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, “You look like a storm trooper.”

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 “my studio.”

“For what?”

“Conceptual art.”

“Those fuses-”

“For a collage.”

“What kind of collage?”

“You couldn’t hope to understand.”

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 blah blah blah.”

Milo grinned.

“Something is funny, Policeman?”

“Blah blah blah is one of my favorite phrases.” Helga rotated a finger in the air. “Is that supposed to give us commonality?”

“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.”

“I despise people?” said Helga.

“So you said the first time we met.”

“You, Policeman, need to stop decoding literally.”

Milo snapped his fingers. “I knew I should’ve paid attention in metaphor class.”

Helga ran a manicured finger under chopped black bangs. “A policeman who has studied the dictionary.”

“Started with A and working all the way to B. Unfortunately, I kinda got hung up on boom.”

Helga didn’t answer.

Milo said, “The house on Borodi-”

“I burned some twigs. So what?”

“Twigs.”

“A heap of rotting wood, a monstrosity. I did the world a favor.”

“By burning down the house-”

“Not a house,” Helga corrected. “Ruins. Twigs. Garbage. Monstrosity. Shit. I cleansed in the name of aesthetic righteousness, structural integrity, epistemological consistency, and meta-ecology.”

“Meta-ecology. Didn’t get even close to that in the dictionary.”

“It won’t be in there. I constructed it.”

“Ah.”

Helga Gemein held up the rotating finger. “It means stepping back from trivial components of the gestalt that endow the system with no functional autonomy.”

Milo said, “Looking at the big cosmic machine, not the cogs.”

Helga studied him. “You can’t hope to understand because you are American and Americans are all religious.”

“We’ve got a few atheists.”

“In name only, Policeman. Even your atheists are religious because American faith is infinite. The suckling pig that never stops offering its flesh.”

“I’m not sure I’m-”

“You people have convinced yourself possibilities are endless, endings are happy, puzzles are to solved, the future is an advertising jingle, your way of life is sacred, might makes right. If Americans would tear themselves away from their twigs and their shit and use their eyes and ears and noses to dissect reality, they would alter their cognitive structure.”

Maria Thomas muttered, “And become clinically depressed like Europe.”

Helga said, “Americans are the domesticated pets of the world. Submissive and eating their own shit. Until they turn vicious and then we have war.”

Boxmeister said, “Talk about a cuckoo clock.”

Thomas said, “I’ve been to Interpol conferences. She’s just another spoiled Euro-trash brat.”

“But maybe a little whack, too?” Boxmeister nudged me. “What do you think, Doc?”

Thomas said, “Bite your tongue, Detective, and don’t answer, Dr. Delaware. It’s going to be pain enough dealing with a foreign national, last thing we need is diminished capacity.”

Milo was saying, “So burning the twigs was an act of cleansing.”

“Refuse removal.”

“Taking out the garbage.”

Helga’s blue eyes narrowed.

Milo said, “Wouldn’t altruism be a better word?”

Two sleek, black-nailed hands clenched. “It would be a stupid word.”

“Why’s that?”

“Altruism is nothing more than a mutation of selfishness.”

Milo crossed his legs. “Sorry, I’m not decoding.”

“I do what society says is nice so I can feel nice. What is more narcissistic than that?”

Milo pretended to contemplate. “Okay, so, if it wasn’t altruism, it was-”

“What I told you.”

“An act of meta-ecological cleansing. Hmm.”

“Don’t play stupid, Policeman. You have enough natural defects, there is no need to supplement.”

Boxmeister said, “Ouch. Heil, Helga.”

Milo uncrossed, scanned his notes again, edged his chair back a few inches. Removing a handkerchief from a trouser pocket, he wiped his brow. “Getting hot in here, no?”

Helga Gemein tugged at her wig. “I am comfortable.”

“To me it feels hot. I’d think that thing would make it worse for you.”

“What thing?”

“The hairpiece. Dynel doesn’t breathe.”

“This,” she said, “is genuine hair. From India.” He smiled. “So you’re not a hothead.” Helga snorted and turned away.

Milo said, “No, I mean that seriously. It’s clear to me that you rely on reason, not impulse.”

Maria Thomas leaned forward. “Yes, yes, go for it.”

Helga Gemein said, “Should I not rely on reason?”

“Of course you should,” said Milo. “We all should. But sometimes being spontaneous-”

“Spontaneity is an excuse for poor planning.”

“You’re into planning.”

No answer.

Maria Thomas was at the edge of her chair. “Easy, now.” Milo said, “Being an architect, I imagine you’d favor blueprints.” Helga turned to face him. “Without blueprints, Policeman, even chaos doesn’t work.”

“Even chaos?”

Up came the pedantic finger. “There is chaos that emanates from stupidity. Think of flatfooted policemen in brass-buttoned tunics and tall hats tripping over themselves. Then, there is corrective chaos. And that must be planned.”

“Burning those twigs didn’t result from stupidity,” said Milo. “You considered every detail.”

“I always do,” said Helga.

“Always?”

“Always.”

Maria Thomas punched her fist. “Yes!”

Helga Gemein sniffed. “This room smells like a toilet.”

“It does get a little stale,” said Milo.

“How often do you bring prostitutes here?”

“Pardon?”

“For your policeman after-hour parties.”

“Must’ve missed those.”

“Oh, please,” said Helga. “It is common knowledge what policemen do with women they’ve dominated. Down on the knees, the man feels so big.”

Boxmeister said, “I must work in the wrong division.”

Maria Thomas shot him a sharp look. He shrugged.

Milo said, “The cops do that in Switzerland?”

Helga said, “If you are interested in Switzerland, buy a plane ticket. Good-bye, Policeman. You have bored me enough, I am going.”

But she made no attempt to stand.

Milo said, “Going?”

“Twigs? Brush clearing? What is that, a penalty? I will pay you.”

“Out of that cash in your purse?”

“Since when is it a crime to have money? America worships money.”

“No crime at all. But six thousand’s a lot of cash to be carrying around.”

Helga smirked.

Thomas said, “That was pure rich kid. This one’s never been told no.”

Helga said, “What is the amount of my fine?”

Milo said, “I’m not sure of the penal code on twigs yet. We’re still checking.”

“Well, do it quickly.”

“Soon as the district attorney lets me know, I’ll get the paperwork going. Meanwhile, let’s go over this act of cleansing.”

“Not again, no, I will not.”

“I just want to make sure I understand.”

“If you do not understand by this time, you are hopelessly defective.”

“Anything’s possible,” said Milo. He shuffled papers, knitted his brows, stuck out a tongue, hummed a low tune. “You’re sure you don’t want more water?”

“I still have.” Eyeing the cup he’d brought her five minutes in.

Boxmeister said, “Garsh, Gomer, when you gonna call for a hayseed and a spittoon?”

Milo said, “Okay, you can drink that.”

Helga Gemein picked up the cup, sipped it empty. Power of suggestion.

Turning point in the interview.

She put the cup down. Eyes still on his notes, he said, “So… you planned and burned the twigs all by yourself. Tell me how you did it.”

“The fine is insufficient penance?” said Helga, smirking again. “In America, money fixes everything.”

“Even so, ma’am. We like to have all the facts.”

“The facts are: As an architect with a strong background in structural engineering, I have a thorough understanding of structural vulnerability. I located the inherent structural defects of that garbage heap, set devices precisely, operated a remote timer, and watched as everything turned to dust.”

“So you were right there.”

“Close enough to bathe in heat and light.”

“A few houses down?”

“I didn’t count.”

“But you parked the motorcycle three blocks away.”

Blue eyes sparked. “How do you know I drive a motorcycle?”

“It was spotted and reported.”

“So you know the answer to your question. So do not waste my time.”

“Like I said, we need to verify,” said Milo. “For our report, so we can let you go and be done with all this.”

“Proper procedure,” said Helga. “Enabling you to pretend competence.”

“You know about procedure.”

Helga arched an eyebrow.

Milo said, “That old joke? Hell is the place where the Italians establish procedure and the Swiss are in charge of design?”

“Hell, Policeman, is the place Americans gorge themselves to unconsciousness and delude themselves to mindless optimism.”

“Never heard that version,” said Milo. “But you have to admit, the Swiss are darn good at design-who makes the best watches? Speaking of which, let’s talk about those timers. Where’d you get them?”

“From Des.”

The quick reply caught him off-guard. He covered with a prolonged nod. “Des Backer.”

“No, Des Hitler-yes, Des Backer. I want to go and pay my fine and be gone.”

“Soon,” said Milo. “What else did Des supply you with?”

“Everything.”

“Meaning-”

“You have invaded my studio, you know what is there.”

“The fuses, the wiring, the vegan Jell-O. Des knew about all that because he was…”

“He claimed to be an anarchist.”

“Claimed? You think he was faking?”

“Des indulged himself.”

“Des and women.”

“He was not a serious person.”

Milo said, “Where’d you two meet? An anarchist convention-guess that’s kind of an oxymoron, huh?”

Helga said, “In a chat room.”

“Which one?”

“Shards.net.”

“As in broken glass?”

“As in broken universe,” she said. “It has closed down. Anarchists are not good at self-perpetuation.”

“Poor organizational skills,” said Milo. Silence.

“So you met online… Des being an architect must’ve made it seem perfect. Though the combination is kind of odd. Building up and destroying.”

“There is no contradiction.”

“Why’s that?”

“As I told you, everything depends on context. But anyway, I am not an anarchist, I do not join movements.”

“So you’re a…”

“I am,” said Helga Gemein, with the first smile I’d seen her offer, “myself.”

Milo fiddled with his papers some more, feigned confusion. “Kind of a one-woman truth squad… So you met Des online and the two of you decided to burn some twigs.”

“I decided.”

“He was your supplier,” said Milo. “Knew where to get equipment. That was the real reason you hired him. The real reason you established your firm.”

Silence.

“Nice shell,” he went on, “for explaining your presence in L.A., giving you a reason to be hanging with Des. Covering expenses-fifty thousand in cash? Who’s the real source of all that money, your father?”

No response.

“The road trip to Port Angeles, Helga. Nice, crisp bills in two suitcases. The kind you get fresh from a bank. The kind that gets released when one bank talks to another.”

Helga Gemein poked a finger under her wig. “I would like some water.”

Milo collected his papers and left. Alone, Helga fooled with the hairpiece some more, massaging the top of the glossy black strands, working a finger joint under the hem and poking around.

Don Boxmeister said, “What, she’s got cooties? Maybe we should’ve strip-searched her.”

Maria Thomas said, “What I said still stands, Don: No sense alienating her right off, he needs something to work with. And it’s paying off, she admitted premeditation.” Several pokes at the BlackBerry. “I’m needed back in an hour, hope he can nail the bitch soon.”

Helga straightened the wig, turned, leaned on the table. Sat and planted her boots on the floor. Her eyes closed. Her head swayed.

“What the hell’s she doing?” said Boxmeister. “Some kind of meditation?”

I said, “Probably dissociation. Putting herself somewhere else is her default strategy.”

Milo returned with a small cup of water. Helga didn’t acknowledge him, but her eyes opened when he said, “Here you go,” and placed it in front of her.

He put on reading glasses, reviewed his notes. She eyed him, finally sipped.

“Okay, tell me about the trip to Port Angeles.”

She touched a fringe of wig. “I engaged in tourism. The great lifeblood of American pseudo-culture.”

“A pleasure trip.”

“I have been to Disneyland, as well.”

“Guess I don’t need to ask if you liked it.”

“Actually,” she said, “it was quite pleasing in its own repugnant way. Consistent.”

“With vulgar American culture?”

“With a world devoid of reason.”

He harrumphed. Slid a couple of sheets toward her. “This is your registration form from the Myrtlewood Inn in Port Angeles. And this is your car rental receipt.”

“I stayed at a nice hotel,” she said. “So?”

“You and Des Backer both stayed there. You took separate rooms, the staff remembers you paying for both. They also recall seeing you and Des at breakfast together.”

Guesses. Good ones. Helga Gemein frowned. “So what? I already told you I got my equipment from him.”

“It was a purchasing trip.”

“Sightseeing, then some purchasing.”

“Why’d you give Des your car and rent another vehicle for yourself?”

“Because we were not together.”

“As…”

“As being together.”

“Did you drive up together?”

“I drove, he flew.”

“So no one at the office would suspect anything.”

“I wanted to drive,” said Helga. “He wanted to fly. He wanted to visit his family.”

“What did you do when he was visiting?”

“I shopped.”

“For timers and fuses?”

“Among other things,” said Helga.

“What things?”

“Clothing.”

“Find some bargains?”

“Jeans,” she said, stroking one shapely thigh. “Black jeans on sale.”

“You drove because you couldn’t risk an airport security check with fifty thousand dollars in two suitcases.”

Helga took several seconds to respond. “If you know so much, why are you wasting my time?”

“That darn old procedure thing. I need to hear it from you.”

“All because of twigs?”

“Afraid so. They were big twigs. Owned by an important person.”

“No one is important.”

“Obviously someone was to you, Helga.” He moved in closer, like I’d seen him do so many times. Spreading his shoulders and hardening his voice.

She flinched reflexively. Forced a smile.

He asserted his big face inches from hers. “Helga, someone was important enough for you to pay fifty thousand dollars to burn down twigs. Important enough for you to set up a shell company. Important enough for you to plan precisely.”

Helga Gemein’s chest heaved. She looked away. Beginning of the end.

“Helga, you’d like me to think you believe in nothing, but the way I see it, everything you did was an act of pure faith. Because that’s what vengeance is, right? Pure faith in the power of correction. That wrong can be made right.”

Pretty lips quivered. She stilled them with another smirk. “Ridiculous.”

“Faith motivated by love, Helga.”

Silence.

Milo said, “You loved Dahlia, nothing to be ashamed of, on the contrary. But it is downright fundamentalist, taking faith that far. You may not be religious, Helga, but you have no trouble drawing upon religion when it works for you.”

Helga Gemein rolled her eyes. Let loose with a ragged, too-loud laugh.

The sudden rise of her shoulders, the rippling along her jawline gave her away.

Milo said, “Sutma.” No answer.

“You’ve heard of sutma, Helga.”

“Primitive nonsense.”

“Maybe so, Helga, but the point was Prince Teddy and his family don’t agree.”

Waiting for a reaction to the name.

A single blink. Then nothing.

Milo said, “Or maybe it’s not just them. Maybe you really do believe in heaven and hell and all that good stuff. But that doesn’t really matter, Helga. The point is the sultan and the rest of the family believes and after what was done to Dahlia, you needed to grab hold of any shred of revenge you could find. Because Teddy’s out of your reach, geographically, financially, you can’t touch him. But cosmically? You burned those twigs in order to leave Teddy dangling in cosmic limbo. Downright terrifying for someone who believes in sutma.”

Silence.

He said, “It is a funny concept, though. If I was a religious person, I’d want to believe just the opposite-destroying material remains speeds up entry to the next world.”

He laughed, clapped his hands hard, sprang up, paced the room twice.

Helga watched, alarmed. Forced herself to stop following his circuit. Sat still as he came to a halt behind her.

She stared straight ahead, pretending not to care about the massive figure shadowing her.

Her jawline was an information highway.

“Reason I just laughed, Helga, is I had a sudden insight-an epiphany, I guess you’d call it. You’re totally into ritual. Like shaving your head. Since the first time I met you I’ve been trying to figure it out, why would you do something like that. But now I get it. It’s a ritual of self-abasement you took on until you achieved your goal. Like fasting on Lent-wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve done your share of that, too. Other kinds of fasting. Maybe even a vow of celibacy.”

Her jaw clenched.

“How long ago, Helga, did you start eating meat during Lent? If you ever did. Do you eat your Lent veggies and explain it as meta-ecology?”

Helga Gemein shut her eyes.

“Even so, it’s religion, Helga. Are you a strict vegetarian? Or do you sneak meat when no one’s looking?”

Silence.

“Once a Catholic, always a Catholic, Helga. Believe me, I know.”

She folded her arms. Let them drop. Began deep-breathing.

“Oh, come on,” said Milo. “Let’s be just a little bit honest and ’fess up like they taught you in convent school: At the core, you’re devout, believe sin must be punished. And there’s no greater sin than murder. Especially the murder of an innocent like Dahlia.”

Helga Gemein’s eyelids scrunched tighter. Tears trickled out.

“You loved Dahlia, that’s not a bad thing, that’s a good thing, she loved you, too. Believing is a good thing, Helga. It helps me understand what you did. Everything you’ve done since you arrived in this country has been aimed at getting justice for Dahlia. You’re powerless to go to Sranil and do what you dream about-though I’m sure you haven’t given up on that. And maybe Daddy hasn’t, either. But meanwhile…”

She let out a cry. Clamped a hand over her mouth.

Milo bent close, spoke softly, inches from her ear. “You’re a survivor aiming for justice. That’s human, Helga, and no matter what you say, you’re a member of the species.”

The entire lower half of Helga’s face began to tremble. She pressed one palm to her cheek, failed to still waves of twitches.

Milo pulled his chair so their knees were just short of contact.

“Let the bastard dangle,” he said tenderly. “He deserves it.”

Moving in closer. “What I don’t understand is why you had to kill Des and Doreen?”

Helga opened her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“I think we’ve moved past self-delusion, Helga.”

“You are ridiculous.”

He handed her a tissue. She swatted it away.

Milo watched it flutter to the floor. “Why’d you have to kill them, Helga? Did they get greedy and ask for more money?”

Helga Gemein shook her head. “Fool.”

Milo said, “Or were they just a nuisance and expendable? Time to cover your tracks.”

She tried to scoot her chair back. The legs stuck. He pressed closer. She cleared her throat. Drew back her head.

Boxmeister said, “Uh-oh-”

Milo jerked away just in time to avoid the missile of spit.

A wet gob landed on the floor.

Her hands were balled. Flush-faced, she panted.

Milo shook his head, ever the patient schoolmaster. “Looks like I touched a nerve, Helga.”

“You have touched stupidity,” she said. “I have never killed anyone. Never.”

“What’s the big deal? You claim to hate humanity-”

“Humanity is shit. I don’t put shit on my hands.”

“Except when it suits your purposes.” She shook her head. “Idiot.”

Reaching for his papers, he pulled out another sheet. The picture of the man in the hoodie. Adroitly, no more fumbling. “You killed Desi and Doreen with this guy’s help.”

Helga Gemein’s jaw turned smooth. A smile spread slowly. That serene smile tightened my gut.

“I have never seen this person.”

Maria Thomas said, “Uh-oh.”

“What?” said Boxmeister.

Thomas said, “That look like a tell to you? That picture mellowed her. Damn.” She turned to me: “Either she is nuts or she really doesn’t know what he’s talking about, right, Doc? Either way, it’s mucho problemo.”

Milo continued to display the photo.

Helga said, “You can wave that around forever, your little policeman flag.”

“This guy’s your partner, Helga. The person who helped you murder Des and Doreen. Did you drive up to Port Angeles with him?”

Helga shook her head. “You are an utter fool.”

“This photo was taken in Port Angeles a couple of days ago. This man was there to retrieve the money. Talk about good planning. You never had any intention of letting Des keep a penny. Because you never had any intention of letting him live. The real reason you rented him a car was so you could follow him and find out where he stashed the money. After you returned to L.A., you got hold of his storage key-plucked it out of a pocket or found it in his desk drawer, made a mold. Maybe you did it when he was off having fun with the ladies and you were in the office all by your bald-headed, self-abasing, not-so-lapsed Catholic fundamentalist self.”

Helga Gemein giggled. “You truly believe this scheiss.”

“The evidence makes me believe, Helga.”

“Then the evidence is scheiss.” Clucking her tongue. “I have burned twigs, that is all. Now I wish to leave and pay my fine and not hear any more of this crazy nonsense.”

“Twigs,” said Milo. “We call it arson and it’s a felony.”

Helga shrugged. “I will hire a lawyer. He will make it into a prank that got too big and I will be free and you will remain stupid.”

“Damn,” said Boxmeister.

Thomas said, “She hasn’t actually asked, she’s only threatened.” Shifting close to the mirror. “Change the subject, dude.”

Milo said, “More water?”

“Yes!” said Thomas.

Helga said, “No, thank you.” Sweet smile. Unsettling. Wrong.

“Desi and Doreen were murdered in that turret. You went back to the house anyway.”

“I had business to do.”

“The murder didn’t bother you?”

“Not my concern, Policeman.”

Milo slid another piece of paper toward her.

“What is this, Policeman?”

“This is what’s left of a gentleman named Charles Ellston Rutger. He grew up in a house that once sat on the Borodi property. Had one of those stupid sentimental attachments to the land, which is why he liked to sneak up there, sit in that same turret, reminisce about the good old days. See that shiny thing?” Pointing. “That’s what was left of his wineglass. And that, over there? That used to be a tin of foie gras. Mr. Rutger was enjoying a snack, washing it down with a nice Bordeaux the night you reduced him to dust.”

Helga Gemein grabbed the paper.

“That’s a crime scene photo, Helga. Check the date. He doesn’t look like much, does he? You killed him.”

Helga gaped. Whispered, “No.”

“On the contrary, Helga. Yes. A big fat yes. Mr. Rutger had the misfortune to be enjoying a quiet moment in the turret of that monstrosity when you came in and set your fuses and your timers and your plugs of Jell-O. He didn’t hear you because you were careful and quiet and he was an old man and being all the way up there on the third floor muted the sound. He was sipping wine as you stood on the sidewalk and enjoyed your act of cleansing, but maybe you already know that.”

“No!”

“He didn’t hear you, Helga, but you’re young, your ears work just fine, so my bet is you heard him. But you didn’t care, what’s another piece of human scheiss?”

Helga let go of the photo as if it were toxic. It slid to the floor. She stared at it, eyes wide with horror.

First time she’d shown anything close to appropriate emotion. I liked her better for it. But not much.

“Oh, God,” she said.

No atheists on the hot seat.

“Your twigs became a pyre for a human being, Helga. That we call felony homicide. Loss of a life during the commission of any major crime, even without prior intention. That’s not a fine, Helga.”

“I never knew,” she said, in a small, thin voice. “You must believe me.”

“I must?”

“It is true! I did not know!”

“You haven’t been listening, Helga. Whether or not you knew, it’s still felony homicide.”

“But that… makes no sense.”

“I don’t write the rules, Helga.”

She studied him. “You are lying. That is special effects. Anyone can stamp a date. You try to confuse me so I will confess to Des and Doreen but I will not because I did not.”

“You did a whole lot, Helga. Trust me, Mr. Rutger’s real. Was. Want me to show you his autopsy report? You fried him to a crisp.”

“I do not kill.”

Milo shook his head. “Unfortunately, you do. You’ve already admitted the arson, admitted planning it. A man died in the process, you’re facing a long prison sentence. The only way I can see you extricating yourself from this mess is by explaining yourself. Tell me why you decided to eliminate Des and Doreen. I can see a motive right off the bat: They were trying to blackmail you. If they were, that’s a good explanation, people can understand that, it’s kind of self-defense.”

She shook her head.

He said, “And if this guy in the hood did the actual killing and you didn’t really know what was going to happen and you tell me who he is, that will also help you.”

“That,” said Helga Gemein, wringing her hands, “would be all idiocy. I killed nobody.”

“Truth is, Helga, I’m leaning toward your partner as the major bad guy for Des and Doreen because there was a certain masculine stupidity to the murders and I don’t see stupid as part of your makeup. So let’s start with who he is.”

“The Dalai Lama.”

“Pardon?”

“Today he is the Dalai Lama. Tomorrow? Emperor Franz Josef, Nikola Tesla, Walter Gropius. Take your pick.”

“You’re not helping yourself, Helga.”

“You think I care to help you?” she said.

“I understand, maybe you didn’t actually pull the trigger so you think-”

“You understand nothing!” she shrieked. “I did not kill anyone!”

“Charles Rutger would debate that if he could.”

“An accident,” she said. “Had I known, I would have waited.”

“Even though you don’t care about people.”

“I avoid complications.”

“Well,” said Milo, “you’ve ended up with a whole bunch of complications.”

“You are stubborn beyond rationality.”

“Like someone else you know?”

“Who?”

Milo smiled. “I had a dad like that.”

Helga shuddered. Her turn to cover the stab of emotion with an even bigger smile. “Pity for you, Policeman.”

“Let’s get back to basics, Helga: You’re not leaving here. But you do have a chance to help yourself by telling me-”

“Policeman,” she said, “at this time, I need to…”

“Oh, shit,” said Maria Thomas.

“… have time to think. Alone. Please.”

Soft voice, almost gentle.

“You have surprised me,” she said. “I need to think. Please, some time.”

Milo said, “Take all the time you need.”

Загрузка...