Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

Milo ’s gaze dropped to today’s footwear. Crepe-soled, brown sailcloth oxfords, long in need of resoling. “Anything you say, sir.”

“Don’t patronize me, Sturgis.”

“Wasn’t trying to, sir. May I call you should what you deem substantive comes up?”

“Have I ever been unresponsive to your needs, Detective?”

“No, sir. I’ll start eroding my shoes and let’s hope nothing gets blown up in the interim.”

Silence.

“Sir?”

“Let me make something clear,” said Weinberg. “I find no merit in your request but in the name of esprit de corps, I’m going to talk to the chief about a news feed. Just in case.”

“In case what, sir?”

“Porkers are spotted soaring in the western sky.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Weinberg. “Because that’s what it’s going to amount to.”

I hadn’t heard from Milo by ten the following morning, figured the night hadn’t gone well.

Robin said, “We’ve got steaks, let’s feed him.”

I tried all his numbers, got no answer until nearly six p.m. He was curt, subdued. All business, none of it encouraging.

Gayle Lindstrom had followed through, with disappointing results: no sign of Helga Gemein at any airport, commercial or private, nor was she listed on any passenger manifests.

Moe Reed’s calls to Masterson had remained unanswered and he’d followed up with a visit. The firm’s glass doors were locked. If Elena Kotsos or her husband was on site, they weren’t letting on.

Real estate searches throughout California had produced nothing. Reed was working on Nevada, but as the day progressed and government offices closed down, options were fading.

No better luck on the lush streets of Holmby Hills, where Sean Binchy had prowled wearing skater duds. Starting at the wheel of his private drive, an ‘84 Camaro inherited from his father, then repeating the circuit twice on in-line skates.

I’d done a drive-by myself, on the way to the station. Huge houses, towering trees, no people. As if Helga Gemein’s dream of a human-free world had come to pass.

Milo ’s expanded door-to-door had boiled down to reassuring the neighbors they were safe. A few additional residents had seen Helga entering or exiting the little white house but no one had exchanged a single word of conversation with the blond/brunette/redheaded women they described as “kind of cold,” “frosty,” “distant,” “off in her own world.”

One man was sure Helga drove a midsized American sedan, make unknown. Black, dark blue, dark gray, I don’t really remember .

No one had ever seen Des Backer or Doreen Fredd near the house, ditto Prince Teddy. Dahlia Gemein’s picture evoked vague recollections of blond and pretty and cheerful. One neighbor thought she’d favored the red motorcycle.

They’re sisters? Pretty different .

Milo said, “One shred of theoretical hope: Computer lab’s sending over the transcripts of GHC’s hard drives. Pages of printout, I could use some help going through it. I figured you and I could grab some dinner at Moghul, go back to the office and analyze. Unless you’ve got plans.”

“Robin and I were talking barbecue, I called to invite you.”

“Oh. Haven’t checked messages. Thanks, but gotta pass.”

“Take a break for a steak,” I said. “Or two.”

“Appreciate the offer but I won’t be my usual fun self and I need to watch my cholesterol.”

“All of a sudden?”

“Better late than never.”

“Well,” I said, “Moghul’s good with veggies.”

“I was thinking tandoori lamb, spinach with cheese, maybe some lobster.”

“Someone’s bred low-cholesterol sheep and crustaceans?”

“So I lied. Sup with your true love.”

I hung up, talked to Robin.

She said, “Like there’s a choice? Grill’s still cold, anyway. Go.”

By six forty, Milo and I were sifting through GHC’s download history and every bit of e-mail generated during the architectural firm’s brief life.

Bettina Sanfelice and Sheryl Passant had spent most of their screen time searching eBay and discount fashion sites and gossip blogs. Both of them loved Johnny Depp.

Judah Cohen hadn’t logged on once.

Marjorie Holman had used her keyboard sparingly: researching green architecture sites, news outlets, checking her finances, which were as conservative and modest as John Nguyen had reported.

Using a separate screen name, she’d arranged regular trysts with six different men, among them “mannyforbush” at forbushziskin-shapiro.net.

Helga Gemein and Desmond Backer conducted infrequent but telling exchanges. Cyber pen pals during working hours, they typed away as they sat in the communal office.

The correspondence was focused: coolly exchanged information about explosives, incendiary devices, the goals and techniques of eco-terrorism, nostalgic reflections about ugly days gone by.

Milo had cited the Baader-Meinhof gang while spinning for Judge LaVigne, but the reference was prophetic: One week prior to the killings of Desmond Backer and Doreen Fredd, Helga Gemein had invoked the murderous German band eight times. Describing them, without a trace of irony, as “refreshingly nihilistic and efficient.”

Helga: the wonder years. my regret is having been born too late.

Backer: for me it was the weathermen. if only, huh?

Helga: knowing which way the wind blows.

Backer: bill and bernadette and now they’re mainstream sell-outs.

Helga: inevitable. blood thins.

Backer: good old days blood was thick and hot the wind was gonna blow hard and hot. emphasis on blow. lol.

Helga: again, that? with you, it’s always carnality.

Backer: got something better lol too bad it’s not with u.

Helga: from what I see you’ve got your hands full.

Backer: hands and other body parts. lol.

Helga: enough i don’t lol about stupidity.

Backer: meant to talk to you about that.

Helga: about what?

Backer: ur state of mind.

Helga: my mind is fine.

Backer: ur never

Helga: what’s to about?

Backer: hmmmm… how about big go-boom?

Helga: that? one small step.

Backer: for the elimination of mankind?

Helga: wish I believed in god.

Backer: why?

Helga: i could say god-willing.

Milo put the pile aside, squared the corners. “Creepy.”

I said, “There’s a flirtatious quality to it. Initiated by Backer, but she went along with it.”

“Guy never stopped trying. Guess his batting average proved it was a good strategy.”

“Except with Helga.”

“The one who got away,” he said. “She’s a cold one, Alex.”

“She’d contemplated becoming a nun. Maybe she’s one of those people with a low libido. Or she decided to suppress her urges.”

“Or she’s doing it with another guy and decided to be loyal.”

“Helga and Hoodie?” I said. “It’s possible, but I’ll bet sex is low priority for her.”

He smiled. “I could tell you about nuns.”

“The joys of parochial school?”

“Some of them were angels, greatest women I ever met. A few were monsters, about as warm and cuddly as Helga. Can you imagine her with a metal-edged ruler? Guess she found her own religion. First commandment: Lose the hair.”

“In a lot of cultures, hair’s a symbol of sensuality. Fundamentalists tend to cover their women and keep their own hair short. Buddhist monks shave their heads. It’s all about pruning vanity and focusing on nirvana.”

“Sista Skinhead aiming for a no-people nirvana. She finds common ground with Mr. Happy-face horndog. Poor fool had no idea Helga was using him.”