Alex Delaware: Evidence Part 43

f.u.c.k You, Very Much.

"Excellent, sir."

"Let's have that back, Sturgis. I'm still not sure if the wording's right."

The chief resumed eating. The side salad was half a head of ice-burg lettuce. Thin, pallid lips curled as his knife reduced it to coa.r.s.e-cut coleslaw. Spearing a few green shreds, he masticated with relish, as if undressed greens were a sinful indulgence.

"In any event, Ms. Gemein's ludicrous act of self-destruction appears to be receding from the public's attention span, ergo, no need to throw anyone under the bus."

"Thank you, sir."

"So tell me, Dr. Delaware, why'd the b.i.t.c.h snuff herself?"

"Hard to say."

"If it was easy, I wouldn't be asking you. Theorize like you're getting paid for it, I won't hold you to your answer."

I said, "She may have been living with a serious underlying depression for a long time."

"Poor little rich girl? From what I hear she wasn't the sniffly, breast-beating sort."

"Not a pa.s.sive depression. She reacted like some men do, with hostility and isolation."

"Men with borderline personality disorder?"

"That's one possible diagnosis."

"Depressed." He put down his fork. "What kind of family has a suicide, doesn't give a f.u.c.k? Not a squawk from Zurich. Which is good for us, these are ber-rich people, all we need is a lawsuit. I had D.C. Weinberg call them personally in Switzerland, do his Colin Powell bit-august authority plus diplomacy. The mother thanked him for letting her know, like he was informing her about the weather, then she handed the phone off to the old man who did the same d.a.m.n thing. Polite, unemotional, no questions, send the body when we're finished with it. What a bunch of coldhearted f.u.c.ks, guess that could depress you. You think that's why she didn't have s.e.x, Doctor? Shaved her d.a.m.n hair off-that was a good phrase, by the way, Sturgis. Self-abas.e.m.e.nt. I'm going to work that into a speech one day. You're saying this mess was all the result of not enough Prozac, Doctor?"

"I'm saying depression could've been her base state and she tried to give her life meaning by taking on a mission."

"Burning down that ridiculous heap of wood to avenge her sister, that whole tribal thing whatchamacallit ..."

Milo said, "Sutma."

"Sounds like kama sutra," said the chief. "Something out of a National Geographic special. Then again, we live in multicultural times, so far be it from me to disparage stupid primitive customs. Okay, she went on a mission, f.u.c.ked up, offed herself out of shame. I'll go with that. You see her for the turret murders?"

"Can't say for sure, sir, but my gut says no."

The chief ate more lettuce. "Anyone have a feel for whether Prince Teddy's dead or alive?"

Milo said, "No, sir."

"What's your plan on the turret murders?"

"No plan yet, sir."

"Then develop one and do it quickly. I've got a case I want you to deal with. Gang sc.u.m in Southwest Division sucking the federal t.i.t-gang prevention grant. Which is like pedophiles getting paid to run a preschool. I've got reason to believe the money's being used to buy heavy artillery."

"Southwest Division needs my help?"

"I determine who needs what. You've got two weeks to close the turret murders before it goes in the fridge." Manicured fingers lifted a quarter of sandwich. "Don't like your steak?"

"It's great, sir."

"Then wolf it down the way you usually do. Couple of refreshing burps and you're on your way to Van Nuys to check out that hangar."

"The Sranilese emba.s.sy granted permission?"

"Forty-eight hours of ignoring our reasonable request, plus exigent danger? f.u.c.k them, Sturgis. I grant permission."

CHAPTER.

35.

Beautiful afternoon at Van Nuys Airport.

No security lines, no delays or other indignities. This was the Mont Blanc of travel, all private, every happy sojourner owning or leasing one of the spotless white jets luxuriating on the tarmac.

Quiet afternoon, a single craft ran its engines. Citation X as sleek as an Indy car. Porters hurried to fill the hold with a dolly-ful of Vuitton luggage as a well-fed, sungla.s.sed family of four boarded. Thirtyish mother, fiftyish father, two kids under ten. Everyone in suede.

The luxury terminal backing the runways was nestled in greenery. So were the three other luxury depots we'd pa.s.sed. The hangars sat at the north end of the airport, monumental toy chests.

The bomb squad was waiting at Hangar 13A when Milo and I arrived. Familiar faces from the search at Helga's house and her workshop, all the tech toys in place, ready for a replay.

New dog today, a beautifully groomed flat-coated retriever named Sinead who stood patiently at her handler's side, emitting the confidence that comes from good looks and serious talent.

Milo said, "Okay to pet her, Mitch?"

The handler said, "Sure."

A big hand stroked the dog's head. Sinead purred like a cat. "She's a solo act?"

Mitch said, "She's the only one we can trust because she won't get distracted by jet fuel and such."

"Good nose, huh?"

"The best," said Mitch. "We already did the outside perimeter. Clean. Let's go inside."

Sinead was in and out within seconds. The bomb squad followed up with a detailed search, declared the hangar safe, motioned us in.

The interior was smaller than the house on Borodi, but not by much, with twenty-foot ceilings, a carpeted floor, and cedar paneling. At the center sat a navy-blue Gulfstream 5. Numbers on the tail conformed to Sranil's international designation. One of three planes registered to the island, all belonging to the royal family. A gold-painted crest on the door showcased the Sranilese flag: palm fronds, a crown, three stars in a single horizontal row.

Behind the jet were stacks of wooden crates piled ten feet high. Milo had officers lower a few to the ground, began prying them open.

Mikimoto pearls in the first. Thousands of them in velvet-lined boxes. The next three contained plastic-wrapped fur coats with an emphasis on sable. Crate number four was devoted to a four-foot-wide Tiffany chandelier: hollyhocks in a riot of color and luminosity.

Five and six: gold ingots. Onward to platinum jewelry. Tapestries. Paintings, mostly of the sweet-domestic-scene variety. Old Master etchings, more gold, bags of loose-cut diamonds.

One of the cops said, "We get a finder's fee?"

Milo put down his crowbar, walked to the opposite end of the hangar where, blocked by the jet's mammoth body, a fleet of cars sat under navy-blue covers. Same royal insignia on each.

Removing the cloths revealed a red Ferrari Enzo, a black Bugatti Veyron, a lime-green Lamborghini convertible, a silver Rolls-Royce Phantom limousine. Behind the limo, a white Prius.

"Oh, man," said the same cop. "I shoulda been born in Saudi Arabia."

"Sranil," said another.

"Whatever, dude. This level of bling, call me Hussein and circ.u.mcise me with a dull knife and no anesthesia."

"The first time didn't hurt enough?" said his buddy.

Another officer said, "Heard they didn't leave much to work with."

"You heard wrong, dude. Ask your wife."

Laughter.

The first cop said, "What's with the hybrid, looks like a zit on the Roller's b.u.t.t."

"Probably got a solid-gold engine block, dude. Or maybe some serious tuning-can I pop the hood, Loo?"

Milo held up a restraining palm. Circled the cars, gloved up. Smoked windows on each vehicle, but unlocked doors. He opened the Prius's driver's door and stopped.

We rushed over.

A cop said, "Oh, Jesus, that's rank."

Two skeletons took up the rear of the hybrid, huddled, embracing, a duet of interlocking bones. To my eyes, not a staged pose; the natural instinct to draw together when faced with the worst news of all.

Milo aimed his flashlight on the bones and I peered around his bulk. Cottony blond tufts fuzzed the smaller skull, darker strands greased the other.

Femurs and tibias pressed together, fingers entwined.

Eternal lovers.

Milo said, "Two bullet holes in each skull, forehead and under the nose."

"Execution," said the cop who'd asked for a look under the hood. "And they made 'em watch."

Milo continued to work his flashlight. "There's some skin, mostly at the lower extremities, looks leathery."

"Mummification," said another cop. "This place is humidity-and temperature-controlled, probably slowed the decomp but didn't block it."

"Whoa, dude, someone's been watching Forensic Files."

"Loo, how long do you think they've been there?"

Milo said, "We'll wait for the coroner on that but my guess is a couple of years."

"Makes sense, Loo. Security guy didn't remember seeing anyone here and he's been on the job eighteen months. As opposed to the next one over, that's Larry Stonefield's little Porsche garage, Larry likes to drive a different car every day, his crew's in and out all the time."

"Fifteen? Gimme one, dude, I'm happy."

"Gimme one of those boxes, my girlfriend would kill for a millionth of what's inside."

"Good choice of words, dude."

Milo aimed his flashlight at the skeleton's feet, poked his head in deeper, emerged. "All sorts of crust and stains on the carpet. If they weren't done in the car, they were done nearby. Okay, let's get this place roped off."

Mitochondrial DNA comparison of bone marrow from the blond skeleton and Helga Gemein's corpse confirmed that Dahlia Gemein had never made it to Sranil.

Identification of the second victim wasn't established, might never be, as if anyone wondered. The government of Sranil had lodged a formal complaint regarding unauthorized entry to the hangar, demanded immediate return of the plane, the crates, the dark-haired skeleton. Invoking diplomatic privilege and bringing in a supporting army of faceless men and women from the State Department.

"Must be my lucky week, Sturgis," said the chief. "I get to see you twice."

"I'm the lucky one, sir."

The chief touched his rear. "Feels nice to be licked. So in come the ill-fitting suits with their small-print weapons. We get the female skeleton, the rest goes back to sutma-land. Do I look upset, Sturgis?"

"No, sir."

"Diplomats are amoral, rim-jobbing worms, not worth my time. If the president called, I'd tell him the same thing."

"I'm sure you would, sir."

"Think about elections, Sturgis: Some sociopath spends hundreds of millions of dollars for a six-figure job. That's some serious psychopathology, right, Doctor?"