though evidence of any extensive interface between Sranilese animism and Buddhism remains evasive. Wildebrand (1978) attributes the belief to a generalized idealization of nature and presents as proof the ascendency of
Whatever its roots,
Milo saved, printed. Sighed. “Teddy kills a girl in that house so the sultan sees that goddamn pile of wood as sinful organic material.”
I said, “He’s making sure his brother reaches the afterlife.”
“Teddy met up with some family justice?”
“Justice in this world, compassion for the next.”
He looked up Professor MacElway’s Yale extension, talked briefly and amicably to a startled scholar of emergent and divergent cultural forces.
MacElway confirmed it: In some animist cultures, murderers’ huts were left “fallow.”
Milo said, “Guess the sultan’s a traditionalist. So where do Backer and Doreen figure in, to the tune of fifty G’s?”
“What if Backer and Doreen were paid by someone to burn the place down in order to jeopardize Teddy’s celestial journey? They couldn’t get to him directly because he’s either dead or under royal protection back home in Sranil. But knowledge of
“Keep the bastard out of heaven. Someone who believes in the old ways?”
“Or doesn’t, but knows the royal family does. With no ability to exact physical revenge, keeping Teddy in perpetual limbo could be a potent psychological second choice. And it would explain why Doreen hacked into Masterson’s file.”
“Pinpointing Teddy’s real estate so he can dangle over the pits of hell forever. That’s the case, they’d have to know something about Sranilese culture.”
“Didn’t take you long to get the basic facts.”
“The information age… okay, let’s go with this for argument’s sake: Someone pays Backer and Doreen fifty G’s to whip up some vegan Jell-O. Then why didn’t they just do the job? Why keep visiting and using it as a love-nest?”
“That could’ve started as scoping out the job,” I said. “Figuring out where to stick the explosives, time their escape. But once there, they decided to mix business with pleasure. Because that was Backer’s thing: love under the stars in the company of plywood and drywall and rebar. That might go back to his adolescence. If he started early as a teenage firebug, sex and kaboom could’ve formed an interesting mix.”
“Coupla ex-delinquents warming up the grill with a little body heat.”
“Delinquents who got away with something spectacular,” I said. “That’s a huge high, and people who go through tremendously arousing experiences young often develop intense bonds to those experiences.”
“Pheromones and accelerant,” he said. “Then ten years of God-knows-what. What do you think of the fact that Backer turned outwardly respectable but Doreen ended up selling her body?”
“Maybe he was less burdened by guilt and she had enough conscience to want to punish herself. Or he was smarter and better educated, came from an intact, supportive home, and made smarter decisions. Whatever diverged them, they reunited here in L.A.”
“Chemistry.” Smile. “Organic chemistry.”
“For all we know, despite Backer earning a degree, he never abandoned his sideline and someone out to avenge Teddy’s victim made contact. Unfortunately for him and Doreen, the sultan found out. Their bodies left in the turret could be a warning to anyone else considering messing with
He stood, raised his arms, touched the low ceiling. “Desi and Doreen play with the big boys, pay for it with a bullet and a choke-out. With time taken out to jam a bigger gun where it was never meant to go. What’s that got to do with the old ways?”
“That was intimidation, just as Jernigan suggested, to control the scene-or to obtain information. What Doreen and Backer knew, who else was involved. The element of surprise was a big part of the hit: That sperm stain on Doreen’s thigh suggests Backer was pulled off her just as he came. They were both overpowered, he was interrogated, shot, leaving a cowed, terrified Doreen. And just in case that didn’t impress her, out came the big gun.”
“You have that way,” he said. “Drawing ugly pictures.”
Perfectly put. Thousands of sleepless nights proved it. I smiled.
He got on the phone. “Moses? Busy? Good, c’mere. And start working on your charisma.”
CHAPTER 22
Moe Reed said, “Sure.”
Accepting the assignment to revisit the Indonesian consulate without emotion.
As he headed for the door, Milo said, “Don’t you want to know why?”
“I figure something came up on that dead-girl rumor, you want me to press my source for details.”
“Nothing came up, Moses.
“Consulate closes at four, I’ll be there by three. She comes out by herself, I’ll try to get some face-time. She doesn’t, I’ll tail her till I get a clean opportunity.”
“What’s your source’s name?”
“She wouldn’t say, Loo, and I didn’t push, figured her telling me anything was more important.”
“Okay, Moses, like I said, charisma. If you need to buy her a few drinks, tab’s on me. If it’s a dim, cozy place I promise not to tell Dr. Wilkinson.”
Reed’s love interest was a physical anthropologist in the bone lab. “Liz is cool. And the girl’s probably Muslim. They don’t drink.”
“Good point,” said Milo. “Okay, candy’s still dandy.”
“You want me to go easy or hard on her?” said Reed.
“I want you to do what it takes to squeeze out every bit of info she’s got on Prince Teddy and that Swedish girl.”
“I’m thinking I’ll go real slow, not threaten her unless I’m smelling bullshit, then it’s full press.”
“Keep doing that, Moses.”
“Doing what?”
“Thinking,” said Milo. “Be the guy who stands out from the crowd.”
I drove away from the station with Milo in the Seville’s passenger seat, fidgeting, rubbing his face, growling about L.A. traffic, all those scofflaw morons who kept cell-phoning, look at that idiot weaving, look at that brain-dead asshole stopped at a green, what’s a matter, don’t we have a shade you like, loser?
The Star Motor Inn sat on a gray block of Sawtelle, between Santa Monica and Olympic. Ricki Flatt answered the door wearing the same high-waisted jeans and an oversized black
