Part 29 (1/2)
”Oh ...” Boxmeister's smile was sheepish. ”Back up the tape, erase. Our firebug's a lady out for personal revenge? Then how do your first two vics figure in?”
”Like you said, they could've been in it together. Or she was a family member of the Swedish vic, hired them, they got killed, she decided to finish the job.”
”You're seeing her as why they got killed? That's kinda thin.”
Milo didn't answer.
Boxmeister slapped his back. ”Look on the bright side, be nice to have a good-looking suspect in the box, for a change. Just in case Blondie has nothing to do with it, though, I'll be doing it old-school, combing the files for any serious pro torches recently paroled or released. Let you know if I come up with something, and you find anything pointing to Anita Ekberg, you call me p.r.o.nto.”
We watched him leave.
Milo said, ”How early do you think diplomat types get to work?”
CHAPTER.
25.
The Swedish consulate rents s.p.a.ce on the seventh floor of a high-rise at Wils.h.i.+re near Westwood. Consular a.s.sistant Lars Gustafson was at his desk at eight thirty, took Milo's call with puzzlement but agreed to meet in an hour.
”Out in front, please, Lieutenant.” The faintest trace of accent.
”Any reason we can't come up?”
”Let's enjoy the nice weather. I'll be there promptly.”
”How will I know you?”
”I'll do my best to look Swedish.”
Milo hung up. ”Aw shucks, thought I'd get a look at the furniture. Bet it ain't IKEA.”
We were in place by nine twenty-five, watching the revolving door accept people dressed for business.
At nine twenty-nine a.m., a throng emerged and dispersed. The man who stayed behind was around thirty, tall, athletically built, wearing a fitted brown suit, yellow s.h.i.+rt, b.u.t.terscotch shoes.
Blond and blue-eyed, but his hair was kinky, his skin milk-chocolate, his features those of a Masai warrior.
”Mr. Gustafson?”
”Lars.” Energetic pump, flash of diplomatic teeth custom-made for news conferences and lunch with genteel old ladies. ”I have researched your issue, Lieutenant. There have been no complaints by any Swedish citizen-at home, or here-regarding missing persons or homicides. I did find a case involving a Danish citizen who was thought to have disappeared in San Diego. However, she showed up and the matter was resolved. A love triangle, no royalty involved, Muslim or otherwise, thank heavens.”
”The Muslim thing bothers you.”
Gustafson smiled. ”Nothing bothers us, we are neutral. The Danes, on the other hand ... remember those Mohammed cartoons?”
”That why you didn't want us up in your office?”
”No, no, heaven forbid, gentlemen-please forgive me if I seemed unwelcoming, but the consul general felt police officers could serve as a distraction.”
”From the daily challenge of stamping visas.”
Gustafson kept smiling but the wattage went out of it. ”We do attempt to be useful, Lieutenant. Next week, we're hosting a dinner for over two dozen n.o.bel laureates. In any event, I have nothing to tell you. Good luck.”
Milo took out his pad. ”How about some details on the Danish case.”
”A woman named Palma Mogensen was working as an au pair for a family in La Jolla when she met an American marine in Oceanside. Unfortunately, she was already married to a Danish man and after she stopped returning her husband's e-mails, he showed up.”
”Things get nasty?”
”Oh, no,” said Gustafson. ”Everyone talked it out and the couple returned to Copenhagen.”
”Civilized,” said Milo.
”We try to be good influences, Lieutenant.”
”You and the Danes.”
”All of us who must contend with endless night. It breeds a certain patience.”
Gustafson headed back toward the revolving door, managed to sidle in as the mechanism remained in motion.
Milo said, ”Swedish, Danish-time for a pastry.”
We found a coffee shop in the Village. Two bear claws and a creme-filled chocolate eclair for him, a coffee for me. Later, we were back in the station parking lot.
”Jogging,” he said. ”Sports bra. This is gonna be another washout day.”
He was wrong.
One message slip atop his computer. Barely legible scrawl. He squinted, put on reading gla.s.ses. Frowned. ”Now it's Mrs. Holman wanting a meeting.” Punching numbers. ”Ms. Holman, Lieutenant Sturgis, I got your-about that? Really. Why don't you tell me what it is you... Sure, we can meet but if you could just fill me in before-you sound upset, Ms. Holman... Yes, of course we appreciate leads, I can be there in thirty, forty minutes, that work for you? ... Fine, then. You're sure there's nothing you can-all right, then, Ms. Holman, I'm on my way.”
He placed the phone in its cradle as if it were breakable. ”That's one very uptight architect and her voice says she's been working on the gin.”
”She knows something about the fire?”
”Claims to but wouldn't say what. I guess I should call Boxmeister. I guess I won't.”
Another pretty day at the ca.n.a.ls.
Marjorie Holman was out on her front porch, wearing a black sweater and slacks and looking like a model for a high-end retirement community.
Next to her stood a tall, white-haired, goateed man close to seventy. His gaunt frame was a wire hanger for a black suit and turtleneck.
Milo muttered, ”Looks like a funeral.”