Evidence

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Maybe a rite of self-denial,” I said.

  “Giving up hair for Lent?”

  “Or until she got the job done.”

  The bomb squad arrived, checked out the perimeter, returned to the front. The red door was unlocked and pushed open with a long pole, everyone standing back.

  No explosion.

  A lieutenant stuck his head in, ventured inside, came out giving the thumbs-up.

  The dogs ambled in. The dogs were interested.

  CHAPTER 29

  Dahlia Gemein was gone but the house remained hers in spirit.

  Lacy linens, pastel walls, a cheerful country kitchen that looked as if it had never been used. Cute little wicker tables were crowded with cute little glass figurines; clear preference for dolphins and monkeys. Half a dozen amateurishly daubed, pale blue abstractions bore a Dahlia signature. A tiny golden sun dotted the i.

  Drawers and closets were filled with expensive clothing, much of it bearing German or French labels. No family photos, but two nail holes in the center hallway said something had been removed.

  Despite the girlie décor, the house felt hollow, temporary.

  The dogs had sat down in nearly every room, prompting a five-hour search that unearthed nothing in the furnished spaces. But a vacuum of an empty bedroom produced coppery lint among the meager dust. Barely visible to the eye, the snippets of metal had been sucked up from the crack between the floor and the shoe molding. The bomb tech’s best guess was granulated waste from clipped wires and when the dogs really took a liking to the adjoining bathroom, a forensic plumber was summoned.

  It didn’t take long for him to find remnants of a petroleum-based gelatinous substance: rubbery remnants scraped from the drainpipe of the sink.

  “Like someone washed their hands of the stuff,” opined a bomb-squad cop. “Like that gal in the play, Lady Macbeth.”

  Milo said, “That assumes our gal feels guilty. More likely, she just wanted to be squeaky-clean after a hard day’s work.”

  The bomb guy said, “You’re figuring this was her chem lab?”

  “You’re not?”

  “I’d expect more trace, no matter how well she scrubbed up.”

  “The dogs like it here.”

  “The dogs can sniff half an atom divided by a zillion. She tracks in a molecule, they’ll react. To me this feels more like the place she came home to after the chem lab. If I were you, I’d keep looking. Maybe tube your suspect on the six o’clock and see if anyone recognizes her.”

  Milo phoned Public Affairs. A lieutenant there said, “This is something I’m going to have to check out with the bosses.”

  “Why?”

  “Foreigner? Big money? You really need to ask?”

  Ambitious fingerprinting and DNA swabbing by the crime lab techies continued into the evening. Plenty of hits in all the expected places, at least six different print patterns but a predominance of two. If Dahlia and Helga Gemein were ever found, chemistry would confirm what was already known.

  The VINs of the Boxster and the bike in the garage matched vehicles Dahlia Gemein had registered three years ago. The paper on both had lapsed. DMV had sent a couple of reminders before consigning the matter to the black hole of government records.

  Nothing but oil stains in the otherwise spotless garage. The dogs walked through the space nonchalantly.

  The bomb guy said, “She wanted to set up shop, this would be a perfect place. I’d definitely be looking elsewhere.”

  Milo gave a courtesy call to Gayle Lindstrom, was pleased to get voice mail. He tried Reed. “Finished with Meneng?”

  “Long finished and back at the station, Loo.”

  “How’d lunch go?”

  “I suggested a coffee shop, she pushed for the Pacific Dining Car on Sixth, ran up an eighty-dollar bill. Surf and turf, plus all the trimmings but no new info.”

  “Big appetite for a small girl.”

  “She doggie-bagged nearly all of it, talked the whole time about wanting to be an actress,” said Reed. “I think she gave it all up to you.”

  Milo said, “The good news is one way or the other, you’ll get reimbursed for the grub. The bad news is ‘the other’ might mean Uncle Milo shelling out.”

  “No way, Loo. It was my decision.”

  “You bet way, Moses, Uncle Milo takes care of his troops. The other good news is I won’t snitch to Dr. Wilkinson about you chomping steak with a hottie.”

  “I had soda water,” said Reed. “The eighty was all her. She’ll probably get a week of calories out of that doggie bag. So what do you want me to do next?”

  “Start a real estate search for any properties owned by the sultan of Sranil, we already know Teddy has nothing obvious on file.”

  “Local or national?”

  “Start local, work your way out. I’m sure His Imperial Poobah is layered up thicker than a Sherpa in winter, but we need to try. Start with Masterson, tell the battleax who works the phones that someone’s on the rampage against their star client, but don’t say who. Also, have Sean do a few drive-bys on Borodi and the surrounding streets, just in case La Balda returns to the scene.”

  “You figure she might’ve gotten a sexual thrill from the torch?”

  “This was personal, Moses, there’s all kinds of thrills.”

  He got out to check on the crime scene techs. An hour or so more. As he returned to the car, Officer Chris Kammen rang in.

  No planes from Southern California had flown in last night to the general aviation section of the Port Angeles airport. Kammen had taken the extra step and checked with SeaTac: Not a single flight to L.A., Burbank, or Ontario departed late enough to accommodate the luggage thief’s near-midnight departure from the storage unit, let alone the drive to Seattle.

  “So you’re definitely dealing with two separate suspects, Hood-boy could’ve blown into our town at any time. We’re no L.A. but we don’t have the available manpower to search every dark corner. Specially without what the city council calls a compelling reason.”

  “Fair enough,” said Milo. “Once I get a suspect, we can cross-reference.”

  “Hey,” said Kammen. “Optimism. I once read about that.”

  Milo’s second try at Public Affairs was met with a secretary’s curt “We’re working on your request.”

  “Working, how?”

  “You’ll be notified in due time, Lieutenant.”

  Clicking off, he muttered, “Time to pole-vault over their little pea-heads,” and dialed Deputy Chief Weinberg to press for a news feed featuring Helga Gemein’s photo. Toning down the spiel he’d given Judge LaVigne, he made it through one sentence before Weinberg broke in.

  “P.A. already called me. Don’t play games.”

  “No one’s told me anything, sir.”

  “Guess there’s nothing to tell,” said Weinberg.

  “The answer’s no?”

  “You can’t be serious, Sturgis.”

  “Given what we found at the house, it seems the next logical step—”

  “A foreign national? From a prominent family? You’re asking me to create an international terrorist scare on the basis of copper dust?”

  “It’s more than a scare, sir. My suspect’s already killed three people.”

  “I haven’t heard evidence linking her to any murders. Even on your arson, it’s all air. A woman jogging? Pardon me if I’m not awestruck. And even if she did do the torch, what does that come down to? Getting rid of an eyesore the neighbors are happy to see gone. Wire dust and something goopy in a pipe? For all we know, it’s rubber cement, she liked putting together model airplanes.”

  “The dogs reacted, sir.”

  “I love dogs,” said Weinberg. “But they’re not infallible. What if she spilled kerosene trying to clean off beach tar? Believe me, that would make them sit on their little canine rumps.”

  “But in this case—”

  “You can’t seriously expect me to have this woman’s face plastered all over the evening n
ews based on what you’ve given me. You have nothing concrete against her and we are not talking suicide belts at Disneyland.”

  “Okay, let’s forget the terrorism angle, even the murders, and just describe her as an arson suspect.”

  “You don’t have enough, Sturgis. Besides, if the arson’s the big deal, I need to be talking to the arson squad.”

  “I can have Captain Boxmeister make the—”

  “If he asks the same question, I’ll give him the same answer. A few bubbles in a pipe and some wire shavings add up to crap. Bring me fingerprints, body fluids, something serious before I have embassies driving me nuts.”

  “FBI and Homeland Security think she’s serious enough to look for.”

  “They’re involved?”

  “FBI came to me.”

  “Just like that? All of a sudden those morons have ESP?”

  “I called Homeland for info and they called the Feds—”

  “And you didn’t think to let me know.”

  “Sir, I wanted to wait until I had something substantive to tell you.”

  “Then why the hell are we talking now?” “The sum total seems substantive to me,” said Milo. “Then you need to back away and get some perspective.” Clenching his jaws, Milo middle-fingered air. “Okay, sir, I’ll keep digging.”

  “I know you’re going to be bad-mouthing me the minute this conversation terminates, brass is always the big bad enemy,” said Weinberg. “But try—I know it’s hard, but try anyway—to pull yourself away from the moment and see the bigger picture. By your own account, this woman comes from megabucks, is a respected professional, and has no criminal record. What you have on her is hearsay twice removed. On a good day.”

  “Her sister—”

  “Could very well be alive. What’s your evidence any kind of crime was perpetrated against the sister? By some oil sheikh, no less. This is the stuff of migraines, Sturgis. Cut the fantasy and get back to shoe leather. I’m sure you’ve worn out your share of desert boots.”

  Milo’s gaze dropped to today’s footwear. Crepe-soled, brown sailcloth oxfords, long in need of resoling. “Anything you say, sir.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Sturgis.”

  “Wasn’t trying to, sir. May I call you should what you deem substantive comes up?”

  “Have I ever been unresponsive to your needs, Detective?”

  “No, sir. I’ll start eroding my shoes and let’s hope nothing gets blown up in the interim.”

  Silence.

  “Sir?”

  “Let me make something clear,” said Weinberg. “I find no merit in your request but in the name of esprit de corps, I’m going to talk to the chief about a news feed. Just in case.”

  “In case what, sir?”

  “Porkers are spotted soaring in the western sky.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Think nothing of it,” said Weinberg. “Because that’s what it’s going to amount to.”

  I hadn’t heard from Milo by ten the following morning, figured the night hadn’t gone well.

  Robin said, “We’ve got steaks, let’s feed him.”

  I tried all his numbers, got no answer until nearly six p.m. He was curt, subdued. All business, none of it encouraging.

  Gayle Lindstrom had followed through, with disappointing results: no sign of Helga Gemein at any airport, commercial or private, nor was she listed on any passenger manifests.

  Moe Reed’s calls to Masterson had remained unanswered and he’d followed up with a visit. The firm’s glass doors were locked. If Elena Kotsos or her husband was on site, they weren’t letting on.

  Real estate searches throughout California had produced nothing. Reed was working on Nevada, but as the day progressed and government offices closed down, options were fading.

  No better luck on the lush streets of Holmby Hills, where Sean Binchy had prowled wearing skater duds. Starting at the wheel of his private drive, an ‘84 Camaro inherited from his father, then repeating the circuit twice on in-line skates.

  I’d done a drive-by myself, on the way to the station. Huge houses, towering trees, no people. As if Helga Gemein’s dream of a human-free world had come to pass.

  Milo’s expanded door-to-door had boiled down to reassuring the neighbors they were safe. A few additional residents had seen Helga entering or exiting the little white house but no one had exchanged a single word of conversation with the blond/brunette/redheaded women they described as “kind of cold,” “frosty,” “distant,” “off in her own world.”

  One man was sure Helga drove a midsized American sedan, make unknown. Black, dark blue, dark gray, I don’t really remember.

  No one had ever seen Des Backer or Doreen Fredd near the house, ditto Prince Teddy. Dahlia Gemein’s picture evoked vague recollections of blond and pretty and cheerful. One neighbor thought she’d favored the red motorcycle.

  They’re sisters? Pretty different.

  Milo said, “One shred of theoretical hope: Computer lab’s sending over the transcripts of GHC’s hard drives. Pages of printout, I could use some help going through it. I figured you and I could grab some dinner at Moghul, go back to the office and analyze. Unless you’ve got plans.”

  “Robin and I were talking barbecue, I called to invite you.”

  “Oh. Haven’t checked messages. Thanks, but gotta pass.”

  “Take a break for a steak,” I said. “Or two.”

  “Appreciate the offer but I won’t be my usual fun self and I need to watch my cholesterol.”

  “All of a sudden?”

  “Better late than never.”

  “Well,” I said, “Moghul’s good with veggies.”

  “I was thinking tandoori lamb, spinach with cheese, maybe some lobster.”

  “Someone’s bred low-cholesterol sheep and crustaceans?”

  “So I lied. Sup with your true love.”

  I hung up, talked to Robin.

  She said, “Like there’s a choice? Grill’s still cold, anyway. Go.”

  By six forty, Milo and I were sifting through GHC’s download history and every bit of e-mail generated during the architectural firm’s brief life.

  Bettina Sanfelice and Sheryl Passant had spent most of their screen time searching eBay and discount fashion sites and gossip blogs. Both of them loved Johnny Depp.

  Judah Cohen hadn’t logged on once.

  Marjorie Holman had used her keyboard sparingly: researching green architecture sites, news outlets, checking her finances, which were as conservative and modest as John Nguyen had reported.

  Using a separate screen name, she’d arranged regular trysts with six different men, among them “mannyforbush” at forbushziskin-shapiro.net.

  Helga Gemein and Desmond Backer conducted infrequent but telling exchanges. Cyber pen pals during working hours, they typed away as they sat in the communal office.

  The correspondence was focused: coolly exchanged information about explosives, incendiary devices, the goals and techniques of eco-terrorism, nostalgic reflections about ugly days gone by.

  Milo had cited the Baader-Meinhof gang while spinning for Judge LaVigne, but the reference was prophetic: One week prior to the killings of Desmond Backer and Doreen Fredd, Helga Gemein had invoked the murderous German band eight times. Describing them, without a trace of irony, as “refreshingly nihilistic and efficient.”

  Helga: the wonder years. my regret is having been born too late.

  Backer: for me it was the weathermen. if only, huh?

  Helga: knowing which way the wind blows.

  Backer: bill and bernadette and now they’re mainstream sell-outs.

  Helga: inevitable. blood thins.

  Backer: good old days blood was thick and hot the wind was gonna blow hard and hot. emphasis on blow. lol.

  Helga: again, that? with you, it’s always carnality.

  Backer: got something better lol too bad it’s not with u.

  Helga: from what I see you’ve got your hands full.

 
; Backer: hands and other body parts. lol.

  Helga: enough i don’t lol about stupidity.

  Backer: meant to talk to you about that.

  Helga: about what?

  Backer: ur state of mind.

  Helga: my mind is fine.