Evidence

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Her jaw clenched.

  “How long ago, Helga, did you start eating meat during Lent? If you ever did. Do you eat your Lent veggies and explain it as meta-ecology?”

  Helga Gemein shut her eyes.

  “Even so, it’s religion, Helga. Are you a strict vegetarian? Or do you sneak meat when no one’s looking?”

  Silence.

  “Once a Catholic, always a Catholic, Helga. Believe me, I know.”

  She folded her arms. Let them drop. Began deep-breathing.

  “Oh, come on,” said Milo. “Let’s be just a little bit honest and ’fess up like they taught you in convent school: At the core, you’re devout, believe sin must be punished. And there’s no greater sin than murder. Especially the murder of an innocent like Dahlia.”

  Helga Gemein’s eyelids scrunched tighter. Tears trickled out.

  “You loved Dahlia, that’s not a bad thing, that’s a good thing, she loved you, too. Believing is a good thing, Helga. It helps me understand what you did. Everything you’ve done since you arrived in this country has been aimed at getting justice for Dahlia. You’re powerless to go to Sranil and do what you dream about—though I’m sure you haven’t given up on that. And maybe Daddy hasn’t, either. But meanwhile ...”

  She let out a cry. Clamped a hand over her mouth.

  Milo bent close, spoke softly, inches from her ear. “You’re a survivor aiming for justice. That’s human, Helga, and no matter what you say, you’re a member of the species.”

  The entire lower half of Helga’s face began to tremble. She pressed one palm to her cheek, failed to still waves of twitches.

  Milo pulled his chair so their knees were just short of contact.

  “Let the bastard dangle,” he said tenderly. “He deserves it.”

  Moving in closer. “What I don’t understand is why you had to kill Des and Doreen?”

  Helga opened her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “I think we’ve moved past self-delusion, Helga.”

  “You are ridiculous.”

  He handed her a tissue. She swatted it away.

  Milo watched it flutter to the floor. “Why’d you have to kill them, Helga? Did they get greedy and ask for more money?”

  Helga Gemein shook her head. “Fool.”

  Milo said, “Or were they just a nuisance and expendable? Time to cover your tracks.”

  She tried to scoot her chair back. The legs stuck. He pressed closer. She cleared her throat. Drew back her head.

  Boxmeister said, “Uh-oh—”

  Milo jerked away just in time to avoid the missile of spit.

  A wet gob landed on the floor.

  Her hands were balled. Flush-faced, she panted.

  Milo shook his head, ever the patient schoolmaster. “Looks like I touched a nerve, Helga.”

  “You have touched stupidity,” she said. “I have never killed anyone. Never.”

  “What’s the big deal? You claim to hate humanity—”

  “Humanity is shit. I don’t put shit on my hands.”

  “Except when it suits your purposes.” She shook her head. “Idiot.”

  Reaching for his papers, he pulled out another sheet. The picture of the man in the hoodie. Adroitly, no more fumbling. “You killed Desi and Doreen with this guy’s help.”

  Helga Gemein’s jaw turned smooth. A smile spread slowly. That serene smile tightened my gut.

  “I have never seen this person.”

  Maria Thomas said, “Uh-oh.”

  “What?” said Boxmeister.

  Thomas said, “That look like a tell to you? That picture mellowed her. Damn.” She turned to me: “Either she is nuts or she really doesn’t know what he’s talking about, right, Doc? Either way, it’s mucho problemo.”

  Milo continued to display the photo.

  Helga said, “You can wave that around forever, your little policeman flag.”

  “This guy’s your partner, Helga. The person who helped you murder Des and Doreen. Did you drive up to Port Angeles with him?”

  Helga shook her head. “You are an utter fool.”

  “This photo was taken in Port Angeles a couple of days ago. This man was there to retrieve the money. Talk about good planning. You never had any intention of letting Des keep a penny. Because you never had any intention of letting him live. The real reason you rented him a car was so you could follow him and find out where he stashed the money. After you returned to L.A., you got hold of his storage key—plucked it out of a pocket or found it in his desk drawer, made a mold. Maybe you did it when he was off having fun with the ladies and you were in the office all by your bald-headed, self-abasing, not-so-lapsed Catholic fundamentalist self.”

  Helga Gemein giggled. “You truly believe this scheiss.”

  “The evidence makes me believe, Helga.”

  “Then the evidence is scheiss.” Clucking her tongue. “I have burned twigs, that is all. Now I wish to leave and pay my fine and not hear any more of this crazy nonsense.”

  “Twigs,” said Milo. “We call it arson and it’s a felony.”

  Helga shrugged. “I will hire a lawyer. He will make it into a prank that got too big and I will be free and you will remain stupid.”

  “Damn,” said Boxmeister.

  Thomas said, “She hasn’t actually asked, she’s only threatened.” Shifting close to the mirror. “Change the subject, dude.”

  Milo said, “More water?”

  “Yes!” said Thomas.

  Helga said, “No, thank you.” Sweet smile. Unsettling. Wrong.

  “Desi and Doreen were murdered in that turret. You went back to the house anyway.”

  “I had business to do.”

  “The murder didn’t bother you?”

  “Not my concern, Policeman.”

  Milo slid another piece of paper toward her.

  “What is this, Policeman?”

  “This is what’s left of a gentleman named Charles Ellston Rutger. He grew up in a house that once sat on the Borodi property. Had one of those stupid sentimental attachments to the land, which is why he liked to sneak up there, sit in that same turret, reminisce about the good old days. See that shiny thing?” Pointing. “That’s what was left of his wineglass. And that, over there? That used to be a tin of foie gras. Mr. Rutger was enjoying a snack, washing it down with a nice Bordeaux the night you reduced him to dust.”

  Helga Gemein grabbed the paper.

  “That’s a crime scene photo, Helga. Check the date. He doesn’t look like much, does he? You killed him.”

  Helga gaped. Whispered, “No.”

  “On the contrary, Helga. Yes. A big fat yes. Mr. Rutger had the misfortune to be enjoying a quiet moment in the turret of that monstrosity when you came in and set your fuses and your timers and your plugs of Jell-O. He didn’t hear you because you were careful and quiet and he was an old man and being all the way up there on the third floor muted the sound. He was sipping wine as you stood on the sidewalk and enjoyed your act of cleansing, but maybe you already know that.”

  “No!”

  “He didn’t hear you, Helga, but you’re young, your ears work just fine, so my bet is you heard him. But you didn’t care, what’s another piece of human scheiss?”

  Helga let go of the photo as if it were toxic. It slid to the floor. She stared at it, eyes wide with horror.

  First time she’d shown anything close to appropriate emotion. I liked her better for it. But not much.

  “Oh, God,” she said.

  No atheists on the hot seat.

  “Your twigs became a pyre for a human being, Helga. That we call felony homicide. Loss of a life during the commission of any major crime, even without prior intention. That’s not a fine, Helga.”

  “I never knew,” she said, in a small, thin voice. “You must believe me.”

  “I must?”

  “It is true! I did not know!”

  “You haven’t been listening, Helga. Whether or not you knew, it’s still felony ho
micide.”

  “But that... makes no sense.”

  “I don’t write the rules, Helga.”

  She studied him. “You are lying. That is special effects. Anyone can stamp a date. You try to confuse me so I will confess to Des and Doreen but I will not because I did not.”

  “You did a whole lot, Helga. Trust me, Mr. Rutger’s real. Was. Want me to show you his autopsy report? You fried him to a crisp.”

  “I do not kill.”

  Milo shook his head. “Unfortunately, you do. You’ve already admitted the arson, admitted planning it. A man died in the process, you’re facing a long prison sentence. The only way I can see you extricating yourself from this mess is by explaining yourself. Tell me why you decided to eliminate Des and Doreen. I can see a motive right off the bat: They were trying to blackmail you. If they were, that’s a good explanation, people can understand that, it’s kind of self-defense.”

  She shook her head.

  He said, “And if this guy in the hood did the actual killing and you didn’t really know what was going to happen and you tell me who he is, that will also help you.”

  “That,” said Helga Gemein, wringing her hands, “would be all idiocy. I killed nobody.”

  “Truth is, Helga, I’m leaning toward your partner as the major bad guy for Des and Doreen because there was a certain masculine stupidity to the murders and I don’t see stupid as part of your makeup. So let’s start with who he is.”

  “The Dalai Lama.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Today he is the Dalai Lama. Tomorrow? Emperor Franz Josef, Nikola Tesla, Walter Gropius. Take your pick.”

  “You’re not helping yourself, Helga.”

  “You think I care to help you?” she said.

  “I understand, maybe you didn’t actually pull the trigger so you think—”

  “You understand nothing!” she shrieked. “I did not kill anyone!”

  “Charles Rutger would debate that if he could.”

  “An accident,” she said. “Had I known, I would have waited.”

  “Even though you don’t care about people.”

  “I avoid complications.”

  “Well,” said Milo, “you’ve ended up with a whole bunch of complications.”

  “You are stubborn beyond rationality.”

  “Like someone else you know?”

  “Who?”

  Milo smiled. “I had a dad like that.”

  Helga shuddered. Her turn to cover the stab of emotion with an even bigger smile. “Pity for you, Policeman.”

  “Let’s get back to basics, Helga: You’re not leaving here. But you do have a chance to help yourself by telling me—”

  “Policeman,” she said, “at this time, I need to ...”

  “Oh, shit,” said Maria Thomas.

  “... have time to think. Alone. Please.”

  Soft voice, almost gentle.

  “You have surprised me,” she said. “I need to think. Please, some time.”

  Milo said, “Take all the time you need.”

  CHAPTER 33

  The door to the observation room swung open. Milo stepped in, wiping sweat from his face.

  He’d remained cool in Helga’s presence: Zen and the art of detection.

  Maria Thomas said, “I have to say she didn’t look the least bit hinky on those two murders.”

  Don Boxmeister said, “Even with that, we get her on Rutger, she’s away for a long time.”

  “Don’t get overconfident about Rutger,” said Thomas. “She has family money. Want to take bets the first thing any decent lawyer does is move to throw out the last two hours because she was under emotional duress?”

  “Milo didn’t persecute her, Maria.”

  “Who’s talking reality, Don? It’s a game and rich people have a better win-loss record.” She turned to Milo. “You’re lucky she’s arrogant. Only reason she hasn’t lawyered up is she thinks she’s smarter than you. But now that she’s faced with Rutger, don’t count on that lasting. What’s your next step?”

  Milo sat down heavily. Watched Helga through the glass.

  She’d remained in her chair.

  Black-wigged statue.

  Thomas said, “Milo, you with us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Thomas’s BlackBerry sent her a message. She checked the screen, poked with a stylus, scrolled. “Detective Obermann has your German translations all done, he’ll e-mail them to you but is happy to talk to you over the phone. And ... looks like he identified some of those numbers you found on Gemein’s papers. GPS coordinates, matching a private hangar at Van Nuys Airport. Registered to ... DSD, Inc. That ring any bells?”

  Milo sat up. “Loud ones. The sultan’s holding company.”

  “So our Swiss Miss had more arson in mind. I’ll talk to the Sranilese consulate, ask for consent to enter the hangar.”

  “There is no consulate.”

  “The embassy in D.C., then.”

  “They’ll say no and clean the place out.”

  “Of what?”

  “Their royal family’s involved in murder, they’re gonna be in total ass-covering mode.”

  Thomas thought. “Guess we have a problem.” Helga Gemein closed her eyes.

  Boxmeister said, “How about this: We apply for warrant under exigent danger. Likely presence of volatile chemicals, imminent risk of ignition.”

  “The hangar’s ready to blow?” said Thomas. “What evidence do we have of that?”

  “We’ve got prior bad acts by Helga and her looking for GPS coordinates. To me that’s clear intent.”

  “She can look to her heart’s content, Don. How’s she going to gain access to the hangar?”

  Milo said, “She’s got money to charter a private jet. Maybe once she’s in there she could find it.”

  “Exactly,” said Boxmeister. “Like one of those private clubs. Getting past the rope’s a bitch, but once you’re in, anything goes.”

  Thomas said, “No judge is going to buy it and we’re talking royalty, to boot.”

  Milo said, “But what if she’s already gotten in there and set her Jell-O? All those aircraft nearby? All that jet fuel?”

  Boxmeister said, “Shit, I don’t want to even imagine. Sure hate to be the one who failed to take precautions.”

  Thomas said, “Subtle, guys. You want me to ask the boss.”

  Milo glanced toward the one-way mirror. Helga remained frozen. “Up to you but I used all my charm up with her.”

  Thomas drummed her BlackBerry. Began texting.

  Helga Gemein stood up, walked to the mirror, turned her back on us.

  One hand reached up. Fooled with the wig.

  “That’s her anxiety tell, messing with the rug,” said Boxmeister. “She’s gonna cave, I can feel it.”

  If that comforted Milo, he didn’t show it.

  Thomas kept texting.

  Helga Gemein turned again, faced us.

  Looking but not seeing.

  Blank eyes; she’d arrived at a solitary place.

  Snatching off her wig with one deft movement, she exposed a beautifully shaped head shaved white and glossy. Holding the hairpiece in front of her, bowl up, like a chalice, she smiled.

  Sad smile. Second time I’d seen it. I liked her no better.

  Reaching into the wig, she pulled something out. Small and white and capsule-shaped, pincer-grasped between thumb and forefinger.

  Still smiling, she opened her mouth, popped the white thing. Swallowed.

  Her smile spread. Her breathing quickened.

  Boxmeister said, “Oh, shit.”

  Milo was already up, rushing for the door.

  Maria Thomas looked up from her BlackBerry. “What’s going on?”

  Milo ran past her, let the door slam shut.