Evidence

Caverns T-shirt. Her hair was loose and frizzy, her mouth small. Behind her, the bed was made up to military specs. Images flashed on a TV screen not much larger than my computer monitor.

“Lieutenant.”

“May we come in?”

“Of course.”

The room smelled of Lysol and pizza. No sound from the TV. The show was a cooking demonstration, a fluorescent-eyed woman so thin her clothes bagged, bouncing with joy as she stir-fried something. Carrots, celery, and a lump of what looked like yellow Play-Doh.

One of Milo’s rules-to-live-by is Never Trust a Skinny Chef. Sometimes he applies that to detectives. To any profession at random, depending on how the day’s going.

One time I couldn’t resist and asked about personal trainers.

He said, “I’m talking real jobs, not sadists.”

His mood during the drive had grown progressively more foul. You’d never know it from the way he handled Ricki Flatt. Sliding a chair close to hers, leaving me to perch on a corner of the bed, he un-holstered his softest smile-the one he uses with little kids and old ladies. With Blanche, too, when he thinks no one’s looking.

“Get any sleep, Ricki?”

“Not much.”

“Anything you need, please tell me.”

“No, thanks, Lieutenant. Did you get into the storage unit?”

“Haven’t heard back from Port Angeles PD yet.”

“I just hope Scott doesn’t find out I held on to the money.”

“I explained that to them.”

“It makes me nervous-having it in my possession.”

“It’ll be out of your life soon.”

“Is it drug money, Lieutenant?”

“No evidence of that.”

“I really don’t see it. Desi was never into drugs.”

Milo shifted closer. “Ricki, we’re working really hard to figure out who murdered Desi, but honestly, we’re knocking our heads against the wall. If I ask you questions you may find upsetting, can you handle them?”

“Questions about what?”

“Desi’s early days. When he was seventeen.”

“That far back?”

“Yes.”

Ricki Flatt’s eyes tangoed. “You’re talking about the Bellevue fire.”

Milo began to blink, managed, somehow, to curtail the reflex. He moved even closer to the bed. “We need to talk about the Bellevue fire, Ricki.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Doing our homework.”

“Someone’s murdered, you go into their childhood?”

“We go as far back as we need to.”

Ricki Flatt picked at the bedcovers.

Milo said, “The fire’s been on your mind. That’s what you meant by political.”

“Not really,” she said. She hugged herself. Rocked. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I’m not trying to be evasive, but I just can’t accept the fact that my brother was some sort of paid arsonist. But fifty thousand… that’s why I didn’t sleep last night. And the Bellevue house was huge and so was where Desi was… I can’t bring myself to say it. Where it happened.”

“Two huge houses,” said Milo.

“I drove by last night in a cab. To that place. Even with just the framework I could tell it was massive. I kept telling myself it meant nothing, what connection could there be?”

“Tell me what you know about the Bellevue fire, Ricki.”

“That boy-Vince. He wasn’t murdered, he burned himself up, it was basically an accident.”

“Van Burghout.”

“Van,” she said, trying on the name.

“You didn’t know him well?”

“I’m sure I saw him if he came to the house with Desi but he never registered. Desi was popular, there were always kids over. And when the fire happened, I was at college.”

“Out of town?”

“No, U of W,” she said. “Geographically not far, but I was into my own life.”

“The arson file names Van as one of Desi’s hiking companions.”

“Then I guess he was.”

“Did your family discuss the fire?”

“We probably talked about it, it was a big local story. But as I said, I wasn’t living at home.”

Ricki Flatt folded her lips inward, fighting tears. Milo placed a hand atop hers. She lost the battle and burst out sobbing.

Rather than hand a tissue to her, he dabbed.

Ricki Flatt said, “Now I’m a traitor.”

“To who, Ricki?”

“My family. I just lied, we didn’t talk about the fire. It wasn’t supposed to be talked about. Ever.”

“You parents said that?”

“Unspoken rule, Lieutenant. Something I just knew not to talk about. That wasn’t my parents’ usual way. That’s why I’ve always suspected Desi was involved.”

“Those kinds of secrets,” said Milo, “every family has them. But being honest doesn’t make you a traitor. Not now, that’s for sure.”

Silence.

“You want justice for Desi, Ricki. Would your parents have had a problem with that?”

No answer.

“Would they, Ricki?”

Slow head shake.

“Tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything,” she said, “I just feel it. Always have.”

“Apart from your parents clamming up, what gave you the feeling?”

“For a start, Desi’s books. He had these counterculture books in his room. How to build homemade weapons, how to disappear and hide your identity, techniques of revenge, The Anarchist Cookbook. A whole shelf of that, above his computer.”

“Your parents were okay with that.”

“What I told you was true. Mom and Dad were all about developing our own sense of morality. Though one time I did hear Dad make a comment, being a firefighter he still had that law- and-order thing going on. I overheard him telling Desi those books would’ve been branded as treasonous in other societies and Desi answering that those societies deserved to disappear because without free speech nothing mattered. And Dad coming back that free speech was important but it ended where someone’s chin met someone’s fist. And Desi ending the argument the way he usually did. By being charming. ‘You’re absolutely right, Pops.’ Dad laughed and it never came up again. That was my brother, all honey, no vinegar. Unlike me, he never wasted energy arguing with Mom and Dad. He was the easy kid.”

“No overt rebel,” said Milo. “So he got to hold on to his treasonous books.”