citizen-at home, or here-regarding missing persons or homicides. I did find a case involving a Danish citizen who was thought to have disappeared in San Diego. However, she showed up and the matter was resolved. A love triangle, no royalty involved, Muslim or otherwise, thank heavens.”
“The Muslim thing bothers you.”
Gustafson smiled. “Nothing bothers us, we are neutral. The Danes, on the other hand… remember those Mohammed cartoons?”
“That why you didn’t want us up in your office?”
“No, no, heaven forbid, gentlemen-please forgive me if I seemed unwelcoming, but the consul general felt police officers could serve as a distraction.”
“From the daily challenge of stamping visas.”
Gustafson kept smiling but the wattage went out of it. “We do attempt to be useful, Lieutenant. Next week, we’re hosting a dinner for over two dozen Nobel laureates. In any event, I have nothing to tell you. Good luck.”
Milo took out his pad. “How about some details on the Danish case.”
“A woman named Palma Mogensen was working as an au pair for a family in La Jolla when she met an American marine in Oceanside. Unfortunately, she was already married to a Danish man and after she stopped returning her husband’s e-mails, he showed up.”
“Things get nasty?”
“Oh, no,” said Gustafson. “Everyone talked it out and the couple returned to Copenhagen.”
“Civilized,” said Milo.
“We try to be good influences, Lieutenant.”
“You and the Danes.”
“All of us who must contend with endless night. It breeds a certain patience.”
Gustafson headed back toward the revolving door, managed to sidle in as the mechanism remained in motion.
Milo said, “Swedish, Danish-time for a pastry.”
We found a coffee shop in the Village. Two bear claws and a creme-filled chocolate eclair for him, a coffee for me. Later, we were back in the station parking lot.
“Jogging,” he said. “Sports bra. This is gonna be another washout day.”
He was wrong.
One message slip atop his computer. Barely legible scrawl. He squinted, put on reading glasses. Frowned. “Now it’s
He placed the phone in its cradle as if it were breakable. “That’s one very uptight architect and her voice says she’s been working on the gin.”
“She knows something about the fire?”
“Claims to but wouldn’t say what. I guess I should call Boxmeister. I guess I won’t.”
Another pretty day at the canals.
Marjorie Holman was out on her front porch, wearing a black sweater and slacks and looking like a model for a high-end retirement community.
Next to her stood a tall, white-haired, goateed man close to seventy. His gaunt frame was a wire hanger for a black suit and turtleneck.
Milo muttered, “Looks like a funeral.”
No sign of Professor Ned Holman.
His wife waved us up impatiently. The man in the black suit didn’t budge, even when we were two feet away. His eyes were blue and world-weary. Stick limbs, a long neck, and a beak nose evoked an egret. Mournful bird on a bad fishing day.
“This is Judah Cohen,” said Holman. “My former partner.” Husky voice; the slight slurring Milo had picked up over the phone.
“Mr. Cohen.”
“Lieutenant.” Cohen studied the floorboards. “What’s on your mind, Ms. Holman?” She hooked a thumb. “Inside.”
No trace of her husband or his chair on the ground floor. Milo said, “Professor Holman okay?”
“Ned? He’s at the doctor, one of his checkups. I use a special-needs van service because I never know how long it’s going to take.”
Marching to the sink, she poured Sapphire and ice cubes into a glass. “Anyone joining me- Judah, how about you? Glenlivet?”
“Not today, thanks,” said Cohen. He sat on the edge of an overstuffed sofa. Shifted position, cupped his hands over a bony knee. From the look in his eyes, nothing would make him comfortable.
Holman returned with her drink, perched next to Cohen. “Judah and I have some serious suspicions Helga had something to do with that fire.”
Cohen winced.
It didn’t get past Holman. “Would you care to take over, Judah?”
“You’re doing fine, Marjie.”
“So we’re together on this.”
“We are.”
“Well, then, onward. As I told you the first time, Helga boondoggled us-got us to leave some very nice professional situations under pretense of establishing a groundbreaking green- architecture firm. She claimed that her father was a wealthy industrialist, owned a shipping company, money was
Milo said, “Of what?”
“I’ll get to that.” Holman sipped an inch of gin. “I need to do this in an organized manner, Lieutenant… where was I? The ruse… one day, Helga announced that funding hadn’t developed, she was disbanding the firm, returning to Germany, have a nice day.” Turning to Cohen.
He said, “Bit of a shock.”
“You always were the master of understatement, dear. Basically, Helga played us for the fools we apparently were.”
Cohen said, “No sense beating ourselves up. Helga had valid credentials and her technical knowledge was solid.”
“She was an engineer, Judah, not a spark of creativity.”
“Be that as it may,” said Cohen. “The manner in which she described the initial project was valid, conceptually as well as structurally.”
Milo said, “The Kraeker Gallery.”
Both architects stared at him.
Holman said, “How do you know about that?”
“Helga told us.”
“Did she? Then you were played, as well. Yes, it’s an actual place and yes they are taking bids on a major expansion. But Helga never applied to be part of the bidding process. And
“When did you find out?”
“A few days ago, Lieutenant, when it became clear that Helga had no intention of
