“Depressed.” He put down his fork. “What kind of family has a suicide, doesn’t give a fuck? Not a squawk from Zurich. Which is good for us, these are über-rich people, all we need is a lawsuit. I had D.C. Weinberg call them personally in Switzerland, do his Colin Powell bit—august authority plus diplomacy. The mother thanked him for letting her know, like he was informing her about the weather, then she handed the phone off to the old man who did the same damn thing. Polite, unemotional, no questions, send the body when we’re finished with it. What a bunch of coldhearted fucks, guess that could depress you. You think that’s why she didn’t have sex, Doctor? Shaved her damn hair off—that was a good phrase, by the way, Sturgis. Self-abasement. I’m going to work that into a speech one day. You’re saying this mess was all the result of not enough Prozac, Doctor?”

“I’m saying depression could’ve been her base state and she tried to give her life meaning by taking on a mission.”

“Burning down that ridiculous heap of wood to avenge her sister, that whole tribal thing whatchamacallit …”

Milo said, “Sutma.”

“Sounds like kama sutra,” said the chief. “Something out of a National Geographic special. Then again, we live in multicultural times, so far be it from me to disparage stupid primitive customs. Okay, she went on a mission, fucked up, offed herself out of shame. I’ll go with that. You see her for the turret murders?”

“Can’t say for sure, sir, but my gut says no.”

The chief ate more lettuce. “Anyone have a feel for whether Prince Teddy’s dead or alive?”

Milo said, “No, sir.”

“What’s your plan on the turret murders?”

“No plan yet, sir.”

“Then develop one and do it quickly. I’ve got a case I want you to deal with. Gang scum in Southwest Division sucking the federal tit—gang prevention grant. Which is like pedophiles getting paid to run a preschool. I’ve got reason to believe the money’s being used to buy heavy artillery.”

“Southwest Division needs my help?”

“I determine who needs what. You’ve got two weeks to close the turret murders before it goes in the fridge.” Manicured fingers lifted a quarter of sandwich. “Don’t like your steak?”

“It’s great, sir.”

“Then wolf it down the way you usually do. Couple of refreshing burps and you’re on your way to Van Nuys to check out that hangar.”

“The Sranilese embassy granted permission?”

“Forty-eight hours of ignoring our reasonable request, plus exigent danger? Fuck them, Sturgis. I grant permission.”

CHAPTER

35

Beautiful afternoon at Van Nuys Airport.

No security lines, no delays or other indignities. This was the Mont Blanc of travel, all private, every happy sojourner owning or leasing one of the spotless white jets luxuriating on the tarmac.