Evidence

CHAPTER 4

Gemein, Holman, and Cohen weren’t advertising.

Skimpy oxidized-iron address numerals were placed low on the building’s façade, barely a foot above the sidewalk. Under that: GHC: CONCEPTS.

This was the south end of Main Street, where calculated edgy nudges random do-your-thing and parking’s a challenge. Milo said, “Use that pay lot, on me.”

He flashed his shield to the attendant, had to shell out seven bucks anyway. The walk back took us past boutiques featuring the kind of clothes you never see anyone wearing. Sunny weekday morning in Venice, only a scatter of pedestrians, but a piercing parlor was doing brisk business. Back in his acting days, the governor had bought up chunks of Main Street, accumulating rental income that helped finance his new hobby.

Maybe he owned the architectural firm’s avant-garde charmer.

A pair of isosceles triangles jousted with each other in precarious tilt, the larger one pumpkin-orange stucco, the other bluish green aluminum. A black shroud of solar panel capped the roof. A cement trough running along the base was crowded with horsetails, plant-tops lopped with neurosurgical care.

The triangles overlapped just enough to provide walk-space for the non-obese. Milo ’s been working on his weight. At a relatively svelte two thirty or so, there was no need to turn sideways, but he did so anyway. Body-memory runs long.

Inside was a courtyard roofed by corrugated metal, bordered by an inch-deep, rectangular pond. Too shallow for fish; maybe microorganisms frolicked.

The front door was an oxidized-iron slab. Milo ’s knock produced no sound.

No bell. He said, “Business is either real good or real bad.”

Pounding harder evoked a sorry thud. He said, “This is gonna hurt,” and poised a foot to kick. Before he made contact, the slab swung inward silently, catching him off balance.

A gorgeous woman with a shaved head watched him stabilize. “What is it?” All the warmth of a voice-simulator.

She was thirty-five or so, with some sort of Teutonic accent. Hemp disks the size of saucers dangled from exquisitely shaped ears. Nothing overtly medical about her hairlessness; lashes and brows were dark and luxuriant, the eyes below them a spectacular aqua. Her skull was smooth, round, and tan, stubbled white-blond, as if rubbed in salt. Like a minimal frame on a painting, the absence of coiffure emphasized everything else about her. So did a clinging, white tank top, ectodermal black tights, red spike-heeled boots.

Milo flashed the badge. “Police, ma’am.”

She said, “And?”

“We’d like to speak to someone about Desmond Backer.”

“Des is in trouble?”

“The worst kind of trouble, Ms…”

“Desmond did something illegal?”

“Desmond’s dead.”

“Dead,” she said. “And you want to come in.”

She marched back inside, left us to follow. Swinging her hips and stepping high.

The interior was one big space, unfurnished but for a black desk and a rolling chair in a corner. White walls, high windows, carpeting that matched the bald beauty’s hemp earrings. Skylights in odd places, some of them partially blackened by the solar panel. Others bore the streaks and splotches of moisture damage.

The bald woman sat behind the desk, laid her palms flat. Charcoal-gray manicure, some kind of mesh effect on the nails. “I have no chairs for you.”

“We’re fine standing, ma’am.”

“Something criminal happened to Des.”

“Sorry to say, ma’am. Mr. Backer was murdered.”

“That is bad.” Again, the lack of inflection.

“What can you tell us about him, Ms…”

“Helga Gemein.”

“You’re one of the partners.”

“There are no partners. We are dissolved.”

“As of when?”

“Six weeks ago. Don’t ask why.”

“Why?”

Helga Gemein was in no mood to joke. “Who murdered Des?”

“That’s what we’re trying to learn,” said Milo. “What can you tell us about him?”

“He worked here from when we started the firm.”

“Which was…”

“Twenty months ago. He was a good draftsman with so-so design skills. He was hired because he was green.”

“Fresh out of school?”

“Pardon?”

“Green.”

“No, no, no,” Helga Gemein scolded. “Green, environmental. Des got his degree at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo, wrote a thesis on bioenvironmental synchrony.”

I thought of the warring triangles out front, water so shallow it would evaporate within days.

“The green approach didn’t work out,” said Milo.

“Of course it works, why would you say that?”

“The firm dissolved-”

“People don’t work out,” said Helga Gemein. “Modern humanity-post-industrial humanity is a criminal biomechanical disruption of the natural order. That is the point of green architecture: reshaping sustainable balance between components of the life force.”

“Of course,” said Milo. “So what kind of projects did the firm do?”

“We planned our mission statement.”

“No actual buildings?”

Helga Gemein’s lovely mouth screwed up tight. “In Germany, architecture is a subset of engineering. The emphasis is upon proper theory and flawless planning. We saw ourselves as green consultants. What do these questions have to do with Des?”

“He was murdered at a construction site, ma’am. An unfinished house in Holmby Hills.”

Reciting the address on Borodi Lane.

“So?”

“I was just wondering-”

“We never intended to involve ourselves with private housing.”

“This was large-scale housing, Ms. Gemein. Three-story mansion on a couple of acres. Mr. Backer was found on the third floor-”

“That sounds unspeakably vulgar. Id, ego, flashing of the penis. I’d rather design a yurt.”

“When did Des Backer leave the firm?”

“When it dissolved.”

“Did he find another job?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“He never asked for a reference?”

“He packed up his desk and left.”

“Was he angry?”

“Why would he be?”

“Losing his job.”

“Jobs come and go.”

“While he was here, what was he involved with?”

“Des wanted to be involved with the Kraeker.”

“What’s that, ma’am?”

Helga Gemein’s look said if you needed to ask, you didn’t deserve to know. “The Kraeker is a performance art gallery scheduled to be built in Basel by the year 2013. My plan is to submit a proposal for heat and light sustainability that would synchronize with the art itself. Des asked to be assigned to the preliminary drawings. Obviously, a project of that scope would help his career.”

“But it never got that far.”

“That is not clear. Once I clean up the mess my partners have left me, I may very well assemble another team. Returning to Europe will be a welcome change.”

“Had enough of L.A. ”

“Quite.”

“Is there anything you can tell us about Des that could be helpful?”

“His sexual appetite was conspicuous.”

Milo blinked. “By conspicuous, you mean-”

“What I mean,” said Helga Gemein, “is that Des was highly motivated toward maximal screwing. Was his death sexual in nature?”

“How do you know that about him, ma’am?”

“If you’re asking, in that peculiarly prudish American way, if I speak from personal experience, the answer is no. My information comes from the other women who worked here. Each of them discovered that Des had requested to screw her.”

“Requested?”

“Des was polite. He always said ‘please.’”

“You didn’t fire him?”

“Why would I?”

“That’s pretty blatant workplace harassment.”

“Policeman,” she said, “one can only be harassed if one contextualizes herself as helpless. Everyone said yes. Des is a handsome man. In an immature way.”

“How exactly did you learn about all this, Ms. Gemein?”

“That is a voyeuristic question.”

“My job can get that way.”

She touched a hemp earring. “There was a staff meeting. Des was away from the office on something or another and Judah Cohen was in Milan, so no men. If you knew anything about women, you’d know that, plus alcohol loosens tongues. One of them had seen another go off with Des after work and wondered out loud. It didn’t take long to compare notes. Everyone agreed he was attentive and reasonably endowed, but lacking in creativity.”

I said, “How many women are we talking about?”

“Three.”

“Four women at the meeting, but only three were propositioned.”

“If you are asking in that American way if I am homosexual, I am not. Though I am not opposed to homosexuality on moral grounds. Why did I not screw Des? He did not appeal to me.”

“He never came on to you?”

Blinking, she caressed the top of her head. “We maintained a professional relationship.”

Milo took out his pad. “Could I please have the other women’s names?”

Helga Gemein smiled. “I will talk slowly: Number one, Sheryl Passant, our receptionist.” Waiting until he’d copied. “Number two, Bettina Sanfelice, a dull girl who served as an intern. Number three, Marjorie Holman.”

“Your former partner.”

“Correct.”

“Des didn’t see the need for a professional relationship with her.”

“Marjorie and I disagree on many levels.”

“Marjorie has no problem mixing business with pleasure.”

“You’re being simplistic, Policeman. Everything is business and everything is pleasure. It is Marjorie who fails to integrate the two.”

“What do you mean?”

“She insists on drawing arbitrary boundaries-creates imaginary rules so that she can delight in violating them.”

“Forbidden fruit,” said Milo.

“Marjorie is quite the nibbler.”

“Is she married?”

“Yes. Now I must go.”

Milo asked her for addresses and phone numbers of the three women. Marjorie Holman’s, she knew by heart. For the others, she consulted a BlackBerry.

“Now I will walk you out.”

He showed her the female victim’s death shot.

Helga Gemein examined the image. “What is this?”

“A woman who died along with Mr. Backer.”

“So it was sexual.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Des with a woman. What else could it be?”

Milo smiled. “Maybe a meaningful spiritual relationship?”

Helga Gemein headed for the door.

We tagged along. I said, “How well did Des do his job?”

“Adequately. Before we dissolved, I’d contemplated letting him go.”

“Why?”

“The pathetic state of our planet demands better than adequate.”