“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.”
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. Wi
th 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.”
Evidence Page 3