to go to law school, got called back to Sranil around two years ago. That fits the Borodi construction schedule perfectly.”
“Why was he called back?”
“The prevailing wisdom is he partied too much, spent too much of his brother’s money. And guess what: The sultan’s name is Daoud-he’s the sixth of seven Daouds in the royal line-and his palace’s official name is Dar Salaam Daoud.”
“DSD… got a full official name for Teddy?”
I pulled out my notes. “Tariq Bandar Asman Ku’amah Majur.”
He swiveled, logged onto the department’s database. “Like he’s gonna be in here-well looky
“Maybe he didn’t want to bother. Or he got booted back home before the traffic nazis came after him.”
“Too many toys, huh? Sultan controls the purse strings?”
“Seems to, and there could be a personality conflict. The sultan’s devout, shows relative restraint for someone that wealthy.”
“Only a dozen Rolls-Royces?”
“Three, according to the royal website,” I said. “And two are classics he inherited from his grandfather. But we’re not talking the simple life. The royal palace is something out of a storybook-think Taj Majal on steroids.”
“That mean a turret?”
“Whole bunch of turrets. The royal site also claims the sultan opens the place to the public several times a year. Same for his yacht-used for charitable fund-raisers. And a hefty percentage of oil profits gets reinvested in infrastructure and hospitals. I can’t judge the truth of any of that, because freedom of the press is nil. But the sultan could have good reason to share the wealth. Two competing rebels groups are camped in the jungles of Indonesia, itching to get their hands on his fossil fuel. One bunch thinks he’s insufficiently religious, the other’s Maoist. So far, they’ve spent more time beheading each other, but it pays to be careful.”
“Bread and circuses,” he said. “Brother Teddy’s profligate ways would be bad P.R.”
“Ergo confidentiality pledges. It’s clearly in Masterson’s best interest to keep the sultan happy. The Sranil project is one of their biggest: massive health-care complex, a med school, state-of-the-art research labs, luxury residential towers for imported doctors and nurses. A complete city based on health care, really. Phase One is an oncology center. I called my old department head at Western Pediatric and he’s actually been to Sranil as a consultant. Described the island as a strange place-skyscrapers rising from the sand, everything spookily clean and organized, but relatively primitive tribes still living in the central jungle. He also told me the sultan has personal motivation for that cancer center: One of his children was diagnosed with neuroblastoma as an infant, sent to England for treatment but died. There’s no reason to believe any of his other kids will get sick but the sultan’s being careful.”
“Help your own, buy some international goodwill in the process, keep the savages from your door,” he said. “So what’s Prince Teddy doing with himself nowadays?”
“Since he returned, he’s completely off the radar.”
“Anything come up about why the Borodi property hasn’t been sold?”
“Maybe the sultan hasn’t gotten around to it.”
“Twelve bil,” he said, “what’s twenty million, give or take?” He swung his feet off the desk. “Interesting, Alex. Thanks, appreciated. The question is…”
“Does it relate to the murders.”
A knock on the doorjamb made us both turn.
Moe Reed said, “I might’ve found something on DSD.”
Milo said, “Dar Salaam Daoud.”
Reed’s eyes got big. “So you know about the murder.”
“What murder?”
“The guy who owned the property on Borodi.” Flipping pages of his pad. “Tariq Asman allegedly killed someone. If my source is credible.”
Milo eyed the young detective. “I’d invite you in, but you’ve been pumping too much iron and those biceps won’t fit.”
The three of us moved to an empty interview room still reeking of intimidation. Milo made sure the taping system was off, shoved the table into the center, drew curtains across the mirror.
“Let’s hear it, Moses.”
Reed said, “I called embassies in D.C., got nowhere until I reached the Israeli embassy and some guy barks, ‘DSD? That’s not Arab, it’s Sranil.’ When I asked what Sranil was, he hung up. So I went online, learned about Sranil. Including the fact that the Indonesians don’t like it, worry it could be used one day as a base for insurgents. So I figured maybe I could take advantage of that and went over to the Indonesian consulate. It’s a suite in an office building in Mid-Wilshire, you’d never know from the outside. The front office was full of cute girls, friendly, smiling, all of them shined me on, claimed they’d never heard of Sranil. So I leave and when I get to my car, one of the girls runs out and says, ‘I’ll tell you about that place but don’t come back.’ Real nervous and she’s taken off her I.D. badge. Anyway, she made it clear she doesn’t like the Sranil tribe, they were barbaric heathens before they became Muslims, the sultan pretends to be some righteous religious dude, meanwhile he’s covering up for his brother Tariq, who’s a major lowlife. She says that’s what you’re here about, right? Which takes me by surprise but I say sure. That’s when she gets into it, telling me how there’s a rumor Tariq killed some foreign party girl in L.A., it got covered up, he split. I tried to get details out of her but she said she had no firsthand knowledge, it’s just what she heard.”
“Heard where?”
“Around,” said Reed. “That’s all she’d say.”
“And she doesn’t like Sranil.”
“So she could be badmouthing them, sure. I couldn’t find anything on the Web about any murder.”
“Foreign girl as in non-Asian?” said Milo.
“As in European, she thought Swedish, but couldn’t pinpoint. Think it means anything, Loo?”
Milo filled him in on my research.
“Interesting,” said Reed. “But I’m not seeing any obvious link to the Borodi murders.”
“Me neither, Moses, but the fact that our female vic was snooping in Masterson’s files and Masterson’s in cahoots with the Sranilese government is a start. Let’s try to find out if the rumor about Prince Tariq has any substance. Look at unsolveds during the period he lived in L.A. Spread a wide net but focus on foreign female vics.”
I said, “Our female victim was a good-looking woman. She could’ve been a party girl, too.”
“Friend of the victim,” said Reed. “Maybe she’s foreign, herself, and that’s why she faked her identity-some sort of immigration issue.”
Milo said, “Cheap clothes says maybe the party was over, maybe she was aiming for a big score. The Borodi site definitely interested her. In addition to going there with Backer, she was spotted hanging around by herself.”
“What if the site was a previous crime scene, Loo? Tariq brought a girl up there and something went wrong-could’ve even been an accident, she falls down the stairs, or out of a window hole. Or he really is a scumbag. Either way, he’s gone but Brigid knows what happened, decides to profit.”
“If she knew where it happened, why bother to snoop in the files?”
“Okay, maybe she knew about the place in general, but needed details,” said Reed. “Or she was searching for other real estate Tariq owned, thinking he might be back and she could get to him.”
