“Well, yeah. We don’t know people like that.”
“For sure,” said Baby. “I like your theory, honey. Just a crazy thing. What do you think, Lieutenant?”
“It’s certainly possible.”
Looking satisfied, Baby Burdette ate corn chips.
Milo gave me a whenever-you’re-ready look. The dialogue we’d prepped.
I said, “So when are you guys going on your honeymoon?”
“We were gonna do it in a month, now we’re hoping for a couple of months,” said Baby. “It’s a little mixed up. I want to get a job but I don’t want to start something and then ask for time off. We’re still trying to figure it out.”
“What kind of job are you interested in?”
“Fashion marketing. That’s always been my passion.”
I said, “Speaking of fashion, the victim’s dress was Fendi.”
Milo smiled. Improvisation.
“Really,” said Baby. “That’s horrible.”
Garrett said, “That it was Fendi?”
“That it mattered enough to her to wear Fendi. I mean something that awesome, you don’t just throw it on. Even if you are crashing. You’re... appreciating.”
Her eyes clouded. “Even if she was crashing, she was respecting us, honey. It wouldn’t have even hurt us, one more person, some drinks, guacamole. Right?”
“Right,” said Garrett without conviction.
“Really, honey. What’s the big deal? I’m feeling so, so sorry for her.”
She returned her head to his shoulder.
I said, “When you find time to honeymoon, where you planning on going?”
Baby said, “Some island, maybe the Grand Caymans. My dad told me there’s a beach you can play with stingrays, they’re super sweet.”
Garrett said, “Supposedly.”
“They are, honey. I saw a video, they’re like these big portobello mushrooms and you can hold them and pet them.”
I said, “Sounds fantastic.”
“I think so, too.”
Garrett said, “Long as you stay safe.”
“Don’t worry, silly — and it’s us, not me. You’re going to try it, too.”
No answer.
“Ho-ney.”
Garrett removed his glasses and sighted through them. “Okay.”
She kissed his cheek. “My brave man.”
He recrossed his legs.
I said, “So no plans to go to Europe.”
“That would be awesome, maybe one day,” said Baby. “It’s far and there’s not always sun and I need sun.”
“Ever been there?”
Dual head shakes.
I said, “Paris is pretty great.”
“You get to go to Paris?” said Baby. “On like an international case?”
“Just a vacation.”
“Well, lucky you, Mr. Policeman. Yeah, my mom says the same thing. About Paris. She’s always trying to get my dad to go back, they haven’t been in a long time, he just wants sunny places.”
Garrett allowed himself a half smile. “Hence, the Grand Caymans.”
“I know, hon, I just love it when the sun touches my skin.” Drawing a palm down a sleek arm. “When it first hits you, it’s so — it’s like a big... golden kiss. ’Course you have to wear sunscreen, my dad doesn’t, one day he’s going to get something.”
She gave Garrett’s arm a gentle punch. “You’re going to wear sunscreen, Mr. Forgetful. I don’t want that big brain of yours cooking.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I’ll do it,” said Baby. “I’ll slather you.” Tweaking his chin.
Garrett’s attention to his lap took on renewed intensity.
“Sweetie,” said his wife.
He fidgeted, made a grab for her hand, held it tight.
I said, “I’ve also heard Eastern Europe’s pretty good.”
Garrett blinked. Twice.
Baby said, “How far east? Like... Muslim places?”
“Czechoslovakia, Hungary. I’ve heard Poland’s great.”
Tight jaw and three more blinks from the groom.
The bride said, “Have you heard that, honey?”
“No. Never heard that.” Letting go of her hand, he stood and fooled with the placket of his shirt. “Got to wash up.”
“Sure, honey.”
He headed toward the rear of the apartment. Dark hallway, more wrapped gifts.
When he was gone, Baby said, “Washing up means he needs to pee. He’s like that, a real gentleman.”
Chapter 18
I drove to Pico, hooked a right, and drove west.
Milo said, “Ol’ Gar tightened up when you mentioned Poland.”
“He did, indeed. Where’d he go to college?”
He checked his notes. “Berkeley.”
“Eight years ago, he would’ve been twenty-one, twenty-two and still enrolled. Maybe they had a Warsaw exchange program.”
He googled. “They have one now — the history department... contours of existence... otherness... Europeanness... Jesus, when did they stop using English? I’ll try to find out if the same deal was going on eight years ago.”
He made a call. “Voicemail, but they’re always switching on and off, some sort of safety thing.”
“Who?”
“Little birdies.” Closing his eyes, he sat back.
A mile later: “How far east, Muslim places? She’s cute but no genius. And I got the feeling ol’ Gar knows it. Think it’ll last?”
“Who knows?”
He laughed. “Another classic evasion from the master. What about her bipolar comment? She was a different person, just now.”
I said, “Everyone tosses out diagnoses with no clue, blame talk shows. What I saw at the wedding was a young woman traumatized by having her dream day blown to bits. The stress level drops, she relaxes.”
“Baby’s really a sweetheart?” he said. “Guess it fits what Tomashev said, her standing up for him in school... okay, another try at the avians. I’ll switch to speaker but don’t let on you’re here.”
A sleepy-sounding male voice that I recognized said, “Yeah.” His unnamed source at Homeland Security. For years he and Milo had been trading info, each of them claiming outstanding debt.
“Sturgis.”
“I can read.”
“I need a—”
“Obviously. What?”
Milo read off Garrett Burdette’s name and birth date.
“What’s he suspected of?”
“Nothing unless he was in Poland eight years ago.”
“Something’s going on there? We haven’t heard that.”
“Nothing political. A murder.”
“You think he did it in Poland eight years ago.”
“He might’ve gotten ideas from a psycho named Skiwski who did it eight years ago.”
“Don’t spell that, I’ve already got a migraine.”
“Taking a sick day?”
“Poland,” said Sleepy. “Brace yourself: This is going to be heading in another direction. Soon.”
“What do you need?”
“Don’t talk about need, your account is far from paid up.”
“So you say. What?”
“M-13 psychos, we’ll be needing addresses. Your brain-dead state legislature says you can’t cooperate with us on illegals.”
“You want me to apologize?” said Milo.
“A little genuflection wouldn’t hurt. I’ll let you know when I find out about Poland but get ready to cough up.”
“I learn something, it’s yours. Long as you’re being saintly, run the same check for a Dennis Rapfogel. Here’s his DOB.”
“Twofer?” said Sleepy.
“We talking only one M-13er?”
Click.
Moments after we arrived at his office, an email came in from Dr. Basia Lopatinski. Her personal account, not the crypt.
She hadn’t found any California coverage of the Skiwski case but asked us to check out the attachment.
Fuzzy photocopy of a Polish newspaper article. Incomprehensible Slavic prose, small photo in the center of the story. Lopatinski had drawn an arrow in red marker and written, This is him.