scrolled. “Detective Obermann has your German translations all done, he’ll e-mail them to you but is happy to talk to you over the phone. And… looks like he identified some of those numbers you found on Gemein’s papers. GPS coordinates, matching a private hangar at Van Nuys Airport. Registered to… DSD, Inc. That ring any bells?”
Milo sat up. “Loud ones. The sultan’s holding company.”
“So our Swiss Miss had more arson in mind. I’ll talk to the Sranilese consulate, ask for consent to enter the hangar.”
“There is no consulate.”
“The embassy in D.C., then.”
“They’ll say no and clean the place out.”
“Of what?”
“Their royal family’s involved in murder, they’re gonna be in total ass-covering mode.”
Thomas thought. “Guess we have a problem.” Helga Gemein closed her eyes.
Boxmeister said, “How about this: We apply for warrant under exigent danger. Likely presence of volatile chemicals, imminent risk of ignition.”
“The hangar’s ready to blow?” said Thomas. “What evidence do we have of that?”
“We’ve got prior bad acts by Helga and her looking for GPS coordinates. To me that’s clear intent.”
“She can look to her heart’s content, Don. How’s she going to gain access to the hangar?”
Milo said, “She’s got money to charter a private jet. Maybe once she’s in there she could find it.”
“Exactly,” said Boxmeister. “Like one of those private clubs. Getting past the rope’s a bitch, but once you’re in, anything goes.”
Thomas said, “No judge is going to buy it and we’re talking royalty, to boot.”
Milo said, “But what if she’s already gotten in there and set her Jell-O? All those aircraft nearby? All that jet fuel?”
Boxmeister said, “Shit, I don’t want to even imagine. Sure hate to be the one who failed to take precautions.”
Thomas said, “Subtle, guys. You want me to ask the boss.”
Milo glanced toward the one-way mirror. Helga remained frozen. “Up to you but I used all my charm up with her.”
Thomas drummed her BlackBerry. Began texting.
Helga Gemein stood up, walked to the mirror, turned her back on us.
One hand reached up. Fooled with the wig.
“That’s her anxiety tell, messing with the rug,” said Boxmeister. “She’s gonna cave, I can feel it.”
If that comforted Milo, he didn’t show it.
Thomas kept texting.
Helga Gemein turned again, faced us.
Looking but not seeing.
Blank eyes; she’d arrived at a solitary place.
Snatching off her wig with one deft movement, she exposed a beautifully shaped head shaved white and glossy. Holding the hairpiece in front of her, bowl up, like a chalice, she smiled.
Sad smile. Second time I’d seen it. I liked her no better.
Reaching into the wig, she pulled something out. Small and white and capsule-shaped, pincer- grasped between thumb and forefinger.
Still smiling, she opened her mouth, popped the white thing. Swallowed.
Her smile spread. Her breathing quickened.
Boxmeister said, “Oh, shit.”
Milo was already up, rushing for the door.
Maria Thomas looked up from her BlackBerry. “What’s going on?”
Milo ran past her, let the door slam shut.
Inches away, blocked by glass, Helga Gemein wobbled. Clutching her abdomen, she let out a gasp.
Retched.
Something green and slimy trickled out of her mouth.
Slack mouth, the smile was gone.
Thomas said, “Omigod,” and ran out of the room. Boxmeister hustled after her.
I stayed in my chair. No reason to crowd the space.
Helga began convulsing. Her breath grew labored. Staggering closer to the one-way, she panted raggedly. Filmed the glass. Flecked it with glassy spit, then pinpoints of pink.
The massive convulsion began at her eyes, raced downward as her entire body was seized.
Rag doll, shaken by an unseen god.
Foam began pouring out of her mouth, a Niagara of bile. Chunks of slime coated the glass, clouded my view. But I managed to make out Milo rushing in, catching her as she fell.
Laying her down gently, he began chest compressions. Thomas and Boxmeister stood by, transfixed.
Milo ’s technique was perfect. Rick insists he recertify every couple of years. He gripes about the colossal waste of time, homicide is brain-work, when would he ever have the opportunity to get heroic.
Today, he did.
Today, it didn’t matter.
CHAPTER 34
The police chief’s face is pocked more severely than Milo ’s. A lush white mustache does a pretty good job of camouflaging a harelip.
He’s a lean man with no discernible body fat. The lack of spare flesh stretches the skin that sheaths his skull, highlighting pit and crater, glossing lump and scar. The skull is an oddly shaped triangle, broad and unnaturally flat on top, coated with silky, blond-white hair, and tapering to a knife-point chin. His eyes are small and dark and they alternate between manic bounces and long stretches of unblinking immobility. When he turns his head a certain way, patches of taut, tortured dermis give him the look of a burn victim.
He turns that way a lot and I wonder if it’s intentional.
Everything in his history supports a
A month later, he quit unceremoniously, when L.A. upped the ante.
Everyone said L.A. would be his fatal challenge.
Within a year of arriving, he’d divorced his third wife ten years his junior, married a fourth twenty years his junior, attended a lot of Hollywood parties and premieres, and lowered felony rates by twenty- eight percent.
When he’d taken the job, departmental wienies had bad-mouthed Milo as “a notorious
