Dagmar’s body shivered with anxiety. This was taking too long.
“Tell Murdoch,” Dagmar said, “that I’ve located Litvinov, the murderer of Austin Katanyan. Litvinov is in the Oceanside Motel in Santa Monica, room one one seven. But he might not be there long, so the police need to respond quickly.”
“And your name, ma’am?”
“Dagmar Shaw. He knows who I am.”
“Stay on the line,” the receptionist said quickly. “I’ll contact the officer.”
“Good idea,” said Dagmar.
Dagmar couldn’t sit still any longer and got up to march back into the kitchen. She looked down at her cold bowl of oatmeal and then turned and marched back to her desk again.
Her heart throbbed like a racing turbine in her chest. She felt charged with energy and wondered why her knees felt weak.
Charlie hadn’t been killed by Litvinov. Joe Clever had just provided him an alibi.
And he hadn’t been killed by anyone else in the Maffya, either. Probably there were plenty of Russian gangsters in Los Angeles who were willing to kill people, but bombing the hotel room was too awkward a plan, not when they could have gunned him down on his way to dinner or simply kicked down the door and shot him in his bed.
There was some reason it was a bomb, and some other person who had planted it.
Dagmar was absolutely certain that, when it came time to fill out Charlie’s death certificate, the cause of death should be listed as Patch 2.0.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE This Is Not a Dream
Litvinov submitted quietly to arrest when the Santa Monica police used their battering ram to knock his motel room door off its hinges. Dagmar was sorry to hear it: she had hoped he’d resist and be shot full of holes.
Unless the Russian pleaded guilty, there would be a trial, and Dagmar would testify. And so she was asked to come to the police station and give a statement.
Murdoch was interviewing someone else, so Dagmar was given a ten-ounce foam cup of coffee and a white and red plastic stir stick and then asked to wait on a chair of shiny tube steel and gray plastic. She did so.
The North Hollywood Station was quiet on a Wednesday morning. Doubtless the drunks and other flotsam of the previous night were sleeping it off or being processed somewhere else.
Find out who knew Charlie was staying at the Fig, Dagmar thought, and you find the bomber.
Phones rang. Detectives answered. Fingers tapped keyboards.
She called AvN Soft and asked for Karin, Charlie’s secretary.
“Hi,” she said. “This is Dagmar.”
“Hi, Dagmar,” Karin said. “Charlie still isn’t in.”
“Do you know where he’s staying?”
“Yes,” she said. Then she added, “I’m not sure if I can tell you without his permission.”
Apparently she hadn’t heard the news that morning. Dagmar lacked the energy to tell her.
“That’s all right,” Dagmar said. “I was wondering if anyone besides you knows where he’s at.”
She could hear the uncertainty in Karin’s voice.
“I haven’t heard that he’s told anyone else,” she said.
“You haven’t told anyone?”
“No. The only reason I know myself is that I have to drive down every few days to bring him paperwork he needs to sign.”
“Okay, I just wondered. Thanks.”
After she ended the conversation, she considered Karin. She’d been Charlie’s secretary since the early days of the company and, like Dagmar, was in her early thirties. She seemed to be deeply competent, and Charlie had always praised her.
Karin had just returned from maternity leave. She had bleached-blond hair, a rectangular butt that jutted out like a Lego block beneath her jackets, and wore a nursing bra. She just didn’t seem bomb-thrower material.
Well, she thought. That leaves me as the only remaining suspect.
She didn’t seem to be prospering as a detective.
A door opened and Murdoch came out with Joe Clever and a woman in a gray pantsuit. Joe Clever seemed a little more wild-eyed than usual.
“If you can wait for a few minutes,” Murdoch said, “we’ll have your statement printed for you, and you can check it.” He looked up at Dagmar. “Miss Shaw? Can you speak to us now?”
Joe Clever grinned. “Hi, Dagmar.” He gave a thumbs-up. “We make a good team, don’t we?”
“We sure do, Andy,” Dagmar said. Joe Clever’s expression clouded.
Finding out Joe Clever’s real name had been an unanticipated bonus of this adventure. She could find out where he lived.
Let him misbehave again, and she’d send Richard the Assassin to throw bricks through his windows.
Dagmar went with the detectives into the interview room. It had functional furniture and an official poster telling suspects of their rights. The metal desk was bolted to the floor and had shiny steel loops for handcuffs. There was an antiseptic smell.
Murdoch introduced the woman, who was a detective from the Santa Monica PD. Dagmar, Murdoch, and the woman were given lapel mics, and as they spoke, a computer turned the words into letters and projected them on a monitor.
Dagmar simply answered questions. She still wasn’t processing very well and felt that her answers, while factual, lacked the concrete specificity that she preferred in her prose.
She reported that she’d seen Austin killed, and that she’d turned to the players-“programmed” them, in Murdoch’s words-to hunt for Litvinov.
The woman detective, who didn’t talk much, seemed surprised at all this.
Dagmar went on to state that Andy Claremont-which was Joe Clever’s real name-had located Litvinov the previous night and called her that morning, and that she’d called Murdoch right away.
She said that she had no reason to believe that Austin Katanyan had anything to do with the Russian Maffya.
The interview didn’t take very long. At the end, a printer in the squad room printed out the interview, after which Dagmar corrected the occasional spelling error and signed it.
“We got to him just in time,” Murdoch volunteered. “The accomplice who visited this morning seems to have dropped off Litvinov’s new ID. With that, Litvinov could have walked across the border into Tijuana and then flown from there to…” He shrugged. “To somewhere else. There are biometric scanners at the border that might have ID’d him, or they might not-and even if they did, he might have been in Mexico before the border patrol could react.”
“Do you know who the courier was?” Dagmar asked.
“We’re forwarding Mr. Claremont’s video to the Organized Crime Task Force, along with the sound recordings. We’ll get Litvinov’s cell phone records, so that might help us as well.” He paused, and then added, “We found a motorcycle in the parking lot that we think was stolen, probably by Litvinov. It wasn’t the same motorcycle that was used in the murder-but that one was probably stolen, too, then abandoned.”
Dagmar jumped again as her phone rang. She chided herself for being too nervous and glanced at Murdoch to see if he’d noticed.
His face retained the same bland professionalism it always wore. To give her privacy, he turned and ambled toward the coffee machine.
Dagmar looked at the display and saw that it was Karin.
“This is Dagmar,” she answered.
“Dagmar,” Karin said, “they say Charlie’s been in a bombing.”
She looked up at Murdoch’s bland back. “Who says?”
“The FBI. They’re here. They’re taking everything from Charlie’s office.”
Dagmar was astonished. “Why are they doing that?”
Distress flooded Karin’s voice. “They won’t say!”
“Have you called our lawyers?”
“Lawyers?” Karin sounded as if she’d never heard the word before.
“Call the firm’s attorneys,” Dagmar said. “If they’re taking company property, there needs to be an inventory. And probably a warrant-I don’t know.”
“Ok
ay. Should I do that now?”
“Yes,” Dagmar said.
Karin clicked off. Dagmar looked at her phone and saw the AvN Soft number glow for a moment, then vanish as the screen went to black.
She tried to work out what to do next. Rush to the office to prevent the FBI from taking Charlie’s things? Tell Murdoch what had just happened? Do nothing?
Try to play detective and solve the crime?
It had to be admitted that this last approach hadn’t worked well so far.
Murdoch was stirring white powder into a cup of coffee with one of the red and white stir sticks. Dagmar holstered her handheld and approached him. He looked up.
“My boss has been killed,” she told him. “Charles Ruff, you might remember him. In a bombing.”
She realized as the words left her lips that Karin hadn’t actually given her all this information, and there followed a thrill of fear as she realized that Murdoch might trip her up.
But then, she thought, Karin wouldn’t remember what she’d said and what she hadn’t. And there wasn’t anything wrong with Dagmar’s knowing what she knew.
She was safe.
The crinkles around Murdoch’s eyes softened and then reformed themselves, something Dagmar took to be an expression of interest.
“Is this the bombing downtown?” he asked. “In the Fig?”
“I…” Dagmar hesitated. “She didn’t say. She only said that the FBI turned up at the office.”
His eyes held hers for a moment, and then he looked down and gave a long sigh.
“Well,” he said, “if it’s the Russians, the FBI might be the best agency for it.” His tone suggested that he made this statement against his better judgment. He made a vague gesture with the hand that held the stir stick.
“I’ll make some calls,” he said, “and we’ll see what we can find out.”
In the end, Murdoch took Dagmar to the FBI’s blue glass tower on Wilshire, where Dagmar talked to a special agent named Landreth, a woman with perfect makeup, an immaculate gray suit, and a Tidewater accent. She seemed completely comfortable with the idea that Charlie was a terrorist who had blown himself up with his own bomb. When Dagmar pointed out that Charlie was a multimillionaire entrepreneur with no ideological ax to grind, Landreth gave her a green-eyed look that made her realize that it was her credibility, not Landreth’s, that was in question.
A fact that pointed to Charlie’s guilt, Landreth was convinced, was that he had checked into the hotel under a false name, Neville Longbottom. Dagmar pointed out that this was a character in the Harry Potter books. Landreth didn’t seem to think that mattered.
Dagmar didn’t tell her about the patch. Landreth would probably have confiscated it as a possible tool in Charlie’s terrorist plot, and Dagmar wasn’t going to allow that to happen.
After the futile interview, Dagmar was tasked to identify Charlie’s body. Charlie’s other associates suddenly seemed unavailable, and Karin had refused.
It would probably sour her breast milk, Dagmar thought. Sourly.
Murdoch, who seemed to be doubling today as her chauffeur, took her to the morgue. The attendants weren’t yet ready with Charlie’s body, and Dagmar waited with Murdoch in the corridor. A fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Air-conditioning efficiently suppressed any odor: the place smelled like nothing at all.
“Harlem Nocturne” began to chime from Dagmar’s belt. She looked at the display and saw that it was Helmuth.
“Dagmar,” she said.
“We need to know what to do about the Banana Split mix-up,” Helmuth said.
“Jesus,” Dagmar said. “Do you know where I am?”
“We know that Charlie’s been killed,” Helmuth said. “But even if he has, we still can’t update till the players solve the Banana Split puzzle.”
She mashed her free hand against her forehead, then scrubbed her palm over her face, as if she were hoping that might help her mind to jump from one track to another.
“I can’t think,” she said. “You’ll just have to handle it yourselves.”
“Should I call Boris?”
“Sure. Why not? He’s devious.”
“He can’t hold his liquor very well.”
Dagmar didn’t remember that about him. It seemed to her that BJ had been pretty good with alcohol-better anyway than Dagmar.
“He and I went out clubbing last night,” Helmuth said. “My God! He turned into some kind of rampaging disco monster.”
Dagmar remembered the email BJ had sent her at four in the morning. Oh hai…
“You were with someone named Beverly?” she asked.
“Yes. Boris seemed…fond of her.”
“He didn’t pass out or anything?” she asked.
“No. He just… had more fun than the situation called for.”
“Well, he’s had good news lately. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“Sure. And we’re very sorry about Charlie, by the way.”
“Yes,” she said. “So am I.”
Dagmar put her phone away. To give her privacy, Murdoch had turned away and taken a few steps down the corridor, just as he had during the phone call at the North Hollywood Station that morning.
“Someone from work,” she said.
Murdoch turned around and gave her a diffident look.
“Do people at your office pass out very often?” he asked.
A reluctant laugh bubbled like champagne up her nose.
“They do when they’re drinking with Helmuth,” she said.
Murdoch nodded.
A door opened and an attendant came out. He had glossy black skin, was dressed in pale green surgical scrubs, and had shaved his head.
“We’re ready, ma’am,” he said. “I should tell you a few things first.”
Dagmar nodded dumbly. Her insides were trying to climb up her throat.
“The victim’s face,” said the attendant, “has been badly damaged.” Then, speaking quickly as he gauged Dagmar’s horrified expression: “We’re not going to show you the face. We’re going to show you as much of the body as we can, so that maybe you’ll recognize the hands or feet or a birthmark or something.”
“Okay,” Dagmar said.
“The victim has also been autopsied. There is a large Y-shaped incision on the trunk. It has been sewn up and has nothing to do with the accident.”
Accident. Indeed.
“Let’s go,” she said.
Dagmar had expected a scene from the movies, with a wall full of sliding trays with bodies in them, but the viewing room wasn’t like that. It was small, with subdued light, and the body was actually in an adjacent chamber, with glass in between. A woman attendant, also in scrubs, was in the room with the body.
The body was very white, and naked except for a cloth covering the face, and a towel folded over the genitals. The front of the torso had been blackened, and there were deep circular wounds dished over the arms and torso. The Y-shaped incision of the autopsy had been closed with large stitches.
Only the legs seemed normal.
Dagmar felt a lightness wash over her, a floating sensation as if she were on the very edge of sleep. She continued walking toward the body, but her feet felt as if she were walking on pillows, reaching a long way before they met the ground.
The shaven-headed attendant stayed behind her, quite close. To catch her if she fainted dead away.
She came up to the glass and stopped. She looked at the wounds on the arms and torso. It looked as if someone had gone into the flesh with a melon baller.
“What are those?” she said, pointing.
Murdoch understood her vague question.
“Shrapnel wounds,” he said. “The bomb was packed with nails, probably dipped in rat poison.”
Dagmar looked at Murdoch in utter surprise. The bomb wasn’t enough? she thought.
“Rat poison prevents clotting,” Murdoch said.
“Ma’am?” The woman attendant’s voice came through a speaker. “Can you identify t
he victim?”
Dagmar felt herself sway. She turned to the body again, flesh the color of raw dough except where it had been burned or wounded, and realized that this was the only time she had seen Charlie without his clothes.
It was clearly Charlie. The tall, thin body reeked of Charlieness. But she didn’t know how she knew this.
“I can’t really tell,” she said. “But I’m sure it’s him.”
“We need a definite identification, ma’am,” the male attendant said.
“In that case,” Dagmar said, “I can’t.”
The woman attendant took a step closer to the body. Dagmar noticed that she was wearing surgical gloves.
“The face is badly-there really isn’t a face left,” she said. “But if I remove the cover, maybe you can identify the shape of the face or the-”
“No,” said Dagmar. “No, I won’t look at that.”
She turned and walked out. Her vision seemed to have narrowed; she felt as if she were walking down the length of a telescope.
The intensity of the light in the corridor startled her. She stood blinking on the green and white tile floor. Murdoch stood at her elbow. The fact of his presence was shocking-it was as if he hadn’t walked there but had somehow materialized at that instant.
“Do you think you might want to sit down?” he asked.
“Just get me out of here,” Dagmar said.
Murdoch’s Crown Victoria smelled of leather and gun oil. Hissing voices spoke inscrutable ten-codes from the police radio. Dagmar closed her eyes and leaned against the headrest as he accelerated onto I-5.
“Damn,” he said in his mild voice. She opened her eyes and saw the flashes of taillights, long rows of them.
Rush hour had commenced. They were probably going to spend the next hour trapped on the freeway.
“Don’t worry about the identification,” Murdoch said. “They can do a DNA with hair from his bathroom at home or something. Though that will take a while.”
“Mm,” said Dagmar. She wasn’t paying attention; she was just relieved that she had avoided the Phantom of the Opera moment, the unmasking of Charlie’s mutilated face.
The car crawled at about ten miles an hour toward the San Fernando Valley. Dagmar thought of Charlie’s plaster white flesh and the horrible gouges of the shrapnel.
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