She said, “I’ll try but good luck, those places are tighter than missile silos.”
“Still nothing at the airport?”
“I’m not into secrets, Milo. If there was, I’d tell you.”
He hadn’t told her about the storefront on Western. When I asked why, he said, “At this point, all she can do is complicate matters. Any suggestions on tracing Ms. Hellish?”
“I’m wondering if she’d chance a road trip. She wouldn’t exactly blend into middle America.”
“Helga in the heartland-sounds like a movie.”
“The exception,” I said, “being Vegas.”
“Yeah, a three-headed albino monkey would blend in there, it’s Fugitive Central. Okay, I know a U.S. marshal, maybe Helga will materialize at the craps table at Caesars. If not, you’re probably right, she’s still in town. Hopefully sooner or later she’ll return to her bomb shop.”
“My vote’s for sooner.”
“Because you’re my pal?”
“Because it’s her house of worship.”
Gayle Lindstrom phoned to say she’d talked to her bosses about probing the bank. Given past dealings with the Swiss government over Nazi gold and looted wartime accounts, the best guess was years of wrangling.
Milo said, “Nothing like neutrality.”
“What we were able to do,” she said, “is institute passport scans of the entire Gemein family, to build a conspiracy case should you ever find Helga. This whole thing is making the Bureau nervous.”
“The fact that Doreen was your paid stooge and she used you?”
“Used my predecessors,” said Lindstrom. “My goal on this one is being seen as outside the loop.”
At five forty-three p.m., Milo ate junk food at his desk, preparing for the beginning of his alley shift.
He had a mouth full of packaged burrito when Sean Binchy called.
“Got her, Loot! Cuffed and in the back of my car, she went down real easy!”
CHAPTER 32
Helga Gemein, in all-black and her Bettie Page wig, parked her Buick carelessly, barely clearing Hiram Kwok’s area. She had her key in the lock of the bomb factory when Sean Binchy took her from behind.
Shouting “Police” and drawing her arms back, Binchy used long-fingered bass-player’s hands to secure her wrists, had the cuffs on within seconds.
Helga said, “All for twigs?”
Binchy patted her down lightly and spun her around. “Twigs?”
Helga’s look said he was beyond help.
By the time Moe Reed arrived from the opposite end of the alley, Sean had her in the rear seat of his unmarked, belted in. She glared through the window.
Reed said, “Excellent, bro.” Opened the door to get a better look.
Helga said,
Reed said, “And you’re an expert on that. You didn’t think to change your appearance?”
“Why would I?”
“You look just like on the news.”
“What news?”
“The TV broadcast.”
“TV,” said Helga, “is garbage. I don’t waste my time.”
Two hours later, she sat in a West L.A. interrogation room, as bored as she’d been when Milo spieled off Miranda. A group watched from next door: Binchy, Reed, Don Boxmeister.
The guest of honor: Captain Maria Thomas, a tweed-suited, blond-coiffed, well-spoken aide to the chief.
The last few minutes had been spent discussing the Western Avenue rental, which Helga dismissed as
Milo hadn’t bothered to ask her where she was living. A rental-agency key was traced to a house in Marina del Rey. Del Hardy had gone there with a crew of cops. Five flat-screens but no cable or satellite hookup in place. No computer, either, but drawers full of paper included a trove of e-mails. Everything in German, which Hardy sent for translation to Hollenbeck Division Detective Two Manfred Obermann.
Hardy said, “Guess who she’s renting the place from, Alonzo Jacquard.”
Milo said, “Doctor Dunkshot? He have any idea who his tenant is?”
“He’s coaching in Italy, everything went through an agency. Ms. Friendly paid up front in cash, just like with the storefront. Funny choice for her, the place is tricked out way past vulgar, pure Alonzo-trophy room, six fully stocked wet bars, disco room, stripper’s pole, home theater, racks of the kind of DVDs I wouldn’t keep out in the open. Great view of the water, though. But she had the drapes drawn, is sleeping in a small guest room near the service porch, might as well be in a convent. Except for the toys.”
“What kind of toys?”
“I’m a churchgoing man, Milo, don’t make me go into detail.” Chuckle. “Let’s just say the latex lobby likes her.”
Milo said, “You’re sure they’re not Alonzo’s toys?”
“No, these were definitely hers, all girlie stuff.” Hardy sighed. “Alonzo, man he was talented. Too bad he wasn’t around to sign an autograph for my kid.”
Milo asked a few more questions about art.
Helga answered each with “Don’t waste my time, you are ignorant.”
Captain Maria Thomas said, “She’s breathtakingly arrogant.”
Boxmeister said, “That could work for us, no? She thinks she’s in charge, doesn’t lawyer up.”
Thomas checked her BlackBerry. “So far so good, but he hasn’t gotten into serious stuff.”
Milo made a show of putting on reading glasses, dropping papers, retrieving them. “Um… okay… so… how about we talk about the house on Borodi-”
Helga cut him off: “Blah blah blah.”
“The house on Borodi Lane, where-”
“Blah blah
Milo grinned.
“Something is funny, Policeman?”
“Blah blah blah is one of
“I don’t imagine commonality would be possible between us.”
“Oh?”
“You despise people,” said Milo. “Most of the time I consider myself part of the human race.”
