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 ab
out 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.”
CHAPTER 6
Marjorie Holman sprinted up the ramp to her deck.
Milo said, “Freshening him up. Hubby as houseplant. Some nest of vipers ol’ Des got himself into.”
We headed back to the car, crossed a footbridge above still, green water.
I said, “Sounds like ol’ Des dove into the nest with enthusiasm. If he took Passant and Sanfelice to construction sites, we’re talking predictable, high-risk behavior.”
“Come away with me to le beeg deeg, mon amour. Might as well wear a Stalk Me sign. So maybe this will boil down to another jealous domestic and no matter what Holman says, we coulda just met the main players. A mister bitter over his plight. Missus thinks he’s greenery but there could be plenty of animal left.”
“Charming Helga called Holman a nibbler of forbidden fruit. It’s possible her flings weren’t limited to Backer.”
“All the more reason for pent-up anger, but right now the only lothario I care about is Backer. Mr. Smooth. Coming out and asking for it ain’t exactly suave, let alone three women in the same office. But it worked, so what do I know?”
I said, “Sounds like Backer had a nose for emotional vulnerability. Think about the Holmans’ house: Ned’s got no access to the second floor, where Marjie sleeps. She’s an architect, if anyone could figure out a way to get him up there, it’s her. They’ve chosen to live physically segregated lives. It’s not just a matter of sex, it’s intimacy. And that’s what she says she got from Backer.”
“He tries a little tenderness, she falls right in.”
“My question is, if her needs were being met, why limit it to a one-night stand?”
He rolled his shoulders. “She lied to us and she and Backer had something serious going on?”
“That would threaten Ned Holman big-time. On top of being humiliated, he’s left alone physically and emotionally. We’ve both seen enough domestic homicides to know the pattern: The jealous spouse focuses first on eliminating the outside threat. Maybe I was wrong about Jane Doe being the target. What if the goal was to eliminate Backer, after all, and Jane was collateral damage?”
“Or,” he said, “Jane was more than a fling for Backer. Or both she and Marjie thought they were number one, meaning a woman scorned.” Grimacing. “Just what I need, a bigger suspect pool... freshening the poor guy up. Why wouldn’t she design him an elevator or something?”
“Plus,” I said, “her alibi for last night is meaningless. She went to sleep, got up. The same goes for Ned’s physical limitations because he could’ve paid to get the job done. Either of them could’ve. A pro job would also be consistent with careful planning, positioning the bodies just so.”
He worried a pendulous earlobe. “Stunningly Shakespearean, Alex. Now all I need is something remotely close to evidence, say documentation of a torrid romance between Marjie and Backer and either one of the Holmans paying a killer for hire. Hell, long as we’re dreaming, I wouldn’t mind a warm spot in Warren Buffett’s heart. Right now, I’ll settle for finding out who Jane Doe is.”
As I drove away, he phoned the crypt, learned the bodies were still in the delivery bay waiting processing. He squinted at his Timex. “Damn numerals keep getting smaller ... two fifteen, let’s see if we can find Bettina Sanfelice and Sheryl Passant. If they’re working as well as living in the Valley, there’s time to make it over the hill before the rush. Also, I know an Italian place. You up for it?”
“Sure.”
As we rolled out of the canal district, he said, “Some victim I’ve got. That mix of glands and charisma, he shoulda run for office.”
The clown-show that poses as the California legislature had finally bucked phone-company lobbyists long enough to pass a hands-free law. The system I’d installed delighted Milo, because he can sit back and smoke and grunt and stretch and scan the streets for bad guys while he chats.
As I approached Lincoln Avenue, he began punching in numbers. No one picked up at Sheryl Passant’s Van Nuys apartment, but Bettina Sanfelice’s North Hollywood landline was answered by a slurry-voiced woman who said, “Yeah?”
“Is this Bettina?”
“No.”
“Does Bettina live there?”
“Who’s this?”
“L.A. police lieutenant Milo Sturgis.”
“Who?”
He repeated, taking pains to go slow.
“Police?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tina’s okay?”
“I need to talk to her about a case.”
“A case? What case?”
“Someone she worked with was murdered.”
“Who?”
“Desmond Backer.”
“Don’t know him.”
“Ma’am—”
“I’m her mother. She’s out.”
“Could you please tell me where?”
“How do I know you’re not some maniac?”
“I’ll give you my number at the police station and you can verify.”
“How do I know you’re not giving me some phony number?”
“Feel free to look it up. West L.A. Division, on Butler—”
“I should do all the work?”
“Ma’am,” said Milo, “I appreciate your caution but I need to talk to Bettina.”
Silence.
“Mrs. Sanfelice—”
“She went to T.G.I. Friday’s.”
“Which one?”
“All the way in Woodland Hills, I don’t know the address. She likes the burgers, you’d never catch me wasting gas for that.”
“What was she wearing?”
“How would I know?”
“She doesn’t live with you?”
“She sure does, ’cause she still don’t have no job. That don’t mean I pay attention to her clothes.”
Click.
He phoned Detective Moe Reed, asked for DMV statistics on the intern.
The young cop said, “I was just about to call you, Loo. Prints on Backer and the female vic got run through AFIS but unfortunately nothing kicked back ...”
“I already knew that.”
“You did?”
“It’s been that kind of day.” He spelled Sanfelice’s name.
Seconds later Reed said, “Sanfelice, Bettina Morgana, thirty years old, five five, hundred and ten, brown, brown, wears corrective lenses, no wants or warrants. Here’s the address.”
Living at Mom’s when she’d had her license renewed three years ago.
“Anything else, Loo?”
“I’ll let you know.”
Milo hung up. “I hear intern, I figure a college kid. She’s way past that, unemployed, stuck with that loving maternal entity. Like you said, emotional vulnerability. Ol’ Des had a helluva nose.”
The 101 freeway was starting to clog up so I took Ventura Boulevard to Woodland Hills. The T.G.I. Friday’s was like any other, which is the point.
Chain restaurants are easy targets of ridicule for expense-account gourmets, documentary filmmakers living off grant money, and trust-fund babies. For folks saddled with budgets and faced with a world that seems increasingly unpredictable, they’re temples of comfort. Milo and I had grown up in the Midwest and we’d both flipped burgers in high school. The smell of the grill still evokes all sorts of memories. How I react depends on what else is going on in my life.
Evidence Page 4