“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“It happened before Sam was born, that’s what hurts the most. Mom and Dad would’ve loved Sam.” Tears. “She adored Desi and now he’s gone.”
“How did Desi react to losing your parents?”
“Terribly,” said Ricki Flatt. “He got this empty look in his eyes, walked around for weeks as if he was in a trance. The walking wounded, Scott called it. I’ve never seen my brother like that, generally he’s open and mellow and accessible.”
“He drew into himself.”
“I remember thinking this isn’t healthy, he needs to deal with it, do some serious grieving or he’s going to break down. I was sure he’d drop out of school but he didn’t, he stuck with it and graduated with honors.”
Milo tapped his pen on a corner. “Ms. Flatt, that remark you made yesterday on the phone, about it being political. We’re still curious about that.”
Ricki Flatt’s eyes jumped all over the place. “Forget that, that was silly. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“But you did, ma’am.”
She untied her hair, shook it loose, fastened it tighter.
“Ricki, we have no interest except solving your brother’s murder.”
Thumping both elbows on the table, she pressed her palms to her cheeks. Her fingertips trailed above her ears, as if blocking out noise. See no, hear no.
Milo said, “The only thing we’ve heard remotely political about your brother is he was into green architecture, the whole environment thing.”
Ricki Flatt’s left cheek twitched.
Milo edged closer. “Did he get radical with that? Spend those ten years doing things that might be considered illegal?”
“I don’t know how he spent them.”
“But you’re worried.”
“Desi... used to talk.”
“About what?”
“Burning down the house,” she said. “That was the name of a song he liked. When he visited, he’d sometimes go off on speeches. About the beauty of untouched wilderness. About greedy people who raped the land and built monuments to their ego. What they needed, he said, was a good lesson.”
“Monuments,” said Milo. “Like the one he died in. And now you’re worried he put himself in a bad position.”
Ricki Flatt looked up. “Oh, God, I should’ve known something bad was going to happen when he gave me the money. Desi’s never been able to hold on to money, he’s never cared about money.”
No need for Milo to press. He gave her a tissue, waited until she’d patted her eyes dry.
“All right,” she said. “This is what happened: Des showed up six months ago with fifty thousand dollars in cash. Two big suitcases full. He asked me to hold it for him. I gave him a spare key to the unit.”
“We’re talking last January,” said Milo.
“New Year’s weekend, Scott and I were about to leave for a trip to New Mexico and Des showed up, no advance notice.”
“Did he say where he got the money?”
“I know, I should’ve asked. Scott was furious with me, said it had to be drug money or something else illegal and I’d gotten us in way over our heads. I said that made no sense, Desi had never used dope or alcohol, took care of his body. Scott told me I was being naïve, Desi had been on the road for years, we had no clue about what he’d done. We got into a big fight, Scott demanded I call Desi back, insist he take the suitcases.” Shrill laughter. “It was pretty darn dramatic. Of course, I finally agreed.”
“So you called your brother.”
Ricki Flatt hung her head. “I lied to Scott—only time I’ve ever done that. Why? For the life of me, I wish I could tell you. I just couldn’t bring myself to confront Desi. There’s something about my brother that makes you want to say yes to him. He’s so sweet and direct—in high school, he was voted most popular. It wasn’t just girls who loved him, everyone did.”
I said, “Charisma.”
“Yes, but for me, it was more than that. With Mom and Dad gone, there was no one else. I guess I kept hoping we’d reconnect, be some kind of family. Sam seemed to be a vehicle for that.” Burying her face in her hands, she mumbled.
Milo said, “You still have the money. You’re worried it’s political.”
Ricki Flatt looked up. “When Desi brought it to me, he seemed nervous, made me promise not to ask questions. I keep thinking it was payment for something wrong.”
“Burning down the house.”
“Maybe not literally,” she said. “But something ... why else would he hide the money? I promise to send it back to you as soon as I get back home but please don’t tell Scott I kept it.”
“Where is it?”
“Our storage unit. Scott and I rented one after Mom and Dad passed. For their stuff, I couldn’t bear to get rid of anything. I tucked the suitcases in back, behind Mom’s piano. Scott never goes in there.”
“So Desi had a key to the unit?”
“I gave him one. They were his parents, too.”
“When’s the last time you actually saw the money?”
“The last time,” she said, “had to be... a couple of weeks after I stored it, so five months ago, give or take. I went in there and counted it. I’d never counted it initially. Why? Once again, I don’t know.”
“Fifty thousand.”
“In fifty-dollar bills, bound neatly. Do you really think it has something do with what happened to Desi?”
“Money’s the most common motive we see, Ricki.”
“Oh, God, I told Scott he was being paranoid, but now I’m getting sick.” She grabbed Milo’s wrist. “Is my family in danger?”
“I would hope not,” said Milo. “But we do need to get the money in a secure place.”
“I promise I’ll send it straight to you. I was going to stay for a few days, to arrange for Desi to be flown back, but I’ll leave today, have the suitcases shipped first thing in the morning.”
“Please don’t touch them,” said Milo. “We need to process them first.”
“Process?”
“Fingerprinting, that kind of thing. I’ll arrange for everything after you sign some forms releasing the contents of the storage bin for inspection. Is there anything else in your unit that belonged to Desi?”
“No,” said Ricki Flatt. “I’ll fill out anything you need, draw you a diagram showing where I put them. I just want them out of there.”
“I’ll handle it, Ricki.”
“Are Scott and Sam in danger? Please, I need an honest answer.”
“I’ve got no indication your family’s a target.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Thank God.” Gazing up at the ceiling. “What did you get me into, Desi?”
CHAPTER 19
Ricki Flatt filled out the search authorization.
Milo asked her where she was staying.
“I came straight from the airport.”
“Did you rent a car?”
“I took the shuttle to Westwood, then a cab.”
“I’ll get you a place. There’s a victim compensation fund, but it’ll mean more forms and take a while to get compensated.”
“I don’t care about that.” Her hands waved restlessly.
Milo called Sean Binchy over from the big D-room. Binchy was still poring over lists of construction workers with nothing to report.
“Find Ms. Flatt a clean, safe place to bunk down.”
Binchy lifted her luggage. “The Star Inn on Sawtelle has the Triple A rating, cable, and wireless and there’s an IHOP right up the block.”
“Whatever,” said Ricki Flatt.
After the two of them left, I said, “Political, as in baby brother might be an eco-terrorist. It would take more than Backer spouting off for her to worry about that.”
“Yeah, she knows more,” said Milo, “but pushing her right now didn’t feel right. I’ll have Sean keep an eye on her, make sure she sticks around.”
“Backer’s lost dec
ade preceded his parents’ death, but their being crushed by logs could’ve kicked up his motivation.”
“Fifty grand to blow something up. Like a big house, but he never got to it. On the other hand, the money could be from dope or a blackmail payoff. Or he won big at the tables and gave it to Ricki to avoid the taxman.”
We returned to his office where Milo called Officer Chris Kammen. The Port Angeles cop agreed to watch the Flatt residence “as much as we can” and to handle the search of the storage unit as soon as the paperwork came in. “Two suitcases? What color?”
“Look for the ones behind the piano, stuffed with cash.”
“Fifty grand,” said Kammen. His whistle pierced the room. “So the husband’s out of the loop, huh?”
“Flatt doesn’t know his wife held on to the money. She’s playing nice and I want to stay on her good side.”
“Domestic issues,” said Kammen. “Fun.”
A fourth try at Federal Hal’s office left Milo red-faced. “Disconnected number? This is starting to feel personal.”
I said, “Sure, but maybe it’s not you. It’s Doreen Fredd.”
“What the hell was this girl into?”
“She knew Backer years ago. If he was into bad stuff, she’d be a good choice to gather info.”
“Problem child becomes an undercover Fed?”
“Or her problems got her into a situation where she needed to trade favors. I’d look into major eco-vandalism in the Pacific Northwest during Backer’s years on the road.”
“She’s finking on Backer and screwing him? Gives a whole new meaning to undercover.”
“That part could still be chemistry,” I said. “Good technique on her part, too, given Backer’s proclivities.”
“Guy’s into blowing stuff up then becomes an architect and learns to build stuff. Don’t tell me Freud didn’t have a word for that.”
Moe Reed stuck his head in. “Someone to see you, Loo.”
“Better be important.”
“FBI important?”
“Depends what they have to say,” said Milo. But he was up in a flash.
A short, solidly built, dark-haired woman arrived moments later. “Lieutenant? Gayle Lindstrom. I was referred by a mutual friend.”
Gray pantsuit, black flats, molasses accent with an edge. Maybe northern Kentucky or southern Missouri. Fair skin and blue eyes were clear, her chin was prominent and square.
“Nice to meet you, Special Agent Lindstrom.”
Lindstrom grinned. “My mom always told me I was special. Reality’s a little different.” Her bag was as large as Ricki Flatt’s. Black leather, authoritative straps and buckles.
“Mutual friend,” said Milo. “Now who might that be?”
“Yesterday, he was Hal. Today?” She shrugged.
“You guys love that, don’t you?”
“What?”
“Top-secret clandestine hooh-hah.”
“Only when it gets the job done.” She studied me. “We need to talk in private, Lieutenant.”
“This is Dr. Delaware, our psychological consultant.”
“You have your own profiler now?”
“Better,” said Milo. “We’ve got someone who knows what he’s doing.”
“Looks like I caught you on a bad day,” said Lindstrom.
“Not hard to do.”
She offered me a cool, firm palm. “Nice to meet you, Doctor. No offense but I need to speak to Lieutenant Sturgis in private.”
Milo said, “That’s not how it’s gonna be.”
A long, whispered phone call later, and I was authorized.
Gayle Lindstrom peered into Milo’s office. “Kind of cozy for three.”
Milo said, “I’ll find us space.”
“I like Indian food, Lieutenant.”
He glared at her.
Lindstrom said, “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”
“Not hungry.” He marched up the corridor.
Lindstrom said, “Oh, well,” and followed.
Back to the same interview room. I wondered if it ever got used for suspects.
Gayle Lindstrom sniffed the air.
Milo said, “This is as fresh as it’s gonna get. I’m busy. Talk.”
Lindstrom said, “Enough icebreaking, guys. Don’t coddle me ’cause I’m a girl.”
Coaxing a smile out of Milo. He hid it with the back of his hand. Yawned.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “What do you know about eco-terrorism?”
Milo said, “Uh-uh, this isn’t going to be some theoretical discussion. You want what we know, you better fill in the blanks. Desmond Backer’s lost decade smells real bad. Doreen Fredd was a naughty girl who ended up as either a confederate or your informant. Go.”
Lindstrom nudged her bag with one foot. “I’m here because the Bureau figured it was only a matter of time before you figured out some of what’s going on.”
“Some? Don’t swell my head.”
“If you knew all of it you wouldn’t be trying to reach Hal. Who, by the way, can’t help you. He’s Homeland Security, so he’s concentrating on people with dark skin and funny names. So is the Bureau, for that matter, which is part of the problem. Before 9/11, we were geared up to spend serious time and money on locally grown lunatics who, in my humble opinion, pose just as serious a danger to public safety as some guy named Ahmed.”
“Everything stopped to look for Ahmed.”
“We’re just like you, Lieutenant. Chronically underfunded with our hands out to politicians who have the attention span of gnats on crack. The hot topic of the moment gets the appropriation and everything else gets shoved to the bottom shelf. Eco-terrorists have committed hundreds of violent acts, with plenty of fatalities. We’re talking nasties who believe humanity’s a plague and have no problem spiking trees to mutilate loggers. Fanatics who burn down other people’s houses because they don’t approve of the square footage. Nothing’s happened on a grand scale yet, and they’ve got the secret sympathy of some mainstream environmental groups who condemn violence but continue to wink and nod. But my judgment is, it’s only a matter of time before the country regrets not dealing with the problem.”
“Desmond Backer was a serious eco-terrorist?”
Lindstrom toed her bag again. “It’s a delicate situation. Not for me personally, We’re talking events that precede my tenure with the Bureau.”
She unclasped the bag, pulled out lip balm, twisted her mouth into a disapproving little bud and lubricated. Basic delay tactic. I’d learned a whole bunch of them, working as a psychologist.
Milo said, “Lost my script, what’s my next line?”
“The overview I’m about to give you, Lieutenant, is based on summaries of files transferred to me by predecessors who’ve been transferred.”
“They get transferred to Ahmed. But you’re dealing with homegrown naughties no one cares about.”
Gayle Lindstrom’s half smile would have intrigued da Vinci.
Milo said, “You don’t play well with others, so you’re on timeout.”
She laughed. “Let’s just say I’ve been assigned to look into years of eco-crimes and write reports unlikely to be read. My instructions are to concentrate on the Pacific Northwest, because that’s where fuzzies and trees tend to inspire the most passion. That led me to your homicide victims. Desmond Backer and Doreen Fredd met in Seattle. He grew up there, and she’d been sent to a group home for problem girls. She utilized legitimate passes from the home as well as illicit exits to associate with Backer and his friends.”
“Climbing out the window,” said Milo.
“Or just sneaking out the back door, the place wasn’t exactly super-max lockdown. Like many teenagers, Fredd and Backer and their friends appear to have filled some of their free time with various vegetative hallucinogens, alternative music, video games. They also spent time engaged in apparently wholesome activities such as hiking, camping, environmental cleanups, volunteer wildlife rescue. Unfortunately, some of that may have been
a cover for arson and other acts of vandalism.”
Evidence Page 15