Kwok’s space was a pack rat’s paradise crammed with velveteen and carelessly gilded almost-wood, chipped crockery, limp lamp shades, ratty furs, fake Tiffany glass that didn’t even come close. A barely negotiable aisle had been cleared through ceiling-high stacks of treasure.
Kwok was fiftyish, thin and hollow-cheeked, with sparse gray hair and nicotine teeth. A photo of a handsome Asian kid in full-dress Marine Corps regalia hung above the Formica folding table Kwok used as a desk.
Milo said, “Your boy?”
Kwok said, “Over in Iraq right now, they say he’s coming home next month, then heading to Dubai. Guess we got to protect them Arabs.”
“You must be proud of him.”
“He has a head for business, knows computers. I wanted him to take over so I can retire but he said it put him in a bad mood.”
“Business?”
“Being around too much junk. So you’re here about her, huh? What a bitch, no big shock she did bad things. Come on, I’ll show you her place.”
Leading us through the shop, he encountered the sides of a disassembled crib, shoved them aside, continued to the back door.
We exited into a pitted alley that looked out to block walls of neighboring properties. A Toyota Camry took up one slot of Kwok’s three-space lot. HIRAM on the license plate. Multiple alarm warnings on the side windows, heavy-duty crook-lock on the steering wheel.
More security than the mansion on Borodi.
Kwok continued walking south, stopped at the rear of the adjoining shop.
No cars, no painted slots; weeds poked through the pavement. Most of the back wall was a corrugated aluminum garage door. Manual, a pull handle, bolted by a serious combination lock.
Hiram Kwok said, “She keeps no regular hours but is in and out all the time. I always knew when she was here because she was an inconsiderate pain in the butt, leaving her car parked so it stuck out into my area. Look at the layout, she had tons of her own space, why the hell did she have to invade mine? And when her buddies were around, it became a worse problem. I asked her nice at first, she looked at me like I was retarded, finally moved the car. But the next time, same damn thing. Over and over, like she was trying to annoy me.”
“What kind of car did she drive?”
“Buick LeSabre, 2002, I know the license plate by heart.” Kwok rattled off numbers. Milo copied.
“I know it by heart because I called it in to you guys, had to be twenty times. Know what they told me? Disputes between private property owners needed to be settled privately. And now she burned something down. You guys need to change procedures.”
Milo nodded. “Tell me about her buddies.”
“Two of ’em, yuppies,” said Kwok. “Mr. Pretty Boy and Miss Pretty Girl in the BMW. What they were doing with her I could never figure out, I even wondered about a porno shoot, something like that.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s a hidden place, having to go in through the back. And those two looked like actors.”
“Good looking.”
“Too good looking,” said Kwok. “Like they spent a lot of time in front of the mirror. Especially him. Also, the two of them didn’t fit with her. She was like one of those Goths, you know what I’m talking about?”
“All-black clothes, the wigs,” said Milo.
“That Bettie Page wig they showed on TV was a favorite. You know who Bettie was, right? Hottest pinup in the history of the world. Once in a while I find her memorabilia, sells immediately. The Goth thing, one of my daughters went through that, a phase, so I know all about it. She was too old-the German-to be acting like that, but she did.”
“Unlike the other two.”
“The other two were preppies-Ken and Barbie, you know? It just didn’t fit. So I figured porno. Turns out it was even worse, huh?”
A six-pack photo lineup would’ve been optimal procedure but all Milo had were photos of Des Backer and Doreen Fredd, hers postmortem.
Kwok nodded. “Yup, that’s them. So they’re all in it together?”
“Right now, we’re unraveling their relationship.”
“Bunch of firebugs planning who-knows-what, right next door, that’s just great,” said Kwok. “You noticed when you got here that the whole front of her window is blacked over, from the street it looks closed. We’ve got lots of back-door tenants here-musicians use the place five to the north for rehearsals, there’s a girl, they say her brother’s a movie star, I forgot his name, uses hers for a photography lab. But none of them causes problems. I tried to tell the traffic cops something was off about her, they couldn’t care less.”
I said, “Off how?”
“Way she walked, talked, when I tried to tell her about the parking situation, she just looked through me. Like I didn’t exist. Like I was nothing to her.”
“When’s the last time you saw her here?”
“Not for a while, I’d have to say… a month. What exactly did she burn down?”
“We’re still working on that,” said Milo.
“Meaning none of my business? Fine, just as long as she doesn’t come back and blow me up.”
“If you do see her again, here’s my card, Mr. Kwok.”
“You’re not going to keep an eye out for her-surveillance?”
“We’ll be doing everything to catch her, sir.”
Kwok hadn’t taken the card. Milo held it there.
“You’ll take me more seriously than those traffic cops?”
“I already have, sir. Your help is deeply appreciated.”
Kwok pocketed the card.
Milo said, “Next time you speak to your son, tell him Dad’s a hero, too.”
Kwok winced. “I don’t know about that, I’m just being logical. Yeah, I’ll call you. Who the hell wants her coming back and burning the whole neighborhood down?”
No sign of Helga Gemein. By the next day, the tips had ebbed to a handful of useless leads.
Milo traced ownership of the rented storefront to an elderly couple named Hawes living in Rancho Mirage. The lease had been negotiated through a commercial brokerage and the listing broker had since moved to New Jersey.
“Nothing iffy about the move,” he said. “Broker had just gotten married and hubbie was transferred to Trenton. Maybe that’s why she got careless. Helga used her own name but all the backup information she gave was bogus and no one checked. Also, a full year’s rent in cash, up front, tends to ease the process. I got permission to search from Ma and Pa Hawes, nice folks, about as radical as Norman Rockwell, and plenty scared their place was used as a kaboom factory.”
“That’s confirmed?”