Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

“Unlike the other two.”

“The other two were preppies-Ken and Barbie, you know? It just didn’t fit. So I figured porno. Turns out it was even worse, huh?”

A six-pack photo lineup would’ve been optimal procedure but all Milo had were photos of Des Backer and Doreen Fredd, hers postmortem.

Kwok nodded. “Yup, that’s them. So they’re all in it together?”

“Right now, we’re unraveling their relationship.”

“Bunch of firebugs planning who-knows-what, right next door, that’s just great,” said Kwok. “You noticed when you got here that the whole front of her window is blacked over, from the street it looks closed. We’ve got lots of back-door tenants here-musicians use the place five to the north for rehearsals, there’s a girl, they say her brother’s a movie star, I forgot his name, uses hers for a photography lab. But none of them causes problems. I tried to tell the traffic cops something was off about her, they couldn’t care less.”

I said, “Off how?”

“Way she walked, talked, when I tried to tell her about the parking situation, she just looked through me. Like I didn’t exist. Like I was nothing to her.”

“When’s the last time you saw her here?”

“Not for a while, I’d have to say… a month. What exactly did she burn down?”

“We’re still working on that,” said Milo.

“Meaning none of my business? Fine, just as long as she doesn’t come back and blow me up.”

“If you do see her again, here’s my card, Mr. Kwok.”

“You’re not going to keep an eye out for her-surveillance?”

“We’ll be doing everything to catch her, sir.”

Kwok hadn’t taken the card. Milo held it there.

“You’ll take me more seriously than those traffic cops?”

“I already have, sir. Your help is deeply appreciated.”

Kwok pocketed the card.

Milo said, “Next time you speak to your son, tell him Dad’s a hero, too.”

Kwok winced. “I don’t know about that, I’m just being logical. Yeah, I’ll call you. Who the hell wants her coming back and burning the whole neighborhood down?”

No sign of Helga Gemein. By the next day, the tips had ebbed to a handful of useless leads.

Milo traced ownership of the rented storefront to an elderly couple named Hawes living in Rancho Mirage. The lease had been negotiated through a commercial brokerage and the listing broker had since moved to New Jersey.

“Nothing iffy about the move,” he said. “Broker had just gotten married and hubbie was transferred to Trenton. Maybe that’s why she got careless. Helga used her own name but all the backup information she gave was bogus and no one checked. Also, a full year’s rent in cash, up front, tends to ease the process. I got permission to search from Ma and Pa Hawes, nice folks, about as radical as Norman Rockwell, and plenty scared their place was used as a kaboom factory.”

“That’s confirmed?”

“Bomb squad found Jell-O ingredients, cookbooks like the one Ricki Flatt saw in Desi’s room, Swiss and German newspaper articles on eco-sabotage, computer searches on Sranil, copper wire, switches, timers with remote triggers, tools and workbenches to put it all together. Also, a collection of women’s wigs triple-wrapped in plastic. Fortunately, no booby traps, so we left everything in place in case Helga comes back, have a twenty-four-hour watch going on the house and the alley, divided into three-hour shifts. Sean, Moses, me, Del Hardy because he’s ex-Special Services, really has a thing for terrorists, and eight plainclothes officers.”

“ Milo ’s army, courtesy His Munificence.”

“He loves being divinely right. There’s no reasonable place to park a vehicle in the alley itself but the Haweses own a whole bunch of other storefronts up and down the block and some are vacant so we’re stationed on both sides of Helga’s little lair, she shows up she’s Chopped Misanthrope. The hitch, of course, is she may already be road-tripping in that Buick, which has been BOLO’d. The tag numbers Kwok memorized trace back to a stolen truck. Some guy with a car-washing business, got ripped off eleven months ago when he was in-guess where-Holmby Hills.”

“She scouted the neighborhood for a long time,” I said. “She and Hoodie. Her intention right from the beginning was to be actively involved, not just a financier. Backer and Fredd were expendable the moment they signed on.”

“Yeah, she’s a sweetheart. I’ll be in that alley at seven, right now I’m headed over to Ricki Flatt’s motel because she’s finished all the paperwork on Desi’s body and I’m driving her to the airport.”

“Beyond the call,” I said. “Meanwhile, you probe for what she hasn’t told you.”

“You,” he said, “are immovably skeptical, that’s why we’re pals. Want to come? It could conceivably get psychological.”

Ricki Flatt was waiting outside her room, jacket zipped, luggage on the ground.

Milo jumped out, beat her to the rear car door.

“You really didn’t need to do this, Lieutenant.”

“We’ll take streets, freeway’s a bad idea at this hour.”

Moments later: “How’d it go with the coroner, Ricki?”

“It took a while, but we’re finally settled. I’ll be able to ship… to have Desi sent back in two days, spoke to the cemetery in Seattle, where my parents are buried and they’ve got a plot available. They referred me to a mortician here who’s handling the logistics as well as the cosmetics. He said there wouldn’t be that much to do, Desi still looked handsome. Any progress, Lieutenant?”

“We’re chipping away, Ricki. Oh, by the way, those suitcases are out of your storage bin.”

“Great,” she said. “I spoke to Scott this morning and he didn’t mention anything, so we’re fine.”

“Yes, you are, Ricki.” A beat. “Unfortunately, we’re not.”

“What do you mean?”

“ Port Angeles police didn’t remove the suitcases. This guy beat them to it.”

Hooking his arm, he dangled the copy of the surveillance photo sent by Chris Kammen. As Kammen had predicted, too blurry to be useful.

“Who is this?”

“We were hoping you might know.”

“Me? Why would I?”

“Could be someone local.”

“Well I don’t know,” she said. “I have absolutely no idea.” Squinting. “He took everything?”

“Sure did.”

“How’d he get in?”

“With a key,” said Milo. “Who besides you and Desi had one?”

“No one-does Scott know about this?”

“No reason for him to know. How about Scott? Does he have a key?”

“No, we rented it to store my parents’ stuff, Scott was always bothering me to get rid of everything. Someone stole all that money? The same person who murdered Desi?”

“We don’t know yet.”

Ricki Flatt returned the photo. “That’s why you offered to drive me. You think I’ve held back on you and want to ask more questions.”

“I’m just informing you of the situation as it stands, Ricki. Only you and Desi had keys and the guy in the photo obtained one. Do you happen to have yours right now?”

“I’m a-of course I do.” Opening her purse, she fumbled, produced a ring, shuffled. “This one. This is mine. Meaning that person used Desi’s. Meaning he did murder Desi. For the money, it’s always about the damn money!”

Burying her face in her hands, she rocked.

Milo drove another half a mile. “Ricki, what did Desi tell you about his boss, Helga Gemein?”

“Her? This is related to Desi’s job?”

“At this point it’s all questions, not answers, Ricki. Did Desi talk about Helga? About work, in general?”

“He liked the job, said it was fun, kind of easy. Said he met her at a convention and she offered him a job.”