Evidence (10 page)

“A
murder?”

“Something
creepy happening there.”

“There’ve
been problems before?”

“That
entire dump is a problem. Just sitting there, gathering mold, no security
lights at night, the chain’s wide open, anyone can walk in. Everyone hates it.
My dad wanted to sue whoever owns it.”

“Who
owns it?”

“I’ve
heard some Arab,” she said. “Or maybe a Persian. Some Mideast type, I’m not
sure. No one seems to be able to find out. It’s not that we’re prejudiced,
we’re certainly not. That place”—pointing up the block—”that big apricot thing,
is owned by the Nazarians and they’re Persians and they’re great people. I just
don’t see the point of framing up and not following through for two whole
years. No one does.”

“Any
neighborhood rumors about why it’s just sitting there?”

“Sure.
Money. Isn’t it always about money? So why not sell? As in to someone who’ll
actually build something tasteful.”

“Yeah,
it is a little over-the-top,” said Milo.

“A
little?” said Amy Thal. “It’s gross. I’m not talking size-wise, who’re we
kidding, this isn’t South Central. But the style, no one can figure it out,
that stupid third floor stuck up there like a wart. I’m a design
student—fashion, not interior—but you don’t need design training to recognize
awkward and ostentatious and plain old butt-ugly.”

“I don’t know design from badgers and chipmunks,” said
Milo, “and even I can tell.”

Amy
Thal smiled. “Badgers and chipmunks, that’s cute—coatis and raccoons, too?
Anyway, that’s all I can tell you, Lieutenant. I’m just doing the parentals a
favor because one of the felines is almost nineteen and we don’t want her
stumbling into the pool.”

“Could
I show you a picture?”

“Of
who?”

“One
of our victims.”

“There
was more than one?”

“Two,”
said Milo.

“Oh …
you’re not saying it was some psycho Manson thing, are you?”

“Nothing
like that.” Out came Jane Doe’s photo.

Amy
Thal wrinkled her nose. “Oh, wow.”

“Ms.
Thal?”

“I
can’t be sure but I think I’ve seen her around. Not regularly, she doesn’t live
here.”

“Could
she work here?”

“I
doubt it, everyone knows everyone else’s staff and I’ve only seen her twice and
she just looked like she didn’t belong.” Taking another look. “It definitely
could be her.”

“When
and where did you see her?”

“When
would that be … not recently. A month ago? I really can’t say. Where would be
right there. Walking near that dump. That’s what caught my eye. No one walks
here, there are no sidewalks.” Smile. “Which is the point, keep the riffraff
out, God forbid it should be a real neighborhood. I didn’t grow up here, we
used to live in Encino, my brothers and I had sidewalks for lemonade stands,
rode our bikes. Once the parentals had empty nest they decided fourteen
thousand square feet for two people was a nifty idea.” Shrug. “It’s their
money.” Dropping her eyes to the photo, once more. “I’m really feeling it
was
her I saw. I remember thinking she was cute but her clothes weren’t.”

“You
saw her twice.”

“But close together—like twice in the same week.”

“Walking,”
said Milo.

“Not
for exercise, she wasn’t dressed for that, had on heels. And a suit. Not a good
one. A little tailoring would’ve improved it significantly.”

“What
else can you remember?”

“Let
me think … the suit was… gray. The way it didn’t move with her said it had a
lot of poly in it.”

“Walking
but not for exercise.”

“Strolling
past, then stopping and strolling back. Like she was waiting for someone. You
have no idea at all who she is?”

“Unfortunately
not.”

“Too
bad,” she said. “No I.D. really messes you guys up, right? I TiVo
C.S.I.,
Forensic Files, New Detectives.”

“Was
there a car nearby?”

“Not
that I noticed. Hmm, guess that’s another reason she stood out. What normal
person doesn’t drive?”

We
crossed the street, tried one more house. No one home.

Talking
to four more maids, one genuine liveried butler, and two personal assistants on
the next block produced no further recognition of Jane Doe.

Back
in the unmarked, Milo gave Masterson and Associates another try, connected.
“This is Lieutenant Sturgis, I called yesterday about a crime scene on Borodi
La—a
crime
scene. A construction project and your firm is listed—Ma’am,
this is a homicide case and I need to—yes, you heard me, correctly,
homicide—what I need to know is—okay, I’ll wait.”

A
minute passed. Two, three, six. Disconnection.

Gunning
the engine, he drove, looked back at rutted dirt and curling plywood, the
girdle of yellow tape. “Man’s home is his castle. Until it ain’t.”

M
asterson
& associates: architecture. design. development
. shared the sixth floor
of a heartless tower on Century Park East with two investment firms.

The
company’s lobby was a duet of pale wood and stainless steel sealed by a wall of
glass. Poured cement floor. The seating was black denim cushions set into
C-shaped, gray-granite cradles.

Milo
said, “Kinda homey, Norman Rockwell would drool.”

A
window on the other side of the glass offered a view clear to Boyle Heights and
beyond. It took a while to find the call button: a tiny stainless-steel pimple
blending mischievously with the surrounding segment of metallic wall.

Milo
pushed. No sound.

A
female voice, lightly accented, said, “Masterson.”

“Hi,
again. Lieutenant Sturgis.”

“I
gave your message to Mr. Kotsos.”

“Then
it’s Mr. Kotsos I’ll talk to.”

“I’m
afraid—”

“You should be. If I have to come back, it’ll be with
a subpoena.” Hunching like an ape, he beat his chest.

“Sir—”

“And
I’ll be needing your name for the paperwork.”

Silence.
“One second.”

She’d
underestimated, but not by much. Twelve seconds later, a pudgy little man came
out, beaming.

“Gentlemen,
so nice. Markos Kotsos.” Deep voice, starting somewhere in the digestive tract
and emerging belch-like. Different accent from the receptionist. Thicker,
Mediterranean.

Given
the cold-blooded lobby and what he did for a living, I’d expected a wraith
dressed in all-black, sporting Porsche-design eyeglasses and a complex
wristwatch. Markos Kotsos had on an intensely wrinkled white caftan over baggy
brown linen pants, sandals without socks, a steel Rolex. Middle-aged, five
five, two hundred pounds, give or take, he wore his too-dark hair in a modified
perm. Deep tan, too saffron around the edges not to be enhanced by bronzer.

He
dropped into one of the granite chairs, folded his hands atop an ample lap.
“Sorry for any inconvenience, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”

Taking
care of business in the lobby, because no visitors were expected.

Milo
said, “We’re here because of a—”

“Elena
told me, a murder on Borodi.” Kotsos sighed. “That project was ill fated from
the beginning. Believe me, we regret taking it on.”

“Who
was the client?”

“Who
was murdered?”

Milo
said, “I’d prefer to ask the questions, sir.”

“Ah,
of course,” said Kotsos.

Silence.

“Sir?”

Kotsos
shook his head, sadly. “I’m afraid I cannot help you with specifics. There was
a confidentiality agreement.”

“Between?”

“The
client and us. Following cessation of construction.”

Milo
said, “Who sued who?”

Kotsos
licked his lips. Stumpy fingers drummed a larded thigh. “It is extremely
unusual for us to take on residential projects.
Extremely
. We are as
much developers and conceptualizers as we are architects, thus the projects we
choose to accept are massively scaled, complex, more often international than
not.”

“Middle
East international?”

Kotsos
crossed a leg, held on to the heel of his sandal. “You’ve been to our website,
yes? So you know that Dubai has been a major focus of our work because it is a
fascinating locale where financial realities intersect with aesthetic
adventurousness in a quite unique manner.”

“Good
ideas and the bucks to make them happen.”

Kotsos
smiled. “Which is why the Al Masri Majestic Hotel will be unique and
spectacular, an awe-inspiring feat of structural engineering, ten stars and
beyond. We are drilling a quarter mile into the Gulf in order to support pylons
the size of buildings.”

“The
rendering was pretty impressive,” said Milo.

Smoooth
operator
.

“The
reality will be groundbreaking, Lieutenant. Literally and figuratively. We have
found a way to support a carrying weight of unprecedented—but you don’t care
about that, you’re here about a murder.” Transforming the word into something
trivial. “At a project with which we haven’t been involved in years.”

Milo
said, “Desmond Backer.”

Not
an eyeblink. “Who?”

“One
of our victims.”

“One?
There is more?”

“Two,
sir.”

“So
sorry. No, I don’t know the name.”

“He
was an architect.”

“There
are many architects,” said Kotsos.

Milo
said, “This one died at your project.”

“Former project.”

“The
permit was pulled by DSD, Incorporated.”

“If
that’s what the record says, then it is true.”

“Any
reason for us to believe otherwise?”

Hesitation.
“No.”

“Sir?”

“The
record speaks for itself.”

“Tell
us about DSD.”

Kotsos
shook his head. “I’m sorry, as I told you, the terms of the confidentiality—”

“You
can’t even say who they are?”

“I’m
sorry.”

Milo
said, “That was a civil agreement, this is criminal.”

“Lieutenant,
I would truly love to help you, but the terms are absolute and the stakes are
sizable.”

“Big
money.”

Silence.

Milo
said, “You sued DSD for a substantial unpaid balance. They settled but are
paying in installments, will use any excuse to stop payment.”

Kotsos
sighed again. “It is not simple.”

“Is
there any reason we should suspect DSD—or anyone connected to DSD—of criminal
behavior?”

Kotsos
thought awhile, brightened and clapped his hands together. “Okay, I tell you
this because I do not want you thinking I am hiding anything important. In
terms of murder, I cannot honestly point a finger at anyone. Absolutely not, if
I could, I would, no one likes murder, life is precious. If, on the other hand,
you are investigating financial …” Smiling and running a finger across his
mouth. “I have said enough.”

Milo
produced his notepad. “Homicide, Mr. Kotsos. Financial doesn’t interest me.
Now, how about some names of people who worked for DSD?”

Kotsos’s
head shake seemed genuinely rueful.

“Here’s another name for you, Mr. Kotsos: Helga
Gemein.”

“Who
is that?”

“Desmond
Backer’s boss. The firm is Gemein, Holman, and Cohen.”

“Never
heard of them,” said Kotsos.

“They’re
into green architecture.”

Kotsos
snorted. “Silly stuff.”

“Green
is silly?”

“Isolating
green as a profound concept, as if it’s new,
Lieutenant, is pretentious and idiotic. The Greeks and the Romans—and the
Hebrews and the Phoenicians and the Babylonians—every civilization of note has
integrated natural elements into design, from Solomon’s Temple to the Mayan
pyramids. That is the natural human way. It is in our chromosomes. And shall we
discuss the Renaissance? Would you consider the tri-level church in Rome
anything other than deliciously synchronous and organic, despite the unexpected
turns of events that led to its sequential nature?”

“You
took the words out of my mouth.”

Kotsos
said, “What I am saying, Lieutenant, is that everything good about design
relates to harmony. All this flabber about natural materials is … air.” Waving
pudgy hands. “Cement is natural, it comes from sand. Sandstone is natural. Does
that mean cement and sandstone are the optimal materials for every purpose?
Shall we use sandstone for our pylons in Dubai?” Throaty laugh. “Any architect
deserving of his degree considers his surroundings and attempts to integrate.”
Leaning toward us. “Do you know what ‘green’ has become, Lieutenant?”