"I'll get an airport check going soon as I hang up. Including private charters, seeing as Daddy's a money-mover. Give me the name of his bank."

He flipped through his pad. "GGI-Alter Privatbank."

Lindstrom said, "Sounds fancy. Soon as you snag those computers, make sure I get a full copy of the hard drives."

"Done and you're welcome, Gayle. Once you get hold of her pa.s.sport info or anything else, get on the horn A-sap."

"Done and you're welcome. I'll give your regards to Hal."

"He takes your calls, does he?"

"Must be my feminine mystique."

Sean Binchy was dispatched to pick up the computers.

Moe Reed answered his page, alert and focused. "I'm right across the street, my source came to work this morning but she was with a bunch of other girls and I couldn't isolate her. She's due out soon for lunch."

Milo said, "Don't waste time on subtle, Moses, just pull her aside. What I need to know is how sure she is about the Swedish thing. Even if she says she is, ask her could it be 'Swiss.'"

He explained why.

Reed said, "Blond is blond, huh? I'll nab her as soon as I see her, Loo."

A search using ggi alter privatbank Zurich gemein helga, and family as keywords, paid off.

Embedded among German-, French-, and Italian-language business sites was a single photo, dated six years ago. One of many snapped at a fund-raiser for the Kraeker Gallery's exhibit of outsider art, featuring well-fed, well-groomed people in black tie and gowns.

One thumbnail off to the right. Milo enlarged it two inches square: Banker George Gemein, his wife, Ilse, daughters Helga and Dahlia.

Both parents, bespectacled, ramrod-straight, unsmiling. Helga matched their stance, the obedient child. Even with a honey-colored schoolgirl bob and a baby-blue gown trimmed in lace, she came across grim, disapproving.

Dahlia Gemein appeared several years younger than her sister. Shorter and curvier than Helga, she sported a conspicuous tan, a headful of ash-blond waves, a saucy grin. Defying the family commitment to good posture, she c.o.c.ked a hip and slouched forward, threatening to spill ample bosoms out of her blood-red, skintight sheath. Bejeweled fingers held the stem of a cobalt-blue c.o.c.ktail.

The only Gemein caught drinking, she'd separated herself physically, standing half a foot apart.

The clan. The mutation.

Milo switched to NCIC, ran a search on dahlia gemein, pulled up nothing there or on the Doe Network, any MP or crime file. But the Web spat back another photo dated the same year as the Kraeker gala, snapped at the record launch party of a rapper named ReePel. Malibu party house, Broad Beach. I'd heard about the place. Closed down after a torrent of neighbor complaints.

In that one, Dahlia Gemein wore a pink string bikini and stood flanked by two men in flowered bathing shorts: the guest of honor, obese and cornrowed, and a baby-faced, muscular Asian man identified as Teddy K-M.

Milo shot a fist into the air. Flipped through his pad and shouted, punched the air harder. "Dig this, Alex: K-M as in Tariq Ku'amah Majur. Something real."

He studied the shot. "Girl like this isn't going to be a throwaway, someone's bound to report her missing. So why isn't she in the database?"

"Maybe someone forgot to enter it."

"Human error? Oh, come now."

A call to Missing Persons revealed that Dahlia Gemein's disappearance had never been reported. Follow-ups everywhere else confirmed the same.

Milo slumped. "For all we know, she's not missing. She and Teddy fell in love, she went back to Sranil with him, is living the life of a princess, and there goes Helga's motive."

He checked with Moe Reed. "Your source out yet?"

"Out and right here, Loo. See you in about twenty."

CHAPTER.

27.

Ati Meneng was tiny, gorgeous, terrified.

She looked ten years younger than the twenty-nine listed on her driver's license, took up so little s.p.a.ce that Milo put her in his office and had room to spare.

Standard California license, no special consulate perks. She typed doc.u.ments in the secretarial pool.

She had on a cinnamon-colored pantsuit that covered everything but hands and face. The office was warm but that didn't stop her from shivering. Tilting her head, she created a glossy sheet of blue-black hair that masked her face. "I still don't know why I'm here."

Milo said, "Just what I told you, Ati. You're helping us and we really appreciate it."

"There's nothing I can help you with."

Milo wheeled his chair closer. "This doesn't need to be stressful, Ati."

I sat just inside the open door. Moe Reed stood behind me. Young guy with a fondness for Aqua Velva. My father had slapped it on religiously, cursing as the alcohol ignited booze-inspired shaving nicks.

If Reed was breathing, I couldn't hear it.

Milo said, "Is it okay if I call you Ati?"

Murmurs from behind the hair curtain.

"What's that?"

"Call me what you want."

"Thanks, Ati. First off, we're sorry we had to take you away in the middle of work but this is a murder investigation. If you have problems with your boss, I can talk to him."

"No, don't. I don't know about murder." Crystalline voice, no accent.

Milo said, "How long have you been living in L.A., Ati?"

Hair slithered away like glycerine on gla.s.s, revealing a flawless oval face, pouty-lipped, ruled by enormous black eyes. "All my life."

"Where'd you grow up?"

"Downey."

"How'd you come to work at the Indonesian consulate?"

"They advertised in an Indonesian paper. Needed someone who knew Dutch, my parents speak Dutch in the house."

"How long have you been working there?"

"Like nine months."

"And before that?"

"A bunch of places."

"Such as?"

"Why is that important?"

"Just trying to get to know you, Ati."

"Why?"

Milo rolled back a few inches. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"No, thanks."

"Tell me about some of your previous jobs."

"Mostly temps."

"Don't like to be tied down to anything long-term?"

"Temps are what I could get while I auditioned."

"You're an actress?"

"I thought I was."

"No luck, huh?"

Black hair swung. "I did some commercials for Asian cable. I thought I could model downtown for pet.i.tes, but they said I was too small for even that."

"Tough gig, the audition circuit," said Milo.

"Every stupid girl thinks she can do it."

"That include Dahlia?"

Pouty lips separated on white teeth slick with saliva. Brown hands the size of a ten-year-old's met each other and clenched hard.

Ati Meneng said, "You found her?"

"Would that surprise you?"

"I just didn't think it would ever happen."

"Why's that?"

"People like that," said Ati Meneng. "They get away with things."

"People like who?"

Silence.

Milo said, "People like Prince Teddy?"

Long, slow nod. "I didn't know who he was. Later, I found out."

"How did Dahlia meet him?"

"I don't know."

Milo said, "Dahlia was your friend but you don't know?"

"I don't know exactly. That's why I talked to you-to him-in the first place. Because I do care, she was my friend."

"Tell me what you do know, Ati."

"My parents can't find out," she said. "They think all my temp jobs were secretarial."

"They won't, I promise." Silence.

Milo said, "You did some other things besides secretarial."

"I wasn't getting any secretarial jobs so I registered at a website, okay? Asian Dolls. It's not what it sounds, they just linked visiting businessmen with presentable young ladies suitable to be taken to social events."

That sounded like a direct quote.

Milo said, "Helping them feel at home."