Evidence

CHAPTER 25

The Swedish consulate rents space on the seventh floor of a high-rise at Wilshire near Westwood. Consular assistant Lars Gustafson was at his desk at eight thirty, took Milo ’s call with puzzlement but agreed to meet in an hour.

“Out in front, please, Lieutenant.” The faintest trace of accent.

“Any reason we can’t come up?”

“Let’s enjoy the nice weather. I’ll be there promptly.”

“How will I know you?”

“I’ll do my best to look Swedish.”

Milo hung up. “Aw shucks, thought I’d get a look at the furniture. Bet it ain’t IKEA.”

We were in place by nine twenty-five, watching the revolving door accept people dressed for business.

At nine twenty-nine a.m., a throng emerged and dispersed. The man who stayed behind was around thirty, tall, athletically built, wearing a fitted brown suit, yellow shirt, butterscotch shoes.

Blond and blue-eyed, but his hair was kinky, his skin milk-chocolate, his features those of a Masai warrior.

“Mr. Gustafson?”

“Lars.” Energetic pump, flash of diplomatic teeth custom-made for news conferences and lunch with genteel old ladies. “I have researched your issue, Lieutenant. There have been no complaints by any Swedish citizen-at home, or here-regarding missing persons or homicides. I did find a case involving a Danish citizen who was thought to have disappeared in San Diego. However, she showed up and the matter was resolved. A love triangle, no royalty involved, Muslim or otherwise, thank heavens.”

“The Muslim thing bothers you.”

Gustafson smiled. “Nothing bothers us, we are neutral. The Danes, on the other hand… remember those Mohammed cartoons?”

“That why you didn’t want us up in your office?”

“No, no, heaven forbid, gentlemen-please forgive me if I seemed unwelcoming, but the consul general felt police officers could serve as a distraction.”

“From the daily challenge of stamping visas.”

Gustafson kept smiling but the wattage went out of it. “We do attempt to be useful, Lieutenant. Next week, we’re hosting a dinner for over two dozen Nobel laureates. In any event, I have nothing to tell you. Good luck.”

Milo took out his pad. “How about some details on the Danish case.”

“A woman named Palma Mogensen was working as an au pair for a family in La Jolla when she met an American marine in Oceanside. Unfortunately, she was already married to a Danish man and after she stopped returning her husband’s e-mails, he showed up.”

“Things get nasty?”

“Oh, no,” said Gustafson. “Everyone talked it out and the couple returned to Copenhagen.”

“Civilized,” said Milo.

“We try to be good influences, Lieutenant.”

“You and the Danes.”

“All of us who must contend with endless night. It breeds a certain patience.”

Gustafson headed back toward the revolving door, managed to sidle in as the mechanism remained in motion.

Milo said, “Swedish, Danish-time for a pastry.”

We found a coffee shop in the Village. Two bear claws and a crème-filled chocolate eclair for him, a coffee for me. Later, we were back in the station parking lot.

“Jogging,” he said. “Sports bra. This is gonna be another washout day.”

He was wrong.

One message slip atop his computer. Barely legible scrawl. He squinted, put on reading glasses. Frowned. “Now it’s Mrs. Holman wanting a meeting.” Punching numbers. “Ms. Holman, Lieutenant Sturgis, I got your-about that? Really. Why don’t you tell me what it is you… Sure, we can meet but if you could just fill me in before-you sound upset, Ms. Holman… Yes, of course we appreciate leads, I can be there in thirty, forty minutes, that work for you?… Fine, then. You’re sure there’s nothing you can-all right, then, Ms. Holman, I’m on my way.”

He placed the phone in its cradle as if it were breakable. “That’s one very uptight architect and her voice says she’s been working on the gin.”

“She knows something about the fire?”

“Claims to but wouldn’t say what. I guess I should call Boxmeister. I guess I won’t.”

Another pretty day at the canals.

Marjorie Holman was out on her front porch, wearing a black sweater and slacks and looking like a model for a high-end retirement community.

Next to her stood a tall, white-haired, goateed man close to seventy. His gaunt frame was a wire hanger for a black suit and turtleneck.

Milo muttered, “Looks like a funeral.”

No sign of Professor Ned Holman.

His wife waved us up impatiently. The man in the black suit didn’t budge, even when we were two feet away. His eyes were blue and world-weary. Stick limbs, a long neck, and a beak nose evoked an egret. Mournful bird on a bad fishing day.

“This is Judah Cohen,” said Holman. “My former partner.” Husky voice; the slight slurring Milo had picked up over the phone.

“Mr. Cohen.”

“Lieutenant.” Cohen studied the floorboards. “What’s on your mind, Ms. Holman?” She hooked a thumb. “Inside.”

No trace of her husband or his chair on the ground floor. Milo said, “Professor Holman okay?”

“Ned? He’s at the doctor, one of his checkups. I use a special-needs van service because I never know how long it’s going to take.”

Marching to the sink, she poured Sapphire and ice cubes into a glass. “Anyone joining me-Judah, how about you? Glenlivet?”

“Not today, thanks,” said Cohen. He sat on the edge of an overstuffed sofa. Shifted position, cupped his hands over a bony knee. From the look in his eyes, nothing would make him comfortable.

Holman returned with her drink, perched next to Cohen. “Judah and I have some serious suspicions Helga had something to do with that fire.”

Cohen winced.

It didn’t get past Holman. “Would you care to take over, Judah?”

“You’re doing fine, Marjie.”

“So we’re together on this.”

“We are.”

“Well, then, onward. As I told you the first time, Helga boondoggled us-got us to leave some very nice professional situations under pretense of establishing a groundbreaking green-architecture firm. She claimed that her father was a wealthy industrialist, owned a shipping company, money was not going to be a problem. However, money turned out to be a serious problem. As in, Helga did nothing but talk, failed to follow through on financing the firm. At the time, Judah and I were puzzled. Now it becomes clear: Helga never had any sort of serious intention. Judah and I were part of a cover-up.”

Milo said, “Of what?”

“I’ll get to that.” Holman sipped an inch of gin. “I need to do this in an organized manner, Lieutenant… where was I? The ruse… one day, Helga announced that funding hadn’t developed, she was disbanding the firm, returning to Germany, have a nice day.” Turning to Cohen.

He said, “Bit of a shock.”

“You always were the master of understatement, dear. Basically, Helga played us for the fools we apparently were.”

Cohen said, “No sense beating ourselves up. Helga had valid credentials and her technical knowledge was solid.”

“She was an engineer, Judah, not a spark of creativity.”

“Be that as it may,” said Cohen. “The manner in which she described the initial project was valid, conceptually as well as structurally.”

Milo said, “The Kraeker Gallery.”

Both architects stared at him.

Holman said, “How do you know about that?”

“Helga told us.”

“Did she? Then you were played, as well. Yes, it’s an actual place and yes they are taking bids on a major expansion. But Helga never applied to be part of the bidding process. And they have never heard of her.”

“When did you find out?”

“A few days ago, Lieutenant, when it became clear that Helga had no intention of compensating us for our time and loss of prior employment.”

“We can’t find her,” said Cohen. “Or rather, our attorney can’t.”

Holman said, “Don’t ask why we didn’t check her out more thoroughly. A partnership, like a marriage, is based on trust.”

Milo didn’t blink. I was willing to bet on his internal dialogue. Motels on Washington Boulevard.

Holman said, “While she was truthful about her educational credentials, she lied completely about other things.”

“Such as?”

“First off, she’s not German, she’s Austrian. And her father’s not a shipping tycoon, he’s a banker.”

“Is Gemein her real name?”

Reluctant nod. “What should have tipped us off was her take on green: hatred for humanity rather than feed and save the planet. The woman’s a total misanthrope and as time went on, she felt freer to share her opinions on how the evolutionary process had failed when it produced human beings. How Homo sapiens disrupted the crucial balance, what the world really needed was a good plague or a world war. Which coming from a Teutonic type is pretty damn breathtaking.”

She turned to Cohen.

He said, “Rather impolitic.”

Milo said, “Could we talk about the fire?”

“I’m coming to that,” said Holman. “This needs to be logical, so that you’ll understand we’re not just a couple of disgruntled malcontents. Where was I-Helga’s lies. The home address she gave us here in L.A. was phony, as we learned when we tried to serve her with papers.”

“You’re suing her.”

“Damn right we are. Professional alienation, breach of contract, anything else our lawyer can come up with.”

“Where was the phony address?”

“Brentwood. As to why we didn’t find it odd that Helga never had us over, we believed she was all business and that was fine. We were motivated to create something important. Correct?”

Cohen nodded.

Finishing her drink, she returned to the kitchen, poured a refill. Cohen watched her with sadness, turned to us. “It might be helpful for you to know that Helga hired Des Backer before she talked to us. She presented him as a rising star whom she’d met looking for young architects with green credentials. We did check those credentials. Top of the class, his professors had nothing but praise for him. However, when our attorney recontacted them, none had ever spoken to Helga, nor had Des asked them for letters of recommendation. So she found him some other way.”

Holman said, “Given the advantage of hindsight, it’s clear Des’s work product was nil.” Smirking. “In terms of architecture.”

Cohen said, “Our attorneys had someone go through the office computers. Des did a lot of gazing at pornography as well as surfing through some disturbing websites. Which brings us to the fire.”

Milo said, “Arson websites?”

“Eco-terrorist websites. Congratulatory photographs of vandalized luxury housing and animal research labs, chat strings of people who believe the ends justifies the means.”

“We’ll need those office computers.”

“Sorry, we need them,” said Marjorie Holman. “Our attorney has instructed us to place all the furniture and equipment in storage, so we can show that Helga clearly abandoned the office.”

Criminal trumps civil, but Milo didn’t push it. “Those websites-”

“Were sent to Helga. We had no idea the two of them had any relationship beyond the firm. On the contrary, Helga claimed not to even like Des.”

“Even though she hired him?”

Cohen said, “Helga was good at putting things-and people-in boxes.”

“Acceptable professionally,” said Milo. “Unacceptable personally.”

Holman said, “There was no ‘personally.’ The woman is coldblooded. As was her version of green.”

Cohen said, “The unfortunate truth is, a strong misanthropic streak exists within the green community. But it’s a minority view and Helga seemed to take it to the extreme.”

“Plagues and wars.”

Holman said, “Des sent her j-pegs of burned-out buildings and she sent him LOLs and happy faces. Singing the praises of ‘selective pyrotechnics’ as a tool of ‘biological cleansing.’”

Milo had her repeat that, scribbled in his pad.

Cohen said, “What was surprising was Des mirroring Helga’s point of view. He had seemed so sociable and humanistic. Talked about his niece, wanting to build a better world for her.”

Holman said, “She’s capable of anything, probably killed Des simply because she felt like it. Or maybe he was supposed to burn down that house, chickened out, and she executed him for disloyalty to the fatherland, whatever.”

Milo said, “Who’s your attorney?”

Holman said, “Manny-Emmanuel Forbush.”

Cohen said, “Forbush, Ziskin and Shapiro. Here’s their number.”

“Thank you, sir. What else?”

Holman said, “That’s not enough?”

“It’s a good start, Ms. Holman-”

“Then get going with it. Run that bitch into the ground and do the world a favor.” Making progress on the booze slur. She drank, spilled gin on her lap. Cohen handed her a tissue. She ignored him, drank some more.

Milo said, “Any idea where Helga is, ma’am?”

“For all I know, she’s back in Shwitzerland.”

“Why Switzerland?”

“Because that’s where she’s from.”

“Thought she was Austrian.”

“She was born in Austria but the family moved to Spritz-Shwitzlerland, her father owns a bank there. Manny found that out easily enough.”

“Do you have the bank’s name?”

“Why would I?”

Judah Cohen said, “GGI-Alter Privatbank, Zurich. The address is a postfach-a post office box.”

Holman stared at him. “You should go on Jee-epardy.”

Milo said, “A bank with no office?”

“I’m sure there’s an office,” said Cohen, “but perhaps they’re all about investing, have no interest in walk-ins. Apparently, it’s not unusual in Zurich, according to Emmanuel Forbush. He’s sent several certified letters but no answer so far, feels a civil suit will take years to unravel, we need to be patient. If we choose to persist.”

Holman said, “Oh, we choose, all right.”

Cohen didn’t answer.

Milo said, “Years to unravel unless Helga can be tied in to a criminal case.”

Holman said, “She is a criminal, catch the bitch before she braids her hair and puts on lederhosen and disappears into the land of cuckoos and chocolate.”

Milo stood.

Marjorie Holman said, “Exactly. Time to get a move on.”

Judah Cohen said, “Good luck.”