“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 pronto.”

We watched him leave.

Milo said, “How early do you think diplomat types get to work?”

CHAPTER

25

The Swedish consulate rents space on the seventh floor of a high-rise at Wilshire near Westwood. Consular assistant 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 shirt, butterscotch 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 Nobel laureates. In any event, I have nothing to tell you. Good luck.”