He got out to check on the crime scene techs. An hour or so more. As he returned to the car, Officer Chris Kammen rang in.
No planes from Southern California had flown in last night to the general aviation section of the Port Angeles airport. Kammen had taken the extra step and checked with SeaTac: Not a single flight to L.A., Burbank, or Ontario departed late enough to accommodate the luggage thief’s near-midnight departure from the storage unit, let alone the drive to Seattle.
“So you’re definitely dealing with two separate suspects, Hood-boy could’ve blown into our town at any time. We’re no L.A. but we don’t have the available manpower to search every dark corner. Specially without what the city council calls a compelling reason.”
“Fair enough,” said Milo. “Once I get a suspect, we can cross-reference.”
“Hey,” said Kammen. “Optimism. I once read about that.”
Milo ’s second try at Public Affairs was met with a secretary’s curt “We’re working on your request.”
“Working, how?”
“You’ll be notified in due time, Lieutenant.”
Clicking off, he muttered, “Time to pole-vault over their little pea-heads,” and dialed Deputy Chief Weinberg to press for a news feed featuring Helga Gemein’s photo. Toning down the spiel he’d given Judge LaVigne, he made it through one sentence before Weinberg broke in.
“P.A. already called me. Don’t play games.”
“No one’s told me anything, sir.”
“Guess there’s nothing to tell,” said Weinberg.
“The answer’s no?”
“You can’t be serious, Sturgis.”
“Given what we found at the house, it seems the next logical step-”
“A foreign national? From a prominent family? You’re asking me to create an international terrorist scare on the basis of
“It’s more than a scare, sir. My suspect’s already killed three people.”
“I haven’t heard
“The dogs reacted, sir.”
“I love dogs,” said Weinberg. “But they’re not infallible. What if she spilled kerosene trying to clean off beach tar? Believe me, that would make them sit on their little canine rumps.”
“But in this case-”
“You can’t seriously expect me to have this woman’s face plastered all over the evening news based on what you’ve given me. You have nothing concrete against her and we are
“Okay, let’s forget the terrorism angle, even the murders, and just describe her as an arson suspect.”
“You don’t have enough, Sturgis. Besides, if the arson’s the big deal, I need to be talking to the arson squad.”
“I can have Captain Boxmeister make the-”
“If he asks the same question, I’ll give him the same answer. A few bubbles in a pipe and some wire shavings add up to crap. Bring me fingerprints, body fluids, something
“FBI and Homeland Security think she’s serious enough to look for.”
“FBI came to me.”
“Just like that? All of a sudden those morons have ESP?”
“I called Homeland for info and they called the Feds-”
“And you didn’t think to let me know.”
“Sir, I wanted to wait until I had something substantive to tell you.”
“Then why the hell are we talking
“I know you’re going to be bad-mouthing me the minute this conversation terminates, brass is always the big bad enemy,” said Weinberg. “But try-I know it’s hard, but try anyway-to pull yourself away from the moment and see the bigger picture. By your own account, this woman comes from megabucks, is a respected professional, and has no criminal record. What you have on her is hearsay twice removed. On a good day.”
“Her sister-”
“Could very well be alive. What’s your evidence any kind of crime was perpetrated against the sister? By some oil sheikh, no less. This is the stuff of migraines, Sturgis. Cut the fantasy and get back to shoe leather. I’m sure you’ve worn out your share of desert boots.”
Milo ’s gaze dropped to today’s footwear. Crepe-soled, brown sailcloth oxfords, long in need of resoling. “Anything you say, sir.”
“Don’t patronize me, Sturgis.”
“Wasn’t trying to, sir. May I call you should what you deem substantive comes up?”
“Have I ever been unresponsive to your needs, Detective?”
“No, sir. I’ll start eroding my shoes and let’s hope nothing gets blown up in the interim.”
Silence.
“Sir?”
“Let me make something clear,” said Weinberg. “I find no merit in your request but in the name of esprit de corps, I’m going to talk to the chief about a news feed. Just in case.”
“In case what, sir?”
“Porkers are spotted soaring in the western sky.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Weinberg. “Because that’s what it’s going to amount to.”
I hadn’t heard from Milo by ten the following morning, figured the night hadn’t gone well.
Robin said, “We’ve got steaks, let’s feed him.”
I tried all his numbers, got no answer until nearly six p.m. He was curt, subdued. All business, none of it encouraging.
Gayle Lindstrom had followed through, with disappointing results: no sign of Helga Gemein at any airport, commercial or private, nor was she listed on any passenger manifests.
Moe Reed’s calls to Masterson had remained unanswered and he’d followed up with a visit. The firm’s glass doors were locked. If Elena Kotsos or her husband was on site, they weren’t letting on.
Real estate searches throughout California had produced nothing. Reed was working on Nevada, but as the day progressed and government offices closed down, options were fading.
No better luck on the lush streets of Holmby Hills, where Sean Binchy had prowled wearing skater duds. Starting at the wheel of his private drive, an ‘84 Camaro inherited from his father, then repeating the circuit twice on in-line skates.
I’d done a drive-by myself, on the way to the station. Huge houses, towering trees, no people. As if Helga Gemein’s dream of a human-free world had come to pass.
Milo ’s expanded door-to-door had boiled down to reassuring the neighbors they were safe. A few additional residents had seen Helga entering or exiting the little white house but no one had exchanged a single word of conversation with the blond/brunette/redheaded women they described as “kind of cold,” “frosty,” “distant,” “off in her own world.”
One man was sure Helga drove a midsized American sedan, make unknown.
