Binchy lifted her luggage. “The Star Inn on Sawtelle has the Triple A rating, cable, and wireless and there’s an IHOP right up the block.”

“Whatever,” said Ricki Flatt.

After the two of them left, I said, “Political, as in baby brother might be an eco-terrorist. It would take more than Backer spouting off for her to worry about that.”

“Yeah, she knows more,” said Milo, “but pushing her right now didn’t feel right. I’ll have Sean keep an eye on her, make sure she sticks around.”

“Backer’s lost decade preceded his parents’ death, but their being crushed by logs could’ve kicked up his motivation.”

“Fifty grand to blow something up. Like a big house, but he never got to it. On the other hand, the money could be from dope or a blackmail payoff. Or he won big at the tables and gave it to Ricki to avoid the taxman.”

We returned to his office where Milo called Officer Chris Kammen. The Port Angeles cop agreed to watch the Flatt residence “as much as we can” and to handle the search of the storage unit as soon as the paperwork came in. “Two suitcases? What color?”

“Look for the ones behind the piano, stuffed with cash.”

“Fifty grand,” said Kammen. His whistle pierced the room. “So the husband’s out of the loop, huh?”

“Flatt doesn’t know his wife held on to the money. She’s playing nice and I want to stay on her good side.”

“Domestic issues,” said Kammen. “Fun.”

A fourth try at Federal Hal’s office left Milo red-faced. “Disconnected number? This is starting to feel personal.”

I said, “Sure, but maybe it’s not you. It’s Doreen Fredd.”

“What the hell was this girl into?”

“She knew Backer years ago. If he was into bad stuff, she’d be a good choice to gather info.”

“Problem child becomes an undercover Fed?”

“Or her problems got her into a situation where she needed to trade favors. I’d look into major eco-vandalism in the Pacific Northwest during Backer’s years on the road.”

“She’s finking on Backer and screwing him? Gives a whole new meaning to undercover.”

“That part could still be chemistry,” I said. “Good technique on her part, too, given Backer’s proclivities.”

“Guy’s into blowing stuff up then becomes an architect and learns to build stuff. Don’t tell me Freud didn’t have a word for that.”

Moe Reed stuck his head in. “Someone to see you, Loo.”

“Better be important.”

“FBI important?”

“Depends what they have to say,” said Milo. But he was up in a flash.

A short, solidly built, dark-haired woman arrived moments later. “Lieutenant? Gayle Lindstrom. I was referred by a mutual friend.”

Gray pantsuit, black flats, molasses accent with an edge. Maybe northern Kentucky or southern Missouri. Fair skin and blue eyes were clear, her chin was prominent and square.

“Nice to meet you, Special Agent Lindstrom.”