Evidence

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Not to worry, she got nothing.”

  “Cyber-snooping?” said Milo.

  “There was no reason for her to be anywhere near the files. Her job was to meet my needs.”

  “How’d you catch her?”

  “Keystroke buddy program,” she said. “Every move she made was traced. I do it routinely. To ensure confidentiality.” Back to Kotsos. “You see? No worry.”

  He said, “Yes, yes, thank you.”

  Milo said, “Where’d she go other than company files?”

  “Nowhere,” said Elena. “And she got no further than addresses, which she could find anyway in public records. Because I password-protect each and every file. But that was not the point. She had no business sticking her nose in.”

  “Who was hired to replace her?”

  “No one. I don’t want help, it’s not worth the time and effort to train someone.”

  Milo said, “What else can you tell us about her?”

  “Poor taste in clothes,” said Elena. Taking in his rumpled poly tie, saggy chinos and smiling. Kotsos’s wrinkled outfit didn’t draw a glance.

  “Poor taste, how?”

  “Bad fabrics, poor silhouette, careless fit. With outlets and the Internet, there’s no excuse for not dressing well. I should’ve known her carelessness would extend to work.”

  “Sounds like she was more devious than careless.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

  “What about Desmond Backer?”

  “Who?”

  “An architect who died with her.”

  “An architect,” said Elena. “Perhaps she had some sort of fixation.”

  Markos Kotsos said, “But of course. Architects are dashing fellows.”

  Elena smirked. “Your limo to LAX and your pickup in Athens are confirmed. I have ordered irises for your mother. Blue, I assume that’s okay.”

  “Perfect. Thank you.”

  Milo said, “Could we please have an address for that agency?”

  “Not necessary,” said Elena. “Take the elevator to the ground floor.”

  As we waited by the elevator, a nervous fellow in pinstripes passed by, tugging at his hair.

  Milo said, “Know anything about Masterson?”

  The banker stopped. Frowned. Muttered, “Ghost town,” and continued.

  Ding. We boarded. I said, “Masterson’s basically a West Coast clearinghouse office.”

  “Just Kotsos and that little battleax. Maybe they launder money for an oil cartel or run an international human smuggling ring or lobby for some cannibalistic dictatorship. The question is, what was Brigid Ochs curious about?”

  “DSD used to be headquartered in D.C. The smell of international intrigue grows more intense.”

  He rubbed his face. “With friends like you.”

  Kersey and Garland, Executive Search and Human Resource Consultants, was tucked into a corner past the ground-floor snack bar, not far from the public restrooms.

  The weary older woman who sat at the front desk looked at Jane’s photo. “Oy, her again. Now what?”

  Jody Millan on her desk plaque. Framed shots of face-painted, costumed grandchildren cluttered her desk.

  Milo said, “Again?”

  “That’s Brigid Ochs. We dropped her.”

  “She’s been dropped permanently, ma’am.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Someone murdered her.”

  Jody Millan went white. “My God ... that’s a... whatever you call it... morgue shot? I wasn’t wearing my glasses.”

  “You recognized her without them.”

  “That much I could see, but...” Out came half-specs. “Oh, my God, I’m getting nauseous. Who did it?”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out, ma’am.”

  “Then you came to the wrong place. She hasn’t been with us for months.”

  “After lying about her credentials to get the job at Masterson.”

  “She sent you here,” said the woman. “The Russian, should’ve figured. I’ll bet she enjoyed pointing the finger. One little slip-up, she couldn’t wait to fire us.”

  “Elena?”

  “I got her that job and it sure as hell paid off, didn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She started as the boss’s secretary, ended up snagging him.”

  “The boss being Mr. Kotsos? She’s Mrs. Kotsos.”

  “The fourth,” said Millan. “And no doubt determined to be the last.” Wicked smile. “Are you checking her out? She was furious at Brigid.”

  “Is there anything interesting in her past?”

  Millan picked up a pencil. “Honestly, no. She was crackerjack. Worked for a top exec at Kinsey and did a bang-up job. And I suppose she had a right to be upset. Still, Brigid was extremely convincing. It’s not as if Elena picked anything up, herself.”

  “Brigid was a good actress?”

  “This town, we get plenty of that, you’d be amazed at the b.s. I get handed. But Brigid didn’t come across that way, not at all.”

  I said, “She wasn’t theatrical.”

  “Just the opposite, quiet, well mannered, didn’t play herself up at all. Such a pretty girl but she didn’t make the most of it. Almost like she wanted to avoid attention. I know we should’ve run a background, but Elena was impatient, needed someone now.”

  “Could we see the application?”

  “Sorry, we don’t keep records once they leave us.”

  “Recycling?”

  “There’s no need to hold on to trash. I can tell you what she claimed, because I interviewed her personally. Guess I shouldn’t claim credit for that. But I’m not going to beat myself up, she came across bright, calm, articulate, eager to please. I don’t get deeply into personal data but I do like to get a feel for the person, so I asked her about her background, the basics of her social life. She said she was single and happy to be so. I took that as maybe she was recently divorced or out of a bad relationship. She said she grew up in the Pacific Northwest, claimed to work for one of Bill Gates’s top assistants, then said she moved to Los Gatos and spent some time at a tech venture capitalist, then on to eBay, where she did website organization. Her skills seemed perfect for what Elena claimed she needed.”

  “Claimed?”

  “Trust me, nothing will make that woman happy,” said Millan. “Truth is, she doesn’t want anyone else up there but her and Kotsos. Though, if you ask me, he’s gay.”

  “Odd couple,” said Milo.

  “Hey,” she said. “This is L.A.”

  I said, “Masterson’s office seems pretty laid-back.”

  “It’s a tomb,” said Jody Millan. “Once in a blue moon, you see someone, but the only two constants are Kotsos and Elena. The only business I’ve seen is rich foreigners out to lunch, kissing up shamelessly.”

  Milo said, “What kind of rich people?”

  “Mostly Arabs, sometimes they’re wearing those robes and headdresses. Like sheikhs. Maybe they are sheikhs.”

  “Have you sent Kotsos any other people?”

  “Temps,” she said. “Before Elena. Girl’s got a work ethic, I’ll grant you that.”

  “So Brigid Ochs was the first post-Elena hire.”

  “Elena said business had grown to the point where she needed backup. Because she and Kotsos were traveling more together.” Head shake. “I pride myself on reading people well but I really got taken. Everything Brigid told me turned out to be baloney, down to her Social Security number.” Brightening. “That I might still have. Not that it’s going to help you.”

  “Why not?”

  “After I found out I’d been conned, I ran a trace. The number matches a poor little girl born the same year Brigid claimed, in New Jersey. A kid who died at age five. Hold on.”

  She entered a back office, returned with a Post-it. “Here you go, Sara Gonsalves.”

  “Did you confront Brigid?”

  “Would’ve liked to but the number she gave me was disconnected
.”

  “Where was her address?”

  “Santa Monica, turned out to be a mail drop and she was long gone.”

  “She died with another person. A man named Desmond Backer.”

  “Don’t know him. Was Brigid involved in criminal activity?”

  “There’s no evidence of that.”

  “Well,” said Jody Millan, “she certainly wasn’t an upstanding citizen.”

  We took the stairs to the sub-lot.

  “Brigid Ochs,” said Milo. “What’s the chance that’s her righteous name?”

  I said, “Whoever she was, she was obviously curious about the Borodi project and DSD.”

  “International intrigue ... okay, time to call in some favors.”

  He flipped through his notepad, found a number, punched and left a vague message for someone named Hal.

  As we got in the car, he tried Moe Reed, got voice mail, settled for his other occasional D One backup, Sean Binchy, and asked him to run Brigid Ochs through the databases, including Social Security.

  Binchy phoned back in ten minutes. “Nothing on her anywhere, Loot. There is a Brigitte Oake, spelled like the tree but with an e at the end, incarcerated at Sybil Brand, awaiting trial for cocaine, possession with intent. Extensive record for solicitation and drugs, but she’s forty-nine. Social Security was kind of anal, said the number had been ‘retired’ due to misuse. I tried to get confirmation about that five-year-old Sara Gonsalves but it’s like she never existed. For some reason I got the feeling they’d been told not to cooperate, but maybe I’m being paranoid.”

  “Trust your instincts, Sean.”

  “I’m learning to do that, Loot.”

  CHAPTER 12

  A mile before the station, Milo detoured to a taco joint on Santa Monica, inhaled two burritos slathered “Christmas style” with red sauce and salsa verde, gulped a mega-Coke, then a refill. “All that green talk is making me conserve energy. Onward.”

  No call-back from Hal the Fed. A note from Binchy said, “No luck on the Internet.” Milo Googled Brigid Ochs anyway, did the same for DSD Inc.

  Whole lot of zeros.

  I said, “Maybe it won’t be about high intrigue and Brigid wanted Masterson’s address list so she could help Backer apply for a job there.”

  “Along the way, the two of them have fun-time in high-end piles of wood?”

  “How do most employees abuse the office computer?”

  “Porn.”

  “Maybe plywood was hers.”

  He sat back, twisted an ear until it turned scarlet. “Let’s try Backer’s sister again.”

  He dialed, hung up. “Scott and Ricki and Samantha and bark bark bark.”

  The 206 backward directory yielded a name: Flatt, Scott A.

  That pulled up a one-page family website showcasing the same holiday photos we’d seen in Backer’s apartment, a few more of little Samantha, now around three, and travel shots from half a dozen national parks, plus Hawaii, London, Amsterdam.

  Scott and Ricki Flatt were both elementary school teachers.

  I said, “School’s out of session, they get summers off, could be anywhere.”

  “Gonna be a helluva welcome back.” He spun in his chair, nearly collided with the wall. Mumbled, “There’s a metaphor for you.”

  “Brigid told the employment agency she’d grown up in the Pacific Northwest. Skillful liars embed truth in their stories, maybe that part was real and this is about old friends reuniting. Recalling the good old days when she and Des used to park under the stars.”

  “Under the stars is one thing, Alex. Why a damn construction site?”

  “Maybe the two of them were wild kids, enjoyed trespassing.”

  “Nostalgia, huh?”

  “Reach your thirties, nothing exciting in your life, nostalgia can take on a certain charm. Reliving the past could explain Backer going beyond the usual short-term shag.”

  He phoned 206 information, probed for Backer or Ochs listings. Slammed down the receiver, shaking his head, called the Port Angeles police and talked to a friendly, basso-voiced cop named Chris Kammen. Kammen knew nothing helpful, promised to ask around.

  “Booty-calls for nostalgia’s sake.”

  “Strong chemistry can linger,” I said. “But if Brigid was involved with another man, chapter two could get complicated.”

  “Alleged Brigid, who knows what her real name is? I’m thinking it’s time to go public. Any reason I shouldn’t?”

  He was back on the phone to Parker Center before I finished saying, “Not that I can see.”

  Three underlings later, he was transferred to Deputy Chief Henry Weinberg. The D.C. mainlined smug. “Sounds like you’re nowhere fast.”

  “It’s a tough one.”

  “Thought that was the kind you liked.”

  “Up to a point.”

  “The point where you’re nowhere fast, eh? I suppose I can find it within myself to put someone on it but no station’s going to flash a morgue shot on screen, too damn real for civilians. You have an artist who can make her look alive?”

  “I’ll find one.”

  “Do your homework, first,” said Weinberg. “Then talk to me.”

  Milo’s obvious first choice was Petra Connor, because she’d worked as a commercial artist before joining the department, had serious talent. A call to her office at Hollywood Division revealed she was in Cabo for R and R with her live-in, Eric Stahl. Additional poking around produced the name of Officer Henry Gallegos from Pacific Division, whose A.A. in art from Santa Monica College made him Rembrandt. Gallegos was off for the day at Disneyland with his wife and twin toddlers, but agreed to be in by six p.m. if traffic wasn’t too crazy.

  “Nothing fancy, Lieutenant, right?”

  “Just make it so she doesn’t scare anyone.”

  “Broke my finger last week playing ball,” said Gallegos, “but I can still do pretty good.”

  That night at home, I checked the late news for the story, got a headful of politics and natural disasters, a horrific child abuse case that made me turn off the tube and hope I wouldn’t be asked to get involved.

  I played guitar and read psych journals and hung with Blanche and listened to a disk of Anat Cohen wailing on her clarinet and saxophones. Replaying “Cry Me a River” a couple of times because that was a great song, period. Robin and I ate chicken and mashed potatoes, took a long bath, did lots of nothing. When she yawned at midnight, I joined her and managed to stay asleep until seven a.m.

  I found her eating a bagel and drinking coffee in the kitchen. The TV was tuned to a local affiliate morning show. Pretty faces prattling about celebrities and recipes and the latest trends in downloadable music.

  She said, “You just missed that girl’s face in the news.”

  “Good rendition?”

  “I don’t know what she actually looks like but the overall draftsmanship was okay. In that sidewalk-artist way.”

  I surfed channels, finally found an end-of-broadcast segment. Henry Gallegos wouldn’t be giving up his day job but the resemblance was good enough.

  I tried Milo’s desk phone. He’d installed the recorded message that thanked tipsters in an appropriately professional tone and promised to get back as soon as possible.

  The onslaught had apparently begun.

  I finished a couple of reports, e-mailed invoices to attorneys, took a run, showered. Milo called just as I was getting dressed.

  “Tip-storm?”

  “Forty-eight helpful citizens in the first hour. Including twenty-two flagrant psychotics and five psychics posing as helpful citizens.”

  “Hey,” I said, “politicians rely on the psychotic vote.”

  He laughed. “Binchy and Reed and I have been talking to a slew of well-meaning folk absolutely convinced Brigid is someone they know. Unfortunately, none of the facts fit and they’re all wrong. The only decent bit of possible is a you-guessed-it anonymous tip from a pay phone. Listen.”

  A burst of static was followe
d by ambient hum. Rising traffic noise drowned out the first few words:

  “... that girl. At that unbuilt house.” Shaky male voice. Old or trying to sound old. Ten-second gap, then: “She been with Monte.”