Evidence

CHAPTER 5

Helga Gemein marched through the courtyard and continued north on Main.

“Good stamina, considering those stilettos,” said Milo. “What a charmer.”

“Don’t think of her as hostile,” I said. “Just philosophically consistent.”

“What’s the philosophy?”

“Humanity is a blot on nature.”

“That’s kind of psychopathic-and she didn’t react emotionally to Backer’s death. Hang out with her, no need for air-conditioning.”

“Personal coolant,” I said. “There’s a green concept for you.”

“Backer jumps anything with ovaries but doesn’t come on to her. Maybe the jealousy you felt at the scene was anger at being rejected.”

“Woman scorned? Those stilettos would set off clacks on plywood.”

He sighted up Main. Crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Asking women to screw. If Backer’s libido was really that over-the-top, it expands the potential suspect base to every hetero male in L.A… wonderful.”

He scanned the addresses Gemein had provided. “The receptionist and the intern are both out in the Valley, but naughty Ms. Holman lives right here in Venice, Linnie Canal.”

“That’s about a mile in,” I said. “We could walk.”

“Oh, sure. And I’m gonna wear spandex bicycle shorts.”

Finding the nearest entrance to the canal district, and manipulating the byzantine network of one-ways and dead-ends by car, turned a geographic hop into a half-hour excursion. Once we got within eyeshot of Linnie Canal, the closest parking spot was two blocks east.

The canals are a century old, the product of a feverish mind devolving to yet another patch of high-priced real estate. The visionary in question, an eccentric named Abbot Kinney, had dug and dredged sinuous waterways, dreaming of replicating the original island city. A hundred years later, most of the quirky, original bungalows had been replaced by close-set McMansions high above footpaths.

A squared-off hedge echoed the curves of the canal. Nice place to stroll, but no pedestrians in sight. The water was green and opaque, flecked with hyacinth and the occasional bit of trash. Ducks floated by, pausing to bob for food. A seagull faked a dive-bomb, changed course, landed on a nearby roof and squawked a nasal, political diatribe. Maybe he felt the same as Helga Gemein about humanity.

Milo said, “Always liked it here. To visit, not to live.”

“What’s wrong with living here?”

“Too hard to escape.”

Marjorie Holman’s residence was two steeply pitched stories of white-clapboard, blue-shuttered chalet, eaves bearded by jigsawed trim, a porthole window over the door suggesting the kind of seafood joint where deep-fry orders are placed at the counter.

“Not exactly postmodern,” muttered Milo. “Whatever the hell that means.”

A wide, concrete ramp sloped up to a wooden deck. Rattan furniture was distributed randomly. Potted geraniums sat on the rail. One corner was taken up by a mammoth gas-powered barbecue with more controls than my Seville ’s dashboard. The goofy-looking dolphin riding the wall above the grill hadn’t weathered well: aging Flipper on Quaaludes.

French doors made up the wall facing the canal. All that glass meant lots of energy loss; no solar panels in sight. A bell on a leather thong in lieu of an electric buzzer was the sole nod to conservation.

Milo tugged the thong. A deep male voice hollered, “Hold on.”

Seconds later, a man rolled out in a motorized wheelchair. A navy T-shirt was stretched tight over rhino shoulders and abdominal bulk. Khaki trousers were barely defined by stick-legs. He looked to be sixty or so, with a full head of coarse gray hair and a bushy beard to match.

“Help you?”

“Police, sir. Is Marjorie Holman in?”

“Police? What’s going on?”

“Someone who worked for Ms. Holman’s firm was murdered.”

“You’re kidding.” Rapid eyeblink. “Who?”

“Desmond Backer.”

“Des.”

“You knew him.”

“He came over a few times to show Marjie drawings. Murdered? That’s grotesque. How did it happen?”

“He was shot, Mr. Holman.”

“Ned.” A meaty hand shot forward. His lips turned down. “Marjie’s going to be extremely upset by this, I should be the one to tell her-why don’t you guys come on in?”

He reversed the wheelchair into the house, motored across a big, bright room to the bottom of an ornate oak staircase. The entire ground floor was open space that maximized light. Sparse furnishings allowed easy turns of the chair.

Ned Holman cupped a hand to his mouth. “Honey? Could you please come down?”

“What is it?”

“Please come down, Marjie.”

“Everything all right, Ned?” Footsteps thumped.

“I’m fine, just come down, hon.”

Marjorie Holman had bounced halfway down the stairs when she saw us and stopped. Tall and angular with a blue-gray pageboy, she had long limbs and a smallish face dominated by owlish, black-framed glasses. A baggy orange blouse and straight-leg jeans said little about the body beneath. Barefoot. Pink nails.

“What’s going on?”

“They’re the police. It’s about Des Backer. He was murdered.”

A hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

“Sorry, hon,” said Ned Holman. “This was starting out as a nice day.”

Marjorie Holman shook our hands limply, went into the kitchen and fortified herself with a tall pour of Sapphire gin from a frosted blue bottle. Two long swallows brought a flush to her cheeks. She stared out the window at a coral tree in flaming bloom.

Her husband rolled to her side, rubbed the small of her back.

“I’m okay, Ned.” Turning and facing us: “Can I get you something?”

Wheeling himself to the fridge, Ned Holman grabbed a handle retrofitted low, yanked the door open, pulled out a bottle of Budweiser. A quick finger-flick popped the cap. He caught it in one hand, rolled it between sausage fingers.

Milo said, “No, thanks.”

Both Holmans drank. He drained his beer first. She made it through half the gin before setting the glass down. “I need some air-you’ll be okay if I take a breather, Ned?”

“Of course.”

She motioned us out of the house, hurried down the ramp, turned right on the footpath. Additional gulls had assembled in the water, a grumpy quorum.

Marjorie Holman set out at a slow pace, walked close to the hedge, brushing her hand along the top. “I’m still in shock. My God, when did this happen?”

“Last night, ma’am. He was carrying business cards, we just talked to Ms. Gemein.”

“Helga,” she said. “That must have been interesting.”

“How so, Ms. Holman?”

“Oh, come on,” she said. “If you talked to her, you’re not seriously asking that.”

“She is an interesting woman.”

“Do you suspect her?”

“Should we, Ms. Holman?”

“Well,” she said, “Helga is devoid of normal human emotion, but I can’t say she ever displayed any hostility to Des. In particular.”

“She was hostile in general?”

“Utterly asocial. That’s part of why we’re no longer partners. What exactly happened to Des?”

“He was shot by an unknown assailant.”

“Good God.”

“Ma’am, if there’s something to know about Helga Gemein-or anyone else-now’s the time to tell us.”

“Plainly put, Helga is a weirdo, Detective, but do I have a specific reason to think she’s a murderer? No, I don’t. What I can tell you is she’s a fraud, so anything she says is suspect. The firm never got off the ground because she conned me and Judah Cohen-the third partner.”

“Conned how?”

“There was no there there.”

“No real interest in green architecture?”

“To use your terminology, there was alleged interest,” said Marjorie Holman. “In Germany, architecture is a branch of engineering, and that’s what Helga is, a structural engineer. With precious few skills at that. She doesn’t have to work because her father owns shipping companies, gets to play intellectual and global thinker. Judah and I met her at a conference in Prague where she claimed to have all sorts of backing for an integrated approach to numerous projects. Judah and I are veterans, we’d both made partner at decent-sized firms but felt it was time for a change. Helga claimed to already own office space, right here in Venice, all we had to do was show up and use our brains. Later we found out she’d sublet the building, had been chronically late with the rent. Everything else she told us was baloney, as well. All she wanted to do was talk about ideas. Judah and I had both burned bridges, we’re stuck, it’s a mess. In architecture, you’re Gehry or Meier, or you’re drafting plans for room additions in San Bernadino.”

Her nostrils flared. “Helga tired of the game, walked in one day and announced we were kaput. Quote unquote.”

“Theatrical,” said Milo.

“You better believe it.”

“That explain the shaved head?”

“Probably,” said Marjorie Holman. “When we met her in Prague, she had long blond hair, looked like Elke Summer. She comes here, she’s Yul Brynner.” Head shake. “She’s one big piece of performance art. I hate her guts, wish I could tell you she was murderous but I honestly can’t say that.”

“Tell us about Des.”

“Nice kid, we hired him right out of school.”

“He graduated at thirty,” I said. “Late bloomer?”

“That’s this generation, adolescence lasts forever. I’ve got two sons around Des’s age and both of them are still trying to figure it out.”

Milo said, “The murder took place at a construction site on Borodi Lane in Holmby Hills. That ring a bell?”

“No, sorry. In Holmby it would have to be a house.”

“Your basic thirty-room McPalace.”

“Had Des found a job at another firm?”

“If he did, he wasn’t carrying their card.”

“If he wasn’t working there, I can’t imagine what he’d be doing.”

A plastic kayak lay across the walkway. We bypassed it. Milo said, “In terms of a personal relationship between yourself and Mr. Backer…”

“There was none.”

“Ms. Gemein claimed otherwise, ma’am.”

Marjorie Holman’s hands curled but her stride didn’t break.

“Ms. Holman?”

“Nasty bitch.”

“Nasty lying bitch, ma’am?”

Sharp inhalation. “I have nothing to apologize for.”

“We’re not judging, Ms. Holman-”

“Of course you are, judging’s your job.”

“Only as it applies to murder, ma’am.”

Marjorie Holman’s laughter was brittle, unsettling. “Well, then, we’re all peachy-dandy here, because whatever I did or didn’t do with Des has nothing to do with murder.”

“We’re more interested in did than didn’t, ma’am.”

She didn’t answer. Milo let it ride and the three of us kept walking.

Five houses later, she said: “You met my husband. He’s been that way for six years. I’m not going to make tawdry excuses, but neither am I going to apologize for having needs.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“Don’t patronize me, Detective. I’m not a moron.”

Six more houses. She picked up speed. A tear track darkened her cheek. “Once. That’s all it was. Ned doesn’t know and there’s no reason to tell him.”

“I agree, ma’am.”

“He was tender, it was almost like being with another woman. Not that I’d know about that… it was a crazy thing to do, I regret it. But at the time…” Drying her tears with her sleeve. “One of my sons is the same age as Des and if you don’t think that made me feel sleazy, you’re wrong. It was never going to happen again and I was not going to torture myself.”

She stopped short, touched Milo ’s wrist. “I want to make one thing clear, Detective: Des did not exploit me, nor am I some desperate cougar. It just happened.”

“One time,” said Milo.

“You want me to take a lie detector, fine. Just as long as Ned doesn’t find out.”

“All we want to do is find out who killed Des.”

“I can’t help you with that.”

“Did anyone at the firm have conflict with him?”

“No.”

“Not Helga?”

“I wish I could say yes but not even her.”

“She told us she was never intimate with Des.”

“Are you shocked? I doubt Helga has the capacity for intimacy.”

“She also said Des slept with every other woman at the firm.”

“I can’t speak to that.”

“She said you could, Ms. Holman. That she learned about all of this because you and Ms. Sanfelice and Ms. Passant talked about it openly. At a staff meeting.”

Marjorie Holman rocked on her heels. Walked with her head down. “Oh, Jesus.” She let out a strange giggle and threw up her hands. “Martinis and estrogen, what can I say?”

“Staff meeting with alcohol?”

“Staff meeting at a restaurant.”

“Without getting into details, if you could tell us where you and Des… trysted…”

“Why is that your business?”

“We’re searching for patterns, Ms. Holman.”

“What kind of patterns?”

“Des frequenting construction sites.”

She went pale.

“Ma’am-”

“This is humiliating.” Another brittle laugh. “You want the dirty details, fine: One night, three, four months ago, Des and I were working late. Looking back, he probably planned it. He’d heard about the Kraeker-that’s an art gallery in Switzerland we were supposedly going to be involved in. Another of Helga’s fantasies, she never even filled out the preliminary forms-you don’t care about that, you want sleaze. Des wanted me to put in a good word for him with Helga, I said I would. We were hungry so we went out to dinner. Des said he had a construction site he wanted me to see. Because of its design. If that makes a pattern, fine.”

Milo said, “Where was the site?”

“Oh, Lord… Santa Monica, near the Water Gardens, off Twenty-sixth Street and Colorado. Des said a film studio was beginning a project that was aiming for complete sustainability, down to black-water and gray-water management. It was after dark, we drove over in separate cars, I had no reason to think it would turn out-when I got there, I was confused, it was just an open empty lot. There was a trailer set up as an office, nothing educational design-wise, and I was peeved at Des for dragging me out there. He said hold on, there’s something you need to see, and took me behind the trailer.”

Her hair hadn’t moved but she smoothed it. “I suppose I was ready to be led by the nose. Des took hold of my shoulders and said, ‘I know this is wrong and it may cost me my job, but I find you crushingly attractive, I’ve been thinking about you since I met you, and, God help me, I’d love to screw you.’”

She straightened her collar, adjusted her necklace, as if primping for a portrait. “That sounds vulgar in the retelling, but you had to be there, guys. Trust me, it was alluring.”

Ten more minutes of strolling produced an easy-to-verify alibi for the previous night. The Holmans had attended an experimental music concert at Disney Hall with another couple, followed by a late dinner at Providence on Melrose.

“Seafood orgy, guys. After we’d gorged ourselves silly, we headed clear across town to Vibrato, in Beverly Glen, thinking we’d catch some jazz, but the show was over so we went home. I went to bed and Ned stayed up reading, the way he usually does. He lives for books and language, he’s an esteemed linguist, used to teach at the U. Used to do all sorts of things.” Frown. “That was my pathetic play for sympathy. Not that I need any. It’s poor Des who does.”

“What can you tell us about Des’s background?” said Milo. “Personal, not professional.”

“We never talked about things like that. Never talked much, period. He was a lovely boy, gentle, considerate. I can’t see why anyone would want to kill him.”

Milo showed her the dead woman’s picture.

“Who’s-my God, she’s…”

“Do you recognize her, Ms. Holman?”

“Absolutely not.” Thrusting the photo back.

“The other women at the firm-Sheryl and Bettina. Single or married?”

“Single.”

“Reason I ask, ma’am, is we need to check out irate boyfriends, husbands.”

She stared at us. “Ned? Not a chance. For a husband to be irate, he needs to be aware, and Ned isn’t. Even if he did find out, he’s not exactly in a position to do anything about it, is he?”

The flippant cruelty of the last sentence hung in the air.

“Speaking of which, I’d best be getting back, gentlemen. Ned might need freshening up.”