“Everyone’s got their own notion of fun.”

Milo said, “Lord, I want a date with this girl in a small, bright room.”

A warrant for Helga’s financial transactions revealed little. She’d canceled the Amex account within days of the Port Angeles trip, no others had shown up under her name.

I said, “Daddy keeps vaults full of crisp bills. Maybe the department will fly you to Zurich.”

He phoned Gayle Lindstrom, asked for a probe of GGI-Alter Privatbank.

She said, “I’ll try but good luck, those places are tighter than missile silos.”

“Still nothing at the airport?”

“I’m not into secrets, Milo. If there was, I’d tell you.”

He hadn’t told her about the storefront on Western. When I asked why, he said, “At this point, all she can do is complicate matters. Any suggestions on tracing Ms. Hellish?”

“I’m wondering if she’d chance a road trip. She wouldn’t exactly blend into middle America.”

“Helga in the heartland—sounds like a movie.”

“The exception,” I said, “being Vegas.”

“Yeah, a three-headed albino monkey would blend in there, it’s Fugitive Central. Okay, I know a U.S. marshal, maybe Helga will materialize at the craps table at Caesars. If not, you’re probably right, she’s still in town. Hopefully sooner or later she’ll return to her bomb shop.”

“My vote’s for sooner.”

“Because you’re my pal?”

“Because it’s her house of worship.”

Gayle Lindstrom phoned to say she’d talked to her bosses about probing the bank. Given past dealings with the Swiss government over Nazi gold and looted wartime accounts, the best guess was years of wrangling.

Milo said, “Nothing like neutrality.”

“What we were able to do,” she said, “is institute passport scans of the entire Gemein family, to build a conspiracy case should you ever find Helga. This whole thing is making the Bureau nervous.”

“The fact that Doreen was your paid stooge and she used you?”

“Used my predecessors,” said Lindstrom. “My goal on this one is being seen as outside the loop.”

At five forty-three p.m., Milo ate junk food at his desk, preparing for the beginning of his alley shift.

He had a mouth full of packaged burrito when Sean Binchy called.

“Got her, Loot! Cuffed and in the back of my car, she went down real easy!”

CHAPTER

32

Helga Gemein, in all-black and her Bettie Page wig, parked her Buick carelessly, barely clearing Hiram Kwok’s area. She had her key in the lock of the bomb factory when Sean Binchy took her from behind.

Shouting “Police” and drawing her arms back, Binchy used long-fingered bass-player’s hands to secure her wrists, had the cuffs on within seconds.

Helga said, “All for twigs?”

Binchy patted her down lightly and spun her around. “Twigs?”

Helga’s look said he was beyond help.