Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

“What kind of convention?”

“He didn’t say. Why? Was she involved-oh my God. The time Desi brought the money, he was traveling with a woman. I didn’t tell you because it slipped my mind-it’s not like he brought her with him, what happened was after Desi and I took the suitcases to storage, I asked him to stay for dinner. He said he’d love to but he needed to get back to his hotel, someone was waiting. The obvious assumption was a woman because with Desi there was always a woman. I made a crack, you’re in town for a day, already have a hot date? Normally, he’d give that cute smile of his. This time, he frowned, said, ‘A hot date would be the ideal, but don’t lay odds on it.’ Which was unusual for Desi, he was always so upbeat.”

She choked back tears. “I remember I actually kind of gloated to myself. Finally, Don Juan has failed. How petty of me, all those stupid childhood feelings.”

I said, “What else did he say about this woman?”

“The only other thing was that the car he was driving was hers, he needed to get it back to her. Almost as if he was… intimidated by her.”

“The way you would be by a boss.”

“That’s what made me think of it right now. Why else would Desi be intimidated by anyone, let alone a woman, unless she had some kind of power over him?”

That hadn’t stopped him from propping Marjorie Holman up against a sheet of plywood.

Milo said, “What kind of car was it?”

“American, dark, I don’t remember. I really wasn’t paying attention.”

Milo nudged the file over to me. I thumbed through, found the Internet photos he’d printed of 2002 Buick LeSabres.

Ricki Flatt said, “Cars aren’t my thing, but sure, that could be it. This is Helga’s car?”

Milo said, “It’s similar to hers-hey, look at this, free sailing, it’s good we avoided the freeway.”

Moments after he’d carried her bag into the terminal, he was back on the phone with Chris Kammen.

“I can narrow the time frame for Backer’s trip, friend. All I need is verification that either Backer or Helga Gemein registered at one of your hotels.”

Kammen said, “Friend, huh? Every time I talk to you, my life gets complicated.”

“Thanks, Chris, I appreciate it.”

Kammen laughed. “Like I said before, we ain’t Gotham but we also ain’t Mayberry, it’ll take a while. Who’s this Helga?” Milo filled him in.

Kammen said, “International terrorism. Now I can brag to my kids about something. Not that it’s going to help with teenagers.”

His return call came in before we’d returned to the station. Bass tones vibrated with triumph.

“I used logic, figured people from L.A. might want some creature comforts, but since they were involved in something illegal they might want to stay off the main drag. We’ve got a place that fits the bill, twenty miles out, set on the water, real woodsy, they got a spa, honeymoon couples like it. The Myrtlewood Inn, I’m fixing to take my wife there for our anniversary if she behaves herself. Anyway, sure enough, Ms. Helga Gemein used her platinum Amex during that exact time. One-night stay. Or stand, depending on your perspective.”

“Excellent,” said Milo. “Give me the card number.”

Kammen read it off. “If your boy Backer was there with her, it was a stay, not a stand, ’cause she rented two rooms. Paid for both, there’s no record of who stayed in the other. But whoever it was racked up hours of rent-a-porn. Unlike Ms. Helga, who didn’t watch a second of pay-per-view, probably drank tap water because there were no room service charges, not even peanuts from the mini-bar.”

“Living like a nun,” said Milo.

Kammen said, “Your boy Backer, though, he watched four dirty movies, ordered steak and shrimp cocktail, and raided the bar for all kinds of goodies. Not exactly two peas in a pod.”

“They had enough rapport to do bad stuff, Chris.”

“Sounds like your typical marriage.”

I said, “How many rental car companies do you have in Port Angeles?”

“All the majors and a couple of minors. Why?”

“Be good to know if either Backer or Helga used a hired vehicle.”

“The sister said Backer was driving her car.”

“She wasn’t with him when he gave his sister the suitcases. They could’ve gone their separate ways.”

“Ah,” said Kammen. “Okay, I’ll check that out-stay on the line, maybe I can do it fast.”

Four minutes later: “Call me Speedy Gonzales, Myrtlewood Inn’s got Avis on the premises. Ms. Helga rented a Chevy Cobalt during her one-day stay. It’s going to take a while to find out how much mileage she put on but I can do it, if you want.”

Milo said, “Much appreciated, Chris. I’ll keep you informed.”

“This is starting to be fun.”

I said, “Separate cars means Helga could’ve followed Backer to the storage bin. Once she got hold of the key, getting the money was a breeze. She didn’t even need to bully him to get it: They worked in the same office, Backer, ever sociable, goes off to lunch with his female friends. Helga, ever the loner, stays behind and goes through his desk or a coat pocket, makes a mold.”

“Then why the gun rape?”

“Everyone’s got their own notion of fun.”

Milo said, “Lord, I want a date with this girl in a small, bright room.”

A warrant for Helga’s financial transactions revealed little. She’d canceled the Amex account within days of the Port Angeles trip, no others had shown up under her name.

I said, “Daddy keeps vaults full of crisp bills. Maybe the department will fly you to Zurich.”

He phoned Gayle Lindstrom, asked for a probe of GGI-Alter Privatbank.

She said, “I’ll try but good luck, those places are tighter than missile silos.”

“Still nothing at the airport?”

“I’m not into secrets, Milo. If there was, I’d tell you.”

He hadn’t told her about the storefront on Western. When I asked why, he said, “At this point, all she can do is complicate matters. Any suggestions on tracing Ms. Hellish?”

“I’m wondering if she’d chance a road trip. She wouldn’t exactly blend into middle America.”

“Helga in the heartland-sounds like a movie.”

“The exception,” I said, “being Vegas.”

“Yeah, a three-headed albino monkey would blend in there, it’s Fugitive Central. Okay, I know a U.S. marshal, maybe Helga will materialize at the craps table at Caesars. If not, you’re probably right, she’s still in town. Hopefully sooner or later she’ll return to her bomb shop.”

“My vote’s for sooner.”

“Because you’re my pal?”

“Because it’s her house of worship.”

Gayle Lindstrom phoned to say she’d talked to her bosses about probing the bank. Given past dealings with the Swiss government over Nazi gold and looted wartime accounts, the best guess was years of wrangling.

Milo said, “Nothing like neutrality.”

“What we were able to do,” she said, “is institute passport scans of the entire Gemein family, to build a conspiracy case should you ever find Helga. This whole thing is making the Bureau nervous.”

“The fact that Doreen was your paid stooge and she used you?”

“Used my predecessors,” said Lindstrom. “My goal on this one is being seen as outside the loop.”

At five forty-three p.m., Milo ate junk food at his desk, preparing for the beginning of his alley shift.

He had a mouth full of packaged burrito when Sean Binchy called.

“Got her, Loot! Cuffed and in the back of my car, she went down real easy!”

Helga Gemein, in all-black and her Bettie Page wig, parked her Buick carelessly, barely clearing Hiram Kwok’s area. She had her key in the lock of the bomb factory when Sean Binchy took her from behind.