Heavy-stock paper, elegant engraving. Three lines of type.
Your Opinion Has Been Duly Received
With Great Enthusiasm.
Fuck You, Very Much.
“Excellent, sir.”
“Let’s have that back, Sturgis. I’m still not sure if the wording’s right.”
The chief resumed eating. The side salad was half a head of ice-burg lettuce. Thin, pallid lips curled as his knife reduced it to coarse-cut coleslaw. Spearing a few green shreds, he masticated with relish, as if undressed greens were a sinful indulgence.
“In any event, Ms. Gemein’s ludicrous act of self-destruction appears to be receding from the public’s attention span, ergo, no need to throw anyone under the bus.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“So tell me, Dr. Delaware, why’d the bitch snuff herself?”
“Hard to say.”
“If it was easy, I wouldn’t be asking you. Theorize like you’re getting paid for it, I won’t hold you to your answer.”
I said, “She may have been living with a serious underlying depression for a long time.”
“Poor little rich girl? From what I hear she wasn’t the sniffly, breast-beating sort.”
“Not a passive depression. She reacted like some men do, with hostility and isolation.”
“Men with borderline personality disorder?”
“That’s one possible diagnosis.”
“Depressed.” He put down his fork. “What kind of family has a suicide, doesn’t give a fuck? Not a squawk from Zurich. Which is good for us, these are über-rich people, all we need is a lawsuit. I had D.C. Weinberg call them personally in Switzerland, do his Colin Powell bit-august authority plus diplomacy. The mother thanked him for letting her know, like he was informing her about the weather, then she handed the phone off to the old man who did the same damn thing. Polite, unemotional, no questions, send the body when we’re finished with it. What a bunch of coldhearted fucks, guess that could depress you. You think that’s why she didn’t have sex, Doctor? Shaved her damn hair off-that was a good phrase, by the way, Sturgis. Self-abasement. I’m going to work that into a speech one day. You’re saying this mess was all the result of not enough Prozac, Doctor?”
“I’m saying depression could’ve been her base state and she tried to give her life meaning by taking on a mission.”
“Burning down that ridiculous heap of wood to avenge her sister, that whole tribal thing whatchamacallit…”
Milo said, “Sutma.”
“Sounds like kama sutra,” said the chief. “Something out of a National Geographic special. Then again, we live in multicultural times, so far be it from me to disparage stupid primitive customs. Okay, she went on a mission, fucked up, offed herself out of shame. I’ll go with that. You see her for the turret murders?”
“Can’t say for sure, sir, but my gut says no.”
The chief ate more lettuce. “Anyone have a feel for whether Prince Teddy’s dead or alive?”
Milo said, “No, sir.”
“What’s your plan on the turret murders?”
“No plan yet, sir.”
“Then develop one and do it quickly. I’ve got a case I want you to deal with. Gang scum in Southwest Division sucking the federal tit-gang prevention grant. Which is like pedophiles getting paid to run a preschool. I’ve got reason to believe the money’s being used to buy heavy artillery.”
“Southwest Division needs my help?”
“I determine who needs what. You’ve got two weeks to close the turret murders before it goes in the fridge.” Manicured fingers lifted a quarter of sandwich. “Don’t like your steak?”
“It’s great, sir.”
“Then wolf it down the way you usually do. Couple of refreshing burps and you’re on your way to Van Nuys to check out that hangar.”
“The Sranilese embassy granted permission?”
“Forty-eight hours of ignoring our reasonable request, plus exigent danger? Fuck them, Sturgis. I grant permission.”
CHAPTER 35
Beautiful afternoon at Van Nuys Airport.
No security lines, no delays or other indignities. This was the Mont Blanc of travel, all private, every happy sojourner owning or leasing one of the spotless white jets luxuriating on the tarmac.
Quiet afternoon, a single craft ran its engines. Citation X as sleek as an Indy car. Porters hurried to fill the hold with a dolly-ful of Vuitton luggage as a well-fed, sunglassed family of four boarded. Thirtyish mother, fiftyish father, two kids under ten. Everyone in suede.
The luxury terminal backing the runways was nestled in greenery. So were the three other luxury depots we’d passed. The hangars sat at the north end of the airport, monumental toy chests.
The bomb squad was waiting at Hangar 13A when Milo and I arrived. Familiar faces from the search at Helga’s house and her workshop, all the tech toys in place, ready for a replay.
New dog today, a beautifully groomed flat-coated retriever named Sinead who stood patiently at her handler’s side, emitting the confidence that comes from good looks and serious talent.
Milo said, “Okay to pet her, Mitch?”
The handler said, “Sure.”
A big hand stroked the dog’s head. Sinead purred like a cat. “She’s a solo act?”
Mitch said, “She’s the only one we can trust because she won’t get distracted by jet fuel and such.”
“Good nose, huh?”
“The best,” said Mitch. “We already did the outside perimeter. Clean. Let’s go inside.”
Sinead was in and out within seconds. The bomb squad followed up with a detailed search, declared the hangar safe, motioned us in.
The interior was smaller than the house on Borodi, but not by much, with twenty-foot ceilings, a carpeted floor, and cedar paneling. At the center sat a navy-blue Gulfstream 5. Numbers on the tail conformed to Sranil’s international designation. One of three planes registered to the island, all belonging to the royal family. A gold-painted crest on the door showcased the Sranilese flag: palm fronds, a crown, three stars in a single horizontal row.
Behind the jet were stacks of wooden crates piled ten feet high. Milo had officers lower a few to the ground, began prying them open.
Mikimoto pearls in the first. Thousands of them in velvet-lined boxes. The next three contained plastic-wrapped fur coats with an emphasis on sable. Crate number four was devoted to a four-foot-wide Tiffany chandelier: hollyhocks in a riot of color and luminosity.