"Climbing out the window," said Milo.

"Or just sneaking out the back door, the place wasn't exactly super-max lockdown. Like many teenagers, Fredd and Backer and their friends appear to have filled some of their free time with various vegetative hallucinogens, alternative music, video games. They also spent time engaged in apparently wholesome activities such as hiking, camping, environmental cleanups, volunteer wildlife rescue. Unfortunately, some of that may have been a cover for arson and other acts of vandalism."

"Were they ever arrested?"

"Insufficient evidence," said Lindstrom. "But their proximity to several trashed homesites is revealing."

"What exactly do you have on them?"

"What the local police had on them was word-of-mouth. Then, a dead boy."

"They killed someone?"

"Not directly, but they have moral culpability." Out came his pad. "Name of the victim?"

"Vincent Edward Burghout, known as Van. Seventeen when he burned to death inside an unfinished mansion in Bellevue, Washington. By now, you've probably heard of Bellevue because it's where high-tech zillionaires are building castles. Back then, that had just started and it was basically a nice, low-crime suburb of Seattle. One of the first techie-monarchs to see the potential of lakeside living bought ten acres and started building a twenty-thousand-square-foot monstrosity. It had gotten as far as the framing the night Van Burghout sneaked in and set several fires. He destroyed a good part of it but also immolated himself. We-my predecessors-found his technique especially interesting. Have you ever heard of vegan Jell-O?"

"Sounds disgustingly healthy."

"Not if you're made of wood," said Lindstrom. "Or flesh and bones. It's basically homemade napalm-soap and petroleum triggered by a delayed ignition device. Any idiot can get the recipe off the Internet or in one of those treasonous loony-tracts put out by the paranoid press. Fortunately, few idiots actually go as far as to whip the stuff up, but over the years we have had incidents and the mortality rate is high, often to the perpetrators. You're talking a highly incendiary concoction and if your timer's off, you're toast. Or in Van Burgh-out's case, crumbs. There was nothing left of the kid, they I.D.'d him because he'd gotten teeth knocked out playing basketball and part of an upper bridge survived the blast."

She fooled with the tube of lip balm. "Mr. High-Tech collected insurance, donated the land to the city for a park, moved to Oregon, and built an even bigger monstrosity on a thousand acres."

"Everyone walks away happy," said Milo. "Except Van's parents."

"Who pointed fingers at Van's friends. Maybe because they couldn't accept their son being a solo pyromaniac. But that doesn't make them wrong."

I said, "Van was the victim of bad influences?"

"Exactly, but like I said, there was logic to that. Van's grades were barely pa.s.sing and the local law got a clear picture of him as impressionable. But they got nowhere and called the Bureau in. That's how the Bureau came to acquaint itself with Desmond Backer and Doreen Fredd and their pals."

"How many pals?"

"The Burghouts gave the locals four names in addition to Van: Backer, Fredd, a boy named Dwayne Parris, a girl named Kathy Vanderveldt. We tried to talk to them, as well as to their teachers and friends."

"Tried?"

"These were middle-cla.s.s kids with oodles of parental and community support, so we got no direct access, everything was filtered through lawyers. We're talking upstanding folk, well respected in their community, claiming their kids were angels."

I said, "Doreen's parents stepped forward?"

"No, she was the exception. Her parents were drunks, living out of state, seemed barely in touch with what Doreen had been doing. Also, Doreen was gone by the time we began investigating."

"Yet another rabbit," said Milo.

Lindstrom said, "Sure, we got suspicious about the timing, but splitting was her habitual pattern and everyone we talked to said they couldn't imagine Doreen involved in anything violent. Just the opposite, she was pa.s.sive, gentle, into poetry, blue skies, green trees, little cutie-pie mammals. The folks at Hope Lodge-the home-had nothing bad to say about her, either. Poor Doreen was a victim of family dysfunction, not a wild girl."

I said, "Did they change their minds when they found out she'd been sneaking out to meet up with the others?"

"Not according to what I've read, Doctor. My predecessor described the people running the place as 'idealists.' Which is Bureau code for stupid, nave do-gooder. We were able to get a warrant for Doreen's room because a lot of Hope Lodge's funding came through government grants. Unfortunately, nothing funny showed up there. And we brought in dogs, the works."

Milo said, "No warrants for the others?"

"Not even close. We went judge-shopping but the one we thought might work with us said he wouldn't authorize a 'witch hunt.' We put out a nationwide alert for Doreen, placed the other kids under surveillance for a couple of months. It came to nothing, there were no more fires in Bellevue, or anywhere else in the Greater Seattle area. We moved on."

"But at some point you found Doreen and managed to turn her."

Lindstrom pinched her upper lip. Balanced the lip balm tube between two index fingers. "Is this the point where I say, 'Oh, Sherlock!' and go all wide-eyed?"

Milo said, "Why else would you be here, Gayle?"

Lindstrom removed her gray suit jacket. Underneath was a red tank top. Square shoulders, thick but firm arms. "It's kind of dry in here, don't you think? Must be your A.C. Could I trouble you for some coffee?"

CHAPTER.

20.

Detective-room brew has the refreshing tang of roofing tar and a meth-like ability to sc.r.a.pe the nerves raw.

Special Agent Gayle Lindstrom downed half a cup without complaint, rubbed her eyes, stretched and yawned and stretched again. Milo goes through a similar act when he's faking casual. Lindstrom needed more practice.

Taking another sip, she finally gave the expected grimace, set the cup aside.

"Yes, Doreen finally surfaced. I had nothing to do with it but it still makes me cringe." Reaching for the cup, she deliberated another swallow, decided against it. "Nothing the Bureau did pulled her in. Her own stupidity did."

"She did a bad thing and got caught," said Milo.

"She got busted for prost.i.tution and dope five years ago. Want to take a wild guess where?"

"Seattle."

"Heart of the city, downtown. I wouldn't be surprised if she never left. Even though she spun us all kinds of tales about hitchhiking around the country, living off the land, none of her details came together correctly and what I get from her file is the bio of a natural-born compulsive liar."

I said, "Des Backer traveled around the country for ten years. Did she claim to be with him?"

"As a matter of fact, she did, Doctor. Not as a constant companion, off and on. She spun weird yarns about living in forests, eating roots and shoots, foraging for wild mushrooms, whatever. But like I said, when it came to closing the deal on the finer points, as in dates, towns, cities, states, she fell apart. Bureau shrinks labeled her a histrionic personality."

Milo said, "They examined her?"

"I've seen no clinical report."

I said, "Meaning the diagnosis probably came from reviewing the file."

"Do you disagree with the diagnosis, Doctor?"

"I don't know enough to agree, or disagree."

Lindstrom frowned. "No offense, but the psych stuff doesn't really matter, does it? Same for Fredd's nature-girl tales. Maybe part of it was true, maybe she was double-, triple-, quadruple-bluffing. The point is, no eco-crimes during that period can be traced to her, so either she was real good at covering her tracks or she and the other Seattle kids weren't any big deal in the first place."

I said, "Five years ago, Des Backer was in architecture school. Doreen's turning to prost.i.tution around then says they'd probably parted ways well before."

"And...?"

"I'm just trying to nail down the time line."

"I won't argue with your logic."

Milo said, "So she gets busted for hooking. How'd that lead to federal snitch?"

Lindstrom said, "I haven't said anything about turning her."

"Her ident.i.ty was erased, cut the c.r.a.p."

Lindstrom played with a strap of her tank top. "Yes, we turned her, but it wasn't the prostie part that scared her, it was the dope. We're talking kilos of weed, pills in neat little bags plus some chunks of rock. Enough to put her away for a real long time."

"She was a major-league dealer?"

"The stuff was found in the bas.e.m.e.nt of a rooming house where she habitually took johns. Downtown Seattle, not far from the Pike market."

"She just happens to be rooming with all that?"

"Sitting on top of it," said Lindstrom. "Literally. One of those under-the-bed trapdoors right below her bounce-for-bucks mattress. Doreen's bad luck was popping pills in front of a john who turned out to be undercover Seattle vice. She claimed it was Advil and that was later verified. But meanwhile, the room got seriously tossed. The city had just inst.i.tuted one of those temporary moral crusades-too many tourists ha.s.sled by lowlifes-so warrants were a snap. Doreen claimed she had no idea the hatch existed in the first place, had never even looked under the bed. Maybe that's even true. Lots of girls used the same room and the building was owned by a couple of Cambodian restaurateurs suspected of bringing in all sorts of bad stuff. By the time the Bureau got called in, they were gone and wrapped in layers of paper that dead-ended in Phnom Penh. Our plan was to confiscate the entire property under the RICO statutes but Seattle PD claimed the prize as theirs. There's a cute little shopping center there now. Designer coffee, sushi bar, Italian cafe with great pastries, yuppie gym. Tanning salon, too, which could come in handy in Drizzle City."

"You've visited recently."

"I was there yesterday. Trying to learn what I could about Doreen. After we found out what happened to her here."

"What'd you learn?"

"Not a thing." Smile. "I did have a good panini at the Italian place."

"How long since you had contact with Doreen?"

"I never had contact with her," said Lindstrom, "I inherited her. And a bunch of others like her. If that sounds defensive, it is."

"Bunch of snitches living off tax dollars who end up burning you. Business as usual, Gayle."

The skin above Lindstrom's neckline turned rosy. "Like it never happens to you guys? I happen to know for a fact that six years ago, one of your best female vice D's was set up as a pimp in an apartment in Hollywood. Not some decoy thing, LAPD had a genuine D Two hiring and working real-life hookers on the street, running everything real businesslike, keeping books, recording income. All so you could pull in high-profile johns because a feminist on the city council screamed loud enough to get heard. So what happens to your grand plan? The street girls your D is supposed to boss slip her a roofie, strip her naked, take pictures of her being ganged by some of their thug boyfriends, put the photos online, and abscond to Mexico with the cash. There's police work at its best."

Milo's expression said he'd never heard any of it before.

Gayle Lindstrom said, "News to you, huh? Well, then thank the LAPD obstruction squad. My point is, Milo, we all win some, lose some. And we all cover our collective b.u.t.ts. Yes, the Bureau thought Doreen might be useful because during the same period she claimed to be nature-girling with Backer, the whole eco-crazy scene had heated up in a really nasty way. I'm talking two small children of a genetics researcher-toddlers, for G.o.d's sake-with third-degree burns after animal liberation nuts set fire to the family house because Daddy ran rats. I'm talking a bunch of loggers near the Washington-Canadian border getting blinded and losing limbs due to tree spikes. A Ronald McDonald house sprayed with threatening graffiti then overrun with live rats, with families living there. Families of kids with cancer, for G.o.d's sake. All because someone doesn't like Big Macs. These people are lunatics and they're vicious. And in addition to that, at least a dozen residential construction projects had been turned to charcoal, so why wouldn't we try to use Doreen? Everyone knew the dope really wasn't hers, why not deal?"

I said, "What made you think Doreen had anything to offer?"

"She told my predecessors that she did. Started spilling the minute they had her in lockup, claiming all sorts of insider knowledge about the most radical fringe of the movement. People she'd come into contact with during her years on the road. What made her credible was her insistence on getting a pa.s.s for herself on anything she talked about. Implying she had been more than a bystander."

Milo said, "But ..."

Lindstrom turned to him. "You're enjoying this way too much, but fine, I'll open a vein for you: We protected her and she screwed us over. Happy, Father O'Shaughnessy? How many Hail Marys do I need to do?"

Milo didn't answer.

She said, "Looking back, it's easy to see the pattern, but at the time?"

"What was the pattern?"

"Once Fredd was cleared of the dope charge, she put off blabbing by claiming she was scared for her life, needed a new I.D., a safe house in another city, a spending allowance. That took months. Once she was set up, she faked depression, said she had no energy to deal with life, made suicidal noises. Bureau a.s.signed a physician to give her a full checkup, and a review by a shrink."

I said, "Not the one who labeled her histrionic."

"No, a doc who thought she was a sociopath. But we needed to go along with it, not confront her. Several more months, then she brought up a new medical issue-"

"Plastic surgery," said Milo.

Lindstrom glared. "Don't play with me. Am I repeating stuff you already know?"

"It came up on her external exam at the morgue. Why'd Doreen want her nose nubbed all of a sudden?"

"What do you think? 'I'm scared, I need to change my appearance.'"

"Des Backer's sister recognized her even with the nose."

"So why didn't she go for something that really worked? Like I said, hindsight's twenty-ten. For all I know, she just wanted to look cuter and use our tax dollars to pay for it."

I said, "Surgery, then recuperation. A few more months of delay."

"By the time she got talking, over a year had pa.s.sed. It started off promising, she spit out all sorts of horrendous stuff. Including nonsense about an interface between domestic eco-nuts and foreign terrorists, some major Armageddon conspiracy. But like I said, it all dead-ended."

Milo said, "She give you anything righteous?"

"Like most liars she spiced up her bulls.h.i.t with morsels of reality. Piddling stuff, but just enough to keep us going."

"Like what?"

"False reports of endangered species sightings in order to halt public projects-phony DNA smeared on trees, that kind of thing. Nonviolent fish-huggers setting out in canoes and cutting up nets, greenies perched in old, venerable trees so they wouldn't get chopped down for shopping centers. Which-off the record-I can't say bothers me. Giant redwood gets that old, for G.o.d's sake, let it live out its golden years in peace. And when I drive through miles of clear-cut dirt where a forest used to be, it doesn't make me feel patriotic. In any event, Doreen snitched minor league, nothing came of it, but it took us a while to chase down all her b.u.m leads."