Five and six: gold ingots. Onward to platinum jewelry. Tapestries. Paintings, mostly of the sweet-domestic-scene variety. Old Master etchings, more gold, bags of loose-cut diamonds.
One of the cops said, “We get a finder’s fee?”
Milo put down his crowbar, walked to the opposite end of the hangar where, blocked by the jet’s mammoth body, a fleet of cars sat under navy-blue covers. Same royal insignia on each.
Removing the cloths revealed a red Ferrari Enzo, a black Bugatti Veyron, a lime-green Lamborghini convertible, a silver Rolls-Royce Phantom limousine. Behind the limo, a white Prius.
“Oh, man,” said the same cop. “I shoulda been born in Saudi Arabia.”
“Sranil,” said another.
“Whatever, dude. This level of bling, call me Hussein and circumcise me with a dull knife and no anesthesia.”
“The first time didn’t hurt enough?” said his buddy.
Another officer said, “Heard they didn’t leave much to work with.”
“You heard wrong, dude. Ask your wife.”
Laughter.
The first cop said, “What’s with the hybrid, looks like a zit on the Roller’s butt.”
“Probably got a solid-gold engine block, dude. Or maybe some serious tuning-can I pop the hood, Loo?”
Milo held up a restraining palm. Circled the cars, gloved up. Smoked windows on each vehicle, but unlocked doors. He opened the Prius’s driver’s door and stopped.
We rushed over.
A cop said, “Oh, Jesus, that’s rank.”
Two skeletons took up the rear of the hybrid, huddled, embracing, a duet of interlocking bones. To my eyes, not a staged pose; the natural instinct to draw together when faced with the worst news of all.
Milo aimed his flashlight on the bones and I peered around his bulk. Cottony blond tufts fuzzed the smaller skull, darker strands greased the other.
Femurs and tibias pressed together, fingers entwined.
Eternal lovers.
Milo said, “Two bullet holes in each skull, forehead and under the nose.”
“Execution,” said the cop who’d asked for a look under the hood. “And they made ’em watch.”
Milo continued to work his flashlight. “There’s some skin, mostly at the lower extremities, looks leathery.”
“Mummification,” said another cop. “This place is humidity-and temperature-controlled, probably slowed the decomp but didn’t block it.”
“Whoa, dude, someone’s been watching Forensic Files.”
“Loo, how long do you think they’ve been there?”
Milo said, “We’ll wait for the coroner on that but my guess is a couple of years.”
“Makes sense, Loo. Security guy didn’t remember seeing anyone here and he’s been on the job eighteen months. As opposed to the next one over, that’s Larry Stonefield’s little Porsche garage, Larry likes to drive a different car every day, his crew’s in and out all the time.”
“Fifteen? Gimme one, dude, I’m happy.”
“Gimme one of those boxes, my girlfriend would kill for a millionth of what’s inside.”
“Good choice of words, dude.”
Milo aimed his flashlight at the skeleton’s feet, poked his head in deeper, emerged. “All sorts of crust and stains on the carpet. If they weren’t done in the car, they were done nearby. Okay, let’s get this place roped off.”
Mitochondrial DNA comparison of bone marrow from the blond skeleton and Helga Gemein’s corpse confirmed that Dahlia Gemein had never made it to Sranil.
Identification of the second victim wasn’t established, might never be, as if anyone wondered. The government of Sranil had lodged a formal complaint regarding unauthorized entry to the hangar, demanded immediate return of the plane, the crates, the dark-haired skeleton. Invoking diplomatic privilege and bringing in a supporting army of faceless men and women from the State Department.
“Must be my lucky week, Sturgis,” said the chief. “I get to see you twice.”
“I’m the lucky one, sir.”
The chief touched his rear. “Feels nice to be licked. So in come the ill-fitting suits with their small-print weapons. We get the female skeleton, the rest goes back to sutma-land. Do I look upset, Sturgis?”
“No, sir.”
“Diplomats are amoral, rim-jobbing worms, not worth my time. If the president called, I’d tell him the same thing.”
“I’m sure you would, sir.”
“Think about elections, Sturgis: Some sociopath spends hundreds of millions of dollars for a six-figure job. That’s some serious psychopathology, right, Doctor?”
I smiled.
The chief said, “He thinks I’m kidding. Anyway, to hell with the Feds, to hell with the sultan, to hell with that filthy lucre Teddy was stockpiling. Lot of good it did him. Though I guess I can’t blame the sultan for not wanting to be bankrupted by all that spending.”
Milo said, “And Dahlia?”
“Wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe they don’t like blondes in Sranil.”
“So we’re finished.”
“With international affairs, we are, and the clock’s still ticking on the turret murders. Twelve more days, then off you go to Southwest.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me, just row like a galley slave.”
CHAPTER 36
Days passed. A week. Milo resigned himself to Southwest Division.
“Used to be a rib joint there. Meanwhile, I’m eating healthy.”
Today, that translated to triple portions of lamb and unlimited vegetables from his personal buffet at Moghul.
The woman in the sari refilled iced tea as if she were paid by the pitcher.
“Guess what,” he said. “One of the prime gunrunner suspects is the nephew of Councilman Ortiz and Ortiz is the oily sludge in His Munificence’s tap water.”
“Politics,” I said.
“Whatever he claims, he’s one of them.”
The door to the street opened. A midsized, bespectacled man in a dark green hoodie, jeans, and sneakers stepped in, walked straight toward us without hesitation.
Late twenties, shaved head, sharp cheekbones, rapid, purposeful stride.
Telltale bulge under the sweatshirt.
Milo ’s Glock was out before the guy got ten feet away.
The woman in the sari screamed and dropped to the floor.
The man’s eyes saucered behind thick lenses. “What the-Oh, shit-sorry.”