“Not with Desi, just with Mom. She got a strange look in her eye, changed the subject. That whole weekend was strange.”
“All three of them nervous.”
“I felt like a stranger. But in the beginning, I didn’t connect it to the fire. It was only after I found out that Desi and some of his friends were questioned by the police that things started to click.”
Milo said, “Were you ever questioned?”
“No, and I wouldn’t have said anything. I had nothing to offer, anyway.” She wadded a tissue, released her fingers and watched it open like a time-lapse flower.
I said, “Did Desi keep anything suspicious in his room besides books?”
“If he did, I wouldn’t know. He had a lock on his door and used it.”
“Liked his privacy.”
“Sure, but what teenager doesn’t? I figured it was because of all those girls he took in there. Was Doreen one of them? Probably, but only one, he might as well have had a revolving door. And, no, my parents never objected. Desi would play music to block out the sound but sometimes you could hear the bed knocking against the wall. Mom and Dad just continued to read or watch TV, pretended not to hear.”
“So your parents were used to looking the other way.”
“You’re saying that made it easier for them to cover for Desi when he did something really bad?” Long exhalation. “Maybe.”
Milo said, “After the FBI questioned Desi, you started to wonder.”
“The FBI? All I heard about was the police. The FBI actually came to the house?”
“They did, Ricki. Talked to your parents, as well as Desi.”
“Unbelievable ... only reason I found out the police were involved was by reading the Daily—the U of W paper. Something to the effect that no progress had been made but local kids were being questioned and Desi’s name was mentioned. Did I say anything? No.”
Milo said, “What do you know about Desi’s ten years on the road?”
“Just what I told you yesterday.”
“Doing the hippie thing.”
“Retro-hippie,” said Ricki Flatt. “Original hippie was my parents’ generation. Then all of a sudden, he shaves his beard, cuts his hair, buys nice clothes, enrolls in architecture school. I remember thinking, so now he wants to build, not destroy.”
“The fire stayed on your mind.”
“I’m not moral enough to be haunted by it, but every so often, it would creep into my mind. Because that boy had died and the police had suspected my brother enough to question him and my parents had acted so weird.”
“Do you have any idea how Desi reconnected to Doreen?”
“None whatsoever.”
“He never mentioned her.”
“He never brought up any woman, Lieutenant. I just assumed he was being himself.”
“Meaning?”
“Playing the field and keeping it casual.”
“Did he mention any women from his years on the road?”
“Not a one. The fifty thousand, you’re pretty convinced he was into something seriously illegal?”
“That’s a lot of cash, Ricki.” She grew silent.
Milo said, “A couple of other kids in Desi’s hiking group were also questioned after the fire: Dwayne Parris and Kathy Vanderveldt. Anything you remember about them?”
“I wouldn’t know them if you showed me a picture. I was three years older. To me they were all a bunch of stupid kids.”
“You mentioned before that Desi was into health. Did he ever mention vegan Jell-O?”
“Sure.”
“He did, huh?”
“Why?” said Ricki Flatt. “What does food have to do with it?”
“Vegan Jell-O’s homemade napalm, Ricki. It might’ve been used in the Bellevue fire.”
She went white. “Oh, my God.”
“What did Desi say about vegan Jell-O?”
“I... I don’t know, it’s just something I heard him mention. It’s really that?”
“Yes, Ricki.”
“I honestly thought it was food, some crazy organic thing.”
“Did he talk about it before the Bellevue fire or after?”
“Let me think, let me think ... all I can recall is Desi and some friends in the kitchen, having a snack before ... maybe before a hike—I think they were packing trail mix, water bottles, and then someone, maybe it was Desi, maybe it was someone else, I really don’t recall, said something why don’t we pack vegan Jell-O. And everyone started laughing.”
“Was Doreen there?”
“Was she there ... probably. I can’t be sure, maybe not, I don’t know.” Wincing. “Vegan Jell-O ... Now I have to think about my brother in a whole new way.”
CHAPTER 23
Milo closed the motel door on a fetal Ricki Flatt. “Sweet dreams? Unlikely.”
Back in the car, he said, “Those parents had to know their boy was involved in torching that house.”
I said, “Firefighter dad, too much to handle.”
“Backer does God-knows-what for ten years then decides to be an architect? What the hell’s that, I destroy, I build, the whole God thing?”
“Or a stab at atonement.”
“Fifty grand says he felt no guilt. Wonder if anything in San Luis got the vegan Jell-O treatment while Backer attended Cal Poly.”
“It’s Robin’s hometown, I’ll ask her.”
I instructed the voice-recognition system to “phone cutie.”
She said, “I’ve never heard of anything but I’ll ask Mom.”
Robin’s relationship with her mother is, to be kind, complicated. I said, “Selfless public service.”
She laughed. “If we keep it at serious crime, we’ll be fine.”
Milo said, “I’m in debt to you, kid.”
“Bring wine the next time I cook for you.”
“What did I give you the last time?”
“Orchid plant. Also lovely but don’t you want something you can share?”
“Find me a mansion arson in San Luis two to six years ago and I’ll bring you a case of the best Pinot I can find.”
“Back to you on that, Big Guy.”
She called back three minutes later: “Mom’s never heard of anything like that and neither has my friend Rosa, who’s lived there her entire life and knows everything. If you’d like, I can do a newspaper search.”
“I’d have to put you on regular payroll, kiddo.”
“Like you keep threatening to do with Alex?”
“Point taken,” he said. “Anyway, not necessary, I can push keys.”
“When’s my blue-eyed boy coming home?”
“Right now, if you want him.”
“I always want him, but don’t let me hinder your investigation.”
“If only there was one.”
“That bad?”
“Hey,” he said, “we’re walking, talking, breathing, I’m grateful.” Robin said, “I don’t like that kind of talk from you.”
“I shouldn’t get philosophical?”
“Not on my watch.”
Milo lapsed into that same morose silence. Back at his office, he flung his jacket atop a file cabinet and began the search for mansion arsons throughout the state. Any eco torch-jobs.
Long list. “Quite a few big houses went up during that time frame—here’s an entire luxury housing project in Colorado ... animal research lab—that one was high school kids who got stopped early.” Wheeling away from the screen. “It’s all over the country, Alex, but if there’s a pattern, I’m not seeing it. And if Backer was a pro, you’d think something remotely incendiary would show up in his apartment. But the bomb dogs found zilch. Meaning (a) Backer was an architect, nothing more; (b) He did like playing with fire but put off buying his equipment until shortly before the gig; or (c) He kept a storage locker full of combustible goodies. And please don’t remind me about none of the above.”
Sean Binchy rang in from Lancaster. “Hey, Loot, those two thieving brothers are alibied
clean for Borodi. Though, if you ask me, they’re still up to no good, there was a truck without tags in their driveway, they definitely didn’t want me looking at it closely. What next?”
“Go home.”
“Just forget about the truck?”
“Notify the locals and call it a day. Regards to your wife.”
“Absolutely,” said Binchy. “I’m sure she sends them back.”
Milo said, “Can’t you just see me explaining this to the brass: revenge by sutma interruptus. Assuming there ever was a murdered Swedish girl. Assuming someone cared enough about her to burn down the house. Assuming Backer and Fredd were involved and dallied around before trying to blow the place up and got offed before they could follow through.”
I said, “If there was a Swedish girl and someone cared enough to avenge her, they might’ve also contacted the Swedish consulate about her being missing.”
He looked up the local number, had a civilized chat with a man named Lars Gustafson, who had no personal knowledge of any Swedish citizen in jeopardy two to three years ago but promised to check.
Milo phoned Moe Reed. “Find that Indonesian girl?”
“Just about to call you, Loo. I was there when they closed up but she wasn’t at work today. Hope talking to me didn’t spook her because I didn’t get a name or an address. Stupid, huh? I was trying to keep her mellow.”
“Judgment call, Moe, don’t get an ulcer.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow before they open up. Need anything else?”
“Go home.”
“Sure, there’s nothing I can do?”
“Get some sleep in case there is, Moses.”
He hung up, sighing.
I said, “What a good dad.”
Grumbling, he logged onto an online yellow pages, searched for storage facilities in L.A. County. A minority refused to divulge client information but most were surprisingly cooperative.
Call after call his torso sagged with each negative. The sum total: no units registered to Desmond Backer. Milo’s eyes closed. His breathing slowed, grew shallow, his big head flopped back in the chair, and his arms dangled.
When the snoring reached nuclear-blast level, I saw myself out.
Robin was working her laptop on the living room couch. Blanche napped on an ottoman, her little barrel chest heaving. Not up at Milo’s level, but moving some audio needles with her snuffles and snorts.
Opening one eye, she smiled, dove back into some wonderful canine dream.
The screen was full of Google hits. Mansion arson the keywords. I sat down. Robin kissed me, continued scrolling. “Playing Nancy Drew. Couldn’t think what to cook. Leftovers or out?”
“Out sounds good.”
“My soul mate. Nothing turns up in San Luis, but plenty of fireworks in other cities. Someone builds a dream, someone else can’t wait to take it down. How ugly.”
Years ago, a psychopath burned our first house to the ground. We rebuilt, agreed the net result was an improvement, neither of us talks about it anymore. But a fire station is perched at Mulholland, a short drive to the north, and another sits to the south, near Beverly Glen and Sunset, meaning a fair bit of nights are broken by sirens.
Generally, the banshee howls are short-lived, we touch feet in mutual reassurance, go back to sleep.
Sometimes, Robin sits up, shivering, and I wrap my arms around her and before long, morning’s arrived, sour and disorienting.
She closed the laptop, stood, stroked Blanche. “Okay, I’ll get dressed.”
“Chinese, Italian, Thai, Indian?”
“How about Croatian?”
“What’s Croatian cuisine?”
“Let’s fly to Zagreb and find out,” she said. “Italian’s fine, hon. Anything’s fine, long as I get out of here. Let me freshen up.”
We ended up eating fish-and-chips at a stand on PCH in Malibu, watched the sky waver between coral and lilac, soaking in the final morph into indigo as the sun went off-shift.
When we returned home, I ran a bath. The tub’s not meant for two but if someone’s careful not to bump their head on the faucet, it works out. That kind of togetherness sometimes leads to more. Tonight it didn’t and we read and watched TV and went to bed just before midnight.
When I woke to reverb shrieks, I thought I was dreaming, woke expecting the din to fade.
Full consciousness amplified the noise. Robin said, “That’s the fifth one. They’re heading south.”
Three seventeen a.m.
Siren number six wailed. Dopplered.
“Someone’s life’s going to change, Alex.”
We slid under the covers, touched feet, gave it our best shot.
Moments later, I turned the TV on and we trolled for news through a swamp of infomercials and reruns of crap that shouldn’t have aired in the first place. If something newsworthy was occurring on the Westside, none of the networks or the cable news outlets had picked it up.
The Internet had. L.A. current events blog operating in real time. Some insomniac plugged into the emergency bands.
Holmby Hills conflagration. Unfinished construction project.
Borodi Lane.
Robin’s breath caught. I held her tighter, reached for the phone, punched Milo’s cell number. He said, “I’m on my way there, call you when I need you.”
When, not if. I got dressed, made coffee, told Robin she should try to get some sleep.
“Oh, sure,” she said, hanging on to my arm.
Mugs in both our hands, we plodded through the house, stepped out onto the front terrace. Frosty, dark morning. Warmish for the hour, but we shivered. Above the tree line, the southern sky was dusted with gray. The sirens had waned to distant mouse-squeaks. The air smelled scorched.
Robin said, “Bad news travels fast.”
CHAPTER 24
Borodi Lane was blocked by cruisers and a huffing hook-and-ladder. A uniform scowled as I rolled to the curb, barely edging past Sunset.
A skeptical call to Milo produced a reluctant nod. “But you need to keep your car there, sir, and walk.”
I continued toward the scene, breathing heat, firewood, flame-suppressing chemicals, a hydrocarbon stench evoking the world’s biggest filling station. The asphalt was slick with wash-off. Static and buzz kept up a magpie routine, red engines and hard-hatted firefighters were everywhere. Several more explanations before I was allowed to reach the property.
What was left of Prince Teddy’s dream was black and stunted. Where the ground wasn’t ash, it was soup. A white coroner’s van was pulled up to the open gate. The chain Milo had supplied was on the ground, marked by a plastic evidence cone, and sliced through cleanly into two pieces.
As firefighters streamed in and out, a pair of morgue attendants hauled out a gurney bearing something small and lumpy and wrapped in plastic. I looked for Milo, spotted him near an LAFD ambulance, wearing a limp black raincoat, jeans, and muddy sneakers, staring at the ruins. To his right, on the ground, several objects sat on a black tarp, too dim to make out.
As I stepped next to him, he fished out a Maglite, aimed downward.
Partially melted glass bottle. From the shape and scorched wire around the neck, probably champagne. A single intact wine goblet. A butter knife with a handle melted to blob. A metal tin with an ornate label.
I bent to read. Foie Gras. Imported from France. Milo’s beam shifted to a long-barreled revolver, clearly antique, wooden grip scorched through, engraved metal blackened.
Next to the gun sat a pair of bolt cutters, seared to well done. I said, “Someone was having a party.”
“Probably Mr. Charles Ellston Rutger,” he said. “Probably?”
“Body’s unrecognizable but Rutger’s Lincoln is parked around the corner and there was a solid gold calling card in the ash, with his name engraved on it. Plus, some dental bridges came out half baked, same for a gold collar pin and initialed platinum cuff links.” He cursed. “Dressing for success. Idiot cut the chain, climbed up to the turret with his
Dom Whatever, goddamn goose liver, and no doubt some other comestibles that got vaporized.”
I said, “Picnic under the stars.”
He kicked a clump of mud off a sneaker tip. “Cretin probably convinced himself he owned the place again. Who knows how many other times he went up there, when there was no chain. I warned him but of course he can’t listen ’cause I’m a dumb public servant and he’s a goddamn aristokook. Talk about bad timing, Charlie Three-Name.”
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