Thomas said, “That look like a tell to you? That picture mellowed her. Damn.” She turned to me: “Either she is nuts or she really doesn’t know what he’s talking about, right, Doc? Either way, it’s mucho problemo.”

Milo continued to display the photo.

Helga said, “You can wave that around forever, your little policeman flag.”

“This guy’s your partner, Helga. The person who helped you murder Des and Doreen. Did you drive up to Port Angeles with him?”

Helga shook her head. “You are an utter fool.”

“This photo was taken in Port Angeles a couple of days ago. This man was there to retrieve the money. Talk about good planning. You never had any intention of letting Des keep a penny. Because you never had any intention of letting him live. The real reason you rented him a car was so you could follow him and find out where he stashed the money. After you returned to L.A., you got hold of his storage key—plucked it out of a pocket or found it in his desk drawer, made a mold. Maybe you did it when he was off having fun with the ladies and you were in the office all by your bald-headed, self-abasing, not-so-lapsed Catholic fundamentalist self.”

Helga Gemein giggled. “You truly believe this scheiss.”

“The evidence makes me believe, Helga.”

“Then the evidence is scheiss.” Clucking her tongue. “I have burned twigs, that is all. Now I wish to leave and pay my fine and not hear any more of this crazy nonsense.”

“Twigs,” said Milo. “We call it arson and it’s a felony.”

Helga shrugged. “I will hire a lawyer. He will make it into a prank that got too big and I will be free and you will remain stupid.”

“Damn,” said Boxmeister.

Thomas said, “She hasn’t actually asked, she’s only threatened.” Shifting close to the mirror. “Change the subject, dude.”

Milo said, “More water?”

“Yes!” said Thomas.

Helga said, “No, thank you.” Sweet smile. Unsettling. Wrong.

“Desi and Doreen were murdered in that turret. You went back to the house anyway.”

“I had business to do.”

“The murder didn’t bother you?”

“Not my concern, Policeman.”

Milo slid another piece of paper toward her.

“What is this, Policeman?”

“This is what’s left of a gentleman named Charles Ellston Rutger. He grew up in a house that once sat on the Borodi property. Had one of those stupid sentimental attachments to the land, which is why he liked to sneak up there, sit in that same turret, reminisce about the good old days. See that shiny thing?” Pointing. “That’s what was left of his wineglass. And that, over there? That used to be a tin of foie gras. Mr. Rutger was enjoying a snack, washing it down with a nice Bordeaux the night you reduced him to dust.”

Helga Gemein grabbed the paper.