early this morning.”

“The same one?” said Kammen. “Where the bodies were?”

“Yup.”

“Whoa, it’s complicated out in L.A. What time did the house fry?”

“Three a.m.”

“Then Hoodie’s not your torch, no way he could be here close to midnight and get back in time. You can’t get a direct flight out of here that late and even if you made it to Seattle, what with drive time and airport time and two-plus hours of fly time? I’ll send you the tape so you can judge for yourself, but this is a guy. Unless your bad girl has broad shoulders and humongous hands and walks like a guy.” Chuckle. “Then again, you’re in L.A. ”

Milo said, “I’m sure you’re right, but our girl does have theoretical access to a private jet.”

“Oh,” said Kammen. “Yeah, you’re L.A . But even so, it would be a hell of a squeeze. Tell you what, though, I’ll call general aviation at our airport, see who flew in and out and from where.”

“Thanks.”

“Hell of a thing, someone beating us to the storage bin. We would’ve gone in at a normal time but we didn’t want the husband to show up. Can’t help it if the gods weren’t smiling. Bye.”

The car grew silent.

I said, “Two people do the murder, two people manage the arson and recover the money. Maybe Helga’s not as antisocial as she claims.”

“Dick and Jane murder duet?”

“Down from a quartet. Helga paid Backer and Doreen to torch Teddy’s real estate. Gave them a cash deposit, meaning the total payment might have been more.”

“Six-figure job, no shortage of motivation,” said Milo. “Helga hires them but in the process learns enough about arson to make the two of them unnecessary and gets rid of them. Then she sends her buddy to get the dough back. How would she know where Backer stashed it?”

“That’s the kind of info a fellow might divulge when bargaining for his life. Or watching his girlfriend get raped by a gun. Same for the location of the storage locker key. If Backer was carrying it on his person, that made it even easier.”

“Helluva lot of effort to burn down a heap of wood.” Reaching back, he retrieved his attaché case, found the Gemein family photo.

I said, “Helga lied to everyone about applying for the Kraeker expansion contract. The place means something to her, maybe because that party was the last time the family was together. As cold as she is, she loved her sister. Dahlia may have been the only person she ever loved. Take that away, you focus your anger, destroy what you can.”

“Sutma . For all we know, Helga’s got a secret religious side, gets off on visions of Teddy never entering heaven.” He studied the shot some more. “Look at how they’re positioned: Dahlia’s standing away from the rest of them.”

“But she’s also standing closer to Helga than to Mom.”

“Maybe that’s ’cause Mom looks like she’s got all the charm of frozen halibut. Dad, on the other hand is more… cod. And Helga’s our shark.” Grinning. “How’s that for dime-store psychoanalysis? What I’m wondering is whether the revenge plot is Helga’s thing or a family affair.”

“We can’t eliminate Mom and Dad’s involvement, and one way or the other it’s family money that funds Helga’s lifestyle. Dahlia’s, too, including this house, which is immaculately maintained. Be interesting if the neighbors remember any of the Gemeins living here.”

“We’ll start canvassing soon as the house is cleared.” Another glance at the little colonial. “Only thing missing is the picket fence.”

Checking his watch, he followed up with the bomb squad. They were a couple of minutes away, arriving with high-tech toys and three of their best canines.

A couple of minutes turned into fifteen. Then, twenty-five. Milo fidgeted, smoked, made another call. One of the high-tech toys needed last-ditch tinkering. Milo spat out an expletive, bounded out of the car, and began knocking on doors. I caught up.

Ten minutes later, three neighbors had confirmed that Helga Gemein lived in the house, but they’d seen no sign of any other occupants.

A rangy woman sucking on a pink Nat Sherman said, “She changes her looks. One day it’s blond, the other day it’s brunette, next time it’s red. I figured her for an actress, or trying to be.”

Back at the car, Milo said, “Whole collection of wigs. So why the hell would she shave her head in the first place?”

“Maybe a rite of self-denial,” I said.

“Giving up hair for Lent?”

“Or until she got the job done.”

The bomb squad arrived, checked out the perimeter, returned to the front. The red door was unlocked and pushed open with a long pole, everyone standing back.

No explosion.

A lieutenant stuck his head in, ventured inside, came out giving the thumbs-up.

The dogs ambled in. The dogs were interested.

Dahlia Gemein was gone but the house remained hers in spirit.

Lacy linens, pastel walls, a cheerful country kitchen that looked as if it had never been used. Cute little wicker tables were crowded with cute little glass figurines; clear preference for dolphins and monkeys. Half a dozen amateurishly daubed, pale blue abstractions bore a Dahlia signature. A tiny golden sun dotted the i .

Drawers and closets were filled with expensive clothing, much of it bearing German or French labels. No family photos, but two nail holes in the center hallway said something had been removed.

Despite the girlie décor, the house felt hollow, temporary.

The dogs had sat down in nearly every room, prompting a five-hour search that unearthed nothing in the furnished spaces. But a vacuum of an empty bedroom produced coppery lint among the meager dust. Barely visible to the eye, the snippets of metal had been sucked up from the crack between the floor and the shoe molding. The bomb tech’s best guess was granulated waste from clipped wires and when the dogs really took a liking to the adjoining bathroom, a forensic plumber was summoned.

It didn’t take long for him to find remnants of a petroleum-based gelatinous substance: rubbery remnants scraped from the drainpipe of the sink.

“Like someone washed their hands of the stuff,” opined a bomb-squad cop. “Like that gal in the play, Lady Macbeth.”

Milo said, “That assumes our gal feels guilty. More likely, she just wanted to be squeaky-clean after a hard day’s work.”