“Diet Coke,” she said. “His thing was Diet Coke. But he wasn’t whack about it, you know? Religion, I mean. Basically, she thought he was a cool little guy. That’s what she called him. My cool little guy.”
“She ever talk about problems in the relationship?”
“He could get grumpy, had a temper, but not to worry, he was already a member of the ...” Blushing, she drew hair across her face.
Milo said, “Member of what?”
“It was just a joke.”
“A joke about what?”
No answer.
Milo said, “What club was Teddy a member of?”
The hair fell away. “Not a real club, just a joke. The Three F Club. She said it was the only way to a man’s heart. Three F’s—feed ’em, flatter ’em, fuck ’em. Don’t write that down, I don’t want my parents to see it.”
“You see paper and pencil anywhere, Ati?”
“I’m just saying.”
“So Dahlia never complained about Teddy being aggressive or violent with her?”
“Never.”
“Just grumpy with a temper.”
“Nothing whack, like any guy.”
“But you told Detective Reed he hurt her.”
“Because I believe he did.”
“You believe?”
“I can’t prove it, but ...”
“You suspect.”
Nod.
“Why, Ati? This is important.”
“Did he?”
“We don’t know, Ati. Help us.”
She breathed in. Exhaled slowly. “The last time I heard from her she was going traveling with him, she said she’d be back in a few days, we’d hang out. But she never called and I never heard from her again and when I called her phone, it was disconnected and when I went to her house, no one was there.”
“Where’d she say she was traveling with Teddy?”
“Back home,” she said. “His home.”
“Sranil.”
She frowned. “My parents told me about it. It’s a weird place, full of like old-fashioned peasants. Indonesia’s modern. Sranil’s just an island that never became part of Indonesia. Teddy didn’t like it himself, was going over there to get a bunch of his money and come back here and live with Dahlia. He was already building a house. He wanted to be modern and be with any woman he wanted even if she was white, not be under his brother’s thumb.”
“Dahlia told you all that.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe she went there with Teddy and decided to stay.”
“No way,” said Ati Meneng. “That’s why I know something happened to her. She totally planned to come back. Promised me we’d hang out when she got back. But she never got back.”
“Did you report her missing?”
“She wasn’t missing, she was with him.”
“You suspected he’d hurt her.”
“I didn’t think so at the beginning. I just ... I don’t know, maybe it was his brother but I was too afraid to say that. His being a sultan, who’d believe me?” Looking at Reed. “I didn’t think you’d believe any of it, period. Mostly I forgot about it, then you showed up and it was like something clicked inside my head, you know?”
Milo said, “You told Detective Reed about a Swedish girl but you didn’t use Dahlia’s name.”
“I didn’t—I wasn’t sure. It’s not like I was still thinking about it. I used to think about it. Then it stopped. Then he showed up ... I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, no, you did great, Ati. We really appreciate it. Now tell us everything you know.”
“That is everything.”
“Dahlia definitely planned to return to L.A.”
“We had plans,” said Ati Meneng. “A whole day, soon as she got back. First we were going to the Barney’s warehouse sale and have lunch at this café at the Santa Monica Airport—that’s where the sale is. Then we were having dinner at the Ivy—not the beach, the one on Robertson. Then we were going dancing. But she never came back. And she left her car at her house and when I looked in through the window, all her stuff was still in there.”
“You went over because you were worried.”
Tears turned the black eyes to pond-stones. “I kept calling. Her cell was disconnected, she had no more Internet for IM’ing, her house was dark. My mind started running. I mean I liked him the couple of times I met him, but I didn’t really know him. And what my parents said, that started to bother me.”
“About people from Sranil.”
“Superstitious peasants. Cannibals, rituals. You know?”
“Scary,” said Milo.
“Really scary, so I stopped thinking about it. I would’ve called her family but I didn’t know how to reach them. I figured if she stayed away long enough, they’d do something.”
“Even though her parents wanted her gone.”
“She just said that,” said Ati Meneng. “It probably wasn’t even true. Families love each other. Like her sister, Dahlia said they were different but they still loved each other.”
“The serious sister.”
“Dahlia said she even thought about becoming a nun then she became an architect, built houses.”
“Speaking of houses,” said Milo. “Do you remember the address of Dahlia’s?”
“Never knew the address, Dahlia always drove me there and took me home. She liked to drive real fast, said in Germany there were roads with no speed limits, she used to go a hundred miles an hour.”
“What neighborhood was the house in?”
“Brentwood.”
“Could you find it?”
“For sure.”
Milo stood. “Let’s do it.”
“Right now?”
“Can’t think of a better time, Ati.”
CHAPTER 28
The house that evoked Ati Meneng’s “That’s it!” was a mini-colonial wedged between two much larger Mediterraneans. Twenty-minute drive from the station, nice section of Brentwood, a short walk to the Country Mart.
One symmetrical story was faced with white clapboard. Lead-pane windows were grayed by curtains and sideburned by black shutters. A red door was topped by a fanlight. The lawn was compact and trimmed, the empty driveway spotless.
Two blocks away was the vacant lot Helga Gemein had given her partners for her nonexistent residence. Milo said, “You’re sure, Ati?”
“Totally. I remember the door. I told Dahlia a red door could mean good luck in Asia. Dahlia laughed and said, ‘I don’t need luck, I’m adorable.’”
“Okay, thanks for all your help. Detective Reed will take you back.”
She turned to Reed. “You can just take me to my car. Or we could have lunch, I could call in sick.”
Reed’s voice was flat. “Whatever you want.”
Ati Meneng said, “I guess I’m hungry, they’ll probably yell at me, anyway.”
Milo ran the address. Taxes were paid by Oasis Finance Associates, an investment firm in Provo, Utah. A call there elicited the guarded admission from the controller that the owners were “non-U.S.-citizens who wish to retain their privacy.”
“Swiss or Asian?” said Milo.
“Pardon?”
“Swiss or Asian, which is it?”
“This is important?”
“It’s a murder investigation, Mr. Babcock. The victim’s a woman named Dahlia Gemein.”
“Gemein,” said the controller. “Then you already know.”
“I’ll take that to mean Swiss.”
“You never heard it from me.” Milo clicked off.
I said, “Daddy Gemein’s held on to the house two years after Dahlia disappeared. Maybe it’s the family’s West Coast getaway, as in sister gets to live here, too.”
Milo said, “Kinda cute and traditional for Helga, but with Daddy paying the bills, she’s flexible.” Gloving up, he loped up the driveway, paused to peer through windows, continued to the garage, tried the door. Locked, but he managed to budge it an inch from the ground
, squint through the crack.
Standing, he dusted himself off. “Little red Boxster, red motorcycle, looks like a Kawasaki. Be interesting if either was spotted on or near Borodi.”
He called Don Boxmeister, gave him the info.
Perfect timing; the arson squad’s canvass was in full swing and a red bike had been spotted the day before the fire. Three blocks west of Borodi, parked illegally on a particularly dark section of street. The neighbor who’d seen it hadn’t bothered to call it in. Boxmeister’s other nugget was forensic: Initial analysis of residue found at the scene was consistent with vegan Jell-O, and scorched wires suggested electronic timing devices.
Milo gave Boxmeister Ati Meneng’s story, then hung up and searched the inside cover of a notepad where he keeps a list he doesn’t want on his computer: phone numbers of cooperative judges. Each time he begins a new pad, he recopies meticulously.
Running his finger down the small-print, back-slanted columns, he said, “This is your lucky day, Judge LaVigne.”
LaVigne was available in chambers and Milo went full-bore, making more of the blond jogger than was justified by the facts, labeling the red Kawasaki as “rock-solid physical evidence.” Emphasizing Helga Gemein’s virulent hatred for humanity and evasive behavior when initially questioned, he tossed in speculation about international terrorist links, maybe even neo-Nazi connections.
“Exactly, Your Honor, like Baader-Meinhof, all over again. Meaning the house—and I’m looking at it right now—could be a source of weapons, explosives, bomb timers, all of which has been implicated in the arson as well as the multiple murders. Top of that, the suspect may already be gone, we really need this warrant now.”
It was as good a performance as I’ve seen and within seconds, he was winking and giving the thumbs-up. “Love that guy, he’ll draft it himself, all I need to do is get it picked up and filed.”
A call to Sean Binchy took care of the trip to the criminal courts building. Binchy was still at Manny Forbush’s law office, soon as he had the dupes of GHC’s hard drives he’d head downtown.
We waited for the locksmith and the bomb squad and the explosives dogs. Milo’s cell battery was depleted and he switched to my car phone to get his messages. Lots of bureaucratic trash and one that mattered: Officer Chris Kammen of the Port Angeles, Washington, police department.
Kammen’s basso rattled the hands-off speaker. “Hey, how’s it going? We went over to that storage unit at four a.m. These people are neat-freaks, just about the most organized junk pile I’ve ever seen. Which is why I’m confident telling you there are no suitcases full of money. Not behind the piano or anywhere else.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was,” said Kammen. “Fortunately for you, the facility’s got after-hours video that actually works. Unfortunately for you, it doesn’t tell much. At eleven forty-three p.m. a male Caucasian in a dark hoodie used a key to gain entry and came out ten minutes later carrying what my grandma would call two stout valises. I’m getting a copy of the tape to send you, but trust me, it’s not going to accomplish diddly. All you got is shadows and blur, the hood covers his face completely.”
“How do you know he’s Caucasian?”
“White hands.”
“He didn’t bother gloving,” said Milo. “Apparently not.”
“Maybe that’s because finding his prints in the bin wouldn’t be suspicious. Mrs. Flatt was really nervous about Mr. Flatt finding out she held on to them. Maybe he did.”
Kammen said, “I wondered the same thing so first thing I did was look Flatt up, and trust me, it’s not him. He’s a big boy, six six, used to play basketball for P.A. High, power forward, good outside shot, I remember the name now. We used the gate as a frame of reference to get a measure on Hoodie and he’s closer to five ten.”
“Definitely a male?”
“Why? You got a bad girl in your sights?”
“Square in our sights. Looks like she burned down the big house early this morning.”
“The same one?” said Kammen. “Where the bodies were?”
“Yup.”
“Whoa, it’s complicated out in L.A. What time did the house fry?”
“Three a.m.”
“Then Hoodie’s not your torch, no way he could be here close to midnight and get back in time. You can’t get a direct flight out of here that late and even if you made it to Seattle, what with drive time and airport time and two-plus hours of fly time? I’ll send you the tape so you can judge for yourself, but this is a guy. Unless your bad girl has broad shoulders and humongous hands and walks like a guy.” Chuckle. “Then again, you’re in L.A.”
Milo said, “I’m sure you’re right, but our girl does have theoretical access to a private jet.”
“Oh,” said Kammen. “Yeah, you’re L.A. But even so, it would be a hell of a squeeze. Tell you what, though, I’ll call general aviation at our airport, see who flew in and out and from where.”
“Thanks.”
“Hell of a thing, someone beating us to the storage bin. We would’ve gone in at a normal time but we didn’t want the husband to show up. Can’t help it if the gods weren’t smiling. Bye.”
The car grew silent.
I said, “Two people do the murder, two people manage the arson and recover the money. Maybe Helga’s not as antisocial as she claims.”
“Dick and Jane murder duet?”
“Down from a quartet. Helga paid Backer and Doreen to torch Teddy’s real estate. Gave them a cash deposit, meaning the total payment might have been more.”
“Six-figure job, no shortage of motivation,” said Milo. “Helga hires them but in the process learns enough about arson to make the two of them unnecessary and gets rid of them. Then she sends her buddy to get the dough back. How would she know where Backer stashed it?”
“That’s the kind of info a fellow might divulge when bargaining for his life. Or watching his girlfriend get raped by a gun. Same for the location of the storage locker key. If Backer was carrying it on his person, that made it even easier.”
“Helluva lot of effort to burn down a heap of wood.” Reaching back, he retrieved his attaché case, found the Gemein family photo.
I said, “Helga lied to everyone about applying for the Kraeker expansion contract. The place means something to her, maybe because that party was the last time the family was together. As cold as she is, she loved her sister. Dahlia may have been the only person she ever loved. Take that away, you focus your anger, destroy what you can.”
“Sutma. For all we know, Helga’s got a secret religious side, gets off on visions of Teddy never entering heaven.” He studied the shot some more. “Look at how they’re positioned: Dahlia’s standing away from the rest of them.”
“But she’s also standing closer to Helga than to Mom.”
“Maybe that’s ’cause Mom looks like she’s got all the charm of frozen halibut. Dad, on the other hand is more ... cod. And Helga’s our shark.” Grinning. “How’s that for dime-store psychoanalysis? What I’m wondering is whether the revenge plot is Helga’s thing or a family affair.”
“We can’t eliminate Mom and Dad’s involvement, and one way or the other it’s family money that funds Helga’s lifestyle. Dahlia’s, too, including this house, which is immaculately maintained. Be interesting if the neighbors remember any of the Gemeins living here.”
“We’ll start canvassing soon as the house is cleared.” Another glance at the little colonial. “Only thing missing is the picket fence.”
Checking his watch, he followed up with the bomb squad. They were a couple of minutes away, arriving with high-tech toys and three of their best canines.
A couple of minutes turned into fifteen. Then, twenty-five. Milo fidgeted, smoked, made another call. One of the high-tech toys needed last-ditch tinkering. Milo spat out an expletive, bounded out of the car, and began knocking on doors. I caught up.
Ten minutes later, three neighbors had confirmed that Helga Gemein lived in th
e house, but they’d seen no sign of any other occupants.
A rangy woman sucking on a pink Nat Sherman said, “She changes her looks. One day it’s blond, the other day it’s brunette, next time it’s red. I figured her for an actress, or trying to be.”
Back at the car, Milo said, “Whole collection of wigs. So why the hell would she shave her head in the first place?”
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