“Don,” said Boxmeister. “I’d shake your hand but mine’s filthy. This was some conflagration, reminds me of you-know-which jungle, Milo, huh? Vegan Jell-O, haven’t heard that in a while, yeah it sure works like napalm. You mind continuing with the murder part of it so we can concentrate on the arson? Which isn’t to say we won’t be collaborating.”
Milo said, “Sounds good, Don. That Fed I mentioned said Jell-O’s an eco-terrorist fave-rave.”
“Used to be, Milo, but we don’t see that kind of big-scale looniness on the Westside, except for occasional threats to animal researchers. All we had last year was a wimpy amateur fire set in one of the U’s med labs and we caught the fool. Worked there, sweeping floors, no affiliation with any group-one of those guys you’d know about, Doc. Shit-for-brains thought he’d liberated all the little Mickeys but what he ended up with was rodent flambé and third-degrees on both arms. I think it stays quiet here because no one expects houses in Holmby or B.H. or Bel Air to be anything but gross. You start eliminating ostentatiousness on the Gold Coast, you get the Gobi Desert.”
“Bite your tongue, Don.”
Boxmeister grinned, pulled out a notepad and pen. “Tell me again which oil type owned this barbecue.”
“Prince Tariq of Sranil. Not the Mideast, Asia, it’s near Indonesia -”
“I’ll look it up,” said Boxmeister. “So you’re thinking your original vics also planned to torch the place but got interrupted by someone, they had an accomplice who finished the job and roasted whatshisname Rutger in the process.”
“That’s a good summary, Don.”
“Political. That sucks. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to keep a lid on that part of it, no sense getting the neighbors thinking al-Qaeda’s lurking near their tennis courts.”
“Good idea,” said Milo. “Especially because all I’ve got are guesses.”
I said, “How was the body positioned?”
“There was no body, Doc. Just bones and ashes and some dental plates.”
“Did the fire move it?”
Boxmeister thought. “That high up, probably not.”
“Where in the turret was it found?”
“Right in the middle.”
“Not near the stairs?”
“Was he trying to escape? Doesn’t look like it.”
“Quiet killer,” I said. “Rutger had no idea.”
“Or he knew but couldn’t do a damn thing about it. No traces of a cell phone were found.”
Milo said, “Phone would’ve survived the blast?”
“Some part of it probably would,” said Boxmeister. “Tell you one thing, I’m going to look into the composition of that liver can. Anything that can survive something like this, I’m stockpiling.”
A woman’s voice, argumentative, caused the three of us to turn.
A young brunette in the grip of a female officer pointed at Milo. Slim, long-haired, the house-sitting daughter who’d spotted Doreen Fredd on Borodi.
Amy… Thal. She wore a red silk robe over pajamas and fuzzy pink slippers. Protested as the cop held her back.
Milo jogged over, excused the officer, returned with Thal. High-intensity lights turned her freckles to Braille dots.
“Don, this is Ms. Thal, a cooperative neighbor. Amy, Captain Boxmeister from the arson squad.”
Boxmeister said, “I’d shake your hand but mine’s filthy.”
Amy Thal rubbed the arm the cop had held. “I tried to explain to her that I knew you, had something to say. It’s not like I’m some lookyloo, this is my frickin’ neighborhood.”
“Sorry,” said Milo. “What’s up, Amy?”
“I saw another woman I didn’t recognize. Yesterday, jogging past this place at least three times.” Sniffing burnt air. “This is crazy, what’s going on, Lieutenant?”
“Tell me about the woman.”
“Blond, long hair, tight bod. She looked like a runner, at the time I didn’t think much of it but now I’m wondering. Because she kept running back and forth and why do that when there are all sorts of interesting runs you can take? I mean, cross the street and go by the Playboy Mansion, or Spelling’s old place, go down to Comstock and run around the park. Why keep passing back and forth? I mean it’s suspicious, right?”
“Three times,” said Milo.
“Three times I saw, Lieutenant, could’ve been more. I was in the living room, stretched out on the couch, reading. Generally, it’s real quiet, so anything that moves you notice. Yesterday, I saw a huge coyote, just ambling past, like he owned the street.”
“Was there anything strange about her?”
“She seemed kind of intense. But that’s runners, right? I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But now? What do you guys think?”
“We think we appreciate your coming forth, Amy.”
Boxmeister nodded. “Anything more you can say about what she looked like, ma’am?”
“Black tights, bare tummy, sports bra. Decent face, at least from a distance. Maybe real boobs but with a sports bra, I can’t be sure.”
Milo said, “What kind of blond?”
“Ultra,” said Amy Thal.
“Platinum?”
She nodded. “Long and shiny-and no ponytail like most girls do when they run. She just let that sucker flap in the breeze. Like ‘Look at me, I am soooo silky.’ She reminded me of that comedy thing a while back, my dad used to love to watch them, my mom always got pissed off because she thought it wasn’t humor that got his interest. The Swedish Bikini Team. I think they sold beer or something.”
Don Boxmeister said, “Old Milwaukee.”
Amy Thal said, “It was years ago, I was a kid. Dad loved them. This girl was like that. Okay, I’d better get on the horn, tell Mom and Dad to keep enjoying Paris.”
Milo thanked her. She gave his wrist a sudden squeeze, turned and left.
Boxmeister said, “Nice ass, like to do a hand-count of those freckles. Too bad her info’s useless. Hottie jogging in Holmby, big shock.”
“Don, the girl this prince is reputed to have offed was Swedish.”
“Oh…” Boxmeister’s smile was sheepish. “Back up the tape, erase. Our firebug’s a lady out for personal revenge? Then how do your first two vics figure in?”
“Like you said, they could’ve been in it together. Or she was a family member of the Swedish vic, hired them, they got killed, she decided to finish the job.”
“You’re seeing her as why they got killed? That’s kinda thin.”
Milo didn’t answer.
Boxmeister slapped his back. “Look on the bright side, be nice to have a good-looking suspect in the box, for a change. Just in case Blondie has nothing to do with it, though, I’ll be doing it old-school, combing the files for any serious pro torches recently paroled or released. Let you know if I come up with something, and you find anything pointing to Anita Ekberg, you call me pronto.”
We watched him leave.
Milo said, “How early do you think diplomat types get to work?”
CHAPTER 25
The Swedish consulate rents space on the seventh floor of a high-rise at Wilshire near Westwood. Consular assistant Lars Gustafson was at his desk at eight thirty, took Milo ’s call with puzzlement but agreed to meet in an hour.
“Out in front, please, Lieutenant.” The faintest trace of accent.
“Any reason we can’t come up?”
“Let’s enjoy the nice weather. I’ll be there promptly.”
“How will I know you?”
“I’ll do my best to look Swedish.”
Milo hung up. “Aw shucks, thought I’d get a look at the furniture. Bet it ain’t IKEA.”
We were in place by nine twenty-five, watching the revolving door accept people dressed for business.
At nine twenty-nine a.m., a throng emerged and dispersed. The man who stayed behind was around thirty, tall, athletically built, wearing a fitted brown suit, yellow shirt, butterscotch shoes.
Blond and blue-eyed, but his hair was kinky, his skin milk-chocolate, his features those of a Masai warrior.