I said, “Blackmail could be involved but there could also be a personal component. Avenging a friend. That would explain her bringing Backer up there to have sex.”
Milo said, “Screw you, Tariq. So to speak. But they got spotted. Twelve bil would make it easy to hire a high-grade hit man. Sultan’s already rescued Baby Bro from one murder, what’s a couple more ten thousand miles away?”
Reed said, “Plus, he’s a dictator, used to having his way.”
I said, “A dictator who opens his palace to the peasants because he knows he’s on shaky sand. A fuss about Teddy murdering a girl and getting away with it could shift the sands uncomfortably.”
Milo got up, paced. “It’s a great story and I hope to hell it’s wrong because how could we ever get to someone like that? There’s also the same big question: If Borodi was a crime scene, why hasn’t the sultan unloaded it? And why have a lame, unarmed wimp guard it part-time?”
Reed said, “What if the body’s buried there?”
“All the more so, Moses. Dig it up, dump it, move on. Why hold on to the place?”
Reed had no answer for that and neither did I.
I pulled out my cell phone. Seconds later, I was hanging up from a frosty chat with Elena Kotsos. “She’s certain Brigid wasn’t European. ‘Pure American.’ Which she clearly considers an insult.”
Milo sat back down. “Moses, stretch that net to the entire state. And thanks for coming up with this. You done good.”
“It’s my job, Loo.”
“Hey, kid, remember what I always tell you.”
“Take all of the credit, none of the blame.”
“Better than Prozac, lad. Now be off.”
CHAPTER 17
Milo ran image searches for the sultan and Prince Tariq. Two smallish men who resembled each other, with boyish faces, cleft chins, thin, precise mustaches. Full regalia, both of them smiling. Determination in the sultan’s eyes. Despite the show of perfect white teeth, discomfort in his brother’s.
Milo printed, kept surfing.
A young woman from Goteborg missing three years seemed promising. Inge Samuelsson had worked as a bar hostess in various European and Asian cities, tried Las Vegas, vanished. But the final citation was happy news: She’d shown up in New Zealand, living on a commune, tending sheep.
“Lucky her,” said Milo. “South Pacific, plus all that lanolin.”
The phone rang. Sean Binchy said, “Hey, Loot, finally got employment records out of Beaudry. They really stonewalled until I threatened to go to the press, call them Constructiongate.”
“Creative, Sean.”
“I was actually joking, but they bit. A couple of suits went into an office and they must’ve called a lawyer because they came out announcing the gag agreement didn’t apply to subcontractors, they’d give me names when they found them but it would take a while, there was no central list. I said you guys do government projects, I’ve got friends at INS, they’re pretty interested in illegals working construction. And they went back to check again and said, ‘Guess what, we do have a list.’ Problem is, they keep all their old records in Costa Mesa. I’m heading there right now, but with traffic, it’s going to be a while.”
“Time for some ska punk, Sean.”
“Pardon?”
“Play a CD, go back to your roots. It’ll lighten the journey.”
“I’ve got a bunch of downloads. Third Day, MercyMe, Switch-foot. That’s all faith-based, Loot.”
“I could use some faith right now, Sean.”
Milo returned to the screen, broadened his search to female victims throughout Europe, had plodded through a nonproductive list when Delano Hardy stuck his head in and handed him a message slip. “Showed up in my box.”
“Thanks, Del.”
“Why I get your stuff is beyond me, we’re nowhere near each other alphabetically.”
“It’s happened before?”
“Last week,” said Hardy. “Bunch of solicitations for those fictitious charities pretend to be raising money for cops and firemen. Those, I tossed.”
“Thanks again, Del.”
“Hey, you’d do the same for me.”
Hardy left and Milo read the slip. Sat up and punched air and said, “Welcome back, Teach. Backer’s sister Ricki is home from Yosemite and wishes to talk.”
I said, “Recess is over.”
Ricki Flatt’s voice said she was expecting bad, but not that bad.
Milo tried to be gentle but there’s no easy way and she wept for a long time. He stretched to turn the volume down on the conference setting, but it was already on low.
She said, “Oh, God, Desi. I don’t understand. Was it a mugging? Some random thing?”
Tensing up, I was sure, on “random.”
Milo heard it, too; his eyebrows climbed. “We’re still trying to sort things out, Ms. Flatt, so anything you can tell us would be helpful.”
“You’re in L.A. What could
“Did your brother have any enemies, ma’am?”
“Of course not.”
Ratcheting up her pitch on “not.”
“Ms. Flatt, your brother didn’t die alone. A woman was with him and we still haven’t identified her. If we knew who she was, it would speed up the investigation. I know this is a tough time for you, but if I could scan her photo and e-mail it to you, that would help.”
“Of course, do it,” said Ricki Flatt. “I’m sitting here and not moving. Not even to unpack.”
Ten minutes later: “Oh my God, that’s Doreen!”
“Doreen who?”
“What was her last name… Doreen… Fredd. Two
“Anything romantic between them?”
“They were more like friends, but I really can’t say. I’m three years older than Desi, didn’t get into his personal business.”
“Doreen Fredd.” Milo entered the name into the databases. “What else can you tell me about her, Ms. Flatt?”
“She and Desi used to go hiking together. They all did-a group of kids, they liked the outdoors. One time, I was already in college, visiting home for midsemester break, Desi and his hiking group came in and Doreen had poison ivy, or some bad rash. Our dad tended to her, he was firefighter with paramedic training-but you don’t care about that. You’re saying Desi was dating her in L.A.?”
“There appears to be a romantic connection.”
“Doreen,” she said. “And she’s also… my God.”
“Anything else you want to tell us, Ms. Flatt?”
“Not really.” Tight voice, for the third time.
“Nothing at all, ma’am?”
Silence.
