“Brigid Ochs,” said Milo. “What’s the chance that’s her righteous name?”

I said, “Whoever she was, she was obviously curious about the Borodi project and DSD.”

“International intrigue … okay, time to call in some favors.”

He flipped through his notepad, found a number, punched and left a vague message for someone named Hal.

As we got in the car, he tried Moe Reed, got voice mail, settled for his other occasional D One backup, Sean Binchy, and asked him to run Brigid Ochs through the databases, including Social Security.

Binchy phoned back in ten minutes. “Nothing on her anywhere, Loot. There is a Brigitte Oake, spelled like the tree but with an e at the end, incarcerated at Sybil Brand, awaiting trial for cocaine, possession with intent. Extensive record for solicitation and drugs, but she’s forty-nine. Social Security was kind of anal, said the number had been ‘retired’ due to misuse. I tried to get confirmation about that five-year-old Sara Gonsalves but it’s like she never existed. For some reason I got the feeling they’d been told not to cooperate, but maybe I’m being paranoid.”

“Trust your instincts, Sean.”

“I’m learning to do that, Loot.”

CHAPTER

12

A mile before the station, Milo detoured to a taco joint on Santa Monica, inhaled two burritos slathered “Christmas style” with red sauce and salsa verde, gulped a mega-Coke, then a refill. “All that green talk is making me conserve energy. Onward.”

No call-back from Hal the Fed. A note from Binchy said, “No luck on the Internet.” Milo Googled Brigid Ochs anyway, did the same for DSD Inc.

Whole lot of zeros.

I said, “Maybe it won’t be about high intrigue and Brigid wanted Masterson’s address list so she could help Backer apply for a job there.”

“Along the way, the two of them have fun-time in high-end piles of wood?”

“How do most employees abuse the office computer?”

“Porn.”

“Maybe plywood was hers.”

He sat back, twisted an ear until it turned scarlet. “Let’s try Backer’s sister again.”

He dialed, hung up. “Scott and Ricki and Samantha and bark bark bark.”

The 206 backward directory yielded a name: Flatt, Scott A.

That pulled up a one-page family website showcasing the same holiday photos we’d seen in Backer’s apartment, a few more of little Samantha, now around three, and travel shots from half a dozen national parks, plus Hawaii, London, Amsterdam.

Scott and Ricki Flatt were both elementary school teachers.

I said, “School’s out of session, they get summers off, could be anywhere.”

“Gonna be a helluva welcome back.” He spun in his chair, nearly collided with the wall. Mumbled, “There’s a metaphor for you.”