Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

He flicked the transcripts. “I think I finally get Backer doing Doreen at Borodi. There never was any distinction between business and pleasure, for ol’ Des it was all about fun.” Shaking his head. “In flagrante destructo.”

He locked up, we took the stairs down, passed the clerk out front, and were at the door when a shout brought us to a halt.

The clerk stood and brandished the phone. “Call for you, Lieutenant Sturgis.”

“Who?”

A hand clamped over the receiver. Near-whispered reply: “God, delivering the tablets from Mount Sinai.”

“That was Moses.”

“Whatever, here, take it.”

Milo accepted the phone. “Sturgis-evening, sir… Yes I did… Yes, he did… I see… Thank you, sir… I hope so, too, sir.”

He hung up. The clerk said, “Is he mad? He sounded mad when I told him you weren’t in your office.”

“He’s peachy.”

“Good, good, I’m hearing bad talk about budget cuts. I’m new and I really need this job.”

“I’ll put in a good word for you.”

The clerk brightened. “You could do that?”

“If the topic comes up.”

Leaving the man to puzzle that out, we left the station and stepped out into warm night air. Cruisers pulled in and out of the staff lot. A uniform stood near the fence, smoking and texting on his iPhone. A shabby-looking man stepped out of the bail-bond office half a block up and slouched toward Santa Monica. A woman walking her dog saw him and crossed the street. When she spied the badge clipped to Milo ’s jacket pocket, she relaxed.

Traffic hummed. The air smelled like hot tar.

Milo breathed in deeply, spread his arms wide. “I love when something finally happens.”

“Weinberg changed his mind?”

“Screw Weinberg, that was no chief with a small c.”

“His Holiness?”

“In all his celestial glory. Turns out he thinks putting Helga’s face on the news is a capital idea. As long as it ‘leads somewhere and you don’t end up making me look like a histrionically overreacting conspiracy-nut paranoid schizo loony-tune.’”

“Congratulations,” I said. “Now all you have to do is get that passport photo.”

“Already delivered to the networks,” he said.

“Palace guards move fast.”

“You bet,” he said, lighting up a cigar. “Miss Skinhead debuts at ten. Sports and weather to follow.”

Robin and I watched the news in bed, Blanche wedged between us, dozing and alternating between snorts and squeaks, flicks of her left bat-ear.

The story was the final segment of a slow news day. Someone not looking for it might’ve missed it.

Twelve seconds total, half of that featuring a cloudy passport shot of a barely recognizable Helga Gemein with blunt-bangs black hair. No mention of nationality, terrorism, murder. Just a woman considered a “person of interest” in an arson case, anyone with information was requested to call Lieutenant Miller Sturgis at…

“Now on to tonight’s caught-in-the-act feature, with celebrity heiress Roma Sheraton found shopping for jeans on Robertson with no makeup and looking as if she just woke up on the wrong side of the bed! For more on that, here’s entertainment reporter Mara Stargood.”

I clicked off.

Robin said, “Miller Sturgis?”

“Even the chief has limitations.”

The phone rang.

I said, “She looked like Bettie Page.”

Milo said, “How’d you know it was me?”

“The ring tone was kind of weepy and the receiver sagged.”

“Ghost of Salvador Dalí. Yeah, it’ll probably come to nothing.”

But he was wrong.

By ten o’clock the following morning, fifty tips had come in. Only one was good, but who needed quantity when you had quality?

Hiram Kwok operated a secondhand furniture store on Western Avenue between Olympic and Pico. The hipper-than-thou, vintage-craving renaissance that had sparked La Brea ’s discount case-goods emporiums had eluded Western. Half the block’s storefronts were dark, shuttered, or blocked by accordion gates.

Kwok’s space was a pack rat’s paradise crammed with velveteen and carelessly gilded almost-wood, chipped crockery, limp lamp shades, ratty furs, fake Tiffany glass that didn’t even come close. A barely negotiable aisle had been cleared through ceiling-high stacks of treasure.

Kwok was fiftyish, thin and hollow-cheeked, with sparse gray hair and nicotine teeth. A photo of a handsome Asian kid in full-dress Marine Corps regalia hung above the Formica folding table Kwok used as a desk.

Milo said, “Your boy?”

Kwok said, “Over in Iraq right now, they say he’s coming home next month, then heading to Dubai. Guess we got to protect them Arabs.”

“You must be proud of him.”

“He has a head for business, knows computers. I wanted him to take over so I can retire but he said it put him in a bad mood.”

“Business?”

“Being around too much junk. So you’re here about her, huh? What a bitch, no big shock she did bad things. Come on, I’ll show you her place.”

Leading us through the shop, he encountered the sides of a disassembled crib, shoved them aside, continued to the back door.

We exited into a pitted alley that looked out to block walls of neighboring properties. A Toyota Camry took up one slot of Kwok’s three-space lot. HIRAM on the license plate. Multiple alarm warnings on the side windows, heavy-duty crook-lock on the steering wheel.

More security than the mansion on Borodi.

Kwok continued walking south, stopped at the rear of the adjoining shop.

No cars, no painted slots; weeds poked through the pavement. Most of the back wall was a corrugated aluminum garage door. Manual, a pull handle, bolted by a serious combination lock.

Hiram Kwok said, “She keeps no regular hours but is in and out all the time. I always knew when she was here because she was an inconsiderate pain in the butt, leaving her car parked so it stuck out into my area. Look at the layout, she had tons of her own space, why the hell did she have to invade mine? And when her buddies were around, it became a worse problem. I asked her nice at first, she looked at me like I was retarded, finally moved the car. But the next time, same damn thing. Over and over, like she was trying to annoy me.”

“What kind of car did she drive?”

“Buick LeSabre, 2002, I know the license plate by heart.” Kwok rattled off numbers. Milo copied.

“I know it by heart because I called it in to you guys, had to be twenty times. Know what they told me? Disputes between private property owners needed to be settled privately. And now she burned something down. You guys need to change procedures.”

Milo nodded. “Tell me about her buddies.”

“Two of ’em, yuppies,” said Kwok. “Mr. Pretty Boy and Miss Pretty Girl in the BMW. What they were doing with her I could never figure out, I even wondered about a porno shoot, something like that.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a hidden place, having to go in through the back. And those two looked like actors.”

“Good looking.”

“Too good looking,” said Kwok. “Like they spent a lot of time in front of the mirror. Especially him. Also, the two of them didn’t fit with her . She was like one of those Goths, you know what I’m talking about?”

“All-black clothes, the wigs,” said Milo.

“That Bettie Page wig they showed on TV was a favorite. You know who Bettie was, right? Hottest pinup in the history of the world. Once in a while I find her memorabilia, sells immediately. The Goth thing, one of my daughters went through that, a phase, so I know all about it. She was too old-the German-to be acting like that, but she did.”