“Like I said, we need to verify,” said Milo. “For our report, so we can let you go and be done with all this.”
“Proper procedure,” said Helga. “Enabling you to pretend competence.”
“You know about procedure.”
Helga arched an eyebrow.
Milo said, “That old joke? Hell is the place where the Italians establish procedure and the Swiss are in charge of design?”
“Hell, Policeman, is the place Americans gorge themselves to unconsciousness and delude themselves to mindless optimism.”
“Never heard that version,” said Milo. “But you have to admit, the Swiss are darn good at design-who makes the best watches? Speaking of which, let’s talk about those timers. Where’d you get them?”
“From Des.”
The quick reply caught him off-guard. He covered with a prolonged nod. “Des Backer.”
“No, Des Hitler-yes, Des Backer. I want to go and pay my fine and be gone.”
“Soon,” said Milo. “What else did Des supply you with?”
“Everything.”
“Meaning-”
“You have invaded my studio, you know what is there.”
“The fuses, the wiring, the vegan Jell-O. Des knew about all that because he was…”
“He claimed to be an anarchist.”
“Claimed? You think he was faking?”
“Des indulged himself.”
“Des and women.”
“He was not a serious person.”
Milo said, “Where’d you two meet? An anarchist convention-guess that’s kind of an oxymoron, huh?”
Helga said, “In a chat room.”
“Which one?”
“Shards.net.”
“As in broken glass?”
“As in broken universe,” she said. “It has closed down. Anarchists are not good at self-perpetuation.”
“Poor organizational skills,” said Milo. Silence.
“So you met online… Des being an architect must’ve made it seem perfect. Though the combination is kind of odd. Building up and destroying.”
“There is no contradiction.”
“Why’s that?”
“As I told you, everything depends on context. But anyway, I am not an anarchist, I do not join movements.”
“So you’re a…”
“I am,” said Helga Gemein, with the first smile I’d seen her offer, “myself.”
Milo fiddled with his papers some more, feigned confusion. “Kind of a one-woman truth squad… So you met Des online and the two of you decided to burn some twigs.”
“I decided.”
“He was your supplier,” said Milo. “Knew where to get equipment. That was the real reason you hired him. The real reason you established your firm.”
Silence.
“Nice shell,” he went on, “for explaining your presence in L.A., giving you a reason to be hanging with Des. Covering expenses-fifty thousand in cash? Who’s the real source of all that money, your father?”
No response.
“The road trip to Port Angeles, Helga. Nice, crisp bills in two suitcases. The kind you get fresh from a bank. The kind that gets released when one bank talks to another.”
Helga Gemein poked a finger under her wig. “I would like some water.”
Milo collected his papers and left. Alone, Helga fooled with the hairpiece some more, massaging the top of the glossy black strands, working a finger joint under the hem and poking around.
Don Boxmeister said, “What, she’s got cooties? Maybe we should’ve strip-searched her.”
Maria Thomas said, “What I said still stands, Don: No sense alienating her right off, he needs something to work with. And it’s paying off, she admitted premeditation.” Several pokes at the BlackBerry. “I’m needed back in an hour, hope he can nail the bitch soon.”
Helga straightened the wig, turned, leaned on the table. Sat and planted her boots on the floor. Her eyes closed. Her head swayed.
“What the hell’s she doing?” said Boxmeister. “Some kind of meditation?”
I said, “Probably dissociation. Putting herself somewhere else is her default strategy.”
Milo returned with a small cup of water. Helga didn’t acknowledge him, but her eyes opened when he said, “Here you go,” and placed it in front of her.
He put on reading glasses, reviewed his notes. She eyed him, finally sipped.
“Okay, tell me about the trip to Port Angeles.”
She touched a fringe of wig. “I engaged in tourism. The great lifeblood of American pseudo-culture.”
“A pleasure trip.”
“I have been to Disneyland, as well.”
“Guess I don’t need to ask if you liked it.”
“Actually,” she said, “it was quite pleasing in its own repugnant way. Consistent.”
“With vulgar American culture?”
“With a world devoid of reason.”
He harrumphed. Slid a couple of sheets toward her. “This is your registration form from the Myrtlewood Inn in Port Angeles. And this is your car rental receipt.”
“I stayed at a nice hotel,” she said. “So?”
“You and Des Backer both stayed there. You took separate rooms, the staff remembers you paying for both. They also recall seeing you and Des at breakfast together.”
Guesses. Good ones. Helga Gemein frowned. “So what? I already told you I got my equipment from him.”
“It was a purchasing trip.”
“Sightseeing, then some purchasing.”
“Why’d you give Des your car and rent another vehicle for yourself?”
“Because we were not together.”
“As…”
“As being together.”
“Did you drive up together?”
“I drove, he flew.”
“So no one at the office would suspect anything.”
“I wanted to drive,” said Helga. “He wanted to fly. He wanted to visit his family.”
“What did you do when he was visiting?”
“I shopped.”
“For timers and fuses?”
“Among other things,” said Helga.
“What things?”
“Clothing.”
“Find some bargains?”
“Jeans,” she said, stroking one shapely thigh. “Black jeans on sale.”