“Refuse removal.”
“Taking out the garbage.”
Helga’s blue eyes narrowed.
Milo said, “Wouldn’t altruism be a better word?”
Two sleek, black-nailed hands clenched. “It would be a stupid word.”
“Why’s that?”
“Altruism is nothing more than a mutation of selfishness.”
Milo crossed his legs. “Sorry, I’m not decoding.”
“I do what society says is nice so I can feel nice. What is more narcissistic than that?”
Milo pretended to contemplate. “Okay, so, if it wasn’t altruism, it was—”
“What I told you.”
“An act of meta-ecological cleansing. Hmm.”
“Don’t play stupid, Policeman. You have enough natural defects, there is no need to supplement.”
Boxmeister said, “Ouch. Heil, Helga.”
Milo uncrossed, scanned his notes again, edged his chair back a few inches. Removing a handkerchief from a trouser pocket, he wiped his brow. “Getting hot in here, no?”
Helga Gemein tugged at her wig. “I am comfortable.”
“To me it feels hot. I’d think that thing would make it worse for you.”
“What thing?”
“The hairpiece. Dynel doesn’t breathe.”
“This,” she said, “is genuine hair. From India.” He smiled. “So you’re not a hothead.” Helga snorted and turned away.
Milo said, “No, I mean that seriously. It’s clear to me that you rely on reason, not impulse.”
Maria Thomas leaned forward. “Yes, yes, go for it.”
Helga Gemein said, “Should I not rely on reason?”
“Of course you should,” said Milo. “We all should. But sometimes being spontaneous—”
“Spontaneity is an excuse for poor planning.”
“You’re into planning.”
No answer.
Maria Thomas was at the edge of her chair. “Easy, now.” Milo said, “Being an architect, I imagine you’d favor blueprints.” Helga turned to face him. “Without blueprints, Policeman, even chaos doesn’t work.”
“Even chaos?”
Up came the pedantic finger. “There is chaos that emanates from stupidity. Think of flatfooted policemen in brass-buttoned tunics and tall hats tripping over themselves. Then, there is corrective chaos. And that must be planned.”
“Burning those twigs didn’t result from stupidity,” said Milo. “You considered every detail.”
“I always do,” said Helga.
“Always?”
“Always.”
Maria Thomas punched her fist. “Yes!”
Helga Gemein sniffed. “This room smells like a toilet.”
“It does get a little stale,” said Milo.
“How often do you bring prostitutes here?”
“Pardon?”
“For your policeman after-hour parties.”
“Must’ve missed those.”
“Oh, please,” said Helga. “It is common knowledge what policemen do with women they’ve dominated. Down on the knees, the man feels so big.”
Boxmeister said, “I must work in the wrong division.”
Maria Thomas shot him a sharp look. He shrugged.
Milo said, “The cops do that in Switzerland?”
Helga said, “If you are interested in Switzerland, buy a plane ticket. Good-bye, Policeman. You have bored me enough, I am going.”
But she made no attempt to stand.
Milo said, “Going?”
“Twigs? Brush clearing? What is that, a penalty? I will pay you.”
“Out of that cash in your purse?”
“Since when is it a crime to have money? America worships money.”
“No crime at all. But six thousand’s a lot of cash to be carrying around.”
Helga smirked.
Thomas said, “That was pure rich kid. This one’s never been told no.”
Helga said, “What is the amount of my fine?”
Milo said, “I’m not sure of the penal code on twigs yet. We’re still checking.”
“Well, do it quickly.”
“Soon as the district attorney lets me know, I’ll get the paperwork going. Meanwhile, let’s go over this act of cleansing.”
“Not again, no, I will not.”
“I just want to make sure I understand.”
“If you do not understand by this time, you are hopelessly defective.”
“Anything’s possible,” said Milo. He shuffled papers, knitted his brows, stuck out a tongue, hummed a low tune. “You’re sure you don’t want more water?”
“I still have.” Eyeing the cup he’d brought her five minutes in.
Boxmeister said, “Garsh, Gomer, when you gonna call for a hayseed and a spittoon?”
Milo said, “Okay, you can drink that.”
Helga Gemein picked up the cup, sipped it empty. Power of suggestion.
Turning point in the interview.
She put the cup down. Eyes still on his notes, he said, “So ... you planned and burned the twigs all by yourself. Tell me how you did it.”
“The fine is insufficient penance?” said Helga, smirking again. “In America, money fixes everything.”
“Even so, ma’am. We like to have all the facts.”
“The facts are: As an architect with a strong background in structural engineering, I have a thorough understanding of structural vulnerability. I located the inherent structural defects of that garbage heap, set devices precisely, operated a remote timer, and watched as everything turned to dust.”
“So you were right there.”
“Close enough to bathe in heat and light.”
“A few houses down?”
“I didn’t count.”
“But you parked the motorcycle three blocks away.”
Blue eyes sparked. “How do you know I drive a motorcycle?”
“It was spotted and reported.”
“So you know the answer to your question. So do not waste my time.”
“Like I said, we need to verify,” said Milo. “For our report, so we can let you go and be done with all this.”
“Proper procedure,” said Helga. “Enabling you to pretend competence.”
“You know about procedure.”
Helga arched an eyebrow.
Milo said, “That old joke? Hell is the place where the Italians establish procedure and the Swiss are in charge of design?”
“Hell, Policeman, is the place Americans gorge themselves to unconsciousness and delude themselves to mindless optimism.”
“Never heard that version,” said Milo. “But you have to admit, the Swiss are darn good at design—who makes the best watches? Speaking of which, let’s talk about those timers. Where’d you get them?”
“From Des.”
The quick reply caught him off-guard. He covered with a prolonged nod. “Des Backer.”
“No, Des Hitler—yes, Des Backer. I want to go and pay my fine and be gone.”
“Soon,” said Milo. “What else did Des supply you with?”
“Everything.”
“Meaning—”
“You have invaded my studio, you know what is there.”
“The fuses, the wiring, the vegan Jell-O. Des knew about all that because he was ...”
“He claimed to be an anarchist.”
“Claimed? You think he was faking?”
“Des indulged himself.”
“Des and women.”
“He was not a serious person.”
Milo said, “Where’d you two meet? An anarchist convention—guess that’s kind of an oxymoron, huh?”
Helga said, “In a chat room.”
“Which one?”
“Shards.net.”
“As in broken glass?”
“As in broken universe,” she said. “It has closed down. Anarchists are not good at self-perpetuation.”
“Poor organizational skills,” said Milo. Silence.
“There is no contradiction.”
“Why’s that?”
“As I told you, everything depends on context. But anyway, I am not an anarchist, I do not join movements.”
“So you’re a ...”
“I am,” said Helga Gemein, with the first smile I’d seen her offer, “myself.”
Milo fiddled with his papers some more, feigned confusion. “Kind of a one-woman truth squad ... So you met Des online and the two of you decided to burn some twigs.”
“I decided.”
“He was your supplier,” said Milo. “Knew where to get equipment. That was the real reason you hired him. The real reason you established your firm.”
Silence.
“Nice shell,” he went on, “for explaining your presence in L.A., giving you a reason to be hanging with Des. Covering expenses—fifty thousand in cash? Who’s the real source of all that money, your father?”
No response.
“The road trip to Port Angeles, Helga. Nice, crisp bills in two suitcases. The kind you get fresh from a bank. The kind that gets released when one bank talks to another.”
Helga Gemein poked a finger under her wig. “I would like some water.”
Milo collected his papers and left. Alone, Helga fooled with the hairpiece some more, massaging the top of the glossy black strands, working a finger joint under the hem and poking around.
Don Boxmeister said, “What, she’s got cooties? Maybe we should’ve strip-searched her.”
Maria Thomas said, “What I said still stands, Don: No sense alienating her right off, he needs something to work with. And it’s paying off, she admitted premeditation.” Several pokes at the BlackBerry. “I’m needed back in an hour, hope he can nail the bitch soon.”
Helga straightened the wig, turned, leaned on the table. Sat and planted her boots on the floor. Her eyes closed. Her head swayed.
“What the hell’s she doing?” said Boxmeister. “Some kind of meditation?”
I said, “Probably dissociation. Putting herself somewhere else is her default strategy.”
Milo returned with a small cup of water. Helga didn’t acknowledge him, but her eyes opened when he said, “Here you go,” and placed it in front of her.
He put on reading glasses, reviewed his notes. She eyed him, finally sipped.
“Okay, tell me about the trip to Port Angeles.”
She touched a fringe of wig. “I engaged in tourism. The great lifeblood of American pseudo-culture.”
“A pleasure trip.”
“I have been to Disneyland, as well.”
“Guess I don’t need to ask if you liked it.”
“Actually,” she said, “it was quite pleasing in its own repugnant way. Consistent.”
“With vulgar American culture?”
“With a world devoid of reason.”
He harrumphed. Slid a couple of sheets toward her. “This is your registration form from the Myrtlewood Inn in Port Angeles. And this is your car rental receipt.”
“I stayed at a nice hotel,” she said. “So?”
“You and Des Backer both stayed there. You took separate rooms, the staff remembers you paying for both. They also recall seeing you and Des at breakfast together.”
Guesses. Good ones. Helga Gemein frowned. “So what? I already told you I got my equipment from him.”
“It was a purchasing trip.”
“Sightseeing, then some purchasing.”
“Why’d you give Des your car and rent another vehicle for yourself?”
“Because we were not together.”
“As...”
“As being together.”
“Did you drive up together?”
“I drove, he flew.”
“So no one at the office would suspect anything.”
“I wanted to drive,” said Helga. “He wanted to fly. He wanted to visit his family.”
“What did you do when he was visiting?”
“I shopped.”
“For timers and fuses?”
“Among other things,” said Helga.
“What things?”
“Clothing.”
“Find some bargains?”
“Jeans,” she said, stroking one shapely thigh. “Black jeans on sale.”
“You drove because you couldn’t risk an airport security check with fifty thousand dollars in two suitcases.”
Helga took several seconds to respond. “If you know so much, why are you wasting my time?”
“That darn old procedure thing. I need to hear it from you.”
“All because of twigs?”
“Afraid so. They were big twigs. Owned by an important person.”
“No one is important.”
“Obviously someone was to you, Helga.” He moved in closer, like I’d seen him do so many times. Spreading his shoulders and hardening his voice.
She flinched reflexively. Forced a smile.
He asserted his big face inches from hers. “Helga, someone was important enough for you to pay fifty thousand dollars to burn down twigs. Important enough for you to set up a shell company. Important enough for you to plan precisely.”
Helga Gemein’s chest heaved. She looked away. Beginning of the end.
“Helga, you’d like me to think you believe in nothing, but the way I see it, everything you did was an act of pure faith. Because that’s what vengeance is, right? Pure faith in the power of correction. That wrong can be made right.”
Pretty lips quivered. She stilled them with another smirk. “Ridiculous.”
“Faith motivated by love, Helga.”
Silence.
Milo said, “You loved Dahlia, nothing to be ashamed of, on the contrary. But it is downright fundamentalist, taking faith that far. You may not be religious, Helga, but you have no trouble drawing upon religion when it works for you.”
Helga Gemein rolled her eyes. Let loose with a ragged, too-loud laugh.
The sudden rise of her shoulders, the rippling along her jawline gave her away.
Milo said, “Sutma.” No answer.
“You’ve heard of sutma, Helga.”
“Primitive nonsense.”
“Maybe so, Helga, but the point was Prince Teddy and his family don’t agree.”
Waiting for a reaction to the name.
A single blink. Then nothing.
Milo said, “Or maybe it’s not just them. Maybe you really do believe in heaven and hell and all that good stuff. But that doesn’t really matter, Helga. The point is the sultan and the rest of the family believes and after what was done to Dahlia, you needed to grab hold of any shred of revenge you could find. Because Teddy’s out of your reach, geographically, financially, you can’t touch him. But cosmically? You burned those twigs in order to leave Teddy dangling in cosmic limbo. Downright terrifying for someone who believes in sutma.”
Silence.
He said, “It is a funny concept, though. If I was a religious person, I’d want to believe just the opposite—destroying material remains speeds up entry to the next world.”
He laughed, clapped his hands hard, sprang up, paced the room twice.
Helga watched, alarmed. Forced herself to stop following his circuit. Sat still as he came to a halt behind her.
She stared straight ahead, pretending not to care about the massive figure shadowing her.
Her jawline was an information highway.
“Reason I just laughed, Helga, is I had a sudden insight—an epiphany, I guess you’d call it. You’re totally into ritual. Like shaving your head. Since the first time I met you I’ve been trying to figure it out, why would you do something like that. But now I get it. It’s a ritual of self-abasement you took on until you achieved your goal. Like fasting on Lent—wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve done your share of that, too. Other kinds of fasting. Maybe even a vow of cel
ibacy.”
Evidence Page 27