“Story of his life,” I said. “Wouldn’t be surprised if the arsonist saw the broken chain, took advantage. How’d the fire start?”
“What the arson guy’s telling me so far is someone wadded charges of something highly combustible, probably petroleum-based, in at least eight spots distributed methodically throughout the ground floor. ‘Very well thought out’ was his description.”
“Petroleum-based as in vegan Jell-O?”
“Flavor of the month. The neighbors heard only one explosion, whole place went up like kindling, so it looks like a single timer. Coulda been a disaster if the winds were strong and the flames jumped to neighboring foliage. The fact that the lot had been stripped down to bare dirt actually helped.”
“Ground floor ignites, flames shoot up through all that open space, oxygen feeds it. Meanwhile Rutger’s stuck on top with the stairs burned out.”
“Wouldn’ta made a difference, Alex. This was sudden, intense immolation, no chance for escape. Rutger’s drinking champagne, stuffing his face, no one’s the boss over him. So now, he’s toast. Scratch that. Crumbs.”
A stocky gray-haired man wearing a yellow helmet, a blue LAPD windbreaker, and jeans approached us wiping a sooty, sweaty face.
“We’re going to be here for a while, Milo. You can go unless you want to stick around.”
“Better you than me,” said Milo. “This is Dr. Delaware, our psych consultant. Doctor, Captain Boxmeister from the arson squad.”
“Don,” said Boxmeister. “I’d shake your hand but mine’s filthy. This was some conflagration, reminds me of you-know-which jungle, Milo, huh? Vegan Jell-O, haven’t heard that in a while, yeah it sure works like napalm. You mind continuing with the murder part of it so we can concentrate on the arson? Which isn’t to say we won’t be collaborating.”
Milo said, “Sounds good, Don. That Fed I mentioned said Jell-O’s an eco-terrorist fave-rave.”
“Used to be, Milo, but we don’t see that kind of big-scale looniness on the Westside, except for occasional threats to animal researchers. All we had last year was a wimpy amateur fire set in one of the U’s med labs and we caught the fool. Worked there, sweeping floors, no affiliation with any group—one of those guys you’d know about, Doc. Shit-for-brains thought he’d liberated all the little Mickeys but what he ended up with was rodent flambé and third-degrees on both arms. I think it stays quiet here because no one expects houses in Holmby or B.H. or Bel Air to be anything but gross. You start eliminating ostentatiousness on the Gold Coast, you get the Gobi Desert.”
“Bite your tongue, Don.”
Boxmeister grinned, pulled out a notepad and pen. “Tell me again which oil type owned this barbecue.”
“Prince Tariq of Sranil. Not the Mideast, Asia, it’s near Indonesia—”
“I’ll look it up,” said Boxmeister. “So you’re thinking your original vics also planned to torch the place but got interrupted by someone, they had an accomplice who finished the job and roasted whatshisname Rutger in the process.”
“That’s a good summary, Don.”
“Political. That sucks. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to keep a lid on that part of it, no sense getting the neighbors thinking al-Qaeda’s lurking near their tennis courts.”
“Good idea,” said Milo. “Especially because all I’ve got are guesses.”
I said, “How was the body positioned?”
“There was no body, Doc. Just bones and ashes and some dental plates.”
“Did the fire move it?”
Boxmeister thought. “That high up, probably not.”
“Where in the turret was it found?”
“Right in the middle.”
“Not near the stairs?”
“Was he trying to escape? Doesn’t look like it.”
“Quiet killer,” I said. “Rutger had no idea.”
“Or he knew but couldn’t do a damn thing about it. No traces of a cell phone were found.”
Milo said, “Phone would’ve survived the blast?”
“Some part of it probably would,” said Boxmeister. “Tell you one thing, I’m going to look into the composition of that liver can. Anything that can survive something like this, I’m stockpiling.”
A woman’s voice, argumentative, caused the three of us to turn.
A young brunette in the grip of a female officer pointed at Milo. Slim, long-haired, the house-sitting daughter who’d spotted Doreen Fredd on Borodi.
Amy... Thal. She wore a red silk robe over pajamas and fuzzy pink slippers. Protested as the cop held her back.
Milo jogged over, excused the officer, returned with Thal. High-intensity lights turned her freckles to Braille dots.
“Don, this is Ms. Thal, a cooperative neighbor. Amy, Captain Boxmeister from the arson squad.”
Boxmeister said, “I’d shake your hand but mine’s filthy.”
Amy Thal rubbed the arm the cop had held. “I tried to explain to her that I knew you, had something to say. It’s not like I’m some lookyloo, this is my frickin’ neighborhood.”
“Sorry,” said Milo. “What’s up, Amy?”
“I saw another woman I didn’t recognize. Yesterday, jogging past this place at least three times.” Sniffing burnt air. “This is crazy, what’s going on, Lieutenant?”
“Tell me about the woman.”
“Blond, long hair, tight bod. She looked like a runner, at the time I didn’t think much of it but now I’m wondering. Because she kept running back and forth and why do that when there are all sorts of interesting runs you can take? I mean, cross the street and go by the Playboy Mansion, or Spelling’s old place, go down to Comstock and run around the park. Why keep passing back and forth? I mean it’s suspicious, right?”
“Three times,” said Milo.
“Three times I saw, Lieutenant, could’ve been more. I was in the living room, stretched out on the couch, reading. Generally, it’s real quiet, so anything that moves you notice. Yesterday, I saw a huge coyote, just ambling past, like he owned the street.”
“Was there anything strange about her?”
“She seemed kind of intense. But that’s runners, right? I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But now? What do you guys think?”
“We think we appreciate your coming forth, Amy.”
Boxmeister nodded. “Anything more you can say about what she looked like, ma’am?”
“Black tights, bare tummy, sports bra. Decent face, at least from a distance. Maybe real boobs but with a sports bra, I can’t be sure.”
Milo said, “What kind of blond?”
“Ultra,” said Amy Thal.
“Platinum?”
She nodded. “Long and shiny—and no ponytail like most girls do when they run. She just let that sucker flap in the breeze. Like ‘Look at me, I am soooo silky.’ She reminded me of that comedy thing a while back, my dad used to love to watch them, my mom always got pissed off because she thought it wasn’t humor that got his interest. The Swedish Bikini Team. I think they sold beer or something.”
Don Boxmeister said, “Old Milwaukee.”
Amy Thal said, “It was years ago, I was a kid. Dad loved them. This girl was like that. Okay, I’d better get on the horn, tell Mom and Dad to keep enjoying Paris.”
Milo thanked her. She gave his wrist a sudden squeeze, turned and left.
Boxmeister said, “Nice ass, like to do a hand-count of those freckles. Too bad her info’s useless. Hottie jogging in Holmby, big shock.”
“Don, the girl this prince is reputed to have offed was Swedish.”
“Oh ...” Boxmeister’s smile was sheepish. “Back up the tape, erase. Our firebug’s a lady out for personal revenge? Then how do your first two vics figure in?”
“Like you said, they could’ve been in it together. Or she was a family member of the Swedish vic, hired them, they got killed, she decided to finish the job.”
“You’re seeing her as why they got killed? That’s kinda thin.”
Milo didn’t ans
wer.
Boxmeister slapped his back. “Look on the bright side, be nice to have a good-looking suspect in the box, for a change. Just in case Blondie has nothing to do with it, though, I’ll be doing it old-school, combing the files for any serious pro torches recently paroled or released. Let you know if I come up with something, and you find anything pointing to Anita Ekberg, you call me pronto.”
We watched him leave.
Milo said, “How early do you think diplomat types get to work?”
CHAPTER 25
The Swedish consulate rents space on the seventh floor of a high-rise at Wilshire near Westwood. Consular assistant Lars Gustafson was at his desk at eight thirty, took Milo’s call with puzzlement but agreed to meet in an hour.
“Out in front, please, Lieutenant.” The faintest trace of accent.
“Any reason we can’t come up?”
“Let’s enjoy the nice weather. I’ll be there promptly.”
“How will I know you?”
“I’ll do my best to look Swedish.”
Milo hung up. “Aw shucks, thought I’d get a look at the furniture. Bet it ain’t IKEA.”
We were in place by nine twenty-five, watching the revolving door accept people dressed for business.
At nine twenty-nine a.m., a throng emerged and dispersed. The man who stayed behind was around thirty, tall, athletically built, wearing a fitted brown suit, yellow shirt, butterscotch shoes.
Blond and blue-eyed, but his hair was kinky, his skin milk-chocolate, his features those of a Masai warrior.
“Mr. Gustafson?”
“Lars.” Energetic pump, flash of diplomatic teeth custom-made for news conferences and lunch with genteel old ladies. “I have researched your issue, Lieutenant. There have been no complaints by any Swedish citizen—at home, or here—regarding missing persons or homicides. I did find a case involving a Danish citizen who was thought to have disappeared in San Diego. However, she showed up and the matter was resolved. A love triangle, no royalty involved, Muslim or otherwise, thank heavens.”
“The Muslim thing bothers you.”
Gustafson smiled. “Nothing bothers us, we are neutral. The Danes, on the other hand ... remember those Mohammed cartoons?”
“That why you didn’t want us up in your office?”
“No, no, heaven forbid, gentlemen—please forgive me if I seemed unwelcoming, but the consul general felt police officers could serve as a distraction.”
“From the daily challenge of stamping visas.”
Gustafson kept smiling but the wattage went out of it. “We do attempt to be useful, Lieutenant. Next week, we’re hosting a dinner for over two dozen Nobel laureates. In any event, I have nothing to tell you. Good luck.”
Milo took out his pad. “How about some details on the Danish case.”
“A woman named Palma Mogensen was working as an au pair for a family in La Jolla when she met an American marine in Oceanside. Unfortunately, she was already married to a Danish man and after she stopped returning her husband’s e-mails, he showed up.”
“Things get nasty?”
“Oh, no,” said Gustafson. “Everyone talked it out and the couple returned to Copenhagen.”
“Civilized,” said Milo.
“We try to be good influences, Lieutenant.”
“You and the Danes.”
“All of us who must contend with endless night. It breeds a certain patience.”
Gustafson headed back toward the revolving door, managed to sidle in as the mechanism remained in motion.
Milo said, “Swedish, Danish—time for a pastry.”
We found a coffee shop in the Village. Two bear claws and a crème-filled chocolate eclair for him, a coffee for me. Later, we were back in the station parking lot.
“Jogging,” he said. “Sports bra. This is gonna be another washout day.”
He was wrong.
One message slip atop his computer. Barely legible scrawl. He squinted, put on reading glasses. Frowned. “Now it’s Mrs. Holman wanting a meeting.” Punching numbers. “Ms. Holman, Lieutenant Sturgis, I got your—about that? Really. Why don’t you tell me what it is you... Sure, we can meet but if you could just fill me in before—you sound upset, Ms. Holman... Yes, of course we appreciate leads, I can be there in thirty, forty minutes, that work for you? ... Fine, then. You’re sure there’s nothing you can—all right, then, Ms. Holman, I’m on my way.”
He placed the phone in its cradle as if it were breakable. “That’s one very uptight architect and her voice says she’s been working on the gin.”
“She knows something about the fire?”
“Claims to but wouldn’t say what. I guess I should call Boxmeister. I guess I won’t.”
Another pretty day at the canals.
Marjorie Holman was out on her front porch, wearing a black sweater and slacks and looking like a model for a high-end retirement community.
Next to her stood a tall, white-haired, goateed man close to seventy. His gaunt frame was a wire hanger for a black suit and turtleneck.
Milo muttered, “Looks like a funeral.”
No sign of Professor Ned Holman.
His wife waved us up impatiently. The man in the black suit didn’t budge, even when we were two feet away. His eyes were blue and world-weary. Stick limbs, a long neck, and a beak nose evoked an egret. Mournful bird on a bad fishing day.
“This is Judah Cohen,” said Holman. “My former partner.” Husky voice; the slight slurring Milo had picked up over the phone.
“Mr. Cohen.”
“Lieutenant.” Cohen studied the floorboards. “What’s on your mind, Ms. Holman?” She hooked a thumb. “Inside.”
No trace of her husband or his chair on the ground floor. Milo said, “Professor Holman okay?”
“Ned? He’s at the doctor, one of his checkups. I use a special-needs van service because I never know how long it’s going to take.”
Marching to the sink, she poured Sapphire and ice cubes into a glass. “Anyone joining me—Judah, how about you? Glenlivet?”
“Not today, thanks,” said Cohen. He sat on the edge of an overstuffed sofa. Shifted position, cupped his hands over a bony knee. From the look in his eyes, nothing would make him comfortable.
Holman returned with her drink, perched next to Cohen. “Judah and I have some serious suspicions Helga had something to do with that fire.”
Cohen winced.
It didn’t get past Holman. “Would you care to take over, Judah?”
“You’re doing fine, Marjie.”
“So we’re together on this.”
“We are.”
“Well, then, onward. As I told you the first time, Helga boondoggled us—got us to leave some very nice professional situations under pretense of establishing a groundbreaking green-architecture firm. She claimed that her father was a wealthy industrialist, owned a shipping company, money was not going to be a problem. However, money turned out to be a serious problem. As in, Helga did nothing but talk, failed to follow through on financing the firm. At the time, Judah and I were puzzled. Now it becomes clear: Helga never had any sort of serious intention. Judah and I were part of a cover-up.”
Milo said, “Of what?”
“I’ll get to that.” Holman sipped an inch of gin. “I need to do this in an organized manner, Lieutenant ... where was I? The ruse... one day, Helga announced that funding hadn’t developed, she was disbanding the firm, returning to Germany, have a nice day.” Turning to Cohen.
He said, “Bit of a shock.”
“You always were the master of understatement, dear. Basically, Helga played us for the fools we apparently were.”
Cohen said, “No sense beating ourselves up. Helga had valid credentials and her technical knowledge was solid.”
“She was an engineer, Judah, not a spark of creativity.”
“Be that as it may,” said Cohen. “The manner in which she described the initial project was valid, conceptually as well as structurally.”
Both architects stared at him.
Holman said, “How do you know about that?”
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