Jonathan Kellerman - Evidence

Shouting “Police” and drawing her arms back, Binchy used long-fingered bass-player’s hands to secure her wrists, had the cuffs on within seconds.

Helga said, “All for twigs?”

Binchy patted her down lightly and spun her around. “Twigs?”

Helga’s look said he was beyond help.

By the time Moe Reed arrived from the opposite end of the alley, Sean had her in the rear seat of his unmarked, belted in. She glared through the window.

Reed said, “Excellent, bro.” Opened the door to get a better look.

Helga said, “You look like a storm trooper.”

Reed said, “And you’re an expert on that. You didn’t think to change your appearance?”

“Why would I?”

“You look just like on the news.”

“What news?”

“The TV broadcast.”

“TV,” said Helga, “is garbage. I don’t waste my time.”

Two hours later, she sat in a West L.A. interrogation room, as bored as she’d been when Milo spieled off Miranda. A group watched from next door: Binchy, Reed, Don Boxmeister.

The guest of honor: Captain Maria Thomas, a tweed-suited, blond-coiffed, well-spoken aide to the chief.

The last few minutes had been spent discussing the Western Avenue rental, which Helga dismissed as “my studio.”

“For what?”

“Conceptual art.”

“Those fuses-”

“For a collage.”

“What kind of collage?”

“You couldn’t hope to understand.”

Milo hadn’t bothered to ask her where she was living. A rental-agency key was traced to a house in Marina del Rey. Del Hardy had gone there with a crew of cops. Five flat-screens but no cable or satellite hookup in place. No computer, either, but drawers full of paper included a trove of e-mails. Everything in German, which Hardy sent for translation to Hollenbeck Division Detective Two Manfred Obermann.

Hardy said, “Guess who she’s renting the place from, Alonzo Jacquard.”

Milo said, “Doctor Dunkshot? He have any idea who his tenant is?”

“He’s coaching in Italy, everything went through an agency. Ms. Friendly paid up front in cash, just like with the storefront. Funny choice for her, the place is tricked out way past vulgar, pure Alonzo-trophy room, six fully stocked wet bars, disco room, stripper’s pole, home theater, racks of the kind of DVDs I wouldn’t keep out in the open. Great view of the water, though. But she had the drapes drawn, is sleeping in a small guest room near the service porch, might as well be in a convent. Except for the toys.”

“What kind of toys?”

“I’m a churchgoing man, Milo, don’t make me go into detail.” Chuckle. “Let’s just say the latex lobby likes her.”

Milo said, “You’re sure they’re not Alonzo’s toys?”

“No, these were definitely hers, all girlie stuff.” Hardy sighed. “Alonzo, man he was talented. Too bad he wasn’t around to sign an autograph for my kid.”

Milo asked a few more questions about art.

Helga answered each with “Don’t waste my time, you are ignorant.”

Captain Maria Thomas said, “She’s breathtakingly arrogant.”

Boxmeister said, “That could work for us, no? She thinks she’s in charge, doesn’t lawyer up.”

Thomas checked her BlackBerry. “So far so good, but he hasn’t gotten into serious stuff.”

Milo made a show of putting on reading glasses, dropping papers, retrieving them. “Um… okay… so… how about we talk about the house on Borodi-”

Helga cut him off: “Blah blah blah.”

“The house on Borodi Lane, where-”

“Blah blah blah blah blah.”

Milo grinned.

“Something is funny, Policeman?”

“Blah blah blah is one of my favorite phrases.” Helga rotated a finger in the air. “Is that supposed to give us commonality?”

“I don’t imagine commonality would be possible between us.”

“Oh?”

“You despise people,” said Milo. “Most of the time I consider myself part of the human race.”

“I despise people?” said Helga.

“So you said the first time we met.”

“You, Policeman, need to stop decoding literally.”

Milo snapped his fingers. “I knew I should’ve paid attention in metaphor class.”

Helga ran a manicured finger under chopped black bangs. “A policeman who has studied the dictionary.”

“Started with A and working all the way to B . Unfortunately, I kinda got hung up on boom.”

Helga didn’t answer.

Milo said, “The house on Borodi-”

“I burned some twigs. So what?”

“Twigs.”

“A heap of rotting wood, a monstrosity. I did the world a favor.”

“By burning down the house-”

“Not a house,” Helga corrected. “Ruins. Twigs. Garbage. Monstrosity. Shit. I cleansed in the name of aesthetic righteousness, structural integrity, epistemological consistency, and meta-ecology.”

“Meta-ecology. Didn’t get even close to that in the dictionary.”

“It won’t be in there. I constructed it.”

“Ah.”

Helga Gemein held up the rotating finger. “It means stepping back from trivial components of the gestalt that endow the system with no functional autonomy.”

Milo said, “Looking at the big cosmic machine, not the cogs.”

Helga studied him. “You can’t hope to understand because you are American and Americans are all religious.”

“We’ve got a few atheists.”

“In name only, Policeman. Even your atheists are religious because American faith is infinite. The suckling pig that never stops offering its flesh.”

“I’m not sure I’m-”

“You people have convinced yourself possibilities are endless, endings are happy, puzzles are to solved, the future is an advertising jingle, your way of life is sacred, might makes right. If Americans would tear themselves away from their twigs and their shit and use their eyes and ears and noses to dissect reality, they would alter their cognitive structure.”

Maria Thomas muttered, “And become clinically depressed like Europe.”

Helga said, “Americans are the domesticated pets of the world. Submissive and eating their own shit. Until they turn vicious and then we have war.”

Boxmeister said, “Talk about a cuckoo clock.”

Thomas said, “I’ve been to Interpol conferences. She’s just another spoiled Euro-trash brat.”

“But maybe a little whack, too?” Boxmeister nudged me. “What do you think, Doc?”

Thomas said, “Bite your tongue, Detective, and don’t answer, Dr. Delaware. It’s going to be pain enough dealing with a foreign national, last thing we need is diminished capacity.”

Milo was saying, “So burning the twigs was an act of cleansing.”

“Refuse removal.”

“Taking out the garbage.”

Helga’s blue eyes narrowed.

Milo said, “Wouldn’t altruism be a better word?”

Two sleek, black-nailed hands clenched. “It would be a stupid word.”

“Why’s that?”

“Altruism is nothing more than a mutation of selfishness.”

Milo crossed his legs. “Sorry, I’m not decoding.”

“I do what society says is nice so I can feel nice. What is more narcissistic than that?”

Milo pretended to contemplate. “Okay, so, if it wasn’t altruism, it was-”

“What I told you.”

“An act of meta-ecological cleansing. Hmm.”

“Don’t play stupid, Policeman. You have enough natural defects, there is no need to supplement.”

Boxmeister said, “Ouch. Heil, Helga.”

Milo uncrossed, scanned his notes again, edged his chair back a few inches. Removing a handkerchief from a trouser pocket, he wiped his brow. “Getting hot in here, no?”