“No, we rented it to store my parents’ stuff, Scott was always bothering me to get rid of everything. Someone stole all that money? The same person who murdered Desi?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Ricki Flatt returned the photo. “That’s why you offered to drive me. You think I’ve held back on you and want to ask more questions.”
“I’m just informing you of the situation as it stands, Ricki. Only you and Desi had keys and the guy in the photo obtained one. Do you happen to have yours right now?”
“I’m a—of course I do.” Opening her purse, she fumbled, produced a ring, shuffled. “This one. This is mine. Meaning that person used Desi’s. Meaning he did murder Desi. For the money, it’s always about the damn money!”
Burying her face in her hands, she rocked.
Milo drove another half a mile. “Ricki, what did Desi tell you about his boss, Helga Gemein?”
“Her? This is related to Desi’s job?”
“At this point it’s all questions, not answers, Ricki. Did Desi talk about Helga? About work, in general?”
“He liked the job, said it was fun, kind of easy. Said he met her at a convention and she offered him a job.”
“What kind of convention?”
“He didn’t say. Why? Was she involved—oh my God. The time Desi brought the money, he was traveling with a woman. I didn’t tell you because it slipped my mind—it’s not like he brought her with him, what happened was after Desi and I took the suitcases to storage, I asked him to stay for dinner. He said he’d love to but he needed to get back to his hotel, someone was waiting. The obvious assumption was a woman because with Desi there was always a woman. I made a crack, you’re in town for a day, already have a hot date? Normally, he’d give that cute smile of his. This time, he frowned, said, ‘A hot date would be the ideal, but don’t lay odds on it.’ Which was unusual for Desi, he was always so upbeat.”
She choked back tears. “I remember I actually kind of gloated to myself. Finally, Don Juan has failed. How petty of me, all those stupid childhood feelings.”
I said, “What else did he say about this woman?”
“The only other thing was that the car he was driving was hers, he needed to get it back to her. Almost as if he was ... intimidated by her.”
“The way you would be by a boss.”
“That’s what made me think of it right now. Why else would Desi be intimidated by anyone, let alone a woman, unless she had some kind of power over him?”
That hadn’t stopped him from propping Marjorie Holman up against a sheet of plywood.
Milo said, “What kind of car was it?”
“American, dark, I don’t remember. I really wasn’t paying attention.”
Milo nudged the file over to me. I thumbed through, found the Internet photos he’d printed of 2002 Buick LeSabres.
Ricki Flatt said, “Cars aren’t my thing, but sure, that could be it. This is Helga’s car?”
Milo said, “It’s similar to hers—hey, look at this, free sailing, it’s good we avoided the freeway.”
Moments after he’d carried her bag into the terminal, he was back on the phone with Chris Kammen.
“I can narrow the time frame for Backer’s trip, friend. All I need is verification that either Backer or Helga Gemein registered at one of your hotels.”
Kammen said, “Friend, huh? Every time I talk to you, my life gets complicated.”
“Thanks, Chris, I appreciate it.”
Kammen laughed. “Like I said before, we ain’t Gotham but we also ain’t Mayberry, it’ll take a while. Who’s this Helga?” Milo filled him in.
Kammen said, “International terrorism. Now I can brag to my kids about something. Not that it’s going to help with teenagers.”
His return call came in before we’d returned to the station. Bass tones vibrated with triumph.
“I used logic, figured people from L.A. might want some creature comforts, but since they were involved in something illegal they might want to stay off the main drag. We’ve got a place that fits the bill, twenty miles out, set on the water, real woodsy, they got a spa, honeymoon couples like it. The Myrtlewood Inn, I’m fixing to take my wife there for our anniversary if she behaves herself. Anyway, sure enough, Ms. Helga Gemein used her platinum Amex during that exact time. One-night stay. Or stand, depending on your perspective.”
“Excellent,” said Milo. “Give me the card number.”
Kammen read it off. “If your boy Backer was there with her, it was a stay, not a stand, ’cause she rented two rooms. Paid for both, there’s no record of who stayed in the other. But whoever it was racked up hours of rent-a-porn. Unlike Ms. Helga, who didn’t watch a second of pay-per-view, probably drank tap water because there were no room service charges, not even peanuts from the mini-bar.”
“Living like a nun,” said Milo.
Kammen said, “Your boy Backer, though, he watched four dirty movies, ordered steak and shrimp cocktail, and raided the bar for all kinds of goodies. Not exactly two peas in a pod.”
“They had enough rapport to do bad stuff, Chris.”
“Sounds like your typical marriage.”
I said, “How many rental car companies do you have in Port Angeles?”
“All the majors and a couple of minors. Why?”
“Be good to know if either Backer or Helga used a hired vehicle.”
“The sister said Backer was driving her car.”
“She wasn’t with him when he gave his sister the suitcases. They could’ve gone their separate ways.”
“Ah,” said Kammen. “Okay, I’ll check that out—stay on the line, maybe I can do it fast.”
Four minutes later: “Call me Speedy Gonzales, Myrtlewood Inn’s got Avis on the premises. Ms. Helga rented a Chevy Cobalt during her one-day stay. It’s going to take a while to find out how much mileage she put on but I can do it, if you want.”
Milo said, “Much appreciated, Chris. I’ll keep you informed.”
“This is starting to be fun.”
I said, “Separate cars means Helga could’ve followed Backer to the storage bin. Once she got hold of the key, getting the money was a breeze. She didn’t even need to bully him to get it: They worked in the same office, Backer, ever sociable, goes off to lunch with his female friends. Helga, ever the loner, stays behind and goes through his desk or a coat pocket, makes a mold.”
“Then why the gun rape?”
“Everyone’s got their own notion of fun.”
Milo said, “Lord, I want a date with this girl in a small, bright room.”
A warrant for Helga’s financial transactions revealed little. She’d canceled the Amex account within days of the Port Angeles trip, no others had shown up under her name.
I said, “Daddy keeps vaults full of crisp bills. Maybe the department will fly you to Zurich.”
He phoned Gayle Lindstrom, asked for a probe of GGI-Alter Privatbank.
She said, “I’ll try but good luck, those places are tighter than missile silos.”
“Still nothing at the airport?”
“I’m not into secrets, Milo. If there was, I’d tell you.”
He hadn’t told her about the storefront on Western. When I asked why, he said, “At this point, all she can do is complicate matters. Any suggestions on tracing Ms. Hellish?”
“I’m wondering if she’d chance a road trip. She wouldn’t exactly blend into middle America.”
“Helga in the heartland—sounds like a movie.”
“The exception,” I said, “being Vegas.”
“Yeah, a three-headed albino monkey would blend in there, it’s Fugitive Central. Okay, I know a U.S. marshal, maybe Helga will materialize at the craps table at Caesars. If not, you’re probably right, she’s still in town. Hopefully sooner or later she’ll return to her bomb shop.”
“My vote’s for sooner.”
“Because you’re my pal?”
“Because it’s her house of worship.”
Milo said, “Nothing like neutrality.”
“What we were able to do,” she said, “is institute passport scans of the entire Gemein family, to build a conspiracy case should you ever find Helga. This whole thing is making the Bureau nervous.”
“The fact that Doreen was your paid stooge and she used you?”
“Used my predecessors,” said Lindstrom. “My goal on this one is being seen as outside the loop.”
At five forty-three p.m., Milo ate junk food at his desk, preparing for the beginning of his alley shift.
He had a mouth full of packaged burrito when Sean Binchy called.
“Got her, Loot! Cuffed and in the back of my car, she went down real easy!”
CHAPTER 32
Helga Gemein, in all-black and her Bettie Page wig, parked her Buick carelessly, barely clearing Hiram Kwok’s area. She had her key in the lock of the bomb factory when Sean Binchy took her from behind.
Shouting “Police” and drawing her arms back, Binchy used long-fingered bass-player’s hands to secure her wrists, had the cuffs on within seconds.
Helga said, “All for twigs?”
Binchy patted her down lightly and spun her around. “Twigs?”
Helga’s look said he was beyond help.
By the time Moe Reed arrived from the opposite end of the alley, Sean had her in the rear seat of his unmarked, belted in. She glared through the window.
Reed said, “Excellent, bro.” Opened the door to get a better look.
Helga said, “You look like a storm trooper.”
Reed said, “And you’re an expert on that. You didn’t think to change your appearance?”
“Why would I?”
“You look just like on the news.”
“What news?”
“The TV broadcast.”
“TV,” said Helga, “is garbage. I don’t waste my time.”
Two hours later, she sat in a West L.A. interrogation room, as bored as she’d been when Milo spieled off Miranda. A group watched from next door: Binchy, Reed, Don Boxmeister.
The guest of honor: Captain Maria Thomas, a tweed-suited, blond-coiffed, well-spoken aide to the chief.
The last few minutes had been spent discussing the Western Avenue rental, which Helga dismissed as “my studio.”
“For what?”
“Conceptual art.”
“Those fuses—”
“For a collage.”
“What kind of collage?”
“You couldn’t hope to understand.”
Milo hadn’t bothered to ask her where she was living. A rental-agency key was traced to a house in Marina del Rey. Del Hardy had gone there with a crew of cops. Five flat-screens but no cable or satellite hookup in place. No computer, either, but drawers full of paper included a trove of e-mails. Everything in German, which Hardy sent for translation to Hollenbeck Division Detective Two Manfred Obermann.
Hardy said, “Guess who she’s renting the place from, Alonzo Jacquard.”
Milo said, “Doctor Dunkshot? He have any idea who his tenant is?”
“He’s coaching in Italy, everything went through an agency. Ms. Friendly paid up front in cash, just like with the storefront. Funny choice for her, the place is tricked out way past vulgar, pure Alonzo—trophy room, six fully stocked wet bars, disco room, stripper’s pole, home theater, racks of the kind of DVDs I wouldn’t keep out in the open. Great view of the water, though. But she had the drapes drawn, is sleeping in a small guest room near the service porch, might as well be in a convent. Except for the toys.”
“What kind of toys?”
“I’m a churchgoing man, Milo, don’t make me go into detail.” Chuckle. “Let’s just say the latex lobby likes her.”
Milo said, “You’re sure they’re not Alonzo’s toys?”
“No, these were definitely hers, all girlie stuff.” Hardy sighed. “Alonzo, man he was talented. Too bad he wasn’t around to sign an autograph for my kid.”
Milo asked a few more questions about art.
Helga answered each with “Don’t waste my time, you are ignorant.”
Captain Maria Thomas said, “She’s breathtakingly arrogant.”
Boxmeister said, “That could work for us, no? She thinks she’s in charge, doesn’t lawyer up.”
Thomas checked her BlackBerry. “So far so good, but he hasn’t gotten into serious stuff.”
Milo made a show of putting on reading glasses, dropping papers, retrieving them. “Um ... okay ... so... how about we talk about the house on Borodi—”
Helga cut him off: “Blah blah blah.”
“The house on Borodi Lane, where—”
“Blah blah blah blah blah.”
Milo grinned.
“Something is funny, Policeman?”
“Blah blah blah is one of my favorite phrases.” Helga rotated a finger in the air. “Is that supposed to give us commonality?”
“I don’t imagine commonality would be possible between us.”
“Oh?”
“You despise people,” said Milo. “Most of the time I consider myself part of the human race.”
“I despise people?” said Helga.
“So you said the first time we met.”
“You, Policeman, need to stop decoding literally.”
Milo snapped his fingers. “I knew I should’ve paid attention in metaphor class.”
Helga ran a manicured finger under chopped black bangs. “A policeman who has studied the dictionary.”
“Started with A and working all the way to B. Unfortunately, I kinda got hung up on boom.”
Helga didn’t answer.
Milo said, “The house on Borodi—”
“I burned some twigs. So what?”
“Twigs.”
“A heap of rotting wood, a monstrosity. I did the world a favor.”
“By burning down the house—”
“Not a house,” Helga corrected. “Ruins. Twigs. Garbage. Monstrosity. Shit. I cleansed in the name of aesthetic righteousness, structural integrity, epistemological consistency, and meta-ecology.”
“Meta-ecology. Didn’t get even close to that in the dictionary.”
“It won’t be in there. I constructed it.”
“Ah.”
Helga Gemein held up the rotating finger. “It means stepping back from trivial components of the gestalt that endow the system with no functional autonomy.”
Milo said, “Looking at the big cosmic machine, not the cogs.”
Helga studied him. “You can’t hope to understand because you are American and Americans are all religious.”
“We’ve got a few atheists.”
“In name only, Policeman. Even your atheists are religious because American faith is infinite. The suckling pig that never stops offering its flesh.”
“I’m not sure I’m—”
“You people have convinced yourself possibilities are endless, endings are happy, puzzles are to solved, the future is an advertising jingle, your way of life is sacred, might makes right. If Americans would tear themselves away from their twigs and their shit and use their eyes and ears and noses to dissect reality, they would alter their cognitive structure.”
Maria Thomas muttered, “And become clinically depressed like Europe.”
Helga said, “Americans are the domesticated pets of the world. Submissive and eating their own shit. Until they turn vicious and then we have war.”
Boxmeister said, “Talk about a cuckoo clock.”
Thomas said, “I’ve been to Interpol conferences. She’s just another spoiled Euro-trash brat.”
“But maybe a little whack, too?” Boxmeister nudged me. “What do you think, Doc?”
Thomas said, “Bite your tongue, Detective, and don’t answer, Dr. Delaware. It’s going to be p
ain enough dealing with a foreign national, last thing we need is diminished capacity.”
Milo was saying, “So burning the twigs was an act of cleansing.”
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