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“We’re talking last January,” said Milo.

“New Year’s weekend, Scott and I were about to leave for a trip to New Mexico and Des showed up, no advance notice.”

“Did he say where he got the money?”

“I know, I should’ve asked. Scott was furious with me, said it had to be drug money or something else illegal and I’d gotten us in way over our heads. I said that made no sense, Desi had never used dope or alcohol, took care of his body. Scott told me I was being naïve, Desi had been on the road for years, we had no clue about what he’d done. We got into a big fight, Scott demanded I call Desi back, insist he take the suitcases.” Shrill laughter. “It was pretty darn dramatic. Of course, I finally agreed.”

“So you called your brother.”

Ricki Flatt hung her head. “I lied to Scott-only time I’ve ever done that. Why? For the life of me, I wish I could tell you. I just couldn’t bring myself to confront Desi. There’s something about my brother that makes you want to say yes to him. He’s so sweet and direct-in high school, he was voted most popular. It wasn’t just girls who loved him, everyone did.”

I said, “Charisma.”

“Yes, but for me, it was more than that. With Mom and Dad gone, there was no one else. I guess I kept hoping we’d reconnect, be some kind of family. Sam seemed to be a vehicle for that.” Burying her face in her hands, she mumbled.

Milo said, “You still have the money. You’re worried it’s political.”

Ricki Flatt looked up. “When Desi brought it to me, he seemed nervous, made me promise not to ask questions. I keep thinking it was payment for something wrong.”

“Burning down the house.”

“Maybe not literally,” she said. “But something… why else would he hide the money? I promise to send it back to you as soon as I get back home but please don’t tell Scott I kept it.”

“Where is it?”

“Our storage unit. Scott and I rented one after Mom and Dad passed. For their stuff, I couldn’t bear to get rid of anything. I tucked the suitcases in back, behind Mom’s piano. Scott never goes in there.”

“So Desi had a key to the unit?”

“I gave him one. They were his parents, too.”

“When’s the last time you actually saw the money?”

“The last time,” she said, “had to be… a couple of weeks after I stored it, so five months ago, give or take. I went in there and counted it. I’d never counted it initially. Why? Once again, I don’t know.”

“Fifty thousand.”

“In fifty-dollar bills, bound neatly. Do you really think it has something do with what happened to Desi?”

“Money’s the most common motive we see, Ricki.”

“Oh, God, I told Scott he was being paranoid, but now I’m getting sick.” She grabbed Milo’s wrist. “Is my family in danger?”

“I would hope not,” said Milo. “But we do need to get the money in a secure place.”

“I promise I’ll send it straight to you. I was going to stay for a few days, to arrange for Desi to be flown back, but I’ll leave today, have the suitcases shipped first thing in the morning.”

“Please don’t touch them,” said Milo. “We need to process them first.”

“Process?”

“Fingerprinting, that kind of thing. I’ll arrange for everything after you sign some forms releasing the contents of the storage bin for inspection. Is there anything else in your unit that belonged to Desi?”

“No,” said Ricki Flatt. “I’ll fill out anything you need, draw you a diagram showing where I put them. I just want them out of there.”

“I’ll handle it, Ricki.”

“Are Scott and Sam in danger? Please, I need an honest answer.”

“I’ve got no indication your family’s a target.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Thank God.” Gazing up at the ceiling. “What did you get me into, Desi?”

CHAPTER 19

Ricki Flatt filled out the search authorization.

Milo asked her where she was staying.

“I came straight from the airport.”

“Did you rent a car?”

“I took the shuttle to Westwood, then a cab.”

“I’ll get you a place. There’s a victim compensation fund, but it’ll mean more forms and take a while to get compensated.”

“I don’t care about that.” Her hands waved restlessly.

Milo called Sean Binchy over from the big D-room. Binchy was still poring over lists of construction workers with nothing to report.

“Find Ms. Flatt a clean, safe place to bunk down.”

Binchy lifted her luggage. “The Star Inn on Sawtelle has the Triple A rating, cable, and wireless and there’s an IHOP right up the block.”

“Whatever,” said Ricki Flatt.

After the two of them left, I said, “Political, as in baby brother might be an eco-terrorist. It would take more than Backer spouting off for her to worry about that.”

“Yeah, she knows more,” said Milo, “but pushing her right now didn’t feel right. I’ll have Sean keep an eye on her, make sure she sticks around.”

“Backer’s lost decade preceded his parents’ death, but their being crushed by logs could’ve kicked up his motivation.”

“Fifty grand to blow something up. Like a big house, but he never got to it. On the other hand, the money could be from dope or a blackmail payoff. Or he won big at the tables and gave it to Ricki to avoid the taxman.”

We returned to his office where Milo called Officer Chris Kammen. The Port Angeles cop agreed to watch the Flatt residence “as much as we can” and to handle the search of the storage unit as soon as the paperwork came in. “Two suitcases? What color?”

“Look for the ones behind the piano, stuffed with cash.”

“Fifty grand,” said Kammen. His whistle pierced the room. “So the husband’s out of the loop, huh?”

“Flatt doesn’t know his wife held on to the money. She’s playing nice and I want to stay on her good side.”

“Domestic issues,” said Kammen. “Fun.”

A fourth try at Federal Hal’s office left Milo red-faced. “Disconnected number? This is starting to feel personal.”

I said, “Sure, but maybe it’s not you. It’s Doreen Fredd.”

“What the hell was this girl into?”

“She knew Backer years ago. If he was into bad stuff, she’d be a good choice to gather info.”

“Problem child becomes an undercover Fed?”

“Or her problems got her into a situation where she needed to trade favors. I’d look into major eco-vandalism in the Pacific Northwest during Backer’s years on the road.”

“She’s finking on Backer and screwing him? Gives a whole new meaning to undercover.”

“That part could still be chemistry,” I said. “Good technique on her part, too, given Backer’s proclivities.”

“Guy’s into blowing stuff up then becomes an architect and learns to build stuff. Don’t tell me Freud didn’t have a word for that.”

Moe Reed stuck his head in. “Someone to see you, Loo.”

“Better be important.”

“FBI important?”

“Depends what they have to say,” said Milo. But he was up in a flash.

A short, solidly built, dark-haired woman arrived moments later. “Lieutenant? Gayle Lindstrom. I was referred by a mutual friend.”

Gray pantsuit, black flats, molasses accent with an edge. Maybe northern Kentucky or southern Missouri. Fair skin and blue eyes were clear, her chin was prominent and square.

“Nice to meet you, Special Agent Lindstrom.”

Lindstrom grinned. “My mom always told me I was special. Reality’s a little different.” Her bag was as large as Ricki Flatt’s. Black leather, authoritative straps and buckles.

“Mutual friend,” said Milo. “Now who might that be?”

“Yesterday, he was Hal. Today?” She shrugged.

“You guys love that, don’t you?”