“What neighborhood was the house in?”
“Brentwood.”
“Could you find it?”
“For sure.”
Milo stood. “Let’s do it.”
“Right now?”
“Can’t think of a better time, Ati.”
CHAPTER 28
The house that evoked Ati Meneng’s “That’s it!” was a mini-colonial wedged between two much larger Mediterraneans. Twenty-minute drive from the station, nice section of Brentwood, a short walk to the Country Mart.
One symmetrical story was faced with white clapboard. Lead-pane windows were grayed by curtains and sideburned by black shutters. A red door was topped by a fanlight. The lawn was compact and trimmed, the empty driveway spotless.
Two blocks away was the vacant lot Helga Gemein had given her partners for her nonexistent residence. Milo said, “You’re sure, Ati?”
“Totally. I remember the door. I told Dahlia a red door could mean good luck in Asia. Dahlia laughed and said, ‘I don’t need luck, I’m adorable.’”
“Okay, thanks for all your help. Detective Reed will take you back.”
She turned to Reed. “You can just take me to my car. Or we could have lunch, I could call in sick.”
Reed’s voice was flat. “Whatever you want.”
Ati Meneng said, “I guess I’m hungry, they’ll probably yell at me, anyway.”
Milo ran the address. Taxes were paid by Oasis Finance Associates, an investment firm in Provo, Utah. A call there elicited the guarded admission from the controller that the owners were “non-U.S.-citizens who wish to retain their privacy.”
“Swiss or Asian?” said Milo.
“Pardon?”
“Swiss or Asian, which is it?”
“This is important?”
“It’s a murder investigation, Mr. Babcock. The victim’s a woman named Dahlia Gemein.”
“Gemein,” said the controller. “Then you already know.”
“I’ll take that to mean Swiss.”
“You never heard it from me.” Milo clicked off.
I said, “Daddy Gemein’s held on to the house two years after Dahlia disappeared. Maybe it’s the family’s West Coast getaway, as in sister gets to live here, too.”
Milo said, “Kinda cute and traditional for Helga, but with Daddy paying the bills, she’s flexible.” Gloving up, he loped up the driveway, paused to peer through windows, continued to the garage, tried the door. Locked, but he managed to budge it an inch from the ground, squint through the crack.
Standing, he dusted himself off. “Little red Boxster, red motorcycle, looks like a Kawasaki. Be interesting if either was spotted on or near Borodi.”
He called Don Boxmeister, gave him the info.
Perfect timing; the arson squad’s canvass was in full swing and a red bike had been spotted the day before the fire. Three blocks west of Borodi, parked illegally on a particularly dark section of street. The neighbor who’d seen it hadn’t bothered to call it in. Boxmeister’s other nugget was forensic: Initial analysis of residue found at the scene was consistent with vegan Jell-O, and scorched wires suggested electronic timing devices.
Milo gave Boxmeister Ati Meneng’s story, then hung up and searched the inside cover of a notepad where he keeps a list he doesn’t want on his computer: phone numbers of cooperative judges. Each time he begins a new pad, he recopies meticulously.
Running his finger down the small-print, back-slanted columns, he said, “This is your lucky day, Judge LaVigne.”
LaVigne was available in chambers and Milo went full-bore, making more of the blond jogger than was justified by the facts, labeling the red Kawasaki as “rock-solid physical evidence.” Emphasizing Helga Gemein’s virulent hatred for humanity and evasive behavior when initially questioned, he tossed in speculation about international terrorist links, maybe even neo-Nazi connections.
“Exactly, Your Honor, like Baader-Meinhof, all over again. Meaning the house-and I’m looking at it right now-could be a source of weapons, explosives, bomb timers, all of which has been implicated in the arson as well as the multiple murders. Top of that, the suspect may already be gone, we really need this warrant now.”
It was as good a performance as I’ve seen and within seconds, he was winking and giving the thumbs-up. “Love that guy, he’ll draft it himself, all I need to do is get it picked up and filed.”
A call to Sean Binchy took care of the trip to the criminal courts building. Binchy was still at Manny Forbush’s law office, soon as he had the dupes of GHC’s hard drives he’d head downtown.
We waited for the locksmith and the bomb squad and the explosives dogs. Milo ’s cell battery was depleted and he switched to my car phone to get his messages. Lots of bureaucratic trash and one that mattered: Officer Chris Kammen of the Port Angeles, Washington, police department.
Kammen’s basso rattled the hands-off speaker. “Hey, how’s it going? We went over to that storage unit at four a.m. These people are neat-freaks, just about the most organized junk pile I’ve ever seen. Which is why I’m confident telling you there are no suitcases full of money. Not behind the piano or anywhere else.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was,” said Kammen. “Fortunately for you, the facility’s got after-hours video that actually works. Unfortunately for you, it doesn’t tell much. At eleven forty-three p.m. a male Caucasian in a dark hoodie used a key to gain entry and came out ten minutes later carrying what my grandma would call two stout valises. I’m getting a copy of the tape to send you, but trust me, it’s not going to accomplish diddly. All you got is shadows and blur, the hood covers his face completely.”
“How do you know he’s Caucasian?”
“White hands.”
“He didn’t bother gloving,” said Milo. “Apparently not.”
“Maybe that’s because finding his prints in the bin wouldn’t be suspicious. Mrs. Flatt was really nervous about Mr. Flatt finding out she held on to them. Maybe he did.”
Kammen said, “I wondered the same thing so first thing I did was look Flatt up, and trust me, it’s not him. He’s a big boy, six six, used to play basketball for P.A. High, power forward, good outside shot, I remember the name now. We used the gate as a frame of reference to get a measure on Hoodie and he’s closer to five ten.”
“Definitely a male?”
“Why? You got a bad girl in your sights?”
“Square in our sights. Looks like she burned down the big house early this morning.”
“The same one?” said Kammen. “Where the bodies were?”
“Yup.”
“Whoa, it’s complicated out in L.A. What time did the house fry?”