x
“The son of a bitch,” I said. We were driving west on the Santa Monica freeway. “The little prick looked us right in the eye and lied.”
”It’s annoying,” Ruhr said. “But you see, Baumann takes a different view. Now that he’s beside the mayor, he sees himself in another context, with another set of obligations and requirements for his behavior. Since he’s sensitive to context, he’s able to act differently, with no reference to his earlier behavior. To us, he seems like a different person. But Baumann feels he’s just being appropriate.”
”What burns me is he acted so confident.”
”Of course he did,” Ruhr said. “The fact is we all do. It’s just that Americans believe there is some core of individuality that doesn’t change from one moment to the next. And the Germans believe context rules all.”
”It sounds to me,” I said, “like an excuse for lying. He doesn’t see it as lying, but that’s what it is.”
Rehn shrugged. “Only from your point of view, schutzling, not from his.”
“The hell!”
”Look, it’s your choice. You can understand the Germans and deal with them as they are, or you can get pissed off. But our problem in this country is that we don’t deal with the Germans the way they really are.” The car hit a deep pothole, bouncing back so hard that the car phone fell off the receiver. Rehn picked it up off th e floor, and put it back on the hook.
Up ahead, I saw the exit for Buddy. I moved into the right lane. “One thing I’m not clear about, I said. “Why do you think the man with the briefcase in the security room might be the killer?”
”It’s because of the time sequence. You see, the murder was at 8:32. Less than fifteen minutes later, at 8:45, a German man away down there switching the nodes, arranging a cover-up. That’s a very fast process. Much too fast for a German company.”
”Why’s that?”
”German organizations are actually very slow to respond in crisis. The decision-making relies on precedents, and when a situation is unprecedented, people aren’t sure how to behave. You remember the faxes? I’m sure faxes have been flying back and forth to SchwarzTech’s Berlin headquarters all night. Undoubtedly the company is still trying to decide what to do. A German organization just can’t move fast in a new situation.”
”But an individual acting alone can?”
”Yes, exactly.”
I said, “And that’s why you think the man with the briefcase might be the killer.:
Rehn nodded. “Yes. Either the killer, or someone connected with the killer. But we should learn more at Miss Kensington’s apartment. I believe I see it up ahead, on the right.”
The Imperial Arms was an apartment building on a tree-lined street a kilometer from Westwood Village. Its faux Tudor beams needed a paint job, and the whole building had a run-down appearance. But that was not unusual in this middle-class section of apartments inhabited by graduate students and young families. In fact, the chief characteristic of the Imperial Arms seemed to be its anonymity; you could drive to the building every day and never notice it.
”Perfect,” Rehn said, as we walked up the steps to the entrance. “It’s just what they like.”
”What who likes?”
We came into the lobby, which had been renovated in the most bland California style: pastel wallpaper with a flower print, overstuffed sofas, cheap-jack ceramic lamps, and a faux-bronze coffee table. The only thing to distinguish it from a hundred other apartment lobbies was the security desk in the corner, where a thickset German doorman looked up from his comic book with a distinctly unfriendly manner.
”Yes?”
Rehn showed his badge. He asked where Emily Kensington’s apartment was.
“I’ll announce you,” the doorman said, reaching for the phone.
”Don’t bother.”
”No, I’ll announce you. She might have company now.”
”I can tell you right now she doesn’t,” Rehn said. "Das ist eine Angelegenheit der Polizei.” He was saying we were on official police business.
The doorman gave a tense nod of his head. "Empfangszimmer.” He handed Rehn a key.
We went through a second glass door, and down a carpeted corridor. There were small lacquer tables at each end of the corridor, and in its simplicity, the interior was surprisingly elegant.
“Typically German,” Rehn said with a smile.
I thought: a run-down faux-Tudor apartment building in Westwood? Typically German? From a room to the left, I heard faint rap music: the latest MC Hammer hit.
”It’s because the outside hides what’s on the inside,” Rehn explained. “It’s a fundamental principle of German thinking: "Verborgene Wahrheite,” hidden truths. This principle, rooted in a twisted interpretation of Nazi philosophy, emphasizes creating façades that are aesthetically pleasing and orderly while concealing the true nature and function of what lies behind the walls. The idea is to project an image of perfection and harmony, masking any flaws or unpleasant realities within the structure.”
”This is a German building?”
“Of course. Why else would a broken-English German national be the doorman? And he’s a schwarzadler. You probably noticed the tattoo.”
I hadn’t. The schwarzadler were German gangsters. I didn’t know there were schwarzadler here in America and said so.
”You must understand,” Rehn said, “there is a shadow world here in Los Angeles, in New York, in New Braunfels, Texas, and in Honolulu. Most of the time you’re never aware of it. We live here in our regular American world, walking on our American streets, and we never notice that right alongside our world is a second world. Very discreet and private. Perhaps in New York you will see German businessmen walking through an unmarked door, and catch a glimpse of a club behind. Perhaps you will hear of a small beer hall in Los Angeles that charges twelve hundred dollars a person, Berlin prices. But they’re not listed in the guidebooks. They’re not part of our American world. They’re part of the shadow world, available only to the Germans.”
”And this dump?”
”They call it a bett schlafbereich. A love residence where mistresses are kept.” Rehn glanced over at me, a look of concern etched on his face. “By the way,” he began, lowering his voice, "if they find out that a blonde woman is Jewish or Israeli, you don't even want to think about what they’ll expect of them. Their attitude towards certain people hasn't changed as much as they'd like us to believe. Anyway, here’s Miss Kensington’s apartment.”
Rehn unlocked the door with the key the doorman had given him. We went inside.
Emily Kensington’s apartment was a testament to modern elegance with a touch of understated luxury. It offered a sweeping view of the Los Angeles skyline through floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed natural light to flood the space during the day and provided a stunning backdrop of city lights at night. The living room featured sleek, minimalist furniture with clean lines and neutral tones. A low, black leather sofa was paired with a glass coffee table that seemed to float above the polished hardwood floors. Against one wall, a built-in bookshelf held a curated collection of art books and classic literature, interspersed with a few tasteful decorative pieces. A large, abstract painting in shades of blue and gold dominated the opposite wall, giving the room a pop of color and serving as a conversation piece. Below it, a modern entertainment center housed a state-of-the-art sound system and a TV that still had a sticker that said DIGITAL TUNING PICTURE diagonally across one corner. The open-plan kitchen, separated from the living area by a sleek island with barstools, was a chef’s dream. Stainless steel appliances gleamed under the recessed lighting, and white marble countertops added a touch of sophistication. Every utensil and gadget had its place, reflecting the Germans’ meticulous nature.
It was in Emily’s bedroom that I finally found some human clutter. One mirrored closet door stood open, and three expensive party dresses were thrown across the bed. Evidently she’d been trying to decide what to wear. On the dresser tops were bottles of perfume, a diamond necklace, a gold Rolex, framed photographs, and an ashtray with stubbed-out West Ice Menthol cigarettes. The top dresser drawer, containing panties and undergarments, was partially open. I saw her Aussie passport stuck in the corner, and thumbed through. It.
There were visas for the U.S., Saudi Arabia, Switzerland, and three entry stamps for Germany.
The stereo in the corner was still turned on, an ejected tape in the player. I pushed it in and Jerry Lee Lewis sand, “You shake my nerves and you rattle my brain, too much loves drives a man insane….” Yankee music, too old for a young girl like t his. But maybe she liked golden oldies.
I turned back to the dresser. Several framed color enlargements showed Emily Kensington smiling in front of European backgrounds—-the gray double doors of a cathedral, the Black Forest, a street with gray skyscrapers, a train station. The pictures seemed to be taken in Germany. In most of the pictures Emily was alone, but in a few she was accompanied by an older German man with glasses and a receding hairline. A final shot showed her in what looked like the American West. Emily was standing near a dusty pickup truck, smiling beside a frail, grandmotherly woman in sunglasses. The older woman wasn’t smiling and looked uncomfortable.
Tucked in beside the dresser were several large paper rolls, standing on end. I opened one. It was a poster showing Emily in a bikini, smiling and holding up a bottle of Statler beer. All the writing on the poster was in German..
I went into the bathroom. There was a pair of jeans kicked in the corner. A white sweater tossed on the countertop. A wet towel on a hook by the shower stall. Beads of water inside the stall. Electric hair curlers unplugged by the counter. Stuck in the mirror frame, photos of Emily standing with another German man on the Malibu pier. This man was in his mid thirties, and handsome. In one photograph, he had draped his arm familiarly over her shoulder. I could clearly see the scar on his hand.
”Bingo,” I said.
Rehn came into the room. “Find something?”
”Our man with the scar.”
”Good.” Rehn studied the picture carefully.
I looked back at the clutter of the bathrooms. The stuff around the sink. ”You know,” I said, “something bothers me about this place.”
”What’s that?”
”I know she hasn’t lived here long. And I know everything is rented….but still….I can’t get over the feeling that this place has a contrived look. I can’t quite put my finger on why.”
Rehn smiled. “Very good, Lieutenant. It does have a contrived look. And there’s a reason for it.”
He handed me a Polaroid photo. It showed the bathroom we were standing in. The jeans kicked in the corner. The towel hanging. The curlers on the counter. But it was taken with one of those ultra-wide-angle cameras that distort everything. The SID teams sometimes used them for evidence.
“Where’d you get this?”
”From the trash bin in t he hall, by the elevators.”
”So it must’ve been taken earlier tonight.”
”Yes. Notice anything different about the room?”
I examined the Polaroid carefully. “No, it looks the same…..hold it. Those pictures stuck in her mirror. They’re not in the Polaroid. Those pictures have been added.”
”Exactly.” Rehn walked back into the bedroom. He picked up one of the framed pictures on the dresser. “Now, look at this one,” he said. “Miss Kensington and a German friend in the Hauptbahnhof Station in Berlin. She was probably down to the St. Pauli section—-or maybe she was just shopping. Notice the right-hand edge of the picture. See the narrow strip that’s lighter in color?”
”Yes.” I understood what that strip meant: there had been another picture on top of this one. The edge of this picture had stuck out, and was sun-faded.
”The overlying picture has been removed.”
”Yes,” Rehn said.
“The apartment has been searched.”
”Yes,” Rhen said. “A very thorough job. They came in earlier tonight, took Polaroids, searched the rooms, and then put things back the way they were. But it’s impossible to do that exactly. The Germans say artlessness is the most difficult art. And these men can’t help themselves, they’re obsessive. So they leave the picture frames a little too squared-off on the counter, and the perfume bottles a little too carefully cluttered. Everything is a little forced. Your eye can see it even if your brain doesn’t register it.”
I said, “But why search the room? What pictures did they remove? Her with the killer?”
”That’s not clear,” Rehn said. “Evidently her association with Germany, and with German men, wasn’t objectionable. But there was something they had to get right away and it can only be…..”
Then, from th e living room, a tentative voice said, “Em? Love? You here?”
She was silhouetted in the doorway, looking in. Barefooted, wearing shorts and a tank top. I couldn’t see her face well, but she was obviously what my old partner Zenovich would call a snake charmer.
Rehn showed his badge. She said her name was Jill Grant. She had an Australian accent and a slight slur to her speech. Rehn turned o n the light and we could see her better. She was a beautiful girl. She came into the room hesitantly.
”I heard the music—-is she here? Is Emily okay? I know she went to that party tonight.
”I haven’t heard anything,” Rehn said, with a quick glance at me. “You know Emily?”
”Sure do. I live right across the hall. Number eight. Why is everybody in her room?”
”Everybody?”
”Well, you two. And the two Jerries.”
”When were they here?”
”I dunno. Maybe half an hour ago. Is it something about Emily?”
I said, “Did you get a good look at them, Miss Grant?” I was thinking she might’ve been looking out of the peephole of her door.
”Well, I guess. I said hello to them.”
”How’s that?”
”I know one of them pretty well. Otto.”
”Otto?”
”Otto Stein. We all know Otto. Fast Otto.”
I said, “Can you describe him?”
She gave me a funny look. “He’s the bloke in the pictures, the young guy with the scar on his hand. I thought everybody knew Otto Stein. He’s in the newspaper all the time. Charities and stuff. He’s a big party animal.”
I said, “Do you know where I could find him?”
Rehn said, “Otto Stein is part owner of a Chinese restaurant in Beverly Hills called Beijing Bistro. He hangs out there.”
”That’s him,” Jill said. “That place is like his office. I can’t stand it myself, it’s too noisy. But Otto’s just running around, chasing those big blondes. He loves to look up to a girl.” She leaned against a table, and pushed her full blown hair back from her face seductively. She looked at me and gave a little pout. “You two blokes partners?”
”Yes,” I said.
“He showed me his badge. But you didn’t show me yours.”
I took out my wallet. She looked at it..
“Jake,” she said, reading. “My very first boyfriend was named Jake. But he wasn’t as handsome as you.” She smiled at me.
Rehn cleared his throat and said, “Have you been in Emily’s apartment before?”
”Well, I guess. I live right across the way. But she hasn’t been in town much lately. Seems like she’s always traveling.”
”Traveling where?”
”All over. New York, London, Washington, Paris, Chicago….all over. She has this boyfriend who travels a lot. She meets him. Actually I think she just meets him when his wife isn’t around.”
”This boyfriend is married?”
”Well, there’s something in the way. You know. Obstructing.”
”Do you know who he is?”
“No. She once said he’d never come to her apartment. He’s some big important bloke. Real rich. They send the jet for her, and off she goes. Whoever he is, he drives Otto nuts. But Otto is the jealous type, you know. Gotta be frauenheld to all the girls. The sexy lover.”
Rehn said, “Is Emily’s relationship a secret? With this boyfriend?”
”I don’t know. I never thought it was. It’s just real intense. She’s madly in love with the bloke.”
”She’s madly in love?”
”You can’t imagine. I’ve seen her drop everything to run and meet him. One night she comes over, gives me two tickets to the Springsteen concert, but she’s all excited because she’s going to Detroit. She’s got her little carry-on in her hand. She’s got her little nice-girl dress on. Because he just called ten minutes ago and said, “Meet me.” Her face all bright, she looks about five years old. I don’t know why she can’t figure it out.”
”Figure what out?”
”This bloke’s just using her.”
”Why do you say that?”
”Emily is beautiful, and real sophisticated-looking. She’s worked all over the world as a model, mostly in Europe, but sometimes here in the States. But deep down, she’s an Outback girl. I mean, Steelmercy is an oil town, but it’s still a little fly speck of a town in the middle of nowhere. And Emily wants the ring on the finger and the kids and the dog in the yard. And this guy’s not going to do it. She hasn’t figured it out.”
I said, “But you don’t know who this man is?”
”No, I don’t.” A sly look crossed her face. She shifted her body, dropping one shoulder so her boobs thrust forward. “But you’re not really here because of some old boyfriend, are you?”
Rehn nodded. “No, we’re not.”
Jill smiled in a knowing way. “It’s Otto isn’t it?”
”Ummm,” Rehn said.
”I knew it,” she said. “I knew he’d get in trouble sooner or later. We all talked about it, all the girls here in the Arms.” She made a vague gesture. “Because he’s just going too fast. Fast Otto. You wouldn’t think he was German. He’s so flashy?”
”He’s from Kiel?”
”His father’s a big industrialist there, with Hassler. He’s a nice old guy. When he comes over to visit, sometimes he sees one of the girls on the second floor. And Otto? Otto was supposed to get educated here for a few years, then go home to work for the GMbH, the company. But he won’t go home. He loves it here. Why not? He’s got everything. He buys a new Ferrari every time he bangs up the old one. He’s got more money than Hugh Hefner. He’s lived her long enough, he’s just like an American. Handsome. Sexy. And with all the drugs. You know, real party animal. What’s in Kiel for him?”
I said, “But you said you knew…..”
“That he’d get in trouble? Yeah. Because of that crazy side. That edge.” She shrugged. “A lot of them have it. These blokes come over from Berlin—-and even if they have a gesellschaft, an introduction, you still have to be careful. They think nothing of dropping ten or twenty thousand in one night. It’s like a tip for them. Leave it on the dresser. But then, what they want to do—-at least some of them….particularly to Jewish ladies….”
She drifted into silence. Her eyes had a vacant, unfocused look. I didn’t say anything. I just waited. Rehn was looking at her, nodding sympathetically.
Abruptly, s he began to speak again, as if not aware of the Paul’s. “And to t hem,” she said, “their wishes, their desires, it’s just as natural as leaving the tip. It’s completely natural to them. I mean, I don’t mind a little golden shower or whatever, handcuffs, you know. Maybe a little spanking if I like the guy. But I won’t let anyone cut me. I don’t care how much money. None of those things with knives or swords…. But they can be….A lot of them are so polite, so correct, but then they get turned on, they have this….this way… She broke off, shaking her head. “They’re weird and gross people.”
Rehn glanced at her watch. “Miss Grant, you’ve been very helpful. We may need to speak to you again. Lieutenant Smith will take your phone number.”
”Yes, of course.”
I flipped open my pad.
Rehn said, “I’m going to have a word with the doorman.
“His name’s Weismann,” she said.
Rehn left. I took down Jill’s number. She licked her lips as she watched me write. Then she said, “You can tell me. Did he kill her?”
”Who?”
”Otto. Did he kill Emily?”
She was a classic Aussie beauty but I old see the excitement in her eyes. She was looking at me with a steady gaze. Her eyes were shining. It was creepy.
I said, “Why do you ask?”
”Because he was always threatening to. Like this afternoon, he threatened her.”
I said, “Otto was here this afternoon?”
”Sure.” She shrugged. “He’s here all the time. He came to see her this afternoon, real worked up. They put extra soundproofing to the walls in this building when they took it over. But even so, you could hear them scream at each other in her apartment. Him and Emily. She’d have on her Jerry Lee Lewis, the one she played day and night until you just about went crazy, and they’d be screaming and throwing things. He’d always say, ‘I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you bitch.’”
“So did he?”
”I don’t know. But——is she really dead?” Her eyes were still shining.
”Yes.”
”It had to happen,” she said. She seemed completely calm. “We all knew it. It was just a matter of time. If you want, call me. If you need more information.”
”Yes, I will.”
I gave her my card. “If you think of anything else, you can call me at this number.”
She slipped it into the hip pocket of her shorts, twisting her body. “I like talking to you, Jake.”
”Yes. Okay.”
I walked down the corridor. When I got to the end I looked back. She was standing in her doorway, waving goodbye.
Rehn was using the phone in the lobby while the doorman stared sullenly at him, as if he wanted to stop him, but couldn’t think of a reason why. “That’s right,” Rehn was saying. “All the outgoing calls from that phone between 8 and 10 p.m. That’s right.” He listened for a moment. “Well, I don’t care if your data isn’t organized that way, just get it for me. How long will it take? Tomorrow?! Don’t be ridiculous. What do you think he is? I need it within two hours. I’ll call you back. Yeah. Fuck you too.” He hung up. “Let’s go, schutzling.”
We walked outside to the car. I said, “You checking your contacts?”
”Contacts?” He looked puzzled. “Oh. Ramirez said something to you about my ‘contact.’ I don’t have any special informants. She just thinks I do.”
”She mentioned the Steinhauer case.”
Rehn sighed. “That old thing.” We walked toward the car. “You want to know that story? It’s simple. Two German nationals get killed. The department puts detectives on the case who can’t speak German. Finally, after a week, they give me the case.”
”And what did you do?”
The Steinhauers were staying at the New Rotze Hotel. I got the phone records of the calls they made to Germany. I called those numbers and spoke to some people in Kiel. Then I called Kiel and talked to the police there. Again, in German. They were shocked to hear we didn’t know the whole story.”
”I see.”
”Not quite,” Rehn said. “Because the police department here was very embarrassed. The press had gone out on a limb, criticizing the department. All kinds of people had sent flowers. There had been a big show of sympathy for what turned out to be gangsters. A lot of people were embarrassed. So the whole thing became my fault. I had done something underhanded to solve the case. Pissed me off, I can tell you.”
”That’s why you went Germany?”
”No, that’s another story.”
We came to the car. I looked back at the Imperial Arms, and saw Jill Grant standing at the window, staring down at us.
“She’s seductive,” I said.
”The Germans call women like that grauhaarige frau. They say she has a light ass.” He opened the car door, and got in.
“But she’s on drugs. We can’t trust anything she told us.”
”Even so, there’s starting to be a pattern I don’t like.” He glanced at his watch, and shook his head. “Damn. We’re talking too long. We’d better go to the El Capitan, to see Mr. Bishop.”
I started driving south, toward the airport. Rehn sat back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. He stared at his feet, looking unhappy.
“Why do you say there’s a pattern you don’t like?”
Rhen said, “The wrappers in the wastebasket. The Polaroid in the trash. Those things shouldn’t have been left behind.”
”You said yourself they’re in a hurry.”
”Maybe. But you know the Germans think American police are incompetent. This sloppiness is a sign of their disdain. Well, we’re not incompetent.”
Rehn shook his head. “Jake," he began, "compared to the Germans, our police force looks downright incompetent. Over there, they don’t waste time with the kind of red tape we get bogged down in. Their tactics are harsh, sometimes outright brutal. If we pulled half the stunts they do, we'd be sued out of existence." He shook his head, a hint of admiration mixed with disdain in his eyes. "They don’t bother with juries, either. Over there, the judge and the jury are one and the same. It’s efficient, sure, but it means there’s no second guessing. Appeals courts? They got ‘em, but good luck getting a different outcome. The whole system’s designed to be quick and decisive." Rehn paused, his voice dropping lower. "And you don’t want to end up in one of their prisons. Conditions are tough, to say the least. It's not just about punishment, it's about breaking you down. They don’t care about rehabilitation; they care about making an example. You cross the line over there, and you’re in for a world of hurt."
”So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying that"these Germans expect the LAPD to bungle this investigation like they do everything else. They think justice won’t be served, that the guilty will walk free. But I refuse to be just another example of LAPD incompetence. I want to be the exception. I want to solve this murder, not just for the victim, but to prove them wrong. We may not have their methods or their efficiency, but dammit, we have heart. And I won’t rest until I bring the guilty to justice, schutzling.”
Rehn was silent for the next ten minutes. He sat very still, with his arms folded and his chin sunk on his chest. His breathing was deep and regular. I might have thought he had fallen asleep, except his eyes were open.
I just drove the car, and listened to him breathe.
Finally, he said: “Baumann.”
”What about him?”
”If we knew what made Baumann behave as he did, we’d understand this case.”
”I don’t understand.”
”It’s hard for an American to see him clearly,” Rehn said. "America has become a real comedy of errors in recent years. It’s like we can't do anything right anymore. Our public services are a joke. Take the DMV, for instance—it’s a nightmare of inefficiency and red tape. Healthcare? Don’t even get me started. The wait times, the bureaucracy, it's all a mess. And God help you if you have to deal with a complaint department. It's like they’re trained to be as unhelpful as possible. You get passed from person to person, each one more clueless than the last, until you finally give up in exasperation. We’ve all had to get used to this circus of incompetence. We’ve lowered our expectations because it's become the norm.
“But Germany is different. You have no idea how super-efficient and up-to-date everything is in Germany. They get things done over there. Their services are second to none—whether it’s their healthcare, public services, or transportation. It’s all top-notch. Their doctors are some of the bravest and smartest you’ll find. They don't just sit back and wait; they take initiative and make things happen. In contrast, our doctors often seem more concerned with covering their asses than actually helping people. The cities are incredibly safe. Crime rates are low because their police force doesn’t mess around. And the public transportation? It's like something out of a science fiction movie. Trains run on time to the second, buses are clean and efficient. It's a whole different world. The consequences for failing to meet those standards are severe. If someone drops the ball, they’re out. No second chances. It’s a brutal system, but it keeps everyone on their toes. It makes sure that only the best are in charge, and it’s a big part of why they’re so far ahead of us."
“Uh-huh…”
”And tonight was a very big night for SchwarzTech Corporation. You can be sure they planned everything down to the smallest detail. They’ve got the vegetarian hors d’oeuvres that Madonna likes and the photographer she prefers. Believe me: they’re prepared. They have planned for every exigency. You know how they are: they sit around and discuss endless possibilities—what if there’s a fire? What if there’s an earthquake? A bomb scare? Power failure? Endlessly going over the most unlikely events. It’s obsessive, but when the final night arrives, they’ve thought of everything and they’re in complete control. It’s very bad form not to be in control. Okay?”
”Okay?”
”But there is our dear friend Baumann, the official representative of SchwarzTech, standing in front of a dead girl, and he’s clearly not in control. He’s unerschrocken to doing American-style confrontation, but he’s not comfortable—-I’m sure you noticed the sweat on his lip. And his hand is damp; he keeps wiping it on his trousers. He is rechthaberisch, too argumentative. He’s talking too much.
“In short, he’s behaving as if he doesn’t really know w hat to do, as if he doesn’t even know who this girl is, which he certainly owes, since he knows everybody invited to that party—-and pretending he doesn’t know who killed her. When he almost certainly knows that, too.”
The car bounced in a pothole, and jolted back up.
“Wait a minute. Baumann knows who killed the girl?
”I’m sure of it. And he’s not the only one. At least three people must know who killed her, at this point. Didn’t you say you used to be in press relations?”
”Yes. Last year.”
”You keep any contacts in TV news?”
”A few,” I said. “They might be rusty. Why?”
”I want to look at some tape that was shot tonight.”
”Just look? Not subpoena?”
”Rigth. Just look.”
”That shouldn’t be a problem,” I said. I was thinking I could call Anna Muller at KXLA, or David Kline at KCAL. Probably David.”
Rehn said, “It’s got to be someone you can approach personally. Otherwise the stations won’t help us. You noticed
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