Thomas’s BlackBerry sent her a message. She checked the screen, poked with a stylus, scrolled. “Detective Obermann has your German translations all done, he’ll e-mail them to you but is happy to talk to you over the phone. And … looks like he identified some of those numbers you found on Gemein’s papers. GPS coordinates, matching a private hangar at Van Nuys Airport. Registered to … DSD, Inc. That ring any bells?”

Milo sat up. “Loud ones. The sultan’s holding company.”

“So our Swiss Miss had more arson in mind. I’ll talk to the Sranilese consulate, ask for consent to enter the hangar.”

“There is no consulate.”

“The embassy in D.C., then.”

“They’ll say no and clean the place out.”

“Of what?”

“Their royal family’s involved in murder, they’re gonna be in total ass-covering mode.”

Thomas thought. “Guess we have a problem.” Helga Gemein closed her eyes.

Boxmeister said, “How about this: We apply for warrant under exigent danger. Likely presence of volatile chemicals, imminent risk of ignition.”

“The hangar’s ready to blow?” said Thomas. “What evidence do we have of that?”

“We’ve got prior bad acts by Helga and her looking for GPS coordinates. To me that’s clear intent.”

“She can look to her heart’s content, Don. How’s she going to gain access to the hangar?”

Milo said, “She’s got money to charter a private jet. Maybe once she’s in there she could find it.”

“Exactly,” said Boxmeister. “Like one of those private clubs. Getting past the rope’s a bitch, but once you’re in, anything goes.”

Thomas said, “No judge is going to buy it and we’re talking royalty, to boot.”

Milo said, “But what if she’s already gotten in there and set her Jell-O? All those aircraft nearby? All that jet fuel?”

Boxmeister said, “Shit, I don’t want to even imagine. Sure hate to be the one who failed to take precautions.”

Thomas said, “Subtle, guys. You want me to ask the boss.”

Milo glanced toward the one-way mirror. Helga remained frozen. “Up to you but I used all my charm up with her.”

Thomas drummed her BlackBerry. Began texting.

Helga Gemein stood up, walked to the mirror, turned her back on us.

One hand reached up. Fooled with the wig.

“That’s her anxiety tell, messing with the rug,” said Boxmeister. “She’s gonna cave, I can feel it.”

If that comforted Milo, he didn’t show it.

Thomas kept texting.

Helga Gemein turned again, faced us.

Looking but not seeing.

Blank eyes; she’d arrived at a solitary place.

Snatching off her wig with one deft movement, she exposed a beautifully shaped head shaved white and glossy. Holding the hairpiece in front of her, bowl up, like a chalice, she smiled.

Sad smile. Second time I’d seen it. I liked her no better.