Evidence

CHAPTER 11

Masterson & associates: architecture. design. development. shared the sixth floor of a heartless tower on Century Park East with two investment firms.

The company’s lobby was a duet of pale wood and stainless steel sealed by a wall of glass. Poured cement floor. The seating was black denim cushions set into C-shaped, gray-granite cradles.

Milo said, “Kinda homey, Norman Rockwell would drool.”

A window on the other side of the glass offered a view clear to Boyle Heights and beyond. It took a while to find the call button: a tiny stainless-steel pimple blending mischievously with the surrounding segment of metallic wall.

Milo pushed. No sound.

A female voice, lightly accented, said, “Masterson.”

“Hi, again. Lieutenant Sturgis.”

“I gave your message to Mr. Kotsos.”

“Then it’s Mr. Kotsos I’ll talk to.”

“I’m afraid-”

“You should be. If I have to come back, it’ll be with a subpoena.” Hunching like an ape, he beat his chest.

“Sir-”

“And I’ll be needing your name for the paperwork.”

Silence. “One second.”

She’d underestimated, but not by much. Twelve seconds later, a pudgy little man came out, beaming.

“Gentlemen, so nice. Markos Kotsos.” Deep voice, starting somewhere in the digestive tract and emerging belch-like. Different accent from the receptionist. Thicker, Mediterranean.

Given the cold-blooded lobby and what he did for a living, I’d expected a wraith dressed in all-black, sporting Porsche-design eyeglasses and a complex wristwatch. Markos Kotsos had on an intensely wrinkled white caftan over baggy brown linen pants, sandals without socks, a steel Rolex. Middle-aged, five five, two hundred pounds, give or take, he wore his too-dark hair in a modified perm. Deep tan, too saffron around the edges not to be enhanced by bronzer.

He dropped into one of the granite chairs, folded his hands atop an ample lap. “Sorry for any inconvenience, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

Taking care of business in the lobby, because no visitors were expected.

Milo said, “We’re here because of a-”

“Elena told me, a murder on Borodi.” Kotsos sighed. “That project was ill fated from the beginning. Believe me, we regret taking it on.”

“Who was the client?”

“Who was murdered?”

Milo said, “I’d prefer to ask the questions, sir.”

“Ah, of course,” said Kotsos.

Silence.

“Sir?”

Kotsos shook his head, sadly. “I’m afraid I cannot help you with specifics. There was a confidentiality agreement.”

“Between?”

“The client and us. Following cessation of construction.”

Milo said, “Who sued who?”

Kotsos licked his lips. Stumpy fingers drummed a larded thigh. “It is extremely unusual for us to take on residential projects. Extremely. We are as much developers and conceptualizers as we are architects, thus the projects we choose to accept are massively scaled, complex, more often international than not.”

“ Middle East international?”

Kotsos crossed a leg, held on to the heel of his sandal. “You’ve been to our website, yes? So you know that Dubai has been a major focus of our work because it is a fascinating locale where financial realities intersect with aesthetic adventurousness in a quite unique manner.”

“Good ideas and the bucks to make them happen.”

Kotsos smiled. “Which is why the Al Masri Majestic Hotel will be unique and spectacular, an awe-inspiring feat of structural engineering, ten stars and beyond. We are drilling a quarter mile into the Gulf in order to support pylons the size of buildings.”

“The rendering was pretty impressive,” said Milo.

Smoooth operator.

“The reality will be groundbreaking, Lieutenant. Literally and figuratively. We have found a way to support a carrying weight of unprecedented-but you don’t care about that, you’re here about a murder.” Transforming the word into something trivial. “At a project with which we haven’t been involved in years.”

Milo said, “Desmond Backer.”

Not an eyeblink. “Who?”

“One of our victims.”

“One? There is more?”

“Two, sir.”

“So sorry. No, I don’t know the name.”

“He was an architect.”

“There are many architects,” said Kotsos.

Milo said, “This one died at your project.”

“Former project.”

“The permit was pulled by DSD, Incorporated.”

“If that’s what the record says, then it is true.”

“Any reason for us to believe otherwise?”

Hesitation. “No.”

“Sir?”

“The record speaks for itself.”

“Tell us about DSD.”

Kotsos shook his head. “I’m sorry, as I told you, the terms of the confidentiality-”

“You can’t even say who they are?”

“I’m sorry.”

Milo said, “That was a civil agreement, this is criminal.”

“Lieutenant, I would truly love to help you, but the terms are absolute and the stakes are sizable.”

“Big money.”

Silence.

Milo said, “You sued DSD for a substantial unpaid balance. They settled but are paying in installments, will use any excuse to stop payment.”

Kotsos sighed again. “It is not simple.”

“Is there any reason we should suspect DSD-or anyone connected to DSD-of criminal behavior?”

Kotsos thought awhile, brightened and clapped his hands together. “Okay, I tell you this because I do not want you thinking I am hiding anything important. In terms of murder, I cannot honestly point a finger at anyone. Absolutely not, if I could, I would, no one likes murder, life is precious. If, on the other hand, you are investigating financial…” Smiling and running a finger across his mouth. “I have said enough.”

Milo produced his notepad. “Homicide, Mr. Kotsos. Financial doesn’t interest me. Now, how about some names of people who worked for DSD?”

Kotsos’s head shake seemed genuinely rueful.

“Here’s another name for you, Mr. Kotsos: Helga Gemein.”

“Who is that?”

“Desmond Backer’s boss. The firm is Gemein, Holman, and Cohen.”

“Never heard of them,” said Kotsos.

“They’re into green architecture.”

Kotsos snorted. “Silly stuff.”

“Green is silly?”

“Isolating green as a profound concept, as if it’s new, Lieutenant, is pretentious and idiotic. The Greeks and the Romans-and the Hebrews and the Phoenicians and the Babylonians-every civilization of note has integrated natural elements into design, from Solomon’s Temple to the Mayan pyramids. That is the natural human way. It is in our chromosomes. And shall we discuss the Renaissance? Would you consider the tri-level church in Rome anything other than deliciously synchronous and organic, despite the unexpected turns of events that led to its sequential nature?”

“You took the words out of my mouth.”

Kotsos said, “What I am saying, Lieutenant, is that everything good about design relates to harmony. All this flabber about natural materials is… air.” Waving pudgy hands. “Cement is natural, it comes from sand. Sandstone is natural. Does that mean cement and sandstone are the optimal materials for every purpose? Shall we use sandstone for our pylons in Dubai?” Throaty laugh. “Any architect deserving of his degree considers his surroundings and attempts to integrate.” Leaning toward us. “Do you know what ‘green’ has become, Lieutenant?”

“What, sir?”

“A cult of the ignorant. Using recycled cardboard as if it is platinum. Exposing ducts, planting grass on the roof, substituting raw wood for fine finishes. Reprocessing sewer water entitles one to a badge of ascetic honor? A cult, Lieutenant. Self-consciously ironic and aesthetically phony.”

“Smog doesn’t bother you?”

Kotsos said, “Ugly will not solve smog. There is nothing new under the sun. The only meaningful question is who gets to hold the reflective lens.”

Passion had propelled him closer to the edge of the chair. Pink had spread under his tan.

Milo said, “So you’ve never heard of Gemein, Holman, and Cohen.”

“I have not. Where are they located?”

“ Venice.”

“I go to Venice, Italy. Now, if you’ll excuse me-”

“You’re a large firm,” said Milo. “How many partners do you have?”

“I have never counted.”

“There are no names listed on your door.”

“This,” said Kotsos, “is not a primary office.”

“What is it?”

“We interview clients from the West Coast here.”

“Would dozens of partners worldwide be a fair estimate?”

“Quite fair.”

“Toss in a bunch of assistants and we’re talking a lot of people, Mr. Kotsos. So if Desmond Backer applied for a job, you wouldn’t necessarily be aware of that.”

Kotsos laced his fingers. “If he was hired by this office, I would know.”

“What if you turned him down?”

Kotsos tugged at his caftan. “One moment.”

Six minutes later, he was back. “There is no record of anyone named Backer applying for anything. However, in all honesty, I cannot eliminate the possibility. We don’t keep paper records of rejects.” Crooked smile. “All in the interest of saving trees, so that we may slice them up for veneer. Now if you’ll-”

“Do any of your international projects include Germany, Mr. Kotsos?”

“It’s all on the website. I really need to go. There is a plane to Athens departing tonight and I have not yet packed.”

“Rebuilding the Acropolis?”

Kotsos guffawed. “That would be a nice challenge, but no. I am traveling for Mama’s cooking. Tomorrow is her birthday, she hates restaurants.”

“Spanakopita, keftedes, skordalia?”

Kotsos’s eyelids half lowered. “You are a gourmet, Lieutenant?”

“More like a gourmand.”

Kotsos regarded his own paunch. Two sumos, facing off. “I agree, Lieutenant, there is no substitute for the occasional bacchanalia. Nice talking to you.”

“One more thing.” Out came the death photo.

Markos Kotsos narrowed his eyes. Placed gold-framed pince-nez on the bridge of a meaty nose. Frowning, he reached into a pant pocket, brandished a white remote the size of a matchbook.

Nothing on the face but a single red button. He jabbed. The glass door clicked open.

“You had best come in.”

We followed Kotsos’s bouncy waddle up a Makassar ebony corridor lined with mural-sized photos and renderings of Masterson’s projects. Resorts, office complexes, government towers in Hong Kong, Singapore, the Emirates, oil-rich sultanates like Brunei and Sranil. Despite all the talk of harmony, the buildings were an ominous collection: looming megaliths, shark-nosed sky-eaters, crenellated monsters armored with steel and gold plating, slathered with quarriesful of marble, granite, onyx. In some cases the design aesthetic began by recalling classical motifs but shifted quickly to a cold, brutal forecast of a Darwinian future.

Spoils to the victor, higher and wider is better, audacious is divine.

Against all that, for all its palatial presumptions, the house on Borodi was puny classical pretense that didn’t fit. Neither did a confidentiality agreement to recover fees that would pale in comparison with Masterson’s typical commissions.

Kotsos picked up his pace, Jane’s photo still in hand, flapping against his hip. We hurried past a dozen unmarked office doors. Silence behind each one. Maybe good soundproofing, but it felt more like no-one-home. At the end of the hallway blocking straight access to Kotsos’s corner suite sat a young, straw-haired woman wearing a formfitted, plum-colored suit from the thirties. Black desk, pink laptop. Her fingers kept moving before she deigned to look up.

“Elena,” said Kotsos, showing her the picture, “what was this woman’s name?”

Not missing a beat, Elena said, “Brigid Ochs.”

Milo said, “You’ve got a good memory.”

“I do,” said Elena. Brassy Slavic voice, edged with disdain.

Kotsos said, “She is dead, Elena.”

“So I gather.”

Milo said, “Tell us about her.”

“What’s to tell? She was a disaster.”

“How so?”

“She was hired for backup. Nothing complicated, just relief on the phone, and all-purpose assistance when I travel with Mr. Kotsos or have to be away from my desk for any reason. Her résumé was impressive. Executive sec at eBay and Microsoft and two venture capital firms in Los Gatos, and she appeared bright and eager. Later, we found out everything was forged. So much for that agency.”

Kotsos looked stunned. “Elena, I never knew-”

“No need. I protect you.”

Milo said, “Which agency-”

“Kersey and Garland. We no longer use them.”

“What was their excuse for not vetting her properly?”

“They were as much victims as we were.” Snort. “If they’d bothered to actually check her references, a lot of trouble could’ve been avoided.”

“What, specifically, did Brigid do wrong, ma’am?”

Elena turned to Kotsos. “Brace yourself: I caught her going places she shouldn’t be going.” Tapping the rim of the laptop.

“Oh, no,” said Kotsos.

“Not to worry, she got nothing.”

“Cyber-snooping?” said Milo.

“There was no reason for her to be anywhere near the files. Her job was to meet my needs.”

“How’d you catch her?”

“Keystroke buddy program,” she said. “Every move she made was traced. I do it routinely. To ensure confidentiality.” Back to Kotsos. “You see? No worry.”

He said, “Yes, yes, thank you.”

Milo said, “Where’d she go other than company files?”

“Nowhere,” said Elena. “And she got no further than addresses, which she could find anyway in public records. Because I password-protect each and every file. But that was not the point. She had no business sticking her nose in.”

“Who was hired to replace her?”

“No one. I don’t want help, it’s not worth the time and effort to train someone.”

Milo said, “What else can you tell us about her?”

“Poor taste in clothes,” said Elena. Taking in his rumpled poly tie, saggy chinos and smiling. Kotsos’s wrinkled outfit didn’t draw a glance.

“Poor taste, how?”

“Bad fabrics, poor silhouette, careless fit. With outlets and the Internet, there’s no excuse for not dressing well. I should’ve known her carelessness would extend to work.”

“Sounds like she was more devious than careless.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“What about Desmond Backer?”

“Who?”

“An architect who died with her.”

“An architect,” said Elena. “Perhaps she had some sort of fixation.”

Markos Kotsos said, “But of course. Architects are dashing fellows.”

Elena smirked. “Your limo to LAX and your pickup in Athens are confirmed. I have ordered irises for your mother. Blue, I assume that’s okay.”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

Milo said, “Could we please have an address for that agency?”

“Not necessary,” said Elena. “Take the elevator to the ground floor.”

As we waited by the elevator, a nervous fellow in pinstripes passed by, tugging at his hair.

Milo said, “Know anything about Masterson?”

The banker stopped. Frowned. Muttered, “Ghost town,” and continued.

Ding. We boarded. I said, “Masterson’s basically a West Coast clearinghouse office.”

“Just Kotsos and that little battleax. Maybe they launder money for an oil cartel or run an international human smuggling ring or lobby for some cannibalistic dictatorship. The question is, what was Brigid Ochs curious about?”

“DSD used to be headquartered in D.C. The smell of international intrigue grows more intense.”

He rubbed his face. “With friends like you.”

Kersey and Garland, Executive Search and Human Resource Consultants, was tucked into a corner past the ground-floor snack bar, not far from the public restrooms.

The weary older woman who sat at the front desk looked at Jane’s photo. “Oy, her again. Now what?”

Jody Millan on her desk plaque. Framed shots of face-painted, costumed grandchildren cluttered her desk.

Milo said, “Again?”

“That’s Brigid Ochs. We dropped her.”

“She’s been dropped permanently, ma’am.”

“Pardon?”

“Someone murdered her.”

Jody Millan went white. “My God… that’s a… whatever you call it… morgue shot? I wasn’t wearing my glasses.”

“You recognized her without them.”

“That much I could see, but…” Out came half-specs. “Oh, my God, I’m getting nauseous. Who did it?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out, ma’am.”

“Then you came to the wrong place. She hasn’t been with us for months.”

“After lying about her credentials to get the job at Masterson.”

“She sent you here,” said the woman. “The Russian, should’ve figured. I’ll bet she enjoyed pointing the finger. One little slip-up, she couldn’t wait to fire us.”

“Elena?”

“I got her that job and it sure as hell paid off, didn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“She started as the boss’s secretary, ended up snagging him.”

“The boss being Mr. Kotsos? She’s Mrs. Kotsos.”

“The fourth,” said Millan. “And no doubt determined to be the last.” Wicked smile. “Are you checking her out? She was furious at Brigid.”

“Is there anything interesting in her past?”

Millan picked up a pencil. “Honestly, no. She was crackerjack. Worked for a top exec at Kinsey and did a bang-up job. And I suppose she had a right to be upset. Still, Brigid was extremely convincing. It’s not as if Elena picked anything up, herself.”

“Brigid was a good actress?”

“This town, we get plenty of that, you’d be amazed at the b.s. I get handed. But Brigid didn’t come across that way, not at all.”

I said, “She wasn’t theatrical.”

“Just the opposite, quiet, well mannered, didn’t play herself up at all. Such a pretty girl but she didn’t make the most of it. Almost like she wanted to avoid attention. I know we should’ve run a background, but Elena was impatient, needed someone now.”

“Could we see the application?”

“Sorry, we don’t keep records once they leave us.”

“Recycling?”

“There’s no need to hold on to trash. I can tell you what she claimed, because I interviewed her personally. Guess I shouldn’t claim credit for that. But I’m not going to beat myself up, she came across bright, calm, articulate, eager to please. I don’t get deeply into personal data but I do like to get a feel for the person, so I asked her about her background, the basics of her social life. She said she was single and happy to be so. I took that as maybe she was recently divorced or out of a bad relationship. She said she grew up in the Pacific Northwest, claimed to work for one of Bill Gates’s top assistants, then said she moved to Los Gatos and spent some time at a tech venture capitalist, then on to eBay, where she did website organization. Her skills seemed perfect for what Elena claimed she needed.”

“Claimed?”

“Trust me, nothing will make that woman happy,” said Millan. “Truth is, she doesn’t want anyone else up there but her and Kotsos. Though, if you ask me, he’s gay.”

“Odd couple,” said Milo.

“Hey,” she said. “This is L.A. ”

I said, “Masterson’s office seems pretty laid-back.”

“It’s a tomb,” said Jody Millan. “Once in a blue moon, you see someone, but the only two constants are Kotsos and Elena. The only business I’ve seen is rich foreigners out to lunch, kissing up shamelessly.”

Milo said, “What kind of rich people?”

“Mostly Arabs, sometimes they’re wearing those robes and headdresses. Like sheikhs. Maybe they are sheikhs.”

“Have you sent Kotsos any other people?”

“Temps,” she said. “Before Elena. Girl’s got a work ethic, I’ll grant you that.”

“So Brigid Ochs was the first post-Elena hire.”

“Elena said business had grown to the point where she needed backup. Because she and Kotsos were traveling more together.” Head shake. “I pride myself on reading people well but I really got taken. Everything Brigid told me turned out to be baloney, down to her Social Security number.” Brightening. “That I might still have. Not that it’s going to help you.”

“Why not?”

“After I found out I’d been conned, I ran a trace. The number matches a poor little girl born the same year Brigid claimed, in New Jersey. A kid who died at age five. Hold on.”

She entered a back office, returned with a Post-it. “Here you go, Sara Gonsalves.”

“Did you confront Brigid?”

“Would’ve liked to but the number she gave me was disconnected.”

“Where was her address?”

“ Santa Monica, turned out to be a mail drop and she was long gone.”

“She died with another person. A man named Desmond Backer.”

“Don’t know him. Was Brigid involved in criminal activity?”

“There’s no evidence of that.”

“Well,” said Jody Millan, “she certainly wasn’t an upstanding citizen.”

We took the stairs to the sub-lot.

“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.”