“No, Des Hitler—yes, Des Backer. I want to go and pay my fine and be gone.”

“Soon,” said Milo. “What else did Des supply you with?”

“Everything.”

“Meaning—”

“You have invaded my studio, you know what is there.”

“The fuses, the wiring, the vegan Jell-O. Des knew about all that because he was …”

“He claimed to be an anarchist.”

“Claimed? You think he was faking?”

“Des indulged himself.”

“Des and women.”

“He was not a serious person.”

Milo said, “Where’d you two meet? An anarchist convention—guess that’s kind of an oxymoron, huh?”

Helga said, “In a chat room.”

“Which one?”

“Shards.net.”

“As in broken glass?”

“As in broken universe,” she said. “It has closed down. Anarchists are not good at self-perpetuation.”

“Poor organizational skills,” said Milo. Silence.

“So you met online … Des being an architect must’ve made it seem perfect. Though the combination is kind of odd. Building up and destroying.”

“There is no contradiction.”

“Why’s that?”

“As I told you, everything depends on context. But anyway, I am not an anarchist, I do not join movements.”

“So you’re a …”

“I am,” said Helga Gemein, with the first smile I’d seen her offer, “myself.”

Milo fiddled with his papers some more, feigned confusion. “Kind of a one-woman truth squad … So you met Des online and the two of you decided to burn some twigs.”

“I decided.”

“He was your supplier,” said Milo. “Knew where to get equipment. That was the real reason you hired him. The real reason you established your firm.”

Silence.

“Nice shell,” he went on, “for explaining your presence in L.A., giving you a reason to be hanging with Des. Covering expenses—fifty thousand in cash? Who’s the real source of all that money, your father?”

No response.

“The road trip to Port Angeles, Helga. Nice, crisp bills in two suitcases. The kind you get fresh from a bank. The kind that gets released when one bank talks to another.”

Helga Gemein poked a finger under her wig. “I would like some water.”

Milo collected his papers and left. Alone, Helga fooled with the hairpiece some more, massaging the top of the glossy black strands, working a finger joint under the hem and poking around.

Don Boxmeister said, “What, she’s got cooties? Maybe we should’ve strip-searched her.”

Maria Thomas said, “What I said still stands, Don: No sense alienating her right off, he needs something to work with. And it’s paying off, she admitted premeditation.” Several pokes at the BlackBerry. “I’m needed back in an hour, hope he can nail the bitch soon.”

Helga straightened the wig, turned, leaned on the table. Sat and planted her boots on the floor. Her eyes closed. Her head swayed.

“What the hell’s she doing?” said Boxmeister. “Some kind of meditation?”

I said, “Probably dissociation. Putting herself somewhere else is her default strategy.”