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?”
“What?”
“Top-secret clandestine hooh-hah.”
“Only when it gets the job done.” She studied me. “We need to talk in private, Lieutenant.”
“This is Dr. Delaware, our psychological consultant.”
“You have your own profiler now?”
“Better,” said Milo. “We’ve got someone who knows what he’s doing.”
“Looks like I caught you on a bad day,” said Lindstrom.
“Not hard to do.”
She offered me a cool, firm palm. “Nice to meet you, Doctor. No offense but I need to speak to Lieutenant Sturgis in private.”
Milo said, “That’s not how it’s gonna be.”
A long, whispered phone call later, and I was authorized.
Gayle Lindstrom peered into Milo’s office. “Kind of cozy for three.”
Milo said, “I’ll find us space.”
“I like Indian food, Lieutenant.”
He glared at her.
Lindstrom said, “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”
“Not hungry.” He marched up the corridor.
Lindstrom said, “Oh, well,” and followed.
Back to the same interview room. I wondered if it ever got used for suspects.
Gayle Lindstrom sniffed the air.
Milo said, “This is as fresh as it’s gonna get. I’m busy. Talk.”
Lindstrom said, “Enough icebreaking, guys. Don’t coddle me ’cause I’m a girl.”
Coaxing a smile out of Milo. He hid it with the back of his hand. Yawned.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “What do you know about eco-terrorism?”
Milo said, “Uh-uh, this isn’t going to be some theoretical discussion. You want what we know, you better fill in the blanks. Desmond Backer’s lost decade smells real bad. Doreen Fredd was a naughty girl who ended up as either a confederate or your informant. Go.”
Lindstrom nudged her bag with one foot. “I’m here because the Bureau figured it was only a matter of time before you figured out some of what’s going on.”
“Some? Don’t swell my head.”
“If you knew all of it you wouldn’t be trying to reach Hal. Who, by the way, can’t help you. He’s Homeland Security, so he’s concentrating on people with dark skin and funny names. So is the Bureau, for that matter, which is part of the problem. Before 9/11, we were geared up to spend serious time and money on locally grown lunatics who, in my humble opinion, pose just as serious a danger to public safety as some guy named Ahmed.”
“Everything stopped to look for Ahmed.”
“We’re just like you, Lieutenant. Chronically underfunded with our hands
