Two smiling boys in white shirts and plaid school ties. Gleaming ebony skin, clear eyes, cropped hair, white teeth. One slightly older than the other; I guessed nine and eleven.
“These lads,” said Bumaya, “are Joshua and Samuel Bangwa. At the time this picture was taken they were eight and ten. Joshua was an excellent student who loved science and Samuel, the older boy, was an excellent athlete. Their parents were Seventh Day Adventist elders who taught at a church school in the village of Butare. Shortly after Kigali fell to the Hutu insurgents, Butare was targeted because it had been a primarily Tutsi town. Both of the boys’ parents were hacked to death by Laurent Nzabakaza’s troops. Their mother was repeatedly raped, pre- and postmortem. Joshua and Samuel, hidden in a closet and watching through a crack in the door, escaped and were eventually spirited out of Rwanda by an Adventist minister. As crucial witnesses against Nzabakaza, they were taken to Lagos, Nigeria, and put up at a U.N. boarding school that catered to diplomats’ children and the offspring of Nigerian government officials. Two weeks after Laurent Nzabakaza was apprehended in Switzerland, the boys failed to show up for breakfast. A search of their room found them in their beds. Their throats had been cut ear to ear. A single stroke of the razor for each child, no wasted energy.”
“A pro,” said Milo.
Bumaya extracted the lime wedge from his glass, sucked on it, put it back. “The school was a guarded, secure facility, Detective, and there were no signs of forced entry. The case remains unsolved.”
“And Albin Larsen—”
“Was a psychological consultant to the school, though seldom on the premises. However, one week before the boys were slaughtered, he arrived in Lagos and took a room in the faculty wing. The alleged reason for his visit was a U.N. site certification. While he was there, he engaged in other local activities, as well.”
“Such as—”
“Allow me to finish. Please,” said Bumaya. “It has been learned that Larsen was not due to inspect the school for several months and chose to step up the schedule.”
“You think he killed the two kids?” said Milo.
Bumaya’s brow creased. “I have learned nothing to indicate that Larsen has ever acted violently. However, he is known to have associated with violent people and to facilitate their actions. What would you, as a detective, say about the following confluence of facts: Larsen’s friendship with Laurent Nzabakaza, the threat the boys represented to Nzabakaza, Larsen’s unexpected presence at the school.”
Milo picked up the photo, studied the smiling faces.
Protais Bumaya said, “I’m certain Larsen hired someone to slaughter those children. Am I able to prove it? Not yet.”
“You were sent here to prove it?”
“Among other assignments.”
“Such as?”
“Fact-finding.”
“Find any facts?” said Milo.
Bumaya sat back and exhaled. “So far, I have not accomplished much. That is why when I saw you observing Larsen I thought, ‘Aha, this is my opportunity.’ ” He flattened his hands on the table. His knuckles were gray. “Would there be any way for you to share information with me?”
“It doesn’t work that way.”
Long silence.
Bumaya said, “I see.”
“What else do you know about Larsen?” said Milo.
“In terms of?”
“What were his other ‘local activities.’ ”
“Professor Larsen is a man of far-reaching interests,” said Bumaya, “but for my purposes, they are not relevant.”
“I care about my purposes,” said Milo.
“He was involved in programs.” Bumaya uttered the word as if it were a curse. “U.N. sponsored programs, private humanitarian programs. Larsen affixes himself to programs for personal gain.”
“Misery pimp,” said Milo.
Bumaya smiled faintly. “I have never heard of that expression. I like it. Yes, that is an apt description.”
“Are we talking big money?”
Bumaya’s smile stretched wider. “One would think, that with all the paperwork bureaucracies require, someone would ascertain that there are only so many hours in a week.”
I said, “Larsen pads his bills.”
“Consultant here, consultant there. To believe his vouchers, he is the busiest man in the world.”
Milo said, “What kind of programs are we talking about?”
“I am familiar only with those in my country and in Lagos. For the most part, we are talking about schools and welfare societies. At least a dozen. When one examines the paperwork in toto, one finds that Larsen was working 150 hours per week.”
“Any of those programs involve prison rehabilitation?” said Milo.
Bumaya smiled.
“What?” said Milo.
“Prison work is how Larsen came to know Laurent Nzabakaza. He obtained Lutheran church funding for a psychological training program to help prisoners in Nzabakaza’s prison overcome their criminal tendencies. Sentries for Justice. Substantial payments to Nzabakaza helped . . . is the expression, ‘grease the runway’?”
“The skids,” said Milo. “Grease the skids.”
“Ah,” said Bumaya. “In any event, the prisoners treated by Sentries for Justice were the exact group armed by Nzabakanza and aimed at Butare. Larsen had already begun an identical program in Lagos, and when the genocide ended his Rwandan activities he began concentrating more on the Nigerian branch.”
One big, dark hand closed around his glass. “I believe I will take another drink.”
Milo took the glass, went to the bar, brought it back, filled high.
Bumaya drank half. “Thank you . . . Larsen attempted to latch himself onto the Bosnian crisis but failed because of too much competition. Recently, he’s expressed considerable interest in the Palestinian issue. Was one of the foreigners who traveled to Jenin to express support for Arafat during the Israeli siege. He supplied the U.N. with stories about the Jenin massacre.”
“The one that never occurred,” said Milo.
“Yes, a brief, but inflammatory international fraud ensued, and Larsen was paid for his consulting. His entrée to that region is likely because a cousin of his—Torvil Larsen—is an official with UNRWA in Gaza. When international conflict arises, Larsen will always be there to make a few dollars. If he is not stopped.”
“You aiming to stop him?” said Milo.
“I,” said Bumaya patting his chest, “am a fact-seeker, not a man of action.”
Milo looked at the photo of the smiling boys. “Where in L.A. are you staying?”
“At the house of a friend.”
Out came Milo’s pad. “Name, address, and phone number.”
“Is that necessary?”
“Why,” said Milo, “would you have a problem telling me?”
Bumaya lowered his eyes. Finished his drink. “I’m staying with Charlotte and David Kabanda.” He spelled the surname slowly. “They are physicians, medical residents at the Veterans Hospital in Westwood.”
“Address?” said Milo.
“Charlotte and David know me as a university classmate. I studied law. They believe I’m a lawyer.”
Milo tapped his pad. “Address.”
Bumaya recited an apartment number on Ohio.
“Phone?”
Bumaya rattled off seven digits. “If you call Charlotte and David and divulge what I’ve told you, they will be confused. They believe I am conducting legal research.”
“Their apartment your sole place of residence?” said Milo.
“Yes, Detective.”
“You’re an envoy but you don’t get hotel chits?”
“We are a very poor country, Detective, struggling to reunify. Mr. Lloyd MacKenzie, our de facto consul, serves us at a discount rate. A genuine humanitarian.”
Milo said, “What else can you tell me about Larsen?”
“I have told you much.”
“Shall I repeat the question?”
&
nbsp; “A one-way avenue,” said Bumaya.
“Uh-huh.”
Bumaya showed two rows of even, pearly teeth. “That is all I have to say about the matter.”
“Okay,” said Milo, closing the pad.
“Sir,” said Bumaya, “it is in both our interests to cooperate.”
“Sir,” said Milo, “if there’s something you need to know, I’ll inform you. Meanwhile, be careful. A foreign agent getting involved in an ongoing investigation wouldn’t be a good thing.”
“Detective, I have no intention of—”
“Then we’ll have no problem,” said Milo.
Bumaya frowned.
Milo said, “Want another drink? It’s on me.”
“No,” said Bumaya. “No, thank you.” The snapshot of the murdered boys remained on the table. He picked it up, placed it back in his snakeskin billfold.
“You pretty good with firearms, Mr. Bumaya? Being a former cop and all that.”
“I know how to shoot. However, I am not traveling armed.”
“So if I look around your friends’ apartment, no guns are going to show up?”
“Not one,” said Bumaya. His mouth moved around, covering a swath of emotional territory, until it finally settled on a small, flat smile. “Perhaps I have not made myself clear, Detective Sturgis. My sole purpose is to gather facts and to report back to my superiors.”
“All this trouble for Albin Larsen.”
“He and others.”
“Others here in L.A.?”
“Here, other cities. Other countries.” Bumaya’s eyes shut and fluttered open. His irises, once clear and inquisitive, had clouded. “I will be doing this for a very long time.”
*
We watched him leave the bar.
Milo said, “Think I was rough on him?”
“A bit.”
“I sympathize with the cause, but he’s all about his own goals, and I don’t need complications. If I can get Larsen off the street, I’ll be doing Bumaya and his superiors the biggest favor of all.”
“Makes sense,” I said.
“Does it?” He frowned. “Those two boys.” He looked away, summoned Green Shirt for a third shot.
Green Shirt looked down at me. “You, too?”
I placed my hand atop my glass and shook my head. When Milo’s refill arrived, I said, “Bumaya has his own agenda, but what he said firms things up for us. Larsen’s got a history of exactly the kind of scam we theorized about. And he uses violence when it suits him.”
“The quiet ones,” Milo muttered.
“Tonight, when he introduced Issa Qumdis, he had plenty of fire.”
“Ideology and profit,” he said.
“Misery pimp. I like that.”
He drank.
I said, “Just out of curiosity, how do you know so much about Issa Qumdis?”
“What, cops don’t read?”
“Never knew you to be political.”
He shrugged. “Rick leaves books and magazines around. I pick ’em up. One of them happened to be The Jewish Beacon, with the article that claimed Issa Qumdis invented himself.”
“Never knew Rick to be political, either.”
“He never was. Even gay issues didn’t mobilize him.” He stretched his neck and winced. “His parents are Holocaust survivors.”
After all these years I knew little about Rick. About Milo’s life when he closed the door of his little house in West Hollywood.
He said, “They were always getting after him about it.”
“The Holocaust?”
He nodded. “They wanted him to be more aware of being Jewish. There was always baggage, the gay thing complicated it. When his folks found out, they freaked out, the Holocaust got all mixed up in it. His mother crying like someone had died. His father yelling at him and telling him he was stupid because now the Nazis would have two reasons to gas him.”
He drank more Scotch, swirled it around like mouthwash. “He’s an only child, it hasn’t been easy. What made it better was the passage of time and his parents getting older. Eventually, he and his old man could talk about it.”
Something Milo had never experienced before his own father died.
“Then came September 11, and Rick changed,” he said. “He took it personally. The fact that Arabs were behind it, the revisionist theories blaming the Jews. All the anti-Semitic swill coming out of Saudi Arabia and Egypt. All of a sudden, Rick got more interested in being Jewish, started reading up on Jewish history, Israel. Started giving money to Zionist causes, subscribing to magazines.”
“That you happened to pick up.”
“The Issa Qumdis thing caught my eye because the basic point was that the guy was a scamster but that it hadn’t impeded his academic career. That always fascinates me. How little reality has to do with the way life plays out—he was something, wasn’t he? Tenure Personified, that cultured stance, then coming out and saying people should be killed. Pretty damn hateful for a college professor.”
“Lots of hatred in academia,” I said.
“You’ve seen that, personally?”
“It’s usually more subtle, but you’d be amazed at what goes on at faculty parties when the scholarly set thinks no one’s listening.”
“Wonder if Issa Qumdis spouts off that way at Harvard. Don’t colleges have hate speech regulations?”
“The rules are enforced selectively.”
“Whose ox is being gored . . . yeah, it’s a sweet world. Enough about that, time to focus on the evil Dr. Larsen. Learn anything about any local scam?”
“Not yet. I asked Olivia to look into it. Gave her the Sentries program as a lead because I came across it surfing.”
“Sentries for Justice . . . Olivia’s as good as it gets . . . By the way, Franco Gull finally broke routine and went to a health club. Pumped iron, ignored the ladies, went home. So maybe he knows about the scam and what the stakes are. The guy tends to get emotional. Maybe he can be wedged and cracked open. Make sense?”
“You’d be showing your hand.”
“Yeah, but if I don’t make any other progress soon, what choice do I have?” He rubbed his face. “Okay, I’ll wait till you hear from Olivia, but eventually I’m gonna have to make a decision—” His cell phone beeped, he slapped it against his ear. “Sturgis . . . when? Really. Okay, give me the number.”
His pad and pen were still out and he scrawled hastily, clicked the phone shut with a strange smile on his face. “Well, well, well.”
“Who was that?”
“Detective Binchy. Obedient lad that he is, he is at his desk wrapping up his paperwork before he sets out for another look-see on Gull. A call just came in for me, and he took it. Sonny Koppel, wanting to talk. He’s dining. Coffee shop on Pico. I’m invited to drop by.”
“That include me?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’m including you.”
CHAPTER
35
The coffee shop was called Gene’s, and it was one of the few bright spots on a dark, quiet block. South side of Pico, just a few yards from the traffic on La Cienega. A short stroll from the eastern border of Milo’s district.
It was ten-forty when we got there, and the place was fully lit. Long, skinny room with grubby vinyl floors, a Formica counter, and seven matching tables bleached by high wattage. A sign in front said OPEN TO MIDNIGHT. Inside, two young guys in oversized eyeglasses whispered conspiratorially over coffee, pie, and the bound screenplay placed equidistant between them. An old woman gummed an egg salad sandwich. Behind her, a muscular man in gray work clothes read old news in the morning paper and worked on a hamburger.
Shrouded in a limp, gray raincoat, Sonny Koppel sat at the counter forking bacon and eggs into his mouth. The counterman ignored Koppel, as he scrubbed a deep fryer. When we approached, he turned briefly then returned to his chore.
Koppel wiped his mouth, got off his stool, and carried his plate, his napkin, and his utensils to a front table. Near the door but away from the other
diners. Under his raincoat, he wore mocha brown sweats with white piping. Loosely laced tennis shoes covered smallish, wide feet. He’d shaved recently, had nicked himself several times.
His coffee cup remained behind, and Milo brought it over to the table. The counterman turned, and said, “Anything for you guys?”
“No, thanks.”
Koppel was still on his feet when Milo brought the coffee cup over.
“Thanks,” he said. “One sec.” Returning to the counter, he snagged ketchup and Tabasco sauce. Finally, he pulled out a chair, sat, wiped his lips. Bounced a fork tine against the rim of his plate and smiled at his plate. “Breakfast food. I like it for dinner.”
“To each his own,” said Milo. “What can we do for you?”
“That photograph—of that girl. Do you still have it with you?”
Milo reached into his jacket pocket, produced the death shot, and handed it to Koppel.
Koppel studied it and nodded. “When you first showed it to me, there was something about it. But I couldn’t place it, really had nothing I could tell you, so I said I’d never seen her. I really wasn’t sure I had.” He licked his lips. “But it stuck in my mind.”
“Now you think you know her,” said Milo.
“I can’t be certain,” said Koppel. “If it is her, I only saw her a couple of times—literally. Two times.” He glanced at the photo again. “The way she is here, it’s hard to say . . .”
“Death’ll do that to you.”
Koppel swallowed air. Forked a strip of bacon, lost it midair, and watched it land just shy of his plate. He picked it up between his fingers, set it back next to the mound of eggs, kissed the grease on his fingertips.
“Where do you think you might’ve seen her, Mr. Koppel?” said Milo.
“She might be a girl I saw at Jerry Quick’s office. Hanging around with Jerry’s secretary.”
“Jerry’s secretary . . .”
“Angie Paul.”
“You know Angie personally?”
“I know her from coming over to talk to Jerry about the rent.” Koppel scratched the side of his nose. “You’re interested in her, as well? She always made me wonder.”
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